A letter from a reader

At 67, I owned one coat for weddings and one anorak for everything else

My sister June will laugh when she sees this, because I have never written a word for anybody but her in my life, and I am certainly not a woman who goes about telling other women what they ought to wear.

But three different women asked me about a jacket at the antiques fair on Sunday, and I have now explained it enough times that it seemed easier to write it down properly.

Here is where I was before. For years, my entire answer to the weather lived on two hooks by the back door. On one hook, the good wool coat, kept for weddings and funerals and precisely nothing in between. On the other, a navy anorak I bought for practical reasons in a shop I cannot even remember, which did the school run, the dog, the shops, the lot. June stood in my kitchen one Tuesday, looked at the pair of them, and said it.

You do know there is something between a wedding coat and an anorak, Maggie.

I laughed, and then I thought about it all afternoon, because she was right. Somewhere along the way I had decided that being warm and being smart were two separate outfits, and that the smart one came out twice a year.

I did not choose to live like that. That is the part I want to be clear about. Nobody decides to spend eleven years in an anorak. It happens quietly, one practical purchase at a time, until your sister stands in your kitchen and points at your two hooks.

How it happens

I used to have proper jackets. In my forties I had a grey one I wore so often the elbows went, and I felt like myself every single time I put it on.

What changed was not me. It was the shops.

Go and look at what the high street offers a woman my age when it turns cold. It is one of two things. Something smart and stiff that you cannot lift your arms in and would not dare wear to walk a dog. Or something padded and practical and utterly shapeless, sold in colours that suggest you have volunteered for something outdoors.

And once that is all there is, you stop expecting anything else. You buy the practical one because it is sensible. You wear it everywhere. Nobody says anything, which is rather the point.

What I had wrong

Here is the bit I got most wrong, and I think a lot of us have.

I thought warm meant heavy. I thought if a jacket was going to see me through a chilly morning, it had to be thick and stiff and slightly too much, and so anything soft got dismissed as a cardigan and left at home.

It turns out that was never true.

The thing that makes a jacket work is not the weight of it. It is the cut, whether it hangs off you like a tent or actually follows you. It is the fabric, whether it moves when you do. And it is the length, because a jacket that falls past the hip settles everything underneath it without a single ounce of effort on your part.

The right one reads as a decision. That is the whole difference, and it took me until 67 and a comment from my sister to work it out.

The jacket is called the Laura

It is from Manchester Boutique, a small British boutique that has been quietly dressing women our age for a few years now. June had found them first, which she reminds me of regularly.

The jacket is called the Laura. A longline jacket in a soft heather grey, with a hood that sits flat at the back of the neck and little dark buttons down the front. It falls to the mid thigh, it is made from a soft premium fabric rather than anything stiff, and it hangs like a coat somebody thought about. It comes in eight colours. June has the green, which is how all this started.

It is light and it does not swamp you, which I had stopped believing a warm jacket could manage. Worn open it drapes like something far dearer. Buttoned up against the wind it keeps its shape rather than ballooning. And the hood is there when the sky turns, without making the whole thing look like outdoor equipment.

That is really all there is to it. It is not complicated. It is just a jacket that somebody thought about.

What happened at the antiques fair

I wore it for the first time properly on Sunday, to the antiques fair at the town hall, over a white top with my good scarf.

Three women asked me about it. Three. One of them was Hazel, who has run a stall there for as long as I have been going and has never once commented on anything I have worn.

She said I looked smart for a Sunday morning. I have decided to take that as a compliment.

What I noticed more than the compliments, though, was that I forgot about it. The town hall is never warm, and I usually spend those mornings with my arms folded, wishing I had worn something else. On Sunday I browsed for two hours, bought a little jug I did not need, and did not think about what I had on once.

The next morning I put it straight back on to take the labrador out across the field, and felt completely myself in it. That is the rarest sort of jacket. The one you can wear to something where people will see you, and then throw on for a muddy field first thing, and feel right either way.

Three things I have learned since

One. The sizing is honest. It runs from a UK 8 all the way to a 24, and it is the same cut the whole way up, not a different shape once you pass a certain number. I wish more places would bother with that.

Two. The hood earns its keep. I did not think I cared about a hood until the sky went dark over the car park and I simply put it up and carried on. No umbrella, no scuttling. It sits flat when you are not using it, so nobody would ever call it an anorak.

Three. It goes both ways. Open over a top and scarf for a morning out, or buttoned right up with the dog lead in one hand. And it goes on over a jumper in the depths of it, so it is not a jacket for one month of the year.

About the price

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

The Laura is £30.95. It was £62.00.

My first thought, honestly, was that there had to be a catch, because you can walk into any high street shop and pay more than that for a jacket that will have gone bobbly by Christmas.

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 have a sale on at the moment to make room as the season 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. Real people, mixed opinions, mostly very good.

I am now debating the red, which is not a sentence I have written about myself in twenty years.

What I would tell you if we were friends

If you and I were sat in the garden with a pot of tea and you asked me, this is what I would say.

If your coats live on two hooks, one you save and one you settle for, and neither of them feels anything like you, then it is worth ten minutes of your evening to go and look.

Not because a jacket will change your life. It will not. But there is something in reaching for the thing by the door and feeling pleased about it, rather than resigned to it, 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, which I found out because June waited a week to order hers and had to chase the last one. And the first autumn stock is already going, so once it has gone it will be gone before the cold weather properly arrives.

The anorak has not been off its hook since.

Maggie