She could be coming home only a few hours from now with an entirely altered wardrobe philosophy: an aversion to her customary shade-range of blue to grey perhaps, or a new-found need to wear hats. It shouldn’t matter if she turned up in her oldest Saturday-mornings-at-the-garden-centre jeans or a jacket so old it was eagerly awaiting the return of the house-brick shoulder pad. Knowing this didn’t stop her from getting up at the same time as the sun and flicking through the hangers along the rail in her wardrobe, feeling increasing hopelessness as she considered and rejected each item. She didn’t want to let herself in for even the tiniest flicker of disdain from someone super-attuned to the nuances of fashion. It was bad enough having woken up in a depression feeling middle-aged, middle-sized and with legs that were long past their best-before date. Just now every skirt she owned seemed to be the wrong length and she certainly didn’t want any possible ‘before’ photos of her wearing trousers, if the camera was the sort that added an instant ten pounds.
