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.