The Purple Dungerees

I still remember the moment like it was yesterday. I was 11 years old, standing in front of a mirror, wearing the most glorious, unapologetically bold pair of electric purple cord dungarees. And in that instant, something inside me clicked—I had arrived.

Up until that point, my wardrobe had always been chosen for me. My mum, lovely as she was, had a firm grip on my fashion choices, ensuring I looked neat, sensible, and—let’s be honest—safe. My wardrobe was a predictable rotation of uncomfortable statically charged nylon blouses, knee-length A-line skirts, woolly tights, and sensible Start-Rite shoes. On the more fashionable days, there were flares in muted browns or beiges with unflattering tight elasticated waists cutting in. These often paired with a striped polo, Fair Isle sweater or a ‘hand me down, seen better days’ hand-knitted cardigan, not to mention my national health pink rimmed specs with tight pinching wires at the ears. Everything was practical, functional, and, to me, utterly uninspiring.

But I had long felt the tug of something more. The  late’ 70s early 80’s were a riot of style—Biba’s gothic-meets-glam aesthetic, the bohemian ease of Ossie Clark, and the electric, futuristic energy of Roxy Music and my hero David Bowie, the ‘god’ himself. Magazines were filled with images of wide-legged jumpsuits, lurex tops, and platform boots and spikey boy crops that made my heart race. Jackie was my bible. I wanted in. I wanted the fun, the colour, the cool.

Then came that day the changed it all and the jumble sale. A treasure trove of possibility. As I rummaged through the piles of secondhand clothes, my hands landed on them—a pair of electric purple dungarees that practically radiated joy. They were cool, they were fun, they were everything I wanted to be. And best of all? I had my own money to spend. No parental approval needed.

I snapped them up, raced home, and put them on immediately. And when I caught my reflection? Magic, WOW, I couldn’t believe my eyes.

Gone was the invisible, subdued version of me. In her place stood someone vibrant, confident, and totally in love with her own style. It wasn’t just about the clothes—it was about how they made me feel. I felt seen. I felt fabulous. I felt like me.

That was the moment I understood the power of style, it hit me like a bullet. It’s not just about what we wear; it’s about how it transforms us from the inside out. Those purple dungarees ignited something in me—a passion for self-expression that would go on to shape my entire journey.

And that’s why I do what I do today. Because everyone deserves to feel that spark, that confidence, that arrival.

So tell me—what was your purple dungarees moment?

My brother and I waiting for the jumble sale to start, Derby 1980