A letter from a reader

At 67, I hid below my own windowsill when the doorbell went

I have never written anything like this before, and I want to say at the start that I am not a writer and I am not in the habit of telling other women what to wear.

But three different women asked me about a dress at a garden afternoon, and I have now explained it enough times that it seemed easier to write it down properly. To explain it, I have to admit to something daft first.

In May, the vicar called round unannounced about the flower rota. I was in my around-the-house clothes, the leggings and the big top with the bleach mark, and I am not proud of what happened next. The bell went, I looked down at myself, and I got below the windowsill.

I hid. In my own house. From the vicar.

He posted a note and left. And the following week I did a version of the same thing twice with the parcel man, letting him leave a card rather than be seen. Sixty-seven years old, hiding from her own front door because of a bleach mark.

The two-wardrobe problem

Here is how it happens. Somewhere along the way your clothes split into two piles. The presentable pile, for going out and being seen. And the around-the-house pile, the soft comfortable scruffy things, sold to us as loungewear, as if nobody will ever knock while you are wearing them.

But people do knock. Neighbours, deliveries, the vicar, your daughter dropping in on her way past. Real life happens at the front door with no notice, and the around-the-house pile is never ready for it.

So you either live in clothes you would not answer the door in, or you sit at home dressed up for no one. Comfortable at home, or fit to be seen. Nobody sells the thing that is both.

Except, it turns out, somebody does

My sister has always been the presentable one. Drop in on her at any hour and she looks lovely, and for years I assumed she simply made an effort from breakfast onwards, which frankly exhausted me to think about.

In June I finally asked her how she did it, and she laughed and said she had not made an effort in years. It is the dresses. Pretty ones that are as easy as the scruffy stuff, from Manchester Boutique, a small British boutique that has been quietly dressing women our age for a few years now. The one she pointed me to is called the Eleanor. I ordered it that evening, sceptical to the last.

It is a soft blue, with a pretty open-stitched trim around the neckline and sleeves, and little white flowers drifting up from the hem. It goes over my head and I am dressed, genuinely dressed, in under ten seconds. It is light, it does not cling, it does not crease however long the day gets, and it is every bit as comfortable as the leggings it replaced, which I would not have believed.

It is an around-the-house dress that happens to be lovely. That category did not exist in my wardrobe before, and now it is the most-worn thing in it.

What happened on Thursday

Ann called round unannounced on Thursday afternoon. No warning, straight up the path, knock knock.

And instead of the usual freeze-and-crouch, I opened the door on the first ring. She looked at me and said, oh, you look nice, are you off out. I was not off out. I was hoovering. I have known Ann since our children were at primary school and she has never once commented on anything I have worn, and she managed it while I was holding the hoover.

Then at the garden afternoon on Saturday, three more women asked me about it, and I had to admit it was the same dress I had been wearing to do the housework all week. Nobody believed me, which I have decided is the best compliment a dress can get.

I bought a second one within the fortnight, because the first one was never in the drawer when I wanted it.

Three things I have learned since

One. Presentable is a feeling before it is a look. Knowing I can open the door, wave at a neighbour, or nip to the shop at any moment without a second thought has quietly changed the whole shape of my day.

Two. The trim earns its keep. The open stitching around the neck and sleeves is what makes it read as a proper dress rather than a nightie, and it needs nothing adding, no necklace, no thinking.

Three. The sizing is honest. It runs from an 8 all the way to a 24, the same easy flowing cut the whole way up, not a different dress once you pass a certain number. I wish more places would bother with that.

About the price

I want to be straightforward about this, because it was the thing that made me suspicious.

The Eleanor is £34.95. It was £70.00.

My first thought, honestly, was that there had to be a catch, because pretty and comfortable in the same dress usually costs proper money.

There is no catch that I have found. They are a small boutique selling directly, so there is no department store taking a cut in the middle, and they run a summer sale to shift the season's stock before it turns.

I did what I imagine you are doing now and went and read the reviews before I ordered. Just over three hundred of them, sitting at 4.2 stars. Not the suspiciously perfect five you see on some websites, which if I am honest made me trust it rather more. One woman had written, "I bought it for best and now I live in it. Cool, comfortable, and I always look presentable when someone calls in." That was the one that decided it for me.

What I would tell you if we were friends

If you and I were having a cup of tea at my kitchen table and you asked me, this is what I would say.

Be honest about what you would do if the doorbell went right now. If any part of you just glanced down at what you are wearing, then you have a two-wardrobe problem, the way I did, and you are living most of your life in the pile you hide in.

Not because a dress changes anything. It does not. But spending your ordinary days feeling fit to be seen, in your own kitchen, on your own doorstep, is a small steady pleasure I did not know I was missing until it arrived in a mailing bag.

Two practical things. The sale is on now, and the middle sizes are the ones that go first. And once the summer stock has gone, it is gone until next year.

I answer the door on the first ring now.

Maggie