A letter from a reader

At 67, I had one tired dress I reached for every single day

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 four different women asked me about this dress in the village a fortnight ago, when I was doing nothing more glamorous than posting a parcel, and I have now explained it enough times that it seemed easier to write it down properly.

It started when I noticed I was wearing the same dress in nearly every photograph of the last two summers. Not a special dress. A tired, washed-out, shapeless old thing that had simply become the one I reached for without thinking.

When did I start wearing the same thing every single day?

Because I had. Not out of love for it, but because it was the only thing in the wardrobe that was easy. Everything else needed thinking about, or ironing, or an occasion, and most days I had none of those to give.

I did not choose that, not really. Nobody decides to wear the same worn-out thing every day. It creeps up on you because it is simpler than deciding.

How it happens

You keep the good things for best. The pretty dresses live at the back of the wardrobe waiting for an occasion that does not come, and slowly the everyday shrinks down to one safe, dull, easy thing.

And the shops do not help, because what they sell us for every day is either a shapeless sack described as comfortable, or something so fussy you would never wear it to hang the washing out.

So you wear the tired one. Again. And you tell yourself it does not matter what you wear round the house, which is true right up until somebody knocks on the door.

What I had wrong

Here is the bit I got most wrong. I thought easy and pretty were a choice of one. That anything comfortable enough to live in would have to be plain, and anything pretty would be a fuss.

It turns out that is only true of badly made clothes. A light dress that goes straight over your head, falls smoothly without clinging, and happens to carry a soft, pretty print is no more trouble to wear than the tired old thing, and it lifts the whole day.

Easy and pretty were never opposites. I had just been choosing between them for no reason, and it took me until 67 to stop.

The dress is called the Beth

It is from Manchester Boutique, a small British boutique that has been quietly dressing women our age for a few years now.

The dress is called the Beth. A sleeveless midi in a soft coral, covered in a faded botanical print of sage-green leaves and cream flowers, the kind of print that looks like it has always been there. It is easy in exactly the way the tired old one was, and pretty in the way it never managed.

It goes over your head and you are dressed, with nothing to fasten and nothing to think about. It falls straight and easy and skims past everything you would rather not discuss. And the print is soft and faded rather than bright and loud, which is what stops it looking like fancy dress on a woman my age.

It does not crease if you sit down in it either, which for a dress you actually live in matters more than you would think.

What happened in the village

I had it on to walk down and post a parcel, nothing more.

Four women asked me where it was from. Four. One of them was Barbara, who I have known for years and who has never once commented on anything I have worn.

She said I looked nice for a Tuesday. I have decided to take that as a compliment.

What I noticed more than the compliments was that I had not made any effort at all. This is what I look like now on an ordinary day, and it turns out ordinary days are most of them.

I have barely had it off since. To the shops, to a friend's for tea, out in the garden of an evening, it is always the first thing off the rail.

Three things I have learned since

One. Easy is the whole point. The dress you actually wear is the one you can put on without a decision. This one asks nothing of you, and that is exactly why it gets worn.

Two. A faded print is kinder than a bright one. Soft, washed-out botanicals read as timeless and forgiving. It is the hard, bright prints that look like you are trying, and this is not one of those.

Three. Stop keeping the nice things for best. Best hardly ever comes. A dress this easy means the pretty one and the everyday one are finally the same dress.

About the price

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

The Beth is £34.95. It was £70.00.

My first thought, honestly, was that there had to be a catch, because you can pay more than that on the high street for a plain everyday dress that will be misshapen by August.

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.

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. Real people, mixed opinions, mostly very good.

Then I ordered a second one, so there is always a clean one on the rail.

What I would tell you if we were friends

If you and I were sat in the garden and you asked me, this is what I would say.

Have a think about what you actually put on most mornings. If it is the same tired thing day after day, not because you love it but because it is the only easy one, then you do not need a new wardrobe. You need one easy dress that also happens to be pretty.

That is a cheap thing to fix, and it changes an ordinary day more than you would expect.

Two practical things. The sale is on now, and the middle sizes are the ones that go first. And it runs from a UK 8 all the way to a 24, the same easy cut the whole way up.

The tired old dress has gone in the bin, and I do not miss it.

Maggie