A letter from a reader

At 68, I bought two pairs of dungarees in a fortnight

Writing this feels daft. I am 68, I grow vegetables, and I do not review clothes. But four different women asked me what I had on at my grandson’s birthday do, and I am tired of giving the same speech, so here it is, written down once.

Dungarees. At sixty-eight. I know. Whatever you just thought, I said it first, out loud, to my own kitchen.

Here is how it started. Somewhere in my sixties, waistbands and I fell out. Zips went fiddly, buttons dug in at dinner, and one by one everything in my wardrobe went quietly elasticated. It is comfortable. I will give it that. But there is a particular grey softness a wardrobe gets when every last thing in it was bought not to bother you, and mine had it.

Comfortable or presentable. Pick one. That seemed to be the rule, and I had picked.

And I do not blame any woman for picking the same, because the shops give you precious little else once they decide you are past caring.

Then my sister June turned up in a pair

June came round in June, which the family found funnier than it was, wearing soft grey dungarees covered in little meadow flowers, poppies and daisies and a butterfly or two, over a plain white top. My first thought was that she looked ridiculous. My second thought, about four seconds later, was that she looked comfortable AND dressed, at the same time, and I could not remember the last time I had managed both at once.

They were from Manchester Boutique, a small British boutique that has been quietly dressing women our age for a few years now. They do a whole collection of these, dozens of prints, and the summer sale was on. I am careful with money and I will not pretend otherwise, but I ordered the grey pair that evening, fully expecting to send them back.

I did not send them back.

What happened at the birthday do

I wore the grey pair to my grandson’s birthday do with flat sandals, because it was that or the navy dress everyone has seen eleven times.

Four different women asked me what I had on and where it was from, before the cake, which in our family is saying something. And Sylvia looked me up and down and said I did not look like myself. From Sylvia, that is practically a medal.

Since then they have been to the allotment, to the shops, and to my daughter’s twice. You step in, do up two buttons, and you are dressed, all in one, with nothing pulling at the middle. It takes less time than filling the kettle.

Then I went back for the pink pair

A fortnight later I did something I have not done in forty years. I bought a second pair of the same thing. Washed pink, with a great spray of blossom across the front. I have no defence. The grey ones had earned it, and the sale was still on.

Three things worth knowing

One. Nothing digs in. No waistband, no zip, nothing to tuck. You put them on and then you forget about them, which is the whole job of clothes if you ask me.

Two. The print is what saves them. Plain dungarees look like you are off to creosote a fence. The flowers make them an outfit somebody chose. On the grey pair the meadow grows up from the hems. On the pink it is one big blossom across the bib. Both look intended.

Three. There is one for everyone. Dozens of prints, florals, stripes, one with little bees, in every size from a small to a 5XL, the same easy fit throughout. Choosing is the hard part. I plainly failed at it twice.

About the price

I will be plain about this bit, because the price is what nearly put me off.

They are £37.95 a pair. They were £76.00.

Half price is usually where I start asking what is wrong with them. I have found nothing wrong with them. It is a small boutique selling direct, with no department store taking its slice in the middle, and a summer sale on to shift the season’s stock. That is the whole mystery.

And I do not trust perfect scores, so I went and read the reviews before I ordered. Just over three hundred of them, sitting at 4.2 stars, which sounded like real people rather than robots, so I read on. One woman had written, “Bought the grey pair for the garden and now I practically live in them. So easy to throw on, nothing digs in, and I have had lovely comments.” That settled it.

If you were stood at my kitchen table

If you were stood at my kitchen table with a brew and you asked me straight, this is what I would say.

If everything you own has gone quietly elasticated and you are not best pleased about it, this is worth ten minutes of your evening. Not because dungarees change your life. They do not. But comfortable and presentable in the same garment is a thing I had honestly stopped believing was on offer, and it turns out it costs less than a decent roast.

The sale is on now and the nicest prints go first. Once the summer stock has gone it is gone until next year. Stop dithering and go and look.

I am sixty-eight and I own two pairs of dungarees. Sylvia can say what she likes.

Pat