I remember making the dress, must have been early in 1963, cotton, with a surface that felt a bit like it had been embroidered with the self-same threads, heavy-weight (I’d read about something called ‘crash’ and wondered if it was that, but, from the dictionary definition, assume not).
What it undoubtedly was was a highly unflattering mustard colour. It had a drawstring waist and should more accurately be described as a pinafore dress because it was sleeveless and intended to be worn over a matching blouse with stiff, stand-up collar, which required lining with a tight-woven man-made fabric. It was so uncomfortable, however, that I invariably felt I’d spent the night in the fridge and my neck become frozen solid, that I preferred wearing a brown jumper instead.
This was the outfit I was wearing, along with brown shoes and dark stockings, the night I first got together with the man who became my husband. I still have the stockings - torn to shreds as we tried to negotiate a row of rose bushes.
Words Inc. (Wednesday) mustard, fridge, crash