Change is inevitable and it’s not something within my control. At best, I’m a glass half full type and I learn to adapt, so when it came for the time to clear out my wardrobe, I did not hesitate. Sifting through a field of dump em’s, fix em’s and denim’s with a few sweeping motions of fabric dusting the floors better than my hoover Henry could, I finally formed a friendship with an unlikely pair I once deemed an enemy of progression, the flared jeans. My J brands’ Valentina Flare is rife with nostalgia and they remind me of a pair my mum bought me way before my time or anyone else’s for that matter.
Topshop’s boyfriend and skinnies and anything Alexa Chung related was a lane geared for an it- girls direction. Tammy girl at Ealing Broadway was a swerve I could only get on as I had neither of the three and I couldn’t afford to play catch-up with my peers. The daddy long-legs trope carried me through my teen years until I was in a position to abandon them altogether, swearing off the idea to ever web my body through them again. Now that I’ve embraced getting older, I currently dress in a way that evokes a sense of the 1970s for a child of the 1990s, as they lean on the less funky and more functional side of proportions.

I favor a wide ankle opening that leaves room to close the door on anything that is too form fitting and on trend. The ‘cousin it’ of the denim camaraderie finally gets picked out of the bunch. They’re a staple piece, a great pick and considerably the least attractive of the bunch. Nevertheless they have shaped and molded me into accepting that this month is one filled with many transitions that also include my wardrobe and I’m in it for the long haul. My dressed down days are on the up and considering the weathers temperament, I can only hope it stays that way.