For the second time in two days my knickers have fallen down
whilst I was walking down the street.
Please do not imagine that this is a mating call of any
kind, nor is it a sign that I am dramatically losing weight, in spite of an
observable increase in my level of exercise. No. This has more to do with
elastic, chiefly cheap elastic, and the perils of living in a shopping Mecca.
I hate shopping. Well, no, that’s not true. I like grocery
shopping. And if I need to buy things for the home or myself, I will. But I
hate browsing. Especially for clothes.
Endless looking and touching things, trying them on and thinking about it and walking away feels to
me like the female equivalent of watching the opening 4 minutes of plot
development in a porn film and switching off just as the ‘actress’ gets on her
knees. What is the point? We are here to see the act, not admire the artful
placement of props. If the secretary/boss thing is what does it for you, by all
means include a desk, but why the fuck dress the set with a hired ficus? The
only shrubbery relevant is not sitting in a white pot.
But I digress. Around where I live there are a number of
clothing outlets. Hong Kong is awash with every kind of consumer item ever
known or conceptualised, and with the world’s largest factory a mere train ride
away, this city positively groans under the weight of ‘stuff’. Sometimes this
stuff gets stuck here, for a variety of reasons, and rather than wing its way
to your local mall, in ends up in open topped cardboard boxes in shops run by
bored, and surprisingly badly dressed, middle aged women.
It is here where we see the free market at work. Day after
day, luxury goods, and cheap crap as well, is sold at pennies to the pound to a
population who average a total of 100 square foot living space per person.
Total.
But why not buy with bargains like these?
As the 1000 per cent mark-up-roundabout swings over, under
and through the free World economy let’s look at the much renowned trickle-down
effect.
To give you an example of how underwear consumerism works, a
genuine label Victoria’s Secret teddy set which costs between $700- $1000 HKD
retail in the store in the states is sold here in an outlet for $70 - $100 HKD.
The outlet has paid $7-$10 HKD per piece, which in turn has cost 70 cents to a
dollar to manufacture. The labourer working in the sweatshops of China or Bangladesh
is making less than 7 cents per garment. If she is lucky she will make $2 USD a
day- which at today’s rate is $16 HKD, thus, were she to buy that same garment
from , say, the catalogue it would only take her a year to a year and a half to
buy herself something nice.
However my truth is that I don’t think about the purchases
of my under-things because I hate shopping, so when I am out and I walk past an
outlet, I grab half a dozen pair, usually in black and sling them into the
spare room where they stay until my
helper comes to tidy up. It’s my way of not ever having to deliberately shop. I
do not treasure these garments, because I am surrounded by them. Like most women who live in Hong Kong, the
idea of having a set number of underwear is laughable. Run out of clothes? Are
you MAD? I may as well start buying British beef.
So why are my knickers falling down in the street? Well
because elastic, whether it is sewn into the hem of highly sought after lacy French
knickers, or across the waistband of a pair of Bonds, hates be repeatedly
boiled and tumble dried but that is how we do it at my place (actually my
beloved laundryman Raymond does this and he folds my clothes and makes them
smell like summer).
Twice- TWICE -
this week, the bastard things have given up the ghost. So I went into my ‘small’s
drawer and decided to start a cull, and it was then that I started to count.
I own 32 pairs of underwear.
This is a ridiculous amount. I only have one bum. Split into two parts, but still one organ
essentially.
I own 14 bras. Once again, although they come as a pair, I
have one set of tits.
I am THAT consumer, I am THAT indulged, and quite honestly I
am ashamed of myself.
Because I know that this is a folly. We as a planet need to
get a grip on what we consume. Not just the eating part, but the owning part
and the buying part. We make things we do not need and buy things we do not
really want just to own them. Owning shit
has become the realisation of our supposed value, and yet the true value of
these things is vastly overplayed.
I do not need 4 weeks’ worth of panties. I need a 7 day supply of well looked after
undergarments that I appreciate and take care of. This year I am attempting to reduce my impact
on the planet in tiny and meaningful ways, and my first act of heroism is to
drastically cut back on anything that isn’t immediately consumable. Food, yes -
another necklace to join my collection of necklaces, no.
No more buying stuff because it is there.
From now on, the only reason you will find me in the street
sans underwear will be because I am in a flowy skirt, it’s hot and sometimes I
like to live a little dangerously or if there is an American Fleet in town in
which case it won’t be my fault. As my Grandmother used to say during the war,
the trouble with cheap elastic is, one Yank and your knickers fall down.
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