I own quite a lot of clothes, which would be less of a problem if I were any good at getting rid of them. Unfortunately, I can look at a jumper I haven’t worn since approximately 2018 and immediately construct a perfectly plausible future in which it becomes essential again. Maybe with different trousers. Maybe under a blazer. Maybe fashion will circle back and I’ll be smugly prepared.
The annoying thing is that this occasionally happens. Something can sit untouched in my wardrobe for eight years and then, on one completely ordinary Tuesday, become exactly what I need. This has done terrible things for my ability to throw anything away.
Every now and then, though, I become unusually decisive. I pull everything out, look at something that no longer fits or that I haven’t worn in years and tell myself that this is ridiculous. Someone else might actually wear it. The lazier version of me would put it in a textile container and enjoy the immediate absence of admin, but occasionally the more financially responsible version takes over and decides to sell it.
I hate selling clothes.
There is something deeply unrewarding about photographing an H&M jumper from six angles, writing an accurate description, checking it for defects, uploading it and then receiving an offer of two euros for something you’ve already priced at three.
At that point the money is almost irrelevant. It’s the principle. Apparently I have a minimum level of financial dignity, and it is somewhere between two and three euros.
This is why Vinted and I have a complicated relationship. As a buyer, I completely understand the appeal. There are bargains everywhere, particularly if you’re patient and happen to be the right size. As a seller, however, you occasionally find yourself negotiating over fifty cents with someone in another European country and wondering how this became part of your evening.
Still, little amounts add up. Over the past year or so, I’ve sold enough things to build a small pot of around five hundred euros, which is considerably more satisfying than having five hundred euros’ worth of clothing sitting in a cupboard convincing me it might one day have a second career.
Recently I decided to tackle two winter coats.
They were good coats, the sort that cost around three hundred euros new, and I’d barely worn either of them. I’d bought them fairly fitted, then gained a little weight, and eventually had to accept that a padded winter coat which technically closes is not necessarily a padded winter coat you want to wear over an actual winter jumper.
So they had to go.
I wasn’t interested in squeezing every possible euro out of them. I thought thirty euros each would make me perfectly happy, so I listed them for forty-five and left enough room for the ancient ritual of online bargaining.
One sold to someone in the Netherlands, lovely. The other went to Germany.
Also lovely.
Before sending it, I did what I always do, only slightly more obsessively because the coat was worth a bit more than a three-euro T-shirt. I steamed it, checked the seams, looked underneath the arms, photographed everything and even took a short video before packing it. I’ve heard enough stories about second-hand selling to know that documenting the condition isn’t a terrible idea, even though nothing had ever happened to me.
Two days later, I received a message saying there were holes in the coat.
Not subtle holes either. The photographs showed sizeable openings underneath both arms, directly along the seams.
I stared at them, then at the message, and because apparently this is who I am now, I opened my personal archive of pre-sale armpit photography.
No holes.
I had photographs, I had video, I had examined the coat myself. The seams had been completely intact when it left my house, and now, by some extraordinary coincidence, both armpits had apparently suffered structural collapse somewhere between the Netherlands and Germany.
There was also something strange about the damage. The openings were directly on the seams and, rather than looking as though the fabric had simply torn, it looked as though stitching was missing.
I replied that either this wasn’t the coat I’d sent or something had happened to it after it arrived, because I could show exactly what it looked like before I packed it.
This was not well received.
Apparently suggesting that someone might not be telling the truth is surprisingly unpopular with someone you believe might not be telling the truth.
She accused me (!) of lying and said that this must be why I’d sold the coat cheaply, which was an interesting argument because I’d sold it cheaply mainly because I wanted it out of my wardrobe without having to make online retail my second career.
Then another message arrived: the hanging loop was broken too.
At that point I almost relaxed, because the hanging loop was one of the things I knew with absolute certainty had been intact. I’d literally taken the coat off a hanger before packing it.
There comes a point in an argument when additional evidence stops making the other person’s case stronger and starts making yours considerably easier.
So I stopped arguing and told her to open a case through Vinted if she wanted to dispute it. She could upload her photographs and explain what had happened, and I would upload mine, along with the video showing the coat immediately before it was packed.
She never opened a case.
I didn’t reply again either, and for the next two days there was simply silence. Then I noticed that the money had been released to me, which meant the sale had gone through as normal. After all the accusations, the photographs, the damaged seams and the suddenly broken hanging loop, that was apparently the end of the official part of the story.
Except it wasn’t quite the end, because shortly afterwards she sent one more message saying that she liked the coat so much that she’d already sewn the holes closed herself.
I didn’t reply to that either.
By then the whole thing had become so strange that the new message seemed to make less sense than the one before it. If I’d genuinely received a coat with two large holes under the arms after being told it was in excellent condition, I would have opened a case immediately. I probably wouldn’t have repaired it myself first, let the payment go through and then casually mention afterwards that I’d fixed it because I liked the coat.
At that point I had unexpectedly become someone with documentary evidence concerning the condition of two armpits, and frankly I felt I’d done enough.
It also briefly made me want to abandon Vinted forever and return to the old-fashioned simplicity of Marktplaats, where at least I have the illusion that I understand the rules. Perhaps I’d only sell within the Netherlands, perhaps I’d stop posting anything worth more than ten euros, or perhaps I’d simply keep every item of clothing I’ve ever owned and eventually move into a larger house for storage purposes. All reasonable options.
The truth, of course, is that I’ll probably continue selling things. Five hundred euros from clothes I wasn’t wearing is still five hundred euros, and there is something satisfying about watching a wardrobe get lighter while a little savings pot gets larger.
I’ll just continue taking photographs. Lots of photographs. Apparently this is no longer merely decluttering. It’s evidence collection.
So if you ever buy a coat from me, you know that somewhere on my phone there is probably an extremely well-lit close-up of its armpits.
-Sophie Quinn
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