Denim and truth

On the threshold of my teenage years, I discovered for the first time in my life that as selfish as such behaviour might be, nagging one’s mother to distraction does yield the desired result. The very much desired object of my affection was my first pair of jeans.

There is no need to describe them here; in the intervening thirty-odd years my tastes have changed, and I would not like them now.  What is important is that it marked the beginning of my search for that elusive pair of jeans.

I came close once.  I found a really good pair.  Design, comfort, colour, that rare attitude that says a woman of substance walks there.  I wore them as often as I could.

Only, they did not belong to me. We were students sharing digs.  At the time, I am sure my friend rued the day she helped me out of my I-have-nothing-to-wear crisis and offered up her pair of jeans as a result.

I have a problem asking for things, but I think I became quite good at asking if I could wear “my” favourite jeans.There has never been a pair like it since, not on my side of the planet, anyway.  Believe me, I have had my eyes peeled for a quarter of a century!

As always, the search continues for truth – and  – you gottit – for that elusive pair of jeans.

This is my first blog post. The simple idea is that I shall take one word or phrase from this post and include it in the next. That is all I can promise by way of continuity.