The reddest of hats for a red letter day

Beatrice ran and ran as fast as she could with her satchel bag bumping her thigh on every stride. I am going to get there, I am going to get there, I am going to get there. The thought ran through her mind like the train she was going to catch. Her right hand palm down and as though holding these thoughts in her head as it pressed her red hat into place. Firmly. On her good head on her broad shoulders. Sensible girl that she was.


Her hat was red letter day scarlet and would never be more apt. Because today was the day that she would meet her future. He was a man dressed in soiled overalls with dirt under his fingernails, a hard hat on his head and sheets of pencilled paper. He was going to teach her everything that she wanted to know, everything she needed to know and really dreamed of knowing, so that she could be an engineer. A real life and proper engineer. Who could make things, and build things, and imagine on the grandest scale there was until you reached Tower of Babel scale, which she would never do because she had no desire to build anything so unnecessarily phallic. Not that she knew the word phallic or much about the the object it described. But she just wouldn't do that. She wanted to build bridges and pull down walls.


Her mother thought she was going to secretarial school. Her father thought she was going to care for some other woman's children, and her sister knew all the thrilling details about the thrilling truth of the dream and it happening.



Her red hat was a stop sign. A stop to the life she could have led. So she could shift gears and live the one that she had always wanted. In a world of her very own creation in 1960's dreams.


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A beaded dress that dreams are made of

She tried to wake up, but couldn't. She was mesmerised by a dress in her dream. It was like something an angel would wear. At a disco. Or maybe ice skating. It was her dream dress.



This was the dress she needed, and as Man in the Mirror came from the stereo, she got up, and looked at herself in the mirror. She was the one who would wear this dress. In all its beaded glory.

Pixie boots, denim dress and t-shirt on, she was out the house.

The detailing she thought, I must find the detailing.





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It was the schmokin' summer of 1970

Today we saw Jimi. The Jimi. Sir Jimi. Jimi HENDRIIIIIIX. And he said that I was his inspiration. Well, that we were all his inspiration. But when he sang Foxy Lady. I'm sure it was to me. He gets me. Totally. And I am a frenzy for him.

Can. You. Even. Imagine. Thrilled in the proper and electrical sense of the word. Thrilled.

I want to live in festival land for life. I'd banish Hells Angels. I want all the people who want things smoking in a good way, the fun way and the love way. Jimi's way, my way and our way.

The Isle of Wight is where I'll be forever happy. We all will. I love you Jimi. I love you all.

There's no place like home. There's no place like Paris.

She looked at him, looked over the sea, and then down at her beautiful red shoes on the aged promise of the promenade. And that's where her gaze remained.



Blinking and blinking again, her eyes itched. Where there should be tears she felt a drought, and where there should be sadness, a frozen solid lung.

He stretched out his arms like a zombie possessed, but she could not enter their stiffness. And after rubbing her arms as if she had survived a shock, he took his own back and wrapped them around himself.

She tried to count every diamanté on her satin shoes: If each was a wish, what would I do? Would I magically make my small town discontent disappear? Poof. Would I conjure away my ache for a job in Paris? Kazam. And for friends I've never met? Pazazz.




Then I could stay here. Right here. With him. As me. Would I sense there was a sky full of other lives I could be living, streets I could be walking, birds I could be hearing? Would I wonder? Would I slowly start to yearn? Until my heart broke, or I broke his again? Would my slow build wish be for him to change? My love? Ta dah.

And as the thoughts took over and the diamantés sparkled one by one, she knew that the she she was here, was never her at all. Nothing could change. A life in Paris was her own promise, a promise that she made to herself. She had slaved like Cinderella for this chance, never believing that it would come. Or digesting what it would mean for them. To him.

She clicked together her heels, smiled with one side of her mouth. There's no one like me, there's no one like me. And there's no place like Paris, no place like Paris.

Or love like ours.

She patted his chest, just above his heart, although that was unintended. Turned on her scarlet heels, and walked away. He braced himself. Then turned and walked towards home.

He to his baked beans, patio, car wash on Sundays, daily dog walks and three piece suite. She to power shoes, own office, daily conference calls and walk-in-wardrobe.



They would never speak again, but met often. In moonlit dreams- where boardrooms, childhood roots, 80's ambition, unrealised desires, the shine of the new and the comfort of the old- could never come between them.

In both their dreams, they walked the seafront. And she was always wearing, red sparkling shoes that echoed the stars.



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Blooming pretty in 50's pink

Quick break from fictional tales to feature a frothy lace and net dress in candy floss pink, and its reality star vintage wearer and sky gazer Ingrid:

"This dress is stunning! I'm very excited. Hoping to wear it to a wedding or two this summer..."

Ingrid's heart leapt and bounced for this dress as soon as she saw it on ASOS Marketplace, but we emailed a couple of times to be sure it would fit her shape and needs.

"I just hope it fits. I love it!"

Then I swathed it in glitter wrap and got the dress on it's way to it's rightful modern day owner to be worn to a wedding.

And... "it fits like a glove! Like it was made for me. Boyfriend gave it the thumbs up. So Grace Kelly. Woop woop!"

My own heart leapt with pride when I saw Ingrid in the dress. It looks a-MA-zing with her temptress hair, floral accessory and blush detailing, no?

Ingrid said, "I wore it to a wedding this weekend and got SOOOOO many compliments."

Not surprised, Ingrid knows how to do style in swishing skirts.




Thank you Ingrid for shopping with Belle Amie Vintage and letting me share these pretty as a picture actual pictures. I hope you get lots more wear from this sumptuous dress. And to hear all about it.




If you've made a Belle Amie Vintage purchase and would like to see it here, email me a picture and tell me the tale of its outing... Hoping for a happy ending. Xxx


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The mermaid with a black rippling tail

Tiffany had been shown through to the empty hotel restaurant. She could see the movement of people, drinks and dresses in the bar through a narrow archway and mingling cigarette smoke.



The high ceilinged restaurant, despite it's dark wood furniture and neon artwork, was sterile in comparison. She waited. Her own dress ruffled and fanned around her. She rubbed the skirt between her finger and thumb for comfort. This was the dress she had dreamed of. A black mermaid of a dress.




It was lady enough for the restaurant, but edgy enough that she could have walked into the bar and turned heads for being a better version of one of them- glitzy, glamorous, confident and urbane- not a grubby girl with no money or contacts from the back of beyond and nowhere. She took a deep breath and reminded herself that that was because she wasn't. Not anymore.








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