A couple of days ago I received a membership renewal form in the post which I didn’t read properly until yesterday morning. And when I did read it, I discovered the membership renewal fee was £60, twice what it was last year.
Well, my immediate thought was, ‘I could buy a lot of garden plants for £60,’ which, as an instinctive response, should have told me immediately that that particular membership and I were about to part company. However, because I occasionally doubt my instinct, and because this particular membership has been an important part of my life, I ‘phoned a chum of mine who is on the same wavelength as me, ran my instinctive response by her, and we had a jolly chat about it, along with MANY other things which extended into two hours of chat and anyway, the decision was made. My instinct was correct and the membership was, indeed, extraneous to my current life pathway.
By mid-afternoon, I had invested the £60 potential renewal fee in these…
…a pair of dungarees from the company ‘Lucy and Yak’, whom I’ve admired for a long time but never made a purchase. (They were actually £56, so I was quids in by £4 unless you factor in that I was expecting the renewal to be £30 less than it was, in which case I’m out of pocket by £26 - but who cares, because don’t they look fabulous, darlings?!Teal cord - what’s not to love?)
Now, I have purchased these dungarees specifically for the purpose of gardening. And I shall tell you why. When one is a lady gardener of hour-glass proportions, one often finds, what with the various bodily contortions, the crouching and standing, the stretching and bending, the digging and lugging, and general wrangling of plant stuff, that one’s bottom garments and one’s top garments oft become estranged of one another. This leaves bits of bare skin exposed to a) sunburning b) brambles, prickles and thorns c) chilly winds across the kidneys d) bastard biting and stinging insects. Also, when one is a lady, one does not want to be inadvertently flashing bits of oneself that wouldn’t normally be seen in public. Even when one has a garden in the middle of the countryside, one never knows when the postman or other delivery person might suddenly appear ‘woo-hooing’ and waving a package at one, as they are wont to do around these parts.
My theory, then, is that dungarees, by their nature, will hoick everything together in one seamless coverage, thus protecting my delicate self from untoward injuries. I shall no longer have to stop whatever I am doing in order to tug up my bottoms and tug down my tops. Don’t tell me to wear bigger or longer clothes - I’ve tried this and there is ALWAYS a gappy parting of the ways somewhere. ALWAYS. I’ve had a rogue gust of wind whoosh inside a loose top and turn it virtually inside out before now, when I was in an upside down gardening pose. Nearly strangled me, it did.
I’ve considered wearing trouser braces before, to keep everything upwards and decent, to ensure bum cleavage never makes an appearance, but the problem with braces (when one is of hour glass proportions) is do you wear them exterior to one’s embonpoint, or interior? So, beyond bosoms, or betwixt? Because they are never going to lie in flat obedience on a woman who is blessed with a bit of curvy boobage. Try to align braces in a straight line over significant lady bumps, and those braces will, within seconds, slip either outwards or inwards, spoiling the whole sartorial line of the outfit.
Dungarees it is, then. Dungarees come with pockets. Sensible ladies, practical ladies will never purchase an item of clothing that does not have pockets (undergarments the exception of course - although knicker pockets could be useful…) It’s the law. Each outfit needs pockets. On the rare occasion I am remiss enough to wear, for example, my blue jeggings with my flouncy floral tunic, I find myself in a state of annoyance because neither of them have pockets. It’s impossible. I have to tuck my tissue up my flouncy floral tunic’s pouffey sleeves and the tissue invariably ends up somewhere near my armpit which causes all sorts of annoyance if one needs a quick blow. Honestly, pockets always, for practicality and for sanity.
These dungarees have three pockets, all roomy and all perfectly placed. Pockets aren’t just for tissues, of course. When one is a gardener, one needs to have certain items instantly accessible. For example, a mobile phone in case one falls out of a tree, or is attacked by a particularly vicious hornet and one needs to call for immediate medical assistance. This has never happened, but it could. One also needs the aforementioned tissues, plus an anti-histamine, maybe a precautionary sticking plaster. One needs a place to shove seed packets, string, plant labels, a pencil for writing on the plant labels, a penknife, odd bits of treasure and tat one finds when digging around the borders. One needs a place for an emergency biscuit or three. One needs a place to keep small gardening tools so one can avoid the pitiful cry of, ‘Where did I leave my secateurs/ trowel/dibber?’
You see - dungarees are an essential piece of gardening attire, and I really can’t think I’ve never owned a pair before now. Well, I can - it’s probably because, pre-weight loss days, if I wore a pair of dungarees I’d look like a Weeble…
…but now a) there is less of me than there used to be and b) I actually don’t care anymore about looking like a Weeble, especially when I am gardening. Although, clearly in my new dungarees, I am going to look like a hip and happening gardening chick!
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