I have worn some awful clothes during my lifetime.  In the early years I could be excused for things like voluminous Oxford bags, six-inch platform shoes and a feathered haircut styled with a razor blade because those things were the fashion back then in the seventies.  It was my way of blending in with the crowd.  Of course I had the widest flares, the highest heels and a hairstyle that caused much confusion over my actual gender.  Had I been braver back then I might have embraced the outrageous fashions of David Bowie, Marc Bolan and Gary Glitter but our small mining village in Derbyshire was not ready for Glam Rock.

By the time I was twelve years old I was choosing my own clothes from Auntie Olive's catalogue.  This purple polka-dot shirt and tank top combination was one of my inspired choices.  But I was still within reasonable range of popular fashion for that era and it wasn't until I moved away from home to forge a life for myself in Plymouth that I really started to colour outside the lines of acceptability.

I am not an exhibitionist by nature.  I'm actually quite shy.  But introverts often overcompensate for their timidity by presenting a defiant face to the world.  Is that what I've been doing all these years?  Or am I just making excuses for my misguided attempts at being fashionable?

This blog is the story of my wardrobe malfunctions.