It’s funny how something as simple as an item of clothing can bring back so many memories.
There’s the first tutu my mum made for me when I was four. I can still hear it tear as my friend attempted to lift me in a less-than-graceful balletic manouvre. Then there’s the white dress I bought in Camden on a trip with my mum and sister and later wore on the first night I ever met the (self-proclaimed) Northern Love Machine.
And there’s the little red shirt.
I remember posing in the garden as an eight year old, proud to be wearing such a special piece of clothing. Proud, because I knew where it came from.
You see, this shirt was my Dad’s when he was a boy in the Fifties. He wore it as he climbed trees and paddled in rivers. He wore it as he was chased by his twin brother. For such an eventful life, the little red shirt was in very good condition when it finally arrived in my wardrobe.
And just like my Dad before me, I wore it as I climbed trees and paddled in rivers. I wore it as I chased my little sister around the garden.
Amazing, then, that it’s made it to a third generation.
This is Frog’s very first vintage piece of clothing. The much-loved little red shirt.