Street life - In the trench
A beige coat - I must be getting old to genuinely admire a coat for its non-colour. I love green coats and yellow coats, but beige! So what is it about the Burberry trench coat? Why is it that when you put it on you feel complete? Is that marketing, or...
A beige coat - I must be getting old to genuinely admire a coat for its non-colour. I love green coats and yellow coats, but beige! So what is it about the Burberry trench coat? Why is it that when you put it on you feel complete? Is that marketing, or it is authentic sartorial dust?
It is one of those pieces that will live in your wardrobe and get handed down to the next generation. Sharpening up the lawyer or laconic layabout alike, it works its magic on every limp day, it finishes you off and sets you apart, man and woman alike.
I inherited my grandmother's Burberry, it has her initials embroidered on the inside label. It is probably about 25 years old but it still holds; it simply falls right.
The only problem was that it was the wrong size - too long, too wide. Wearing it made me feel like the bogus resistance femme, in the classic British comedy series 'Allo 'allo. Walking down the street in it, I imagined myself carrying the French salami with the painting of the fallen Madonna with the big boobies by Van Klomp. It was fun, but it was a tad too comical. I was drowning in it and I'm not sure any of the Danes have ever seen Renee having it off with the maid in the broom cupboard, and even if they had, why would that make my comic look any less tragic.
So I walked the streets of Copenhagen in the early spring evenings hiding my imaginary salami, flashing a rueful grin at anyone I thought to be looking at me, clearly wearing someone else's coat, a quizzical "where's the beret, love?" look on their faces. It all got too much, I didn't feel complete, I felt imbecilic. The trench looked better hanging in the hallway than on me.
About two weeks ago, I finally walked down to an atelier on Istedgade, a tiny fashion shop where two sisters sell their personal collection, the most piquant of which is a take on the old skool sweatshirt, a patchwork "sweat" dress. I walked in, carrying the oversized Burberry coat over my arm, cracked a few lame jokes and then put the beige beast down on their work table. "I have this big old coat, can you fix it?" I asked. The sewing sisters nodded with assurance. The trench went on, Lea and Sara pinned me into position and said - come back Monday. It was hard to believe they could do it, but nevertheless we agreed on an alteration price of 300 kroner and I walked out, hoping for a mac-donning weather prediction of sharp breeze and drizzle in the forthcoming weeks.
Then I received a call. She said: "Sara your coat..."
"OK, I'm coming to get it," I said, "soon". But I was lying, I didn't have the money to pay the alteration fee.
Today I woke up, still knotted up with my hard luck, I went to Fredriksberg park, spied on the crazy monkeys swinging on ropes in the zoo, dreamt about doing Tai Chi in the Chinese garden and walked back home via Netto, the neon lit supermarket, to purchase two bottles of prosecco and a carton of milk. Total price 110 kroner. I turn 34 tonight so I wanted something to toast the years gone by.
Just before arriving in Enghaveplads, where I live, where the atelier is, I stopped at a cash machine. I stood there and summoned up the gods, particularly Aphrodite, who I knew would enjoy my absurd and irrational request. I hoped that a drop of her pity would allow me to extract 300 kroner, not 500 you understand, but simply 300 from the machine, and if it did, I would walk straight to the atelier, pick up my coat and not give two carrots or a chicken breast (stuffed) about tomorrow. That was my deal with the god.
The sand timer on the screen spiralled for a few long seconds and then Nordea bank spat 300 kroners out at me. I walked fast straight down Istedgade, I walked in, I tried it on, paid the girls and walked home, a happy pre-birthdayite with two bottles of prosecco and a fine Burberry coat tailored just for me, ready to mount my metallic grey bicycle, my integration into southern Scandinavian living complete... but where on earth did I leave that wretched salami?
It is one of those pieces that will live in your wardrobe and get handed down to the next generation. Sharpening up the lawyer or laconic layabout alike, it works its magic on every limp day, it finishes you off and sets you apart, man and woman alike.
I inherited my grandmother's Burberry, it has her initials embroidered on the inside label. It is probably about 25 years old but it still holds; it simply falls right.
The only problem was that it was the wrong size - too long, too wide. Wearing it made me feel like the bogus resistance femme, in the classic British comedy series 'Allo 'allo. Walking down the street in it, I imagined myself carrying the French salami with the painting of the fallen Madonna with the big boobies by Van Klomp. It was fun, but it was a tad too comical. I was drowning in it and I'm not sure any of the Danes have ever seen Renee having it off with the maid in the broom cupboard, and even if they had, why would that make my comic look any less tragic.
So I walked the streets of Copenhagen in the early spring evenings hiding my imaginary salami, flashing a rueful grin at anyone I thought to be looking at me, clearly wearing someone else's coat, a quizzical "where's the beret, love?" look on their faces. It all got too much, I didn't feel complete, I felt imbecilic. The trench looked better hanging in the hallway than on me.
About two weeks ago, I finally walked down to an atelier on Istedgade, a tiny fashion shop where two sisters sell their personal collection, the most piquant of which is a take on the old skool sweatshirt, a patchwork "sweat" dress. I walked in, carrying the oversized Burberry coat over my arm, cracked a few lame jokes and then put the beige beast down on their work table. "I have this big old coat, can you fix it?" I asked. The sewing sisters nodded with assurance. The trench went on, Lea and Sara pinned me into position and said - come back Monday. It was hard to believe they could do it, but nevertheless we agreed on an alteration price of 300 kroner and I walked out, hoping for a mac-donning weather prediction of sharp breeze and drizzle in the forthcoming weeks.
Then I received a call. She said: "Sara your coat..."
"OK, I'm coming to get it," I said, "soon". But I was lying, I didn't have the money to pay the alteration fee.
Today I woke up, still knotted up with my hard luck, I went to Fredriksberg park, spied on the crazy monkeys swinging on ropes in the zoo, dreamt about doing Tai Chi in the Chinese garden and walked back home via Netto, the neon lit supermarket, to purchase two bottles of prosecco and a carton of milk. Total price 110 kroner. I turn 34 tonight so I wanted something to toast the years gone by.
Just before arriving in Enghaveplads, where I live, where the atelier is, I stopped at a cash machine. I stood there and summoned up the gods, particularly Aphrodite, who I knew would enjoy my absurd and irrational request. I hoped that a drop of her pity would allow me to extract 300 kroner, not 500 you understand, but simply 300 from the machine, and if it did, I would walk straight to the atelier, pick up my coat and not give two carrots or a chicken breast (stuffed) about tomorrow. That was my deal with the god.
The sand timer on the screen spiralled for a few long seconds and then Nordea bank spat 300 kroners out at me. I walked fast straight down Istedgade, I walked in, I tried it on, paid the girls and walked home, a happy pre-birthdayite with two bottles of prosecco and a fine Burberry coat tailored just for me, ready to mount my metallic grey bicycle, my integration into southern Scandinavian living complete... but where on earth did I leave that wretched salami?