Mutton?

This morning, my “I’ll be 16 next year” daughter flounced out of the house to meet some friends. It wasn’t until she walked down the path that I noticed, from my ‘just out of view spot’ in the kitchen, that she was dressed from head to toe in my clothes – right down to the bag and the boots! Now, the fact that no permission was asked isn’t the issue (although I will be bringing this up on her return). It’s more the fact that I’ve just had this awful realisation that I may be dressing as a 14 year old girl!

It’s fortunate we’re similar sizes so she certainly didn’t look like a bag lady. But for the life of me, I couldn’t ever remember any desire whatsoever to rummage through my mother’s wardrobe and throw on a pair of her slacks, or some sensible shoes. I’ve always thought of my mother as being well dressed, in an M&S kind of way, but her idea of style seems to consist of navy blue and comfort. Nothing wrong in that. But at 14 years old, I usually felt the need to wear as little as possible, despite potential arctic conditions coupled with the most ridiculous shoes.

I suppose working in an industry where most people are 12 doesn’t help. I’m conscious that if I turn up in a twin-set and pearls, I might be forcibly marched of the premises but in turn, I’m mortified by the fact that I might have overstepped the mark with the leggings/baggy jumper combo that I donned yesterday.

So for the time being, I think I’ll err on the side of optimism and assume that my daughter clearly sees me as a fashion icon with an eye for style. I, meanwhile, am currently without a pair of boots, leggings, a shirt, jacket and bag so am about to head off shopping wearing my son’s sweatshirt and my husband’s jeans. I also have clear instructions from my daughter to steer clear of the park. Well, dressed like this, I’m just an embarrassment.

Aren’t I!

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