Confessions of a Bondi Blonde

I went dream shopping today.

I tried on the latest Ralph Lauren, Alberta Ferretti and Lanvin. Silks slithered down my body and hidden supports built into sheer frocks restored my shape to wanton, womanly.

I gave a happy sigh as I tried on close to $30,000 worth of clothes.

My reflection in the five way mirrors was elegant, professional. I felt that the life that went with these clothes was achievable; waiting impatiently at some coffee shop meeting or stuffed into my handbag, a lottery ticket that would be cashed in for millions at the next Powerball draw.  

After an hour of dress-ups I was content. I slipped back into my Country Road trousers and Witchery top and left the cloistered world of David Jones Elizabeth Street to catch the 333 Express back to Bondi.

I have indulged in this harmless secret passion for years. If I was feeling flat or tied down with too much single parent reality, I could always go to beautiful shops and try on exquisite clothes. The price tags were so out of reach that I could never, ever be tempted to buy anything, so it was a pure salve for the soul. There was an etiquette involved. Be very polite to the sales staff who usually were nice back and who wouldn’t try to push a sale too hard. The shops were usually empty when I visited, so at least I kept boredom at bay. And if a real customer showed, be patient and watch as Black American Expresses were briefly exchanged for frivilolous nothings. And it was always better to choose a department store rather than a small boutique; then I’d be wasting the time of an employee on salary, rather than an owner or a commission saleswoman. So, no harm done.

In Sydney, there’s no other dream shopping store like David Jones. When the lift opens and you see the brass plaque ‘on seven’ on the floor, you know you’ve arrived in heaven. A quick turn left to the dark cream marble loos is necessary. One has to approach this with reverence. Hair must be brushed, clothes straightened and lipstick applied before you enter the selling floor. The toilets are almost always empty. If you were a overnight shift worker, it’s a fair bet that you could live here during the day. The black suited staff are so polite to the few customers there, and the customers so few, you could score a few hours of undisturbed sleep a day. As long as you were stylish when asleep, of course.

Today I was particularly beguiled by the Dolce & Gabanna. There were the cutest silk tops and beautiful wool jackets in rainbow colours. I tried them on, and with my black trousers the look was “instant evening news reader”. My authority increased and my skin looked more luminous in the soft lighting. And it was good to see Martin Grant had a substantial slice of real estate to display his wonderful silk skirts and light wool tops and dresses. Lee Radziwill, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis’ younger sister had been a supporter of this Australian born designer from his early days. His blend of sharp tailoring and casual elegance had made him successful Paris and therefore, a cosmic star in Australia’s fashion constellation. His dusty blue sleeveless top was gently pleated from the neck and had a gently gathered matching skirt with a dark cream background. They looked feminine and elegant on. Perfect for a spring wedding. That I hadn’t been invited too. In fact, I hadn’t been to a wedding in over five years.  Oh well, I knew what colours suited me if a gold-edged stiffy ever hit my letterbox.

But there were interlopers on seven and I can’t say I was pleased.

Carla Zampatti, Bianca Spender and Covers had happily sat on the lower, less exclusive Australian designer floor for years. So what were they doing on seven? It was the domain of international designers and their multi-thousand dollar price tags. What were clothes I could almost afford doing here?

And then I learned the sad, shocking truth.

On Seven is to go. To be replaced by offices. Apparently the parent company’s grey suited bureaucrats need to gather strength by huddling closer. Previously scattered in cubicles across the metropolis, the movers and shakers have decided to decamp to the mother ship.  A management think tank decided to close down the museum of material wealth that on seven had become. They were going to open a posh frocks section on six, but it wouldn’t be an echo of this place, no matter how discreet the lighting or plush the loos.

I shouldn’t have been surprised; they had been dismantling the magic for years.

First to go were the fashion shows, where normal people with store cards were invited to watch skinny models strut their stuff. The shows, held twice daily during fashion week were attended mostly by retired couples and university students. The intended target audience – independently wealthy women – were too busy working to take time out at 11:00 to watch tits and ass, no matter how tempting the clothes. I regularly went to the shows when I was a uni student and loved the goodie bags, with free lipsticks and the latest edition of Vogue.

They closed the Restaurant on Seven when management decided they were retailers, not restauranteurs. It hadn’t been profitable ever, so why the need for fiscal responsibility all of a sudden? The views over the Domain were magical. You could sit on a Devonshire Tea for hours, pretending to study while watching city workers scurrying far below or examining the other patrons.

They were usually country gentry, with ruddy complexions, felt hats and immaculate, feminine wives. They came to town for the Royal Easter Show and for family celebrations. Living by logical rules of thrift and value, they bought clothes of quality and timeless, classic style. They were probably the best patrons of on seven, apart from the Eastern Suburb mavens who came squawking like cockatoos into the Moschino and Versace displays, buying in frenzy and never staying for tea and cake. I was always safe in the knowledge that I always could get a table at the Restaurant on Seven, no matter how close it was to lunch.

But now the barbarians were at the lift and the brass plaque would be jimmied out of the floor, destined for some dusty archive.