After a childhood of tartan skirts and orange cagoules, I discovered elegant, reassuring black – and never looked back
If my good friends were to describe me, they’d say I clomp around most of the time looking like Morticia Addams. On a beach holiday last year, I arrived with a suitcase full of black items: sundresses, bikinis and sarongs. It’s not that I wear black clothes solely, because I’ve tried desperately for decades to move towards colours and prints. But the truth is that every time I don’t wear black, it has been down to a deeply concerted effort not to. I reach for black first, always, and then rein myself in.
Each bold shade or floral print feels like a laboured nod towards behaving like a more everyday woman; someone who would roll into Zara and head straight for the terracotta shift frocks, or think nothing of slinging on a pastel dress, or a T-shirt with a slogan that gives away some of the thoughts in her head. This person might go to buy a winter coat and consider choosing a red one, or relish a wedding invite because it gives them a chance to splurge on a vivid frock.
