The Style Critic

Image credit: stylebytes.net

Ever since I turned 30, the Burberry trench coat has had reassuringly grown-up connotations of womanhood.  A proper, well-fitting trench coat is more than a wardrobe staple: it promises a more pulled together life, a more business-like approach to one’s affairs and a new ‘can-do’ you. A trench says superwoman; a yummy mummy, a seductress, a sophisticate, yet she manages her roles without compromising on who she is.

A tightly-belted trench with a vertiginous heel will stop many a red-blooded male in his tracks, but come morning, paired with jeans and plimsolls the look is playground fresh, with not a whiff of hussy. Nothing beats a trench for practicality – this was the original raincoat for British army officers after all, and it has credentials beyond seduction.  

The tragedy is that I can’t find one that fits me. I don’t want Aquascutum or H&M or Zara. I want a classic Burberry trench as close to the original as I can get. I want a snug fit, one that sits above the knee, but not so far as to render a short skirt visible underneath. Don’t ask me to reel off the style names, in my mind there’s the long one and the short one and not a lot in between. Sales assistants tell me that the petite one is a perfect fit for the Asian market and the standard length suits those leggy Europeans, but what about us Brits? 

Short of having one custom-made, the only hope is that eBay throws up an old vintage gem in wearable condition. Even the old ones in small sizes are comparably large, the idea being that the wearer will be clothed in more than her underwear and given to more purposeful activities than cavorting round town pretending she’s Audrey Hepburn. Which is fair enough, given the cold British weather. 

The most annoying thing is that I did have one of these trench coats in my possession, oh, about six years ago. I used to buy vintage to style up and sell on-line and I was a regular in many a south London charity shop. I picked up a classic Burberry trench in a size 6 for around £20 and although it wasn’t in tip top condition, it was petite. I gave it to my granny but she found it too small on the bust so I sold it on eBay for £125. I remember it attracted a lot of interest, which surprised me. I thought these trenches were ubiquitous – which they are in large sizes – and besides, I was too young to be enthrall to the wiles of the trench coat. You have to grow into the classics in fashion, but I’m still waiting to find the perfect fit…

What I want:

I want a biker jacket that falls no lower than my hipbone. The leather must be reasonably soft and nicely aged. The fit must be snug and tight to the shoulder, but not so tight that I can’t do it up. The zips and fastenings must be a dull silver or brass and not shiny new. In short, I want one I can throw over an LBD without looking like I’m auditioning for Grease or waiting for the Fonz to pick me up.

What I don’t want:

I don’t want the Topshop one, or the Belstaff one. Zara’s was passable but not lovable. I don’t want one with a giant Harley Davidson motif on the back, or rodeo fringing on the arms. Certainly not those batwing, wide-shouldered monstrosities as modelled by Samantha Fox in her heyday. And heaven forbid I don’t want to wear it on an an actual motorbike, so if it looks good on the M1, forget it.

What I found:

The Balenciaga Biker Jacket was as near to perfect as you could get, but at £1250 I’d have some explaining to do back at the ranch. And yes I did the maths: if I wear it every day for the next year it’s the equivalent of lunch at Pret, but unfortunately my husband doesn’t do CPW (cost-per-wear) just GFD (grounds-for-divorce). 

The ONE: Balenciaga

Then last month I found it on eBay in the US. Beautiful she was, just beeeoootiful. Patina perfectly aged. Small, yes it was small. I mean, I really should have inferred from the words “Punk Baby” in the title that it was going to be small; but the measurements seemed workable so I Bought It Now I paid I told the seller to hurry hurry HURRY for Paypal God’s sake get it to me quick.

When my punk baby arrived I ripped open the packet and out came this shrunken, miniature version of my ideal motorcycle jacket, like something you’d put on a keyring. I tried it on- hell, I even split a seam trying to get into it, the dimensions being inversely proportional to how much I wanted it to fit me. And had I been seven years old, it would have slipped on like couture.

What I ended up with:

Temporary numbness in my hands from trying to get my arms into two leather loo-paper tubes. Still, I’ve kept it in case my unborn child has to go to a fancy dress party as someone from Grease.

Yay. It's Punk BABY!!!

The search continues…