Friday evening. The weekend is upon us. I will get a precious few minutes alone to wander through the shops on the way to get my hair cut and I’m bracing myself. Not bracing myself so much but giving myself a stern talking to. I am firmly telling myself that I will not buy dungarees or a pinafore.
We live in body positive times and no matter what your size you can find that thing that tickles your fancy but sometimes that fancy should remain untickled.
The last time I wore dungarees was 1991 on a school trip to Southport fun fair. I wore an acid yellow t-shirt, a stonewash denim dungaree dress and pink LA Gear hi-tops. I went on the waltzers and then threw up all over David O’Brien. Poor OB. He still fancied me though.
I’m not pining for the teenage fun of the fair but I would like to be the no-nonsense, brisk, yet fun loving woman who wears dungarees, instead of looking like an interestingly shaped bouncy ball with boobs, wedged in denim. Alas, it is not to be. I shall instead dream of being the woman in the Toast apron who makes marmalade and writes feminist one woman shows that she takes to the Fringe each year. She gardens and wears clogs and once ran away to Belgium to escape a hideous break up. Oh darling imaginary lady, I shall never be you but I love you with all my heart.