It’s funny, the things you notice.

For instance, yesterday I noticed that the clothes-buying rules I apply to lad, I no longer apply to myself.

Lad has had a growth spurt. He came downstairs dressed for a birthday do at the weekend in a pair of jeans which had apparently had a serious falling out with his ankles.

After rifling through his trouser drawer for an alternative, I realised they weren’t the only item thus afflicted. We were somewhat overdue in replacing a fair few of his clothes.

So yesterday, off we popped into town on a shopping quest. As lad paraded before me in a succession of badly-fitting trousers, I remembered something.

I remembered the days before my obsession with vintage fabrics grew to its current proportions. When I used to buy clothes that fit me.

Back then, I would try things on and if they were too small, or too large, I wouldn’t buy them.

I realised that nowadays, that sensible sort of thinking, at least when it comes to shopping for myself, seems to have gone out of the window.
For nowadays I am a prisoner of the curse of vintage clothes shopping: namely, that when you find something you like, there is normally only one.

None of that popping your head out of the curtain and asking the nice lady to get you the next size down, or up.

If it doesn’t fit, tough. You can choose either to leave with an empty bag and a heavy heart – or buy it anyway and make the best of it.

It’s a good job I don’t mind alterations. Because this cotton frock I bought on Saturday from Dolly Mix Vintage in Leicester may not look it in these photos, but is, in fact, the size of a small marquee.

It’ll need more than a tuck here and there. We’re talking pocket relocation, darts, the works.

But hell, I’m such a sucker for a vintage print. ♥