Prints are big at the moment. I have very few print garments in my wardrobe. In fact, I secretly despise this trend, especially all these daft tropical skirts and parrot shirts. I've been rather relieved to have the excuse to opt out of this particular fashion.
That said, I've developed a certain hankering for tribal print trousers. They look slouchy and comfortable, and like judo trousers, everyone's bum looks big in them. Oh well. Resist the devil and he will flee before you, as the Good Book says. The hankering will pass, I told myself. After all, whole days go past now without my even thinking about those ankle boots in my size I didn't buy from the charity shop back in January, those perfect ankle boots, in my size, from Clark's for £7, black with buckle detailing. Hardly ever think about those.
It wouldn't be quite so bad if I hadn't once possessed exactly such a pair of print trousers until the fatal thought occurred to me I will never wear those again, and I slung them. To be strictly honest, they weren't my trousers. They belonged to the chancellor. They were an emergency purchase 9 years ago in Bangkok when they wouldn't let him into some temple or other in his shorts. How our sons and I laughed at him in his baggy tribal print trousers! He has never worn them since.
But then, lo! A miracle! I hadn't slung them after all. They were wedged at the back of the clapped-out sports gear drawer. So I ironed them and wore them to church today. Here they are, teamed with my 4 year old silver gladiator sandals:
I also wore a navy blue vest, a dark denim shirt (Wrangler, via a charity shop), far too many tribal necklaces, and a completely non-matching chartreuse pashmina. I probably should have teamed it with a floral shirt, but I'm pleased to say I don't own one. Come to think of it, the chancellor has some. Maybe another time.