A letter from a reader

At 68, I owned nine black tops and not one of them had ever earned a compliment

I will be honest with you from the start. Writing this feels daft. I am 68, I grow vegetables, and I do not review blouses.

But three women asked me about this one at a retirement do, and I have now told the story enough times that writing it down once seemed the quicker option.

It started the evening before, getting ready for Margaret's do. I laid my options out on the bed, and what I had was nine black tops. Nine. I stood there looking at them, and I genuinely could not have told you which was which.

Nine black tops, and not one of them worth a second look.

They were not bought to be looked at, that is the truth of it. They were bought to be safe. And there is a difference between a top you chose and a top you retreated into, even when they are both black.

I want to explain how a drawer ends up like that, because I do not think I am the only one.

How you end up with nine black tops

Nobody sets out to. It happens one sensible decision at a time.

Black goes with everything, so you buy the black. Black does not show marks, so you buy the black. You are not sure about your middle, your arms, your neck, whatever it is that week, and black asks no questions, so you buy the black.

And every single one of them is plain, because the plain one always feels like the sensible one. Twenty years of that and you have a drawer like mine. Nine tops that go with everything and do absolutely nothing.

Black was never my problem. Flat was my problem. It took me until 68 to tell the two apart.

What I had been getting wrong

I had always treated detail as a young woman's game. Frills, embroidery, anything with something going on, I filed under not for me, and reached for the plain one.

But here is what I noticed at the do, watching the room. The women who looked properly put together were not the ones in loud colours. They were the ones wearing things with a bit of thought in them. A texture, a neckline, a detail that catches the light. Quiet things, chosen on purpose.

Detail is not a young woman's game. Detail is simply the difference between an outfit and a uniform. You can have it in black as easily as anything else, if somebody bothers to make it, which is where this top comes in.

The top is called the Celestine

It comes from Manchester Boutique, a small British firm that makes clothes for women our age and clearly thinks about us while doing it.

It is a black blouse with a deep V-neck edged in soft frills, three small covered buttons below the V, and embroidered flowers trailing across it in black on black, the raised kind you can run a finger over. In the drawer it is another black top. On, in the light, it is quietly the best thing I own. It comes in other colours as well, but I would start where I started.

It is light and comfortable, made from a soft premium material that does not cling or crease into a state by mid-afternoon. The V sits properly, framing without gaping, and the frills soften the whole thing so it reads as feminine rather than formal. It went straight over my good trousers for the do, and over jeans the day after.

It is a simple idea done properly. A black top somebody actually finished.

What happened at the retirement do

Margaret's do was in the function room of the golf club, six tables and a buffet, everyone in their best.

Three women asked me about the top. One of them was Sylvia, who I have known for thirty years and who once watched me fall off a step ladder without comment. She looked at me and said, "That is not one of your usual black ones, is it." From Sylvia, that is practically a medal.

But the part I keep coming back to is smaller than that. All evening, I never once felt like the woman in the safe black top at the edge of the room. Same colour I always wear, completely different feeling. That is a strange trick for a blouse to pull off, and I am reporting it anyway.

The next morning it went straight back on with jeans to run errands, and it was right for that too, which is the part I did not expect.

Three things worth knowing

One. The V behaves itself. It sits where it should and stays there, framing your neckline without gaping every time you lean over a table. Whoever cut it has met a real woman.

Two. It goes both ways. Good trousers and earrings for a do, jeans for the shops, and it is right in both rooms. Nine black tops never managed what this one does on its own.

Three. The sizing is honest. UK 8/10 up to a 16/18, and it is the same relaxed feminine cut the whole way through, not a different top once you pass a certain number.

About the price

I am careful with money and I will not pretend otherwise, so this part matters to me.

The Celestine is £25.95. It was £52.00.

When something useful is suddenly half price I want to know why. The why is ordinary enough. They are a small boutique selling directly, nobody in the middle taking a slice, and the summer sale is them clearing the season's stock. Sensible practice, and it works in our favour.

I read the reviews before parting with anything, because I do not trust a perfect score. This is not one. Just over three hundred reviews, sitting at 4.2 stars, which reads like real women with real opinions, most of them good. The same points kept coming up, looks far more expensive than it was, smart enough for an evening but worn with jeans in the day.

I have since ordered the navy as well, which is not a thing I do lightly.

If you were stood at my kitchen table

This is what I would tell you, kettle on, no fuss.

Go and count your black tops. If the number surprises you, and not one of them has ever been noticed by another living soul, then you have been doing what I was doing, dressing to be safe rather than seen, and calling it sensible.

A blouse will not change your life and I would not insult you by saying otherwise. But wearing something with a bit of thought in it, even in the same old black, changes how you stand in a room. I had forgotten that. It cost £25.95 to be reminded.

Two practical notes. The sale is on now and the middle sizes always go first. And when the summer stock is gone, it is gone.

Eight of the nine are off to the charity shop.

Pat