I have made my peace with reality, however flawed it may be

I don’t know when I first noticed that I lacked the gene responsible for dress sense.

Illustrative example: I spent my early years insisting that a peagreen tracksuit top went well with a pair of dirtbrown cords.

If I’d known then that this was not the nadir, but rather a stopping-off point in my downward spiral to wardrobe hell, I may have sought professional help there and then.

But it got worse, much worse.

Thanks to a strange fashion quirk led by my cooler friends, I was soon seen wearing swirly blue shirts and off-white suits in a way that still now makes me make involuntary embarrassment noises when falling asleep.

As I grew my hair and turned to jeans and rock t-shirts, it felt like safer ground. I was seventeen, had long hair and a Rush t-shirt. OK, I wasn’t going to be invited onto any catwalks, but at least strangers weren’t pointing and staring in ill-disguised wonder.

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