“Chickabooti” - what does this name say to you? and would you ever be caught dead in a garment of that name? Say the word to yourself a few times: “chick - a - booti”. Sounds like you are reciting over and over again the word “craap” “craap” “craap”
When I RSVPd to attend a clothing exchange event at the Tap Gallery, Palmer Street Sydney last week, no one had warned me that I would be expected to swap a brand-new-with-tags Marnie Skillings dress that cost $530 for some of the most pathetic crap that most people might hide in the bottom of their wash basket.
Clothing exchanges, are becoming popular as a “sustainability” gimmick. The idea is it’s a girls party with a glass of wine, a nibbly and then everyone browses through the clothes that people want to swap, because they are too big, too small, don’t fit, or as in my case just didn’t suit me.
My Marnie Skillings dress was of the finest black cotton and silk blend, with black lace. This soft-as-a-feather flounced mini-dress seemed great at the time I tried it in the shop. I thought I would wear it with a tan/black/gold belt and just thrash it to death like I do with my other beloved Marnie garments.
But I was wrong. With a wide yoke of (beautiful) lace and tiers starting just above the pointiest part of the boobs, it looked sadly awful on me, hence I never wore it.
What to do? I knew at least two women whom it would have suited, and I would have given it to. But recouping the cost of my error was probably the sensible thing to do. I could have put it on consignment at a reputable recycled fashion outlet, or sold it on Ebay, but I decided that I would give the Sydney Clothing Exchange a go.
Big Mistake. Ha, life is full of mistakes, but this is one I didn’t need. Not only did I lose my title to the dress as soon as I paid my $25 entry fee (as well as title to the excellent gabardine skirt that was just a bit, optimistically, too small around the waist) but I had to do it blind, not knowing how low the standard of clothing would be from me to choose from.
This was a boring, dispiriting night of the worst clothing that can never claim a right to use the name “fashion”.
I nearly pulled out when I arrived and the organisers explained their business model to me: people can bring up to 6 garments, and are given tokens for the same number of garments. Patrons are not allowed to browse and look at the garments until the room is all set up and then everyone enters and picks up their selections, and first in best dressed. It didn’t seem very satisfying to me, the clothes in another room, while I was corralled in a bar area drinking warm white wine and having a weak laugh with some other sweet victims of the Sydney Clothing Exchange. When asked “what happens if you don’t find anything you like, or if there is nothing of equal value?” “We have been doing this for a long time, and we have customers who come back and back again” said the organisers, “There is something for everyone”.
Caringly transported in a taxi, on a hanger with plastic cover, my offerings were certainly the best quality and best condition items in the entire sale. But when the time came to swap, what choices were there for me? Worn out Portmans from a few years ago, tired polyester, clothes entirely lacking in any distinction, and of course the pinnacle of crassness - Chickabooti.
OK, I have told you how bad it was for me, but there were another 19 or so females who attended the Sydney Clothing Exchange on the same night. Some of them were repeat customers. What’s in it for them?
Well it’s obvious isn’t it. If you bring half a dozen clothes that you wouldn’t be seen dead in and suckers like me bring good condition, good label, fashion items, then that equals a pretty good deal for some.
Like the girl who got my Marnie Skillings dress, who swooped on the floor the minute she heard the word Go, like a veteran sale-time trooper. Within seconds she had swept up her armfuls of booty. Last seen scuttling out of the place with her hips slung low to the ground, no doubt she will be gloating to her friends how well she did out of the Sydney Clothing Exchange. Man, she was almost skating.
It was an expensive lesson to learn, and sorry Kylie and Katinka, the dress will not be yours but is now the property of the said scuttler.
This is but one vignette from a thoroughly unfashionable, unsustainable and rather unfriendly skirmish with the Sydney Clothing Exchange.
What did I get out of it? It was looking like I would find nothing, but there was one top I quite liked. I wasn’t willing to try it on, as I wasn’t sure how clean it was, so have yet to see if it is any good on. And as I was leaving I thought I would take away a pair of Manolo Blahnik red suede high heels boots, a size too small for me, and needing a good shampoo. They were filthy and I am not sure whether I will get them clean. I only thought they would be useful for a forthcoming photo shoot.
The organiser assumed that I must be overjoyed to find a pair of grubby Manolos one size too small for myself. No, I wasn’t, and this should have been clear from the way I was holding them away from myself with my fingertips. I was just poker-faced and stunned at the experience of attending this ill-conceived event.
Sometimes it is good to learn life’s lessons vicariously, and save oneself the hurt.
Ladies, this is one such occasion.
