Notebook: The old-fashioned way at Armstrong's THEY didn't always have changing rooms. Until recently, customers at W Armstrong & Son, the 172-year-old vintage clothing emporium, would have to just take a guess as to whether or not an item would fit them. Carol McMorris - a petite, polished woman in fuchsia lipstick and furs - inherited the Edinburgh business from her father, who bought it from the Armstrong family. Growing up, she helped out after school and on Saturdays, and her dad taught her how to fit a piece to a customer without them trying it on. She stretches her arms out to both sides, wiggling the tips of her middle fingers to reach her full wing span. This, she explains, is usually the same measurement as the inside leg of a pair of trousers when you open them out. Her father showed her that. Since introducing fitting rooms, she doesn't need to employ that trick any more. The business has evolved from one shop selling second-hand clothes for working men to three shops selling period pieces spanning more than a ­century. We meet in the original shop in the Grassmarket. Frost lingers on the ­cobbles outside for most of the day, and a steady stream of students and tourists peruse the rails of vintage fur coats. It's bright outside and relatively dim indoors, and as my eyes adjust to the change, they're drawn to the ceiling. Frothy dresses and formal dinner jackets, top hats and tutus, bearskins and boaters are suspended from the rafters or sitting on shelves, all bearing the marks of lives led in them. An aviator jacket is more cracks than it is leather. The petticoats of a full-skirted 1950s wedding dress, as light and layered as puff pastry, have clearly been swirled across a dusty dance floor. Sarah Diver-Lang, a print graduate and the assistant manager, gently handles a long silk dress from the 1930s. It's amazing to think that someone lived their life in this. Before clothes were mass-produced, people really took care of their things. Perhaps they would have had one suit that they wore for much of their life. When you know the history of something, you become more drawn to it. It becomes more interesting because of what it represents culturally. These clothes tell rich stories. They are stories of parties and indiscretions, of hard work and celebration, conflict, ageing, birth, marriage, death. Labels point out details and describe any damage, leaving customers to make guesses about the individuals who lived their lives in these clothes. I look at one. It reads: "Baby's christening cape with broderie anglaise. Missing one button. Examined individually, each piece begins to tell the story of one person. Looked at as a whole, the collection speaks of social change and, perhaps more than anything, of women's emancipation. Carol takes me to a rail of mid-century undergarments. "You want to feel the elastic in that," she says, handing me a rigid girdle designed to compress the waist and bottom. On another rail hang Victorian velvet jackets; tiny, restrictive and severely boned. Yet another features crinolines, their rigid hoops jutting through the seams. A few rails - and a few decades - along, however, hangs a canary-yellow, bottom-skimming halter dress embellished with white daisies. The free-loving, thigh-flaunting fashions of the 1960s and the social and sartorial suffocation represented by their Edwardian counterparts could be centuries - not decades - apart. The rails also speak of strict class divisions and of a time when style took precedence over comfort, and pride in one's appearance was non-negotiable. A hand-embroidered 1940s dressing gown is more formal than the clothes many people wear to the office today. I doubt that the yellow mini-dress will sell on this frost-tinged Thursday morning, however. Two students in tracksuit bottoms try on fur coats. "I could live in this," says one to the other as she twists and pouts in front of a long mirror. Furs and sheepskins - averaging £30 to £60 - are endlessly popular, explains Carol. She got a phone call from the Balmoral hotel on Hogmanay asking if she could send some over for a group of guests who had flown in from London for the celebrations and had underestimated the cold weather. A bald man tries on a top hat. It's too snug. "Everyone was smaller back then, I suppose," he laments as he puts it back on the shelf. A conservative-looking woman in a Barbour jacket pays for a man's tweed waistcoat and braces. A member of staff sweeps up a handful of feathers which have escaped their boas while French tourists flick through a rail of Victorian nightgowns. Carol asks a man with waist-length dreadlocks if he needs a hand. "No, not just now," he replies, as the lace underskirt of a 1930s ball gown hanging from the ceiling tickles the top of his head. I'm just, wow. I'm overwhelmed. A glamorous older woman examines a long string of beads. "Some people come in here for the memories," says Carol, gesturing towards her. Scratchy dance hall music plays in the background and tulle skirts shimmy as customers pass them. I can see why these rooms can bring about pangs of nostalgia and can come to life for people who remember it all the first time around. The visitors" book sits open, full of praise: "Thank you for the yellow shirt with lavender flowers. Which looks a LOT better than it sounds. I heard about this place on my gap year in Thailand. F***ing cool. I just spent £90 on a clergyman's coat. And I'm a student. Some entries mention the smell, not all of them favourably. It's certainly ­distinctive. The place smells of old wool and damp tweed, of soot and age and time, of attempts to ward off the moths, of the back of an old wardrobe. Nicole Kidman's entry from last ­August (she was filming The Railway Man with Colin Firth in the capital) is more polite: "Beautiful things xx." "She wanted to buy that one," says Carol, pointing to a long, black dress with a floral print. Instead she opted for a cream, draped number. Anne Hathaway went for some floral frocks while Debbie Harry left with a pair of elbow-length leather gloves. A regular peruses the men's shirts. He sports a leather waistcoat, a bootlace tie and specs with thick plastic frames. He wears his sideburns long and his hair smoothed into a DA style. "A lot of people, you know what they want as soon as they come in," says Carol. There are people who are part of the shop, the kind of people who don't own jeans. And if Armstrong's wasn't here they probably wouldn't dress that way. It's a yin and yang thing. Some periods prove more popular than others. Victoriana fans are, understandably, a rarer breed than those who worship the wartime aesthetic. The 80s is popular among those who like to mix vintage finds with their high street wardrobes. Carol likes the 50s: "My wedding dress was from the 50s. It was such a feminine and flattering period and it was a really optimistic time, a lovely, happy era. And most ­people suit it. Most people who come in to Armstrong's, however, are not disciples of the past. Some just want to buy a warm woolly jumper and get change from a fiver. More luxurious cashmere jumpers cost just £15 to £20. "You go to Topshop and everything's £40," says Carol with an incredulous look. A lot of people can't afford that. Some customers are looking for a ­fancy dress costume or an accessory to compliment their modern wardrobe. Costume designers rummage for ideas, while designers from high street chains search for inspiration. Others just snap souvenir shots on their smartphones, though Carol doesn't mind that her shop is a favourite stop for tourists. "They get their picture of the Castle then they come down here and get a picture of Armstrong's," she says with a shrug. The students head to the colourful ­fitting rooms with armfuls of treats. I follow their lead, skipping over a pair of pink sequinned hot pants and ­instead trying on an 80s skirt in pastel shades, a static-charged 70s dress and a fluffy, fox fur collar. Given the weather, I opt for the latter and get enough change from my £20 for my lunch and bus fare. I throw it on immediately and it warms my cheeks as I step back out into the chilly 21st century. Wandering down the Royal Mile, I ­examine the tourists in their puffa ­jackets, the office workers in their ­parkas and nylon backpacks. I may have been viewing the Armstrong's bubble through sepia-tinted glasses, but this century - with its mass-production, its throwaway culture, its idea that a garment can be bought for one Saturday night and feel past-it by the next - suddenly leaves me cold. And with that, I pull my new old fur collar a little closer around my face. Twitter: @alicewyllie