Before I began writing I used to flog knickers, amongst other things. I had worked at Agent Provocateur in London as a PR assistant, a job which literally consisted of sorting out dirty knickers all day (dirty because bad stylists wouldn’t use the industry standard nude thong beneath the leant lingerie on their shoots - precisely as gross as it sounds).
When I arrived back in Sydney at the beginning of 2016, I had no fucking clue what to do with my little life. Like many antipodeans I was booted out Britain’s back door the moment my visa expired. I had also foolishly thought that my time in London would lead me to fame and fortune, where as instead it lead me to depths of the fashion closet, and being so skint that one weekend before pay day, I literally survived off a batch of homemade scones (that was until my friends Harry and Claudia rescued me with their homemade duck confit at their flat in Notting Hill - a setting which was quite the contrast to the enormous share-house in the depths of East London I resided in).
Regardless London had been FUN. Seriously fun. Too much fun. And being back in Sydney felt rather… boring… by comparison.
A blurry photo from my London leaving party. Must revisit that beehive!
Being back in Sydney, closer to home, I thought it was time to start sorting myself out. I promptly got a job in advertising and after three days of being shouted at, working myself to the core and cleaning up my boss’ constant cocaine trail (again, exactly as gross as it sounds), I decided I needed to return to a comfort zone. I promptly quit the advertising job and rang up Agent Provocateur’s head office asking for a shop girl gig. I was hired on the spot.
I remember first donning that pink uniform. This was a brand I had been OBSESSED with my entire life, and wearing the Westwood-designed uniform made me feel much more in the fold than working at the bottom of the ladder for the corporate side of the business. The other striking thing about my new job was my new colleagues. These were the coolest, craziest girls Sydney, all employed to sell overpriced lace to CEOs, sex workers, tourists and Sydney-siders alike.
My friend Rose and I, flashing our cleavage in a bid for sales (ironically I’m not even wearing an AP bra in the picture, instead a vintage basque, purchased in Portugal, which I still own).
Naturally there was a lot of drama between us shop girls, and our manager was an unhinged nightmare. But it was there that I made many life-long friends, not to mention the stuff we used to get up to together was beyond belief. We would drink champagne (and get drunk) on the shop floor with our customers, we teased sugar daddies who were desperately spending their savings on their baby, we navigated perverted phone calls and IRL creeps, the list goes on.
Overall we were so bloody naughty and life was so bloody fabulous. We would go out together on Saturday nights, stockings on show, terrorising boys and evoking envy in girls. We all spent all of our meagre salaries on lingerie too. The business had us as hooked as our loyal clientele, and any profit we made went straight back into the business’ bank account.
Slowly and steadily I grew tired of the job though, as did my closest colleagues. I had begun my interior design studies and was pulling seven day weeks, not to mention my priorities had changed. Eventually it came time to leave. My confidence about the job had derailed too. I was already conscious of my family thinking I was a failure (a feeling I still battle to this day). This false feeling was not helped when a well-meaning family member took me out for lunch to ask why I was wasting my time working in such a “slutty” store when I was apparently so intelligent.
Posing with a whip at work, why not?
I got a lot out of working there: my biggest takeaway from the job being a major lesson in branding. Even though AP had been bought out by a corporate giant in 2006, the undiluted essence of the brand remained strong in all of the stores, and had always begun with the shop floor. When your staff believe in your brand the way you do, you are onto something. Agent Provocateur was sexy, unapologetic, fashion-forward. It exposed the average person to a sexual underground, and enticed customers to push themselves and be a little more daring. It was all of the best bits of London crammed into one little lingerie label, and I loved it!
My other biggest takeaway from my year on the shop floor was a lesson in body confidence. OK, AP is NOT a size inclusive brand, but through this job I saw so many bodies. They say women disclose everything to their hairdresser (which is usually true) but try selling someone a bra and they will tell you everything about their life. The sad thing was that no matter how good these women looked they all wanted to lose weight, something they would disclose to me as soon as I would enter their changing room. Beyond that, what was so empowering, was seeing any customer transform when donning the right thing. It really did teach me how anyone can look fabulous when wearing the ideal design.
AP is but a memory now, something I only really think of if I am cramming my boobs into an old bra by them. Yet sometimes, when I’m slogging away at my laptop, I long for that simpler life of lace, drama and general shop girl antics. Knickers Forever, after all.
In other news I will be slinging vintage this Sunday at Round She Goes. Do come along, info below. x