Love Bites: Car Boot Collections
This month's columnist reflects on a keen vintage eye passed down from father to child
As a kid, my dad had car boot sales down to a military operation. He’d wake me up at the crack of dawn, I’d pull on some sweats and we’d race round to a local field. We’d be refused a parking spot because the sellers weren’t ready. Lurking in the bushes until given the all-clear by someone in a hi-vis vest, he’d ask me what I was hoping to find – tamagotchis, a Game Boy, and Croc charms. He was simply drawn to objects made before he was born. It was always a game to see how far a tenner could take us. He would encourage me to haggle, but I didn’t have it in me (I still don’t). Our car journey home would be filled with dusty ceramics, vintage toy cars, and often an unwanted gift for my mum.
His love for old stuff has rubbed off on me tenfold. My obsession for vintage clothes is on the precipice of irrationality. But here’s how I justify it: in a hyper-capitalist society, where clothes are made in unethical circumstances and influencers mass-order in the name of content, vintage clothes are infinitely richer in history. Each garment is an invitation to spin a tale about the lineage of beholders. What does the style reveal about their personality or circumstances? Where did they wear this and who did they love? With most high-street fashion, there is only one narrative – and it’s one of exploitation.
My dad walked me down the aisle this year, two decades on from those fabled car boot sales together. I wore a 1950s fishtail dress made from satin and tulle. Always one to wear his heart on his sleeve, he burst into tears when he saw me in it, and barely stopped for breath throughout the whole ceremony. I imagine whoever wore the dress before me was an absolute diva, maybe divorced and remarried because they wanted another chance to wear it. When I’m old, I hope its next owner enjoys revelling in the mystery that this vintage ecosystem offers.