I’m going to lay my cards on the table: I’m one of those twats who likes colourful jumpers. There, I said it. I was once genuinely asked by a friend whether I was colour blind because they couldn’t understand what had possessed me to buy a particularly garish crew neck. As it happens, I had been tested as a child for this optical deficiency that was so famously immortalised in song by Darius (remember him?) back in 2002, because my grandfather was colour blind (and an artist, of all things, so our house is bedecked with paintings of beautiful trees which just so happen to be bright red).

The opticians had concluded without doubt that my juvenile eyes were able to comprehensively digest a Dulux sample-chart – plus I knew all the words to ‘I Can Sing A Rainbow’ – so it was case closed. It was my fashion sense that was awry, and I knew exactly who to blame: charity shops. Little did I know, however, that I had accidentally blundered, albeit pre-emptively, into the unchartered waters of ‘cool’. Well, almost.

To understand how this all came about, we need to stroll back through the history of my ‘style’, if we can call it that (and believe me, few do). I must confess, it’s actually pretty boring (who’d have thought?). What I mean is, I never had one of those rebellious teenage phases where I was a goth or an emo or a mod. Well, I say that…

There was a period when I was 11 when a friend and I proudly declared ourselves punks. We listened to a lot of the Sex Pistols (despite knowing very little about sex or pistols) and politely informed the rest of Berkshire that we were committed anarchists, whatever that meant. This all came to a sorry end when I pricked myself trying to attach a safety pin to my school blazer, and besides, I thought, I really quite like the Queen. But other than that, my youthful wardrobe was pretty standard fare: jeans, t-shirts, and the obligatory rig of chinos, a pink shirt and one of my dad’s old ties for ‘special occasions’, which seemed to my young mind to be neither special or occasional.

My mother bought all my clothes under the unwavering rule that if it wasn’t sold in Gap it wasn’t worth having. But then one day – I think I was about 13 – a friend asked if I wanted to go ‘into town’ with him. I was not one to say no to an adventure like this, and, armed with my trademark derring-do and £7.40, accepted.

It turned out that going into town basically meant going clothes shopping. And not just Gap. I browsed apparel I couldn’t afford in boutiques I’d never heard of, and even found a store promising “30% Off Swimwear” (I needed new trunks so this was ideal), but in the event seemed to cater solely to police officers who’d run out of underwear, selling – as it did – lingerie and handcuffs. I haven’t been back to Ann Summers since.

But then I discovered the joy of charity shops. They became my stomping ground, and I think this is probably about the point at which I started to inadvertently dress like a set of fairy lights (you know, back when they were multi-coloured, before it suddenly became the fashion to have them all the same shade called something like ‘ice white’ or ‘cool frost’). This was for the simple reason that all charity shops, no matter what cause they support, will stock the following items without exception: a brown suit, beige shoes (I know) and a luminescent jumper from the 80s. Three guesses what I left with.

In time I graduated from small towns to the bright lights of London: a walking Rubik’s Cube on a tight budget. Friends at first were sceptical, and I became accustomed to having my choice in clothes described as “unique” and “individual”, or – worst of all – “very you”, which made me wonder precisely what it was about my personality that reminded people of a blue and pink polkadot sweater. However, my uncool days were numbered, and my Wintour of Discontent was soon to pass. 

Over time more and more people had jumped on the second-hand, polychromatic bandwagon, and I realised I had, quite accidentally, stumbled upon the fringes of the vintage, retro, wavey-garmed trend of the post-noughties. My get-ups started to seem less and less eccentric. My friends came along too, and we’d march in formation like a packet of crayons in search of more glad rags. The Devil may wear Prada, we thought, but only because he doesn’t know about Help the Aged.

I was never quite cool enough to pull off the true streetwear vibe that the vintage fair darlings of this zeitgeist so effortlessly managed. And if you’ve ever met me you’ll know that I’m also a specialist in understatement. I was just someone who happened to have bought a few of Colin from Wokingham’s oh-wasn’t-that-a-fun-outfit-in-the-eighties-but-it-no-longer-fits-you-darling-so-let’s-give-it-to-Oxfam jumpers, rather than an edgy fashionista with an innate taste for all things voguish – but we did briefly overlap.

So there, my confession is over. I have no skeletons in my closet, just a few moth-eaten pullovers which once belonged to the now potentially-dead. I’ve worn the jumpers a little less lately, but I still rather like them, in all their refulgence. The odd looks have been replaced by appreciation. However, if mullets, flares and double denim are anything to go by, I’m not resting on my laurels. I’m off to get my eyes tested, just in case we’re all wrong