A letter from a reader

At 67, I had not worn a plain t-shirt in ten years

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 t-shirt, of all things, at my grandson's birthday tea, and I have now explained it enough times that it seemed easier to write it down properly.

It started in the garden last month, in that hot week we had. I was out there deadheading the roses in a long sleeved blouse, and my granddaughter looked up from the paddling pool and said it.

Grandma, are you not boiling in that?

I was. Of course I was. But I had stopped wearing t-shirts about ten years ago, and I could tell you exactly why. The sleeve. Every t-shirt in the shops stops right at the top of the arm, which is precisely the part of the arm I would rather keep to myself. So it was long sleeves in a heatwave, or a cardigan over a vest, and both of those are a silly way to spend a summer.

I did not choose that. That is the part I want to be clear about. Nobody decides to give up t-shirts. You just try a few on, catch sight of your arms in the changing room mirror, and quietly move to the blouse rail. And then ten years go by.

How it happens

Go and look at the t-shirts in any high street shop. They are cut for twenty year olds. The sleeves seem to get shorter every year, some of them barely qualify as sleeves at all, and the fabric is so thin it shows everything you would rather it did not.

Nobody makes a fuss about it. Women our age simply stop buying them, one by one, and end up with a wardrobe full of complicated summer tops with floaty sleeves and wrap fronts, when all we actually wanted was a decent t-shirt.

What I had wrong

I had always thought it was all or nothing. Either the whole arm is covered, with a proper long sleeve, or you grit your teeth and wear the little cap sleeve and feel conscious of it all afternoon.

It turns out the answer was about three inches.

A sleeve that ends just below the elbow covers the part you actually mind, the upper arm, and leaves the rest as bare and cool as any t-shirt. It is such a small difference on the hanger, and it is the whole difference on.

The top is called the Marigold

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

The top is called the Marigold. A plain t-shirt in a soft charcoal grey, with a proper round neck, sleeves that come down to just below the elbow, and a gently curved hem. No print, no slogans, no cleverness. Just a t-shirt that somebody our age was actually consulted on.

It is light and soft, and loose without being shapeless. The body has a little swing to it, and the hem is curved so it skims over the hips and sits nicely over trousers rather than clinging or riding up. And the sleeves stay put at the elbow. They do not creep up while you are reaching for things, which I did test, extensively, at the washing line.

That is really all there is to it. It is not complicated. It is a t-shirt somebody actually thought about.

What happened at the birthday tea

I wore it the first time to my grandson's birthday tea, with my navy trousers and my good sandals.

Three women asked me about it before the cake was cut. One of them was Doreen, who I have known for donkey's years and who has never once commented on anything I have worn.

She asked me if I had lost weight. I have not. It is the hem.

What I noticed more than the compliments was that I forgot about my arms completely. I passed plates, I waved at people, I lifted the birthday boy up for a photograph, and not once did I do that thing where you tug the sleeve down or fold your arms without meaning to.

The next morning I put it straight back on to hang the washing out, and it was just as right for that. That is the rarest sort of top. The one that goes to a birthday tea and then does the ironing, and feels right both ways.

Three things I have learned since

One. It is the sleeve that does it. Just below the elbow is the exact right place for a sleeve to stop at our age. Covered where you want covering, cool everywhere else, and no cardigan needed over the top in July.

Two. The hem earns its keep. It is cut longer and curved, so it covers the top of your trousers and skims rather than clings. You stop thinking about your middle, which I had forgotten was possible in a t-shirt.

Three. The sizing is honest. It runs from a UK 8/10 to an 18/20, the same relaxed shape the whole way up, and it comes in seven colours. I started with the grey because I am sensible, and I am going back for something that is not.

About the price

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

The Marigold is £23.95. It was £48.00.

My first thought, honestly, was that there had to be a catch, because a decent top with sleeves in the right place is the sort of thing I would have paid full price for years ago if anybody had bothered to make one.

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, “The sleeves are exactly where I want them. I have bought three and given up on cardigans in summer.” That was the one that decided it for me.

Then I ordered the white one as well.

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.

If you have spent the last ten summers walking straight past the t-shirt rail, it was never you that was wrong. It was three inches of missing sleeve. And that is a much cheaper problem to fix than a wardrobe full of complicated summer tops.

Not because a t-shirt will change your life. It will not. But there is something in being the woman in the garden in a t-shirt again, instead of the one boiling in a blouse, that I had quietly given up on, and I would rather you did not give up on it too.

Two practical things. The sale is on at the moment, and the middle sizes are the ones that go first. They do it in seven colours, from a UK 8/10 to an 18/20, and once the summer stock has gone it is gone until next year.

I own t-shirts again.

Maggie