transretrogurl

Well, the second lockdown was as much fun as stomach flu. For many reasons it just felt worse than the first one; at least with the first one it was something new. I don’t know about anyone else but I had that weird time-dilation effect; they announced the second lockdown whilst I was in the middle of a session (more on that later) and when they wound up the second one and transitioned back to the wonderful tier system none of us over here in this sceptred isle really understand I was off for another session, and four weeks felt like the blink of an eye.

Yeah, that was kinda alright, given those four weeks consisted of days that were identical and the brain just fast forwarded, but that was a month of life none of us will get back. Anyway, that’s behind us, a couple of vaccines, finger’s massively crossed, appear to be successful and the plan is to start vaccinated the most at risk as soon as possible, and it’s rapidly approaching that fun point in the year where a ‘modern’ religion has hijacked an old festival (cough, midwinter, cough) and everyone, social bubbling allowing, can have a little fun.

And talking about fun….

It’s been a while since I wrote a post. That’s mostly, correction, totally down to the fact that the second lockdown consisted of sleep, work, sleep, work in that order, except for a week when I had to take holiday or lose it and spent the week doing sleep, bored, sleep, bored instead. It’s a side effect of constant low grade stress and a mixture of the fun PTSD but I had next to no urge to do anything constructive, other than sticking to this silly diet I’m on. It’s working; I now weigh the same as I did when I was 21 and I think the drive-to-starve is Sarah bitching at me from her pink room in my mind. She really, really wants to slip into some size 14 frocks; I’ve told her that 6ft 2in of woman in a size 14 dress is, well, a little stretched but you know how the female mind works.

So, I’ve actually had three sessions I haven’t documented which is another indicator of how little drive I have to let Sarah flex her social-media muscles, but the plus side is a lot of gorgeous new looks to talks about. Rather than flood the blog post I’ll just go through some of the highlights; I promise a load of Frock Tales to go into the details.

So, yesterday was the latest little jaunt; up at 4:00am, shave the bits I hadn’t shaved the night before (and it doesn’t get any easier does it? Tried some new razors and literally the first stroke I did, across the back of my fingers on my right hand, I slit the knuckle…), hop in the car, stick a Podcast on (Last Podcast on the Left, if you haven’t heard it check it out) drive the long way round to London (all motorways there, back via Oxford and Cheltenham, much shorter and easier last thing at night).

Then ten hours of solid fun/work with the superbly talented and funny Cindy before heading home, finally oblivious to all the madness of the world, if only for a couple of hours, to eagerly look through my 1700 new pieces of Sarah artwork.

But there was something delightfully different about this session; not the amount or varying of the looks, but specifically about two of the looks that I’ll chat about. And this was because these two looks felt different, in a wonderful way.

See, I’d found a supplier online that did some authentic 1940s clothing. The House of Foxy, to be precise, and I’d treated myself to a couple of things I’d always wanted to try but could never really find.

And wow. Both looks blew me away, one in particular. Because the minute I slipped it on I felt different. Sure, Sarah is there whenever I put on a dress, but this look, the way it felt, the way it looked, it was as if the whole of me became the woman in the mirror.

The outfit in question was a beautiful pink long sleeved 1940’s blouse, with authentic buttons, and a plain dark 1940’s skirt with buttons up the sides. No zips. And the way the blouse felt, the way it hung with puffed sleeves, slightly enhanced shoulders, just felt, well, right. Cindy did a wonderful job on giving me Victory Rolls and when I slipped on some wonderful sensible heels I looked completely like a 1940’s school teacher.

And I did the unthinkable. My breath caught in my throat and I found myself on the edge of tears. Happy tears, but hellfire, the rush of feminine emotions was undescribable.

Yeah, it could have been the outpouring of all the repressed crap I’ve had during the last lockdown on top of all the low level stress since February. But just seeing the pretty 1940’s woman in the mirror and knowing that that woman, who looked like she had just stepped straight out of 1942, was the 51 year old functioning alcoholic cynic that I claim to be. I felt weak at the knees, my eyes blurred a little behind my false lashes and mascara with genuine tears and I felt gentle, soft, delightfully feminine.

And that, my friends, is what retro does for me. For some reason this outfit, with all of its authenticity, just clicked. We did a load of photos of it and I’ll be sharing them, and all the other looks of the session, over time. But for now I can look at those pictures in particular and see something positive to come out of 2020, even though it feels like it came from 1942….

Anyway, I promise some Frock Tales over the next couple of weeks to go into the last three session’s worth of looks in great fashionista depth, so stay tuned.

Stay beautiful and true to yourself, whichever decade that inner child/girl came from…