When I was about 21, I bought a length of cosy grey and pink tartan from a shop in Brighton.
The bedsit I lived in in Willesden was freezing, and I resorted to using my tartan as sheets on my bed, which worked a treat.
A couple of months later, I put on a variety show with Lester Square and I needed a costume. I took up my tartan sheets and made a skirt with bustle, matching jacket and beret with pom-pom. Needless to say, the necessity of washing the material first escaped me.
Perhaps not as bad as Big Bruv's fashion-girlfriend, who was the most glamorous woman in the whole art college. She confessed to me that she used to just climb into the bath with her clothes on when they were dirty, a two-in-one combo of washing herself and her clothing at the same time.
Incidentally, even the thoroughly gay Stuart Morgan (who sadly died a while ago) couldn't help fancying her. I remember him marvelling wide-eyed at the effect of her as she '...just peeled off her coat revealing those magnificent breasts...'.
She was also endearingly clumsy. We'd had a terrible night out at a dismal gig, and there were no parties that Saturday night. 'At least we have a bottle of wine', said Big Bruv, eyeing the bottle that his fashion-girlfriend was clutching. In that instant, she let go her grip, and the bottle crashed to the pavement, shattering into smithereens.
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