There is a woman living in my wardrobe who has some very lovely clothes.
I know this because I bought them for her.
She has a beautiful dress.
A slightly glamorous top.
A very elegant skirt.
And a crisp white linen jacket that, at the time of purchase, I distinctly remember describing as “something I could wear anywhere.”
Apparently, I don’t go anywhere.
Because I have never worn it.
Not once.
I still love it.
Every now and then I open the wardrobe, see it hanging there and think, That’s a really lovely jacket.
Then I push it aside to reach the cardigan I wear constantly.
Most women, I suspect, have one or two things like this.
Not fifty.
I’m not suggesting we all rush out and fill our wardrobes with clothes we have absolutely no intention of wearing. That seems an unnecessarily expensive way of discovering we need a bigger wardrobe.
I’m talking about those few things.
The dress you saw and immediately loved.
The top that’s slightly more glamorous than anywhere you normally go.
The skirt that requires shoes you don’t own and an occasion nobody has yet thought to invite you to.
The jacket you convinced yourself would go with absolutely everything.
It does.
The difficulty is that apparently nothing you do goes with the jacket.
But still, you love it.
And I wonder why we’re so quick to think that means it shouldn’t be there.
We’re encouraged to get rid of things we don’t need.
Quite sensibly.
There are whole systems devoted to it now.
If you haven’t worn it for twelve months, get rid of it.
If you haven’t worn it for six months, get rid of it.
Turn all your hangers backwards.
Make piles.
Ask questions.
Apparently opening a wardrobe has become an administrative procedure.
And yes, sometimes we should clear things out.
If you don’t like it, let it go.
If it doesn’t fit and makes you feel bad about yourself every time you see it, let it go.
If you’ve been moving it from wardrobe to wardrobe since 1997 and now actively resent it, I think both of you have suffered enough.
But what if you still love it?
What if seeing it makes you smile?
What if every now and then you take it from the hanger, hold it against yourself and think:
One day…
I’m beginning to think that’s different.
Because not everything has to be needed to be wanted.
And not everything we want has to have a practical purpose.
I don’t need flowers on my table.
I don’t need music playing while I’m cooking.
I certainly don’t need quite as many mugs as I own.
Nobody needs a favourite mug.
It’s a cup with a handle.
And yet somehow tea tastes wrong when somebody else is using it.
We understand that some things give us pleasure simply by being part of our lives.
Perhaps clothes can do that too.
Every now and then I’ll take out that beautiful dress.
I might even try it on.
And for a few minutes I’ll wonder where I could wear it.
Somewhere elegant, obviously.
There will be champagne.
Possibly chandeliers.
My hair will be behaving beautifully.
And since this entire event is taking place inside my head, there will absolutely be flattering lighting.
I’m not wasting a perfectly good fantasy on fluorescent tubes.
Then I’ll take the dress off, hang it back up and probably go and make a cup of tea.
And that’s all right.
I don’t have to immediately start searching online for events requiring evening wear.
I don’t need to put “Attend Grand Ball” on my list of personal objectives.
The fact that I imagined it doesn’t create an obligation to achieve it.
That’s the lovely thing about a daydream.
Nobody asks you for evidence afterwards.
I think sometimes we become so focused on living in the real world and quite rightly, because that’s generally where the bills are that we forget imagination belongs to us too.
Fantasy belongs to us.
Daydreaming belongs to us.
Not the sort where we spend our entire lives waiting for something better and miss the life that’s actually happening.
Just those little excursions.
Five minutes somewhere else.
A wouldn’t it be lovely?
A perhaps one day.
Or even an it’s never going to happen, but let’s imagine it anyway.
Why shouldn’t we?
We did it instinctively when we were children.
We could be explorers, queens, film stars, doctors, astronauts and Olympic athletes before teatime.
Nobody required a feasibility study.
Then somewhere in adulthood, imagination seems to acquire terms and conditions.
Is this realistic?
Are you actually going to do it?
Can you afford it?
What’s the plan?
There isn’t one.
I’m daydreaming. It doesn’t need minutes taken.
And maybe those few clothes hanging in the wardrobe give us somewhere for that part of ourselves to go.
The white jacket might get worn.
It genuinely might.
I remain confident that somewhere exists where it and I will finally make sense together.
The glamorous top might eventually find its evening.
The dress might make it out of the house.
Or none of them might.
That doesn’t automatically make them wasted.
Of course, there’s a simple test.
If you look at something hanging there and it makes you unhappy because of a body you used to have, a life you thought you’d live or a version of yourself you feel you failed to become perhaps it’s time for it to go.
Clothing should not be allowed to conduct annual appraisals.
But if you open the wardrobe and still think:
Oh, I love that.
Keep it.
Even if you haven’t worn it for years.
Even if you have nowhere sensible to wear it.
Even if its chances of leaving the house are currently only marginally better than the wardrobe’s.
Maybe you don’t need it.
But not everything has to be needed to be worth having.
Sometimes it’s enough to like something.
Sometimes it’s enough that it makes you smile.
And sometimes it’s enough that, for five minutes while you’re holding it against yourself, your mind gets to wander somewhere involving champagne, chandeliers and a version of you who apparently knows exactly what to do with a white linen jacket.
She doesn’t have to exist.
But I rather enjoy visiting her occasionally.
And should the appropriate invitation ever arrive, she’ll be extremely well prepared.
Assuming I don’t decide to wear the cardigan instead.