Is there ever a right time to burn your clothes?

I only have a portion of my clothes here in Norway, and they have got to the point where all they want to do is be put in black bag, and have a good, warm send off with lighter fluid and a match. If I could afford to get myself some new threads, I’d be down an H&M faster than you can like a new Grumpy Cat meme. I’m dragging my clothes on a bit further until I trip over a pile of gold. Or find the second hand store, which appear to be non-existent here in Norway, that or very well hidden. (Though I stress I wouldn’t get socks from a second hand store…I do have my limits.)


I’ve never really been one to spend a massive amount on clothes. Some of the best items of clothing I’ve ever owned have been hand me downs or from charity shops. I have a black, velvet, long sleeved dress that was given to me about fifteen years ago from a friend of my Mother’s. It’s all bobbles now, but that dress has stood the test of time, and whenever I’ve tried to bin it, my hands have failed to cooperate with my head. I had a fantastic velvet coat, with a fake fur ruff, which my Dad found left in a car pack at his place of work. That was on my back for over a decade. My leather jacket was my Mum’s, and is approaching something like 35 years now. The zipper is fucked, and I’ve had to ‘repair’ a massive slash in it with safety pins, but I can’t ever see myself getting rid of it.



The majority of my wardrobe has always been second hand, ever since I was a child. And I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that. (The kids at my first school did though, and the narrow minded dicks would bully me because of it.) If I think about it, about 89% of what I own is second hand. I always had the thought process ‘why spend ten pounds on a top (which I can’t really afford anyway) when I can get practically the same one for £3 that’s been worn once or twice?’


The issue with everything that’s in my wardrobe at this moment in time, is that most of it is bobbled, faded, dry and stiff to the touch. I feel like if I tried to fold my Burzum Det som engang var top, it would quite literally snap in two. Before, when I had my Mum/Dad/Sister/Brother’s sock drawers within sneaky reach, a hole in a sock wasn’t a massive catastrophe. Now, whenever I pull off my boots I’m praying that both socks are still intact. I’m almost at the stage where I’m considering darning…though that would take up writing time…so…



When I walk through Oslo, in amongst all the well put together Norwegian women, I try and keep my chin up, and persuade myself that I look cool in my tattered band shirt, scuffed leggings and patched shorts, but it’s got to the point that I’m scared my clothes are going to disintegrate in the middle of the street, and leave me standing there in my mismatched underwear, my bra a different shade of black to my knickers.

Shoes are another thing I find hard to let go of. One upon a time a shoe store was having a closing down sale, and my Mum got me a pair of nearly knee high lace up boots (I was barely 12). for a quid. They were being sold off so cheaply because one was a different shade of black than the other. Did I care about the shades? Did I hell. I thought I was the coolest thing in the world when I wore those babies, and I would tell everyone that would listen that they had cost 50p a boot! I wore them until they quite literally fell off my feet… I was about 23. I wear French Ranger boots nowadays, and have been doing so since 2010. I’m on my third pair now and they’re slowly giving up, the soles worn almost to transparency. I think for my birthday I’ll spend 46 Euros on a new pair. Priorities and all.



I’ve not an enormous fan of hitting the clothes stories, but hell, I’m looking forward to the day when I can put on something, anything, that’s supple, smells nice and doesn’t chaff my skin.