I am not normally into fashion. My sister Janet (1949-2006)(she’s holding the camera in the Common Courtesy post)…my sister Janet definitely was. As most families in the 1960’s there was not a lot of money available to buy clothes especially for disco nights. Every week she had to have a new dress. Minis were in vogue. Most women’s magazines contained patterns and if she liked a dress it would be hand made and converted to a mini skirt/dress. It normally took a couple of hours for her to run up a new dress. This one took three weeks. It was a wool hand knitted purple net mini dress. Disco night. “Can you see my bra and pants?” “No” I replied, “but if you are worried slip a petticoat on”. “No, it’s too hot in there” and out she flounced to the taxi full of other girls picked up on the way to the Babalu at Ryde Airport. I went down to the pub.
2am. The front door slammed. Woke me up. The bedroom light blinded me as my bedroom door crashed open. I think it was Janet standing there. All I could see was her well coiffured hair flat over her mascara run, crying face. She was standing in the doorway in bra and pants with stringy patterns all over her body and a pool of purple wool at her feet.”Look at me! Look at me! Look at me!” was all she could say as she disappeared into her bedroom crying. It transpired that the disco threw everyone out at 1am, the taxi was 20 minutes late and it was bucketing down with rain. All the girls were drenched.
“Never again !” she muttered, as a pile of soaking purple wool vanished into the rubbish bin.
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