Despite being on the wrong side of an unspecified number, I like to dress young. Especially when Ron and I go out dancing.
I flatter myself that, if I choose carefully, I can carry this off. Being tall, and just as slim as I was in my twenties, is my saving grace, along with my long, camouflaging hair.
‘So far, so good,’ you may be thinking. But there is a problem. The prime places to find such gear tend to have one thing in common: loud, unmelodious noise.
I won’t call it music because, to my mind it isn’t. I suppose many, if not most, young shoppers revel in this cacophony, but to me it’s nothing more than an endurance test. If I want to search for the product, apparently I, and others of like-mind, have to grin and bear it.
Did I get what I wanted? The answer’s ‘yes’! An elegant, softly flowing, navy mini-dress!
Hooray! The outcome justified the sacrifice: I’ll never forget the look on my husband’s face when he first saw me in it!