My eighth birthday, January 1972. The hotpants were my birthday present, and I had been dying for them for weeks, but I had nothing to wear underneath, so was obliged to go topless. I spent the whole day trying so hard to keep the straps from exposing that dream-on-because-it's-never-going-to-happen bosom of mine.
It had been an excruciating, sweltering afternoon, picnicking with the rellies in the Botanical Gardens. They were civil enough, but hated each other's guts, and that's okay, because it was to be the last family gathering ever, anyway. A few weeks later my nanna's heart exploded, my parents' marriage went supernova, and life went to Hell in a Handbasket.
But here, for just a tiny bit longer, we're all still kids, and my sisters, Anna and Justine, are slowly but steadily losing their party clothes, as they always did. My life was largely devoted to chasing these little buggers, rescuing items of clothing as they were peeled off and abandoned without a care in the world, and even less regard for time or place. They were very annoying, and exceptionally cute.
And happy Spring, Southern Hemispherites. Anyone else breathing out? Or are we already struggling to breathe in through the hayfever?
Bec, the daffs are for you. Rejoice, O Buxom One, for Spring hath cometh.