The great French equation

There are many trillions of things I love about France - food, architecture, people. language, parks, crepes, grafitti, food markets, the smell of the chicken and potatoes on the rotisserie in the food markets - but what I love most is the way French women dress.

 I don't usually buy into the stereotypes attributed to countries, especially not as far as style is concerned, but it is undeniable in this instance: French women really are fabulously well dressed.

I watch them closely whenever I'm there and until recently thought that there was no obvious formula or discernible method to their style, that it was some secret alchemy that could not be imitated outside of France or by a non-French citizen.

But that was until I finally came up with the equation as I watched a young woman in Paris waiting at some traffic lights with a companion. They appeared to be on their way to or from a work meeting. It was a Wednesday and they sounded like they were discussing business. Madame was dressed in all black....

...except for her tights, which were brown and her bag, which was perfectly red. It sounds a bit odd but she looked fantastic. The varied textures of the black garments was highlighted by the brown tights. The red bag was plain but beautiful quality. The effect was flattering, a little quirky, refined, work-appropriate, feminine - her outfit ticked so many boxes it seemed impossible. How can one person look so right with such a simple style deviation?

Later that same day I was trying to sneak a photo of some older men playing checkers in a little park, and another example of real style whizzed passed me.

This woman wore a fitted red leather jacket, a fishtail skirt in lilac and black, tight fitting black jeggings, a red coloured scarf and her heavy dark hair was soft and unstyled. It was a wonderful combination and suited her so well. I wouldn't choose any of the items this woman is wearing; if confronted with them piece by piece, I wouldn't dream that they would work together. But they did, and she too looked fantastic: colourful, breezy and comfortable. I found myself wanting every single garment she wore and wanting her confidence even more. How does she do it, I wondered? Why does she look so great?

And then it hit me:

What I like + Comfort x (flattering version for me) - brash
______________________________________________     = French style
      Best quality I can afford + trends I find appealing

After my eureka moment, I sought to expand my theory by closer observation as  I shopped. Let me share my findings.

French women like quality, dependability and they are loyal to the outlets that provide that. I saw women in Monoprix (a French chainstore that can be most closely compared to Target), in Gap, in Zara, in Dries Van Noten, in Galleries Layfayette - shopping right across the board and making their selections very carefully. Young and older women shop in similar places and the seek the same things. For example, Monoprix released a range of very flattering trench coats while I was there. They did them in two colours - black and khaki. I saw all kinds of women - younger, older, full figured, slender  - head for those coats like they were called by a siren. The black sold out everywhere over about three days. Other things that grabbed their immediate attention include: plain blouses, florals (especially skirts) tights, medium height or flat shoes, blazers of any kind, sparkly jewellery and large softly structured functional bags.

Oh, and underwear. I believe it is impossible to buy dreary underwear in France.

They shop carefully. Shops in France have to by law display prices with their goods in any window display, so devising a wardrobe to your budget before you actually splurge is eminently possible with some window shopping in Paris. And there are few malls. All the great shopping districts are a mixture of independent boutiques interspersed with chainstores (Zara et al) so there is endless variety.

They wear their accessories sparingly and use colour as a punctuation mark rather than a clause. They are always well groomed - clean, clothes ironed, shoes in good repair - and they will err on the side of conservative rather than garish. Oh, and the gaelic complexion - dark hair and eyes, smooth olive skin - is the perfect canvas for a swipe of dramatic red lipstick.

So there you have it, the missing equation in true style according to a wandering blogger.

That's all I have, except for the picture of the guys playing checkers.

I'm not that kind of girl

For more than twenty years I have hankered to own a Kelly bag. Every thing I read about it, everything I've learnt about Hermes has made the yearning more acute - my style and my impeccable taste could only truly be expressed by carrying that sober, womanly, expertly constructed bag.

I know that the Birkin bag is the more popular accessory but the likelihood of owning one is so remote that the Birkin almost a cartoon bag, a garish token flaunted by the wealthy, guarded protectively by Hermes by a long waiting list and a prohibitive price tag. You can really only get one if you are very, very rich. Style is not a prerequisite, so owning one illustrates no more sartorial intelligence than a WAG covering her barbecue sauce-coloured spray tan with an entire outfit of the Burberry nova check.

Yes, it was the quieter, less sought-after Kelly bag that called me. The bag has heritage and breeding,  named as it was for a Princess and created so she could conceal her pregnant belly from what must have been a much less forgiving 1950s sensibility. Kelly has an unremarkable design, carries only what you need (no liquorice allsorts and September edition of Vogue welcomed here) and appears in more muted colours than the technicoloured Birkin spectrum: Brun. Marron. Noir.

And as I've grown older and more belligerent and realised my time on this planet is actually pretty limited, I thought, what the hell. You live a decent life, you don't hurt animals or plot wars or buy the Daily Mail. And you're not going to live forever. If you want a Kelly bag, get a Kelly bag.

So I saved. I scoured the Internet. I weighed up the advantages and disadvantages of second-hand vs. new. I saved some more. I checked my tape measure. I read everything I could find on Kelly bags.

And then I chose a vendor.

I'm in Paris, talking to a gentle, well dressed man who specialises in the purchase and re-sale of Hermes bags and scarves. He hands me the bag of my dreams - the 34 centimetre Kelly supple in quiet, milky-chocolate brown. It's in beautiful condition - there's not a mark on it. The gold plating glows. The lock and key are perfect. The leather is soft and thick and securely sewn.

It's 4200 euros. The kindly Monsieur offers me a discount of 200 euros.

It's just a matter of handing over my credit card.

The shoulder strap sits on my shoulder perfectly. When I turn to look in the mirror I can see her, the woman I hoped to be, the woman I thought I would become once I owned a Kelly bag.

She doesn't look any different.

But she will be, once she starts using that bag. She'll tell everyone without even lifting her eyes who she is. That she's stylish. She knows the best and she can afford it, and she gets it for herself without a moment's hesitation. She can afford to blow what it would cost to feed a family over six months on one hand bag.

She won't have to say anything else. Every other little pleasure she takes in her clothes, all the fun she has at flea markets and op shops, all the care she takes dressing for work and play will be redundant. She's carrying the fashion mecca. She's got nothing to add.

And I handed her back, the bag of my dreams, and told Monsieur, "I'll think about it."

Which I did, properly, for the first time.

There were lots of considerations. Would I use it? Would I love it? Would I love it after a year of penury? Because blowing 4000 euros on one item means nothing else, not a pair of tights or a hair clip, not a lipstick or a sparkly brooch, not here in the City of Light, not at home in the City of everyday life, not for a year.

And what do I think I will get for 4000 euros? Style? Respect? A certificate that acknowledges my unique gift for picking fabrics at a hundred paces? A statuette for my skills in choosing and mixing gold  and silver jewellery? A party that celebrates my fabulous collection of 1930s frocks and second hand Maud Frizon pumps?

I get a handbag that tells some people that I don't have much imagination but I do I have a lot of  money to spend on handbags.

It tells people that it doesn't matter what I'm wearing. I can wear an unironed shirt with torn trousers with scuffed beetroot-stained trainers but it won't matter if I  have a Kelly bag. That counts for something. It's style! Look! It cost three months wages! It doesn't do what my faithful Bayswater does, in that it carries what I actually need to work effectively day by day. It's not as pretty as the vintage green leather Desmo I bought on eBay for $17 and it's not as skilfully made as the needlepoint purses I collect, all hand embroidered, all fine examples of women's unpaid labour from decades ago. But it's style. The magazines said.

It's style, but only in theory. Not real style. The kind of style that money buys, not the living embodiment of style I see on countless people on the street, on the bus, in the office, in the blogs I like, every day. Not the style of real people. Not the kind of style I want and have the time of my life trying to create and refine everyday.

And I'll never be that carefully join-the-dots, carry-a-Kelly bag picture of style. My hair frizzes. My eyes are an odd shade of green, not unlike an industrial adhesive past its use-by date.  I like to mismatch colours. Some days I like to wear head-to- toe black. I still love impractical and somewhat frumpy Laura Ashley dresses.  I like to wear Birkenstocks with silk dresses. I make mistakes with proportion. Sometimes everything looks wrong on me. Sometimes the most ugly things look perfectly lovely on me. My skin is crumpled and unless I smear it with pearlescent goo I buy in chemists, dull. My stomach sticks out, my legs are short, I read an inordinate amount of interesting journals and books so my forehead is a gridlock of lines.

I love my whole imperfect package, and love that none of it goes with the refined niceness of a Kelly bag.


I left perfect Kelly with Monsieur and flew home to Sydney with a fat little tartan pouch I got on sale at Muji, a second hand cloud-coloured Longchamp satchel I bought in a consignment store down in the Marais, a sweet little floral leather number I bought from a kind man who helped me with my grammar in a brocante the 2nd arrondissement, a hand made leather applique pouch from a timid artist in Cordes and a brand new gobby, smack-you-in-the-face-with- a-fistful-of sunshine patent Longchamp sweetie that I bought at the sales in Toulouse.  They all work with my dresses, my Levis, my pencil skirts and the suits I wear to work. They have room for liquorice allsorts and they left me with change to re-chart my imperfect, uneven path to fashion mecca as I define it day by day.

Maybe one day I'll find a Kelly in a consignment store for similar change. I've read about that before, the clever women who have found a Kelly bag for a good price. In the world of style and fashion miracles do happen and the amount of time of time I spend scouring for bargains means probability - if not luck - is on my side.

Meanwhile I've unpacked my motley crew and I've tried them out with different clothes, at different occasions.  I've swapped scarves to tone or clash or contradict their colours,  I've changed shirts or skirts to matched their proportion. I've stared at them lovingly in the mirror on my way out the door.

I like what I see.

Combien, s'il vouz plait?

It's a pity no one ever asks me about shopping in Paris because it is one of my best topics, the one I would chose should I be invited on Mastermind.

However, my knowledge is not unique, as a quick scout around the Internet will prove. There are eleventy million shoppings guides out there on the web, all of which remind you that Paris is one of the world's great shopping destinations, that the yearly sales (soldes) are an institution and that some of the world's best fashion houses are based there.


It's all true, but there are a couple of things I didn't learn from the Internet and will now tell you.

1. Apart from the very high end designer-consignment shopping and a couple of cute random boutiques down in Montmatre, vintage shopping in Paris is mostly a very unsatisfactory experience. I don't care if Sophia Coppola did go one of the most popular stores while she was making Marie Antoinette - most of the well known vintage stores are a disorganised tangled mess of stained polyester, torn shirts and bags that leave thin films of dust on your fingers.

2. The exception to this is the fabulous clothing stall at the Port Vanves flea market in the 14th arrondisement.

These markets are held every Saturday from 7am - 1pm. There's about 350 stalls vying for your euro. Port Vanves is not as large or crowded as its distant, more popular cousin at Clignancourt, nor is there a lovely man selling irrepressibly good crepes like there is at Clignancourt but there is a great variety of genuine antiques and fun vintage finds, and there is Madame, who sells the cheapest and most fabulous second hand clothing in Paris. Madame has a strict price scale - 5 euros for a top, 8 euros for a skirt, jacket or trousers, 10 euros for a coat.

Here we see a blogger expressing the muesli of emotions evoked when one picks up a new (still with tags) Yves Saint Laurent skirt and realises a) it's 8 euros B) the matching jacket - also still with it tags - is just down there on the pile and c) neither are her size.

Yves Saint Laurent was just one of the many labels in Madame's varied stock. I bought a Sonia Rykiel duster cardigan, a Sonia Rykiel jacket, a Paul Smith (black label) wool skirt, an Anne Fontaine shirt, a YSL Rive Gauche silk blouse,  a Lanvin scarf and left am still kicking myself for leaving behind a double breasted knitted blazer by Louis Feraud and a cloudy grey cropped jacket in silk and cashmere by Agnes B. I also wished I bought some of Madame's Hermes ties, which she sells for 5 euros a piece.

All of the garments I bought (and all the garments I went through) are in excellent condition.

The Port Vanves flea market spans two streets and you'll find Madame at the junction of those streets. She is literally at the heart of the markets. Just look for the small crowd of delighted women eagerly sorting through a huge pile of clothes.

And get there early.

Is that the time?

The great clearing out continues. I still haven't got anymore room. 

I do have this fabulous clock though. Sometimes I go into the kitchen just to check it's still there. 

The hard yards

I have been clearing out my wardrobe. It's a long lonely haul. So far I've been stumped by two things:

1. That despite having filled three enormous bag with years' worth of frocks, blouses I never wear and trousers that make me like a barrell, I seem to have less room in my cupboards than when I started.

2. I don't think I need to buy another thing ever again.

The siren waits thee, singing song for song

There is some quiet industry underway in my home at the moment. I am unpacking my luggage, and in order to do that I need to relocate a portion of my current wardrobe.

It's dreary work, so I've avoided it in a myriad of different ways: ironing, going to the gym, taking long walks, sitting outside in the fresh air threatening the cats, reading Caitlin Moran's wonderful book and  writing postcards to my oldest brother as a surprise.

But the thing is, I have to go back to work next week and a degree of sartorial achievement is expected. So I attempted unpacking again today, starting with the jewellery (and some rather fine linen napkins emblazoned with CHICKENS. CHICKENS, I ask you.)

You saw my necklace yesterday; here is my haul from the markets at Port Vanves and Clignancourt.

Behold the chickens!

I'm particularly pleased with the mourning jewellery.

There's three brooches and, as you can see in the top right hand corner of the first picture, a pair of dainty  jet earrings. Mourning jewellery was popular in the 19th century after Queen Victoria went into extended mourning for her beloved Albert. The Victorians had, I think, a very healthy attitude to death - they photographed it, commemorated it, dressed to acknowledge it. Mourning paraphernalia is widely collected but I draw the line at black jewellery. I'm particularly pleased to have found the brooch on the left, which features French jet (black crystal). I'm pretty sure the one on the right is black glass.

I love little gold trinkets. The heart is self explanatory - it's a locket, and so is the large the large clear disc.The panels are actually celluloid, so it is very light. The little ornate scrolled piece is a dress clip.

More clips - on the top row a pair of fine silver dress clips, and on the bottom a pair of shoe clips. The dress clips could also be used to hold a scarf in place. The little shoe clips are a wonderful design - they look like smart buckles when attached to a pair of plain pumps.

An Edwardian watch pin on a watch chain. Watch pins are one of my current obsessions.  I bought these from different vendors and was thrilled how well they matched. Watch pins were very popular until the wrist watch became more common in the thirties. Before then, ladies would pin their watches to the belts and secure it with a decorative clip like this. Gentlemen also wore watch pins - theirs were larger but not nearly as pretty.

A pair of wobbly, lightly clinking coral earrings. I'm not sure how old these are - I'm inclined to think they are from the fifties, when this type of cluster jewellery was common. I've already worn these once and am happy to report that they are what the mags call a statement piece: they need no accompaniment apart from a sober dress and some lip gloss.

Earrings waiting for new hooks. The ones on the left are gold and coral, the other pair are gold plate over brass. I love that the coral pair are slightly different. I'll never know if they are from two different pairs, or if the jeweller was feeling obtuse when he made this pair. I'd say both pairs were originally clip-on but they will be for pierced ears when I restore them. When I've unpacked everything.

But wait! There's more!

Last week I sang the virtues of French hair clips. This week I'd like to extend that to French hair combs of all ages.

This quintet came from a very nice man who was selling a wild assortment of stuff on the periphery of the Port Vanves market. The market was closing and he had to get his goods packed up, but he was very gracious to me when I spotted the hair clips, and gave me all five for ten euros. The three black ones are mourning clips (you can see the second and third are set with chips of jet) and the other two are tortoiseshell. I love me a good clinging hair comb.

So that's the jewellery and the chicken napkins, and one less thing to divert me from the wretched unpacking.

You turn a corner and there it is, shining

The mail came late today. It wasn't particularly interesting. When I came home from my afternoon errands I read it on the front step, figuring I could throw it straight in the recycling bin when I finished.  Little did I realise I was in grave danger.

Jeans - Old Navy Sweethearts,  seized upon in San Francisco last year
Blouse - Rozelle markets, second hand
Birkenstocks - from the internet

Bag made from hundreds of fabric petals  - Antoine et Lili, Paris

Adored necklace - Brocante in the 2nd arrondissement in Paris

Earrings - Christmas present from a woman called Prue who I've never met

Dangerous predator just metres from me -  possibly escaped from a local zoo.