Hello to Swan & Edgar, Piccadilly Pedlars

I recently sourced the most peachy perfect of vintage clutches. Its label tells me it is from Edgar and Swan Ltd. A quick Google search, and I realise this is a shop we all know.

Once called Virgin Megastore, then called Zavvi and only last year, re-opening its doors as the first UK offering from European retailers The Sting who are a self proclaimed 'brand network'. (1. Mute your computer before clicking on their site. 2. Anyone ever shopped there?).

This area of London is so busy with people, advertising, traffic and noise that you have probably never had time to look at the beautiful architecture above the changing brand names. Architecture which was mostly there before the tube station opened on the 10th March, 1906. 

Piccadilly Hotel, Regent Street front, 1905–8 thanks to www.british-history.ac.uk

 

This particular building was owned by The Piccadilly Hotel. Amongst much controversy, debate and demands from the management of Edgar and Shaw, it was rebuilt between 1910 and 1920, and Edgar & Shaw moved in.

It was one of the first such department stores in the UK and London, following a trend which started in the middle of the previous century in Paris for a variety of goods to be made available under one roof. (Brand network anyone?) It was a destination for shoppers, fashionable ladies and those wanting to rest with a cup of tea.

Over the next few blogs I'll tell you more about it, what happened, who Edgar and Swan were, how their shop has fitted into all of our histories... and the clutch that I have from this very emporium.

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.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

A beaded dress that dreams are made of

She tried to wake up, but couldn't. She was mesmerised by a dress in her dream. It was like something an angel would wear. At a disco. Or maybe ice skating. It was her dream dress.



This was the dress she needed, and as Man in the Mirror came from the stereo, she got up, and looked at herself in the mirror. She was the one who would wear this dress. In all its beaded glory.

Pixie boots, denim dress and t-shirt on, she was out the house.

The detailing she thought, I must find the detailing.





- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

It was the schmokin' summer of 1970

Today we saw Jimi. The Jimi. Sir Jimi. Jimi HENDRIIIIIIX. And he said that I was his inspiration. Well, that we were all his inspiration. But when he sang Foxy Lady. I'm sure it was to me. He gets me. Totally. And I am a frenzy for him.

Can. You. Even. Imagine. Thrilled in the proper and electrical sense of the word. Thrilled.

I want to live in festival land for life. I'd banish Hells Angels. I want all the people who want things smoking in a good way, the fun way and the love way. Jimi's way, my way and our way.

The Isle of Wight is where I'll be forever happy. We all will. I love you Jimi. I love you all.

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.



- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

The fantasy life of a floral jacket

Naomi loved cats. She wanted one more than anything. But her boyfriend said no. He said they made him sneeze. And he didn't like the damage they could do to the furniture. This made Naomi very sad. She wanted a cat all of her very own more than anything in the whole wide world. But she loved her boyfriend, and he loved his furniture. So that, was that.

She made do by feeding and grooming neighbours' cats. Whenever anyone went on holiday, Naomi was on hand to help out. Charging them nothing, and enjoying every feline minute of it. She was a very popular girl, and the all the neighbours agreed that she was an asset.

Once a week she went to Mrs Kline's house. Originally she had been helping Mrs Kline with her cat. But the older lady had suffered a heart attack, and so now Naomi cleaned for her and brought her flowers to cheer up her flat and make Mrs Kline smile.

Mrs Kline loved the flowers so much that she wanted to thank Naomi. It was difficult for her to go to the shops. So she searched her own wardrobe for something to give her instead. When she saw this jacket, it made her think of Naomi. It was covered in flowers, and the bow at the waist made it look like a gift. She thought Naomi was the best gift anyone could have ever given her. And so she resolved to give the jacket to Naomi. This particular jacket had given her an awful lot of luck in her heyday, she wore it for a job interview at the magazine she would later edit. And she wore it on her ten year anniversary with her husband. A night she would never forget, thanks to the romance, the stars and the dancing.

Naomi thought the jacket was fantastic. She put it on straight away and gave Mrs Kline a twirl. Learning that it brought Mrs Kline luck, she hoped it would do the same for her.

Wearing the jacket reminded Naomi that she was her very own person. And so she paraded around in it whenever she could. Lit up by the compliments she received and the love stories she had heard Mrs Kline tell.

The more she thought about these love stories. The more she questioned her own. Her boyfriend had asked her not to bring friends over anymore. He said that he was allergic to them like he was allergic to cats, and was worried they could do just as much damage to the furniture.

The more she wore the jacket, the more she thought, and the more she questioned. Until one day, she told her boyfriend that she could do it no more. He didn't seem too bothered, and she realised that neither was she. So, she put on her jacket, and went for a much needed breath of fresh air.

THE END

If you want your own jacket with a love story past, click here for a happy ending