A few weeks ago, I went on a family holiday to Kenya. The day before I left - and not a jot before, obviously - I started to think about what I would take on holiday. I mentally scanned my wardrobe, as you do and then thought I'd send a quick e-mail to my mother, to see if I needed any 'cold weather' clothes for safari.
I received a detailed packing list, pronto. And I mean, detailed.
'You will need x 4 t-shirts, x 7 pairs of pants, x 1 long skirt, x 1 long-sleeved t-shirt, x 1 cardi, x 1 flip-flops....'
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And on it went. If you are a regular reader of my blog, you will know that those aren't calling cards to my wardrobe. I don't even own a pair of flip flops. And a long skirt and a cardigan? It's like the woman never even met me. (Last time I wore a long skirt, I also wore Kickers. And left my hair to dry naturally frizzy, before straightening just the ends. The whole thing was extraordinary, I can't lie, but at the time I felt very au naturel and boho. Or some shit like that.) I packed - my usual rotation of denim cut-offs, halter-neck camisoles, backless dresses - anything with about 50% of the material quota of my mother's yearned-for suitcase from me - and then began to muse upon the wardrobe differences between my mother and I.
When I was young, my mother would make me lay out my clothes two weeks in advance. I couldn't wear anything in the interim, in case it needed washing, so I used to get a bit panicky about this. When I was sent to boarding school aged 11, I remember thinking that the only thing that was good about my dramatic dismissal from the familial home (lol) was the 14 new pairs of M&S pants I was allowed to pick out. Not to get too JKsob I feel really achy in my throat, when I write that - remembering the sheer misery I felt at being sent away (it's a wonder they ever sent me, but don't worry I'd forgotten my mum's name about 3 weeks in, I was so deliriously happy eating chocolate and cheese all the time and no-one telling me off) but that says a lot about my attitude to clothes. In hindsight, I suspect it was bait.
One of my mother's favourite phrases is to say - with wonder rather than disgust, obviously - 'I just do not know how you are my daughter'. My mother doesn't wear make-up; she believes in quality over frippery (as anyone rightfully should) and adheres to a strict uniform of long floral skirt + sleeveless polo shirt (she customises the buttons with minuture pieces of fruit) in the summer and wide-leg jeans and cashmere jumpers in the winter. She looks divine. She looks like my mum. But her disciplined wardrobe aesthetic is not, shall we say, something I have inherited.
When I was a child, wardrobes were divided by season. Every summer - I was the youngest - we'd go into the spare room and my mother would heave the suitcases down from the top cupboard and I'd try on all the summer hand-me-downs to see what fitted. God what joyous times those were. Piles of clothes I'd never seen before! Who cared if they'd been worn before? Out the new summer clothes would come and away the winter ones would go. At the end of the summer, we'd flip reverse the whole procedure. The only sad thing about this seasonal-closetry by calendar was that sometimes I'd want to hold on to a floral t-shirt. Or perhaps a pretty dress. But it'd be whisked back into the suitcase I couldn't reach. 'You can't wear a pink dress in the winter!' my mother would laugh, as I gripped on for dear life. Indeed, one of the greatest joys of getting older was being able to wear what I wanted with true autonomy (university, basically).
And I've never looked back. I wear white dresses and denim cut-offs with tights, in winter. I wear black ankle boots in summer. I do not have a summer and winter wardrobe - except the most obvious things which are merely pushed further 'back' in the wardrobe depending on the weather - and the thought of having to separate my clothing as such would make me panic irrevocably. Similarly, I own few 'useful' things. I am terrible at downtime dressing. I own jeans, sure, but I certainly don't have any long skirts suitable for safari. I own a long white skirt - a diaphonous drop-hem number which is floaty and white and about as far from the putty-coloured cotton skirt my mother was hoping for as physically possible.
I cannot categorise my wardrobe in the same way that I cannot categorise my style. Loosely, of course, I conform. But I cannot promise not to wear broderie anglaise in zero degree weather. And I cannot promise that when packing, I will end up with anything remotely useful in my suitcase at all. Sorry, Mum. But at least those hand-me-down suitcases left me with really, really great clothing jackpot memories.
I received a detailed packing list, pronto. And I mean, detailed.
'You will need x 4 t-shirts, x 7 pairs of pants, x 1 long skirt, x 1 long-sleeved t-shirt, x 1 cardi, x 1 flip-flops....'
And on it went. If you are a regular reader of my blog, you will know that those aren't calling cards to my wardrobe. I don't even own a pair of flip flops. And a long skirt and a cardigan? It's like the woman never even met me. (Last time I wore a long skirt, I also wore Kickers. And left my hair to dry naturally frizzy, before straightening just the ends. The whole thing was extraordinary, I can't lie, but at the time I felt very au naturel and boho. Or some shit like that.) I packed - my usual rotation of denim cut-offs, halter-neck camisoles, backless dresses - anything with about 50% of the material quota of my mother's yearned-for suitcase from me - and then began to muse upon the wardrobe differences between my mother and I.
When I was young, my mother would make me lay out my clothes two weeks in advance. I couldn't wear anything in the interim, in case it needed washing, so I used to get a bit panicky about this. When I was sent to boarding school aged 11, I remember thinking that the only thing that was good about my dramatic dismissal from the familial home (lol) was the 14 new pairs of M&S pants I was allowed to pick out. Not to get too JKsob I feel really achy in my throat, when I write that - remembering the sheer misery I felt at being sent away (it's a wonder they ever sent me, but don't worry I'd forgotten my mum's name about 3 weeks in, I was so deliriously happy eating chocolate and cheese all the time and no-one telling me off) but that says a lot about my attitude to clothes. In hindsight, I suspect it was bait.
One of my mother's favourite phrases is to say - with wonder rather than disgust, obviously - 'I just do not know how you are my daughter'. My mother doesn't wear make-up; she believes in quality over frippery (as anyone rightfully should) and adheres to a strict uniform of long floral skirt + sleeveless polo shirt (she customises the buttons with minuture pieces of fruit) in the summer and wide-leg jeans and cashmere jumpers in the winter. She looks divine. She looks like my mum. But her disciplined wardrobe aesthetic is not, shall we say, something I have inherited.
When I was a child, wardrobes were divided by season. Every summer - I was the youngest - we'd go into the spare room and my mother would heave the suitcases down from the top cupboard and I'd try on all the summer hand-me-downs to see what fitted. God what joyous times those were. Piles of clothes I'd never seen before! Who cared if they'd been worn before? Out the new summer clothes would come and away the winter ones would go. At the end of the summer, we'd flip reverse the whole procedure. The only sad thing about this seasonal-closetry by calendar was that sometimes I'd want to hold on to a floral t-shirt. Or perhaps a pretty dress. But it'd be whisked back into the suitcase I couldn't reach. 'You can't wear a pink dress in the winter!' my mother would laugh, as I gripped on for dear life. Indeed, one of the greatest joys of getting older was being able to wear what I wanted with true autonomy (university, basically).
And I've never looked back. I wear white dresses and denim cut-offs with tights, in winter. I wear black ankle boots in summer. I do not have a summer and winter wardrobe - except the most obvious things which are merely pushed further 'back' in the wardrobe depending on the weather - and the thought of having to separate my clothing as such would make me panic irrevocably. Similarly, I own few 'useful' things. I am terrible at downtime dressing. I own jeans, sure, but I certainly don't have any long skirts suitable for safari. I own a long white skirt - a diaphonous drop-hem number which is floaty and white and about as far from the putty-coloured cotton skirt my mother was hoping for as physically possible.
I cannot categorise my wardrobe in the same way that I cannot categorise my style. Loosely, of course, I conform. But I cannot promise not to wear broderie anglaise in zero degree weather. And I cannot promise that when packing, I will end up with anything remotely useful in my suitcase at all. Sorry, Mum. But at least those hand-me-down suitcases left me with really, really great clothing jackpot memories.