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| Long Wedding Dress |
Product Details:
Product Code: AH7892
Fabric: Tulle|Organza
Silhouette: Ball Gown
Neckline: One Shoulder
Hemline: Sweep Train
Sleeve Length: Sleeveless
Embellishment: Generous Style|Ruched|One Shoulder|Ball Gown
Closure: Zipper
Built In Bra: Yes
Fully Lined: Yes
Tailor Made: Yes
Size: We are offer custom size service and it's totally free now. So we strongly recommend you get your body measurements and customize it to get your perfect fitting dress. Please refer to our Measuring Guides & Size Chart.
Estimated Delivery: Please refer to the rush order options. Total time = Processing Time(Tailoring) + Shipping Time(4-5Days)
Total time means days spent before doorstep delivery. Weekends included.
Colors: white,Ivory,champagne,pink,silver
Size:4,6,8,10,12,14,16,18,20,22,24,26,28,30 Customize
Special Price: $429.99 / Listing Price:
How times change. These days no bride blushes if she is pregnant, in fact she is likely to postpone the wedding so that her toddler daughter can become her bridesmaid. Back in 1977, it was a disgrace to be an unmarried mother, even if you were not in the public eye as a television fat cat. At my wedding, I was an extremely fat cat - eight months pregnant - and very much in the public eye as the presenter/producer of That's Life!, one of the BBC's most popular programmers. So I wore an enormous chiffon tent, a matching Liberty print-chiffon scarf over my head (the wedding was in December, freezing cold and windy) with a sapphire blue cloak and a large bouquet designed to hide the bump. Nowadays I would wear my bump with pride, especially since it turned out to be Emily, my beloved older daughter.
A dozen years later my husband, Desmond decided to convert to Judaism, so we married again in our synagogue. By this time I was thinner, and older, and blew my wages on a Catherine Walker cream lace shirt dress and a big cream hat to match. Both my wedding dresses are still in my wardrobe. I have worn the chiffon tent a few times at exotic parties, but my lovely lace shirt-dress is so precious (Desi having died a few short months after that glorious second wedding day), that I can't bring myself to wear it except on the most special occasions.
POLLY SAMSON:
That my wedding dress was lovely was lucky. The truth is I hadn't given it much thought. I didn't really see the point of getting married and dressing up as a bride seemed like showing off. Also, I was busy. Friends seemed keen for us to have a party where I'd be the only one in fancy dress. One who worked in fashion wanted to design me something. David's friend Ossie Clark offered, too. But my inner killjoy just wasn't having it. Eventually I went alone to a wedding dress shop I'd noticed on the King's Road and asked for their plainest dress in my size. It was off-the-peg ivory silk with long sleeves and very fitted - underwear would be impossible, but what the hell.
As I stood with David making our vows, I was struck by the blinding ecstatic point of it all: marrying is amazing! Later that year, I was with some friends planning another's wedding. We pored over pictures and samples of lace. She was certain she wanted a dress that looked spectacular from behind because that was where most of her audience would be. We laughed at her vanity and I felt a little wistful.
CELIA WALDEN:
Unlike so many girls, I never fantasised about my wedding dress. If anything, I dreaded the idea of traipsing around bridal boutiques, winching myself into one ghastly crinolined gown after another. I dreaded the expense, the prohibitive undergarments, the shop-assistants - the overblown, absolutist nature of it all. And I had always suspected that when the time came, I wouldn't find anything I liked. I was right. Six weeks before my wedding I still hadn't found a dress.
€We shouldn't be here,€ my mother complained, when I dragged her along to a sample sale one of my favourite designers, Sophie Cranston of Libelula, was throwing in her studio. €We should be finding you a wedding dress.€ And then suddenly there it was: a simple long cream sample gown embroidered with cherry blossom, fashioned from vintage Japanese kimono fabric. It was dusty, it wasn't a wedding dress (Libelula didn't do bridal back then), and it was a steal. €You can't get married in an a hundred and ten pound dress,€ one friend admonished when I told her about it.
I could and I did. I knew that I would never find anything more beautiful - and I didn't want my husband to suppress a yelp of surprise, like so many must do, at the crispy-haired, extravagantly dressed and violently made-up woman standing beside him at the altar. I wanted to feel airy, relaxed, joyful. Schmaltzy as it sounds, I wanted to feel like myself.
JENNY McCARTNEY
After I got engaged, I could feel wedding fever creeping up on me, but I was wary of delirium. I bought a few bridal magazines, but kicked them under the sofa when visitors came.
As the mutterings of €have you got your dress yet? grew more insistent, I felt the heat. I went into a few bridal shops, but - with their hushed reverence and astronomical prices attached to stiff, complicated creations - they made me claustrophobic. I wanted a dress that would let me feel special, but not take me hostage. There wasn't much family pressure. My grandmother was married in her best suit, my mother in a traditional white dress, which she later cut up: first to make an evening dress, then a princess costume for me.
Then I found the dress, in a wedding boutique in Crouch End: ivory, empire line and fitted, the least expensive in the shop (although the price still betokened a mild insanity). But I kept the shoes sensible, for dancing purposes: pearlised sling-backs from Clarks. In Belfast, we all danced - family, friends, new Indian relatives - to the joyously insistent rhythms of a showband from Omagh. A week later we had another reception hosted by my husband's parents in Birmingham: this time I wore a red salwar kameez, intricately hennaed hands, and we had a party all over again.
ROWAN PELLING:
I was 27 when I got married and temporarily out of work, so my gown options were restricted. My darling mother donated 200, but even back then, in the mists of 1995, the sum didn't stretch far and barely covered the cost of my Emma Hope shoes. (I always put footwear first in those days, in the belief the well-shod could carry off anything.)
I scoured vintage boutiques for a miracle frock that might upgrade to wedding-worthy, but nothing hit the mark. With two months to go, I was wandering down Burleigh Street in Cambridge, while my husband-to-be shopped for scale-model aeroplanes in a discreet emporium for the retrogressive, up a dingy wooden staircase. Suddenly, there it was, in the window of the Red Cross shop: a softly gleaming vintage wedding gown in a heavy damask satin. Price: 40. The shop had just closed, so I stalked up and down the window, pining. I phoned first thing on Monday and asked the staff to set the dress aside; by the evening it was mine.
Nobody knew the gown's history, but the style, with a soft €v' over the stomach and cloth falling from the hips, was in keeping with the late 1940s, while the weight of the fabric and style of the zip and bosom suggested a later decade. I took it to a seamstress, who made it fit like a glove for a small fee. I would never have set out to look so traditional, or demure, but the dress found me. And when my arms came up in livid welts, after picking ivy and autumn berries to line the marquee, I was grateful for the long sleeves.
I still adore the dress and have yet to meet a woman who paid less for her wedding gown. Looking back, a vintage frock was the only fitting choice for a woman whose groom made model Spitfires and wooed her with lines from the great Powell and Pressburger film, A Matter of Life and Death.
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