The one item of clothing I should throw away – but can’t

It’s a scenario familiar to many: you fling open the wardrobe doors determined to declutter – the ambition being to curate a capsule collection of stylist neutrals and beautifully cut tailoring – only to shut the same doors five hours later, with perhaps a desultory pile of bobbled jumpers and stained T-shirts having made it to the chuck-out pile.

Just why is it quite so difficult to shake off the grip of unworn clothes? We know we’re not likely to wear our sixth form ball dress again, but the memory – the untapped potential of youth coupled with Marlborough Lights and that shared bottle of champagne on the school steps – means it’s more than a frock; it was a snapshot of your life, long gone but still cherished. Your grandfather’s driving scarf; your mother’s summer dress from that holiday in 1987; the leather jacket you couldn’t really afford on your first salary but still bought.

Second-hand fashion platform Loopi found that 21 per cent of the people they surveyed kept clothes due to an emotional bond, while 77 per cent were holding on to items in the hope they would be worn again. Wishful thinking, perhaps – but you never know when a kipper tie, Take That tour T-shirt or sequinned puffball skirt may come in handy.

‘I wore the cardigan the day I met my husband – and the day he proposed’

by Lucy Denyer

I can’t remember exactly when in the early Noughties I bought the navy cardigan, but I do remember being a little confused when I first picked it up in the Oxford Circus Topshop. “Risqué,” I thought – it was cut daringly low, hardly like a cardigan at all. Then I realised I had it the wrong way round; it was backless. I was young enough not to need to wear a bra; it was a piece of clothing that was the perfect blend of demure – soberly coloured, neat buttons down the front – and sexy. And I quite liked my back then. Smooth and taut in the way that only 20-something backs are.

One Saturday night, hungover and not really wanting to go out at all, I put the cardigan on to briefly attend a house party, and although I would much rather have donned a pair of tracksuit bottoms and lay comatose on the sofa, I headed out into the freezing February night with a pal. We’d only stay for one, we said.

That night, I met a man whose eyes followed me around the room; when we were introduced he put his warm hand on my naked back and it was as if a bolt of electricity went through me. We exchanged numbers and arranged to meet the next day.

He cancelled on me, of course, and after a few more abortive efforts to meet, he eventually promised to be in touch when he got back from his forthcoming holiday in Sri Lanka. I didn’t expect to hear from him again.

So it was a surprise when a couple of months later he called, and we arranged to meet. One meeting turned into two, and then three.

Eighteen months after that cold February night, we were on holiday in Tuscany, and lightly tanned, feeling good about myself, I put the cardigan on, with a pair of white jeans and sandals, to go for dinner. Halfway down the path to the restaurant he pulled a box out of his pocket; in the box, a ring.

Seventeen years on, I don’t wear the cardigan anymore. My back isn’t as smooth and taut as it used to be, and I no longer feel as confident going braless. But I’ll never get rid of it. How could I?

‘I love my vibrant Eighties throwback and its nod to Diana’s rebelliousness’

by Sarah Rainey

Lady Diana Spencer was 19 when she wore the jumper to a polo match in 1981. Fire-engine red, with a distinctive pattern of white sheep and a lone black sheep amid the flock, it was – in typical Diana style – the talk of the afternoon.

Made by British knitwear brand Warm & Wonderful, which subsequently shot to fame, that same jumper sold at auction in 2023 for a staggering £920,000.

And I happen to own one. Not the one, of course, but a modern version of the iconic knit, an exact replica sewn from the finest merino wool, mine for the regal sum of £325.

It is far, far more than I would normally spend on an item of clothing, but, having interviewed its designers, Joanna Osborne and Sally Muir, back in 2020, I felt compelled to buy one.

Since then, that jumper has lain, neatly folded in tissue, in a drawer in my bedroom. It is untouched, unworn, and remains my biggest sartorial secret.

At 37, as a mum of two, living in the countryside and working mostly from home, I have little – truthfully, no – need for a high-end, royal-inspired, merino wool jumper in my life. Most of my days are spent in yoga leggings and a tatty T-shirt; stylish or chic I most certainly am not.

Too loud for the school run; too Eighties for everyday wear; too hot and scratchy for even the wintriest of days, it is fussy and impractical. Not to mention dry-clean only, which, with two messy boys under my feet, is a phrase which fills me with dread.

But I simply can’t bear to part with it. There is something I love about my vibrant Eighties throwback, its nod to Diana’s rebelliousness and those silly sheep – 161 to be precise – who seem to let out a little “baa” of joy every time I open that drawer.

I know that, no matter how many wardrobe clear-outs I do, I won’t ever sell it or give it away. Those sheep may never see the light of day, but the jumper is mine for life.

‘It’s not technically a flamenco frock – but I bought red heels to go with it’

by Judith Woods

I must have tried this on dozens of times down the years, but never once have I left the house in it. “No, it’s not really a flamenco frock lunch,” my husband will say with a sympathetic shrug. “You can’t wear that to parents’ evening,” my daughters would cry in horror. “Isn’t it a bit… much?” girlfriends would gently suggest. “We’re only going for dinner.”

They are right. All of them. And so I would meekly return upstairs and get changed into something considerably less fun. It’s not technically a flamenco frock, rather it’s vintage Monsoon, and as I bought it in a posh charity shop, not expensive – but not expendable either. I can’t conceive of ever getting rid of it; surely its day will come?

The heart wants what the heart wants, and I love it. I also adore the red suede shoes I bought to wear with it – to dance in in it! – even though I can barely stand in them. As a born optimist, whose brightly painted sangria pitcher is always half full, I often find myself cramming it into my suitcase when I go on holiday, just in case.

It came with me on a girls’ break to Seville last spring and although it never got farther than a kitchen disco in our Airbnb, I felt tremendous.

Truthfully, it’s not my colour, it’s not my style, but deep down I believe that the glamorous occasion will arise – must surely arise – when only flounces, vertiginous heels and matching cardinal-red lippy will do.

And when that day dawns, mis amigos, this señora will be ready.

‘When I realised my dress had become worthy of satire, it stayed on the hanger’

by Rowan Pelling

For weeks, I lusted over this slinky silk dress when I spotted it around seven years ago on the (now defunct) Matches website. The label – Saloni – was favoured by the red carpet crowd and the colours, jade green and rowan berry orange, suited my name and colouring. I also liked the plunging neckline and beautiful covered buttons. But at £500 it far exceeded my usual frock expenditure. I’ve spent most of my life ferreting around in charity and vintage shops and eBay – where I’ve picked up Vivienne Westwood dresses for as little as £60.

I enjoy dressing like an escaped Victorian circus performer who’s just swapped jackets with a pirate, meaning small rips and stains are acceptable. When you haven’t paid much for an outfit, you can wear it on a bicycle, while hiking and for picnics.

So, I broke all my rules when I pressed “purchase” and splashed out on this “Lea” dress. It arrived in a box and bed of tissue paper looking far too pristine to wear. I hung the gown up and gazed at it instead. And somehow that’s where it remained: on the hanger. Apart from one brief three-hour outing to a smart London book launch, where I was fearful of spilling booze onto its flawless silk. I also fretted that the under-arm fabric might become a bit whiffy if I wore it out again, submitting it to the ravages of dry cleaning.

But what tipped me into long-lasting ambivalence was when Amanda, the terrifyingly aspirational yummy mummy (played by Lucy Punch) in BBC’s Motherland, started wearing Saloni for smart occasions. The dresses were so beloved of the Notting Hill and Cotswold set that they had been deemed worthy of satire.

Even so, I continued to love the dress and – ironically – even worked for a while in the same building as Saloni’s London HQ. I once accosted an employee in the communal loos and asked if they ever had sample sales. “No,” she said icily, looking me up and down in my thrift-shop mufti.

Now I’ve discovered that a spin-off series, Amandaland, is in the works, perhaps it’s time to embrace my inner Amanda. Parting ways with a soon-to-be cult classic is never wise.