The reddest of hats for a red letter day

Beatrice ran and ran as fast as she could with her satchel bag bumping her thigh on every stride. I am going to get there, I am going to get there, I am going to get there. The thought ran through her mind like the train she was going to catch. Her right hand palm down and as though holding these thoughts in her head as it pressed her red hat into place. Firmly. On her good head on her broad shoulders. Sensible girl that she was.


Her hat was red letter day scarlet and would never be more apt. Because today was the day that she would meet her future. He was a man dressed in soiled overalls with dirt under his fingernails, a hard hat on his head and sheets of pencilled paper. He was going to teach her everything that she wanted to know, everything she needed to know and really dreamed of knowing, so that she could be an engineer. A real life and proper engineer. Who could make things, and build things, and imagine on the grandest scale there was until you reached Tower of Babel scale, which she would never do because she had no desire to build anything so unnecessarily phallic. Not that she knew the word phallic or much about the the object it described. But she just wouldn't do that. She wanted to build bridges and pull down walls.


Her mother thought she was going to secretarial school. Her father thought she was going to care for some other woman's children, and her sister knew all the thrilling details about the thrilling truth of the dream and it happening.



Her red hat was a stop sign. A stop to the life she could have led. So she could shift gears and live the one that she had always wanted. In a world of her very own creation in 1960's dreams.


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There's no place like home. There's no place like Paris.

She looked at him, looked over the sea, and then down at her beautiful red shoes on the aged promise of the promenade. And that's where her gaze remained.



Blinking and blinking again, her eyes itched. Where there should be tears she felt a drought, and where there should be sadness, a frozen solid lung.

He stretched out his arms like a zombie possessed, but she could not enter their stiffness. And after rubbing her arms as if she had survived a shock, he took his own back and wrapped them around himself.

She tried to count every diamanté on her satin shoes: If each was a wish, what would I do? Would I magically make my small town discontent disappear? Poof. Would I conjure away my ache for a job in Paris? Kazam. And for friends I've never met? Pazazz.




Then I could stay here. Right here. With him. As me. Would I sense there was a sky full of other lives I could be living, streets I could be walking, birds I could be hearing? Would I wonder? Would I slowly start to yearn? Until my heart broke, or I broke his again? Would my slow build wish be for him to change? My love? Ta dah.

And as the thoughts took over and the diamantés sparkled one by one, she knew that the she she was here, was never her at all. Nothing could change. A life in Paris was her own promise, a promise that she made to herself. She had slaved like Cinderella for this chance, never believing that it would come. Or digesting what it would mean for them. To him.

She clicked together her heels, smiled with one side of her mouth. There's no one like me, there's no one like me. And there's no place like Paris, no place like Paris.

Or love like ours.

She patted his chest, just above his heart, although that was unintended. Turned on her scarlet heels, and walked away. He braced himself. Then turned and walked towards home.

He to his baked beans, patio, car wash on Sundays, daily dog walks and three piece suite. She to power shoes, own office, daily conference calls and walk-in-wardrobe.



They would never speak again, but met often. In moonlit dreams- where boardrooms, childhood roots, 80's ambition, unrealised desires, the shine of the new and the comfort of the old- could never come between them.

In both their dreams, they walked the seafront. And she was always wearing, red sparkling shoes that echoed the stars.



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Second class workers, second hand clothes, second class citizens?

Not all movies that inspire vintage lovers were made in the era whose fashions they showcase. Films produced now should get a mention too. And especially those that remind us there are women to whom we owe a great deal. A great deal of our pay packet in fact.







When Made in Dagenham came out, I was excited for two reasons:

1. The late 60's fashion we'd get to see on film, of course, I dressed up in a yellow 60's shift when I went to see it.
2. But more importantly, the reminder that inspirational women stood up and fought for equal rights and equal pay.







As a self declared feminist, I am frequently disappointed by women who refuse the title, ascribing it to hairy unattractive women who probably hate men anyway. Not. The. Case. Bill Bailey (pictured below in a Fawcett Society t-shirt may be hairy, but...)








A feminist is a person who believes in equal and fair rights for men and women. And that is what the women in Made in Dagenham are all about. We can learn more from them than simple fashion lessons. We can learn how to fight, why to fight and what the outcome of victory could mean for women kind and human kind for years to come.

I raise this now because we are at a time when feminists are needed. Political, economic and cultural changes mean that we are not at a point when we can take our eye off the balls (couldn't resist).

If you're in doubt, consider what has been happening in the UK and further afield over the past few months:

- Kenneth Clarke, our Secretary of Justice, implied that date rape was not 'serious rape'. This is not just a matter of semantics. Until 1991, a husband could not rape his wife, marriage meant an agreement by the wife to have sex with her husband. Having an exemption like this turned over in the courts requires a ground swell of citizens, and a strong government who understands the complexities of rape. This change happened 20 years ago. If Ken Clarke had been in power then, would it have happened? A man who fails to label date rape as serious. What would he have done when faced with a marital rape case?

- Only 31% of councillors are women. If progress continues at current rates, it will be another 150 years before women are equally represented.

- The recent much criticised Slut Walk was first organised by a group of young women in Canada, angry that their Chief of Police told them to dress modestly to avoid rape. The media treated this as a joke, and many failed to grasp or explore the real freedom and rights these women were marching for. If you want to get an idea of the reaction, just read this piece in the Spectator. The writer likens a woman wearing a short skirt to leaving your window open at home and expecting not to be burgled. Seriously.

- And if you want to get back to the issue of equal pay, women are still paid an average of 15.5% less than men. This is 40 years since the Equal Pay Act which the brave women portrayed in this film fought for

I am sorry that this post has turned into an unashamed feminist rant, but surely we should all be angry right now? And yes we can dress like vintage sluts at the same time.







If you need any more convincing, or just want to find out what you can do, then get to The Fawcett Society- read, support, join.

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