Part Two: A Year of Not Buying Clothes ( both saying a similar thing but differently)

 

Part Two: A Year of Not Buying Clothes 

(And What It Taught Me About Fashion’s Collapse)

In the last few years I’ve done some pretty radical things — things I’d never imagined doing. The biggest one? I stopped buying clothes. Completely. No hauls, no “just popping in”, no impulse tops, nothing. The only exception was emergency underwear — and even that was Primark, because for years they were the only place doing decent basics without charging the earth.

I did it because I was sick of fast fashion, sick of the waste, sick of the water use, sick of the throwaway culture. But also because the so‑called quality brands weren’t any better. I used to rely on Marks & Spencer for tights — suddenly, Primark tights were better. How does that even happen.

I was a John Lewis shopper for years. You could always tell when someone was wearing John Lewis — the fabric, the cut, the way it washed. Their ANYDAY brand was brilliant: fair price, great wear, lasted ages. And now? Gone. Replaced with pieces that feel no different to a £16 white tee from anywhere else. Everything’s more expensive, and the quality is… fine. Just fine. Not £45‑for‑a‑cotton‑top fine.

And that’s the point. You can’t tell where anything comes from anymore. This broderie top I’m wearing — the one I mentioned yesterday — it could be John Lewis, Hush, White Stuff, Fat Face… who even knows which brands are still standing. But it’s Primark. And unless I told you, you wouldn’t know.

Because the whole high street has blurred into one. Same fabrics. Same stitching. Same lifespan. Different price tags.

Buy the top in Primark: £15. Buy the same top in White Stuff: £50. Same work. Same material. Same wash. So what exactly are we paying for.

We all say we’re “not fast fashion people” anymore, but the truth is the whole system is fast. People wear something once and stick it on Vinted. I don’t do that — I buy to wear, to keep, to live in. If it bubbles, it goes in the recycling bin or the charity bag. If it’s still good, it gets a second life. But even Vinted has turned into a resale circus. The things I used to love — the pieces I’d hunt for — now cost more second‑hand than they ever did new. How is that sustainable for anyone.

So what do regular people do. We buy what we can afford. We mix the good pieces with the climate‑crisis pieces. We shop the sales because paying full price for something that won’t last is madness.

My key wardrobe pieces — the ones that have survived years — are still here. But everything else? It’s a mix of bargains, charity finds, and the odd Primark surprise that looks far more expensive than it is. Not because I’m cheap — but because I refuse to pay a premium for something that isn’t worth its worth.

Fashion has become a game of big brands making as much money as they can, selling out quality, and hoping we won’t notice. But we do. We feel it every time a £45 top washes like a £5 one. Every time a “premium” dress pills after two wears. Every time a brand charges luxury prices for mass‑produced fabric.

Footnote

Fashion — and the whole business of buying fashion — has taken another strange turn in recent years. Everyone talks about carbon footprints, recycling, sustainability, and doing better… yet the quality and the control behind the garments have slipped. I honestly don’t believe most things are made to be worth their worth anymore. And the saddest part is this: the real makers — the people who weave the fabric, dye the cloth, and do the actual skilled work — are the ones who will never see their true value reflected in the price we pay.