‘If I could have a second skin, I’d probably dress up in you’ – so goes a line in one of my favourite Belle and Sebastian songs, detailing all the messy vagaries and jealousies of adult friendship. It’s a truly evocative phrase, a potent blend of admiration, love and envy, and it’s one that has always made me think of one of my closest friends. Not – I hasten to add – because our relationship is tainted by such rivalries, but because she has long been the person I most admire. She is intelligent, beautiful, and wickedly funny. She has a gorgeous way of talking to people that instantly puts them at ease, and if I were planning a dream dinner party, she would be at the very top of my list of invitees. And, of course, she dresses impeccably. For years, then, I have wished that I could be more like her, walk a mile in her shoes, spend a day dressing from her wardrobe – and since September I’ve had the chance to do just that.

“I wear her oversized chenille jumper, with superstitious strictness, on my essay-writing days; something in its warmth and its heft reminds me of the hug I so desperately need when trying to spin my disparate thoughts into lucid argument.”

The occasion was her mum’s new job, which necessitated a move across the country and gave my friend the impetus to embark upon a proper clear out. Lacking the time necessary to flog it all on Depop, she showed up to my house with a car boot full of clothes and the generous insistence that I take anything I wanted. For about a week, I wore a piece of her clothing almost every day – much to my mum’s amusement – entranced by the novelty of new colours, fabrics, silhouettes. I have since dialled down on that initial burst of sartorial enthusiasm, but her clothes remain an important part of my wardrobe. I don her pink jeans when I need an extra ounce of confidence, and her long, green scarf scarcely left my neck over the bitter winter months. I wear her oversized chenille jumper, with superstitious strictness, on my essay-writing days; something in its warmth and its heft reminds me of the hug I so desperately need when trying to spin my disparate thoughts into lucid argument.

I like all these garments, of course, but the contentment I get from wearing them goes beyond their aesthetic appeal. It is, to an extent, an extra layer of reassurance; these clothes have come from someone whose style I adore, and so I have faith that they look good. It’s the equivalent of planning your outfits with a friend before a party and hearing them say, ‘yes, I love that!’, or the hyperbolic compliment left on your Instagram post. More than that, however, through these pieces that bear such a stamp of her personality, I have felt an unexpected connection with her. We have become somewhat distant since leaving school, the natural consequence of the move from hometown to university. Neither of us are particularly reliable messagers, nor have we been dedicated enough to keep up the letter-writing we started on our respective gap years. Yet, with these few pieces of fabric, I have found myself feeling joyously close to her.

“I wear her old things with the secret hope that some of her strength, her spark, her intelligence, will rub off from the fabric onto me.”

This made me think about the other clothes that I have inherited over the years. There are the many pieces gifted to me by the mother of the children I au-paired for in France: noughties tops with interesting necklines, a striped green dress, and the sleeveless white shirt I wore on a date with the first boy I ever fell in love with. Then, there are the items that I have ‘borrowed’ from my mum. Unfortunately, she and I have different body shapes, so I don’t fit her old jeans nor the cool creeper-like shoes she wore in her twenties, though not for want of trying. Doubly unfortunately, she has long since lost the top hat and tails that she used to wear with fishnet tights to midnight screenings of the Rocky Horror Picture Show in the eighties. But I do have her brown satchel, her black trench coat, the purple team t-shirt from when she and her fellow pharmacology academics ran a 10K in 2001, which I now wear when hobbling through a 5k jog.

I have come to realise that these pieces have a profound totemic value. Both women have been such important influences in my life. The relationship between au pair and host mum is always a complex beast; one moment you are their confidante and co-conspirator, the next the sulky teenager, moping about the house after being asked to babysit on a Saturday. Nonetheless, over the nine months I knew my host-mum, I grew to feel a great respect for her. With her in mind, I will forever spin the handles of pans back towards the hob, to stop small hands reaching up and pulling boiling pans to the floor. In times of adversity, I will always remember her courage in the face of the successive challenges that confronted the family in the short time I lived with them.

My relationship with my mum, meanwhile, is that which I cherish most. It’s a terrible shock, of course, growing up and realising that your parents are fallible creatures. Yet amid this confusing mental reconfiguration of my mum, from divinity to human being, I have become aware of just how inspiring she is. Now I wear her old things with the secret hope that some of her strength, her spark, her intelligence, will rub off from the fabric onto me.

You see, I’ve never really stolen the hoodies or t-shirts of people I’ve dated, not quite grasping the appeal. Now, however, I understand. I wear these clothes like a badge of honour, in celebration of the relationships I have with these three, incredible women. It is a novel way of allowing me to feel closer to them in an era in which we are all, necessarily, apart. To the joys, then, of the messy mosaic of an inherited wardrobe. I love each piece just as I love the woman from whence it came.