I was doing some more sorting out at the family home last week and rediscovered this battered old box on top of a wardrobe complete with my maternal Great-Grandfather's best hat.
Devilishly handsome but, by all accounts, an utter bastard, known throughout the city of Chester as a notorious womaniser and serial adulterer.
This was my other Great-grandfather, from Stone in Staffordshire, immortalised after his death on this silver mourning brooch.
Christys' London still produce and sell the very same fur felt top hats for £275, way out of my price range.
|Tiger stripe top and 1960s st Michael psychedelic scarf (both second-hand), pink bow bobbles (The one and only Krista)|
Seems a shame not to give this one at try.
Massive heads must be a family trait, it fits perfectly! (Shame I can't say the same for my dress, there's a row of bulldog clips clamped to the back in a vain attempt to stop it from falling off.)
How bizarre, the date on the hat box is 1888, the same year as Jack The Ripper began his reign of terror on the streets of Victorian Whitechapel.
I can hang out with the divine Inspector Reid from BBC 1's deliciously macabre, Ripper Street,
and witness all manner of heinous crimes.
The late Screaming Lord Sutch performed this when he supported The Stray Cats (my first ever gig) at Birmingham Odeon in 1980.
|1980s-does-Victorian tartan maxi dress (borrowed from the Kinky Melon stock room), muff (hand-made by me from a couple of vintage hats and strung on Great-Grandma's rose gold muff chain.|
Back to reality and the Dickensian squalor of our dining room.