A letter from a reader

At 64, I had not worn a plain t‑shirt in ten years

I have never written anything like this before. I want to say first that I am not a writer, and I am not in the habit of telling other women what to wear.

But three different women asked me about a t-shirt, of all things, at my grandson’s birthday party. I have now explained it enough times that it seemed easier to write it down properly.

It started in the garden last month, in that hot week we had. I was out there deadheading the roses in a long sleeved blouse, and my granddaughter looked up from the paddling pool and said it.

Nan, are you not boiling in that?

I was. Of course I was. But I had stopped wearing t-shirts about ten years before, and I could tell you exactly why. The sleeve. Every t-shirt in the shops stops right at the top of the arm, which is exactly the part of the arm I would rather keep to myself. So it was long sleeves in a heatwave, or a cardigan over a vest, and both of those are a silly way to spend a summer.

I did not choose that, and that is the part I want to be clear about. Nobody decides to give up t-shirts. You try a few on, you catch sight of your arms in the changing room mirror, and you quietly move to the blouse rail. And then ten years go by.

How it happens

Have a look at the t-shirts in any of the shops. They are cut for twenty year olds. The sleeves seem to get shorter every year, some of them hardly count as sleeves at all, and the fabric is so thin it shows everything you would rather it did not.

Nobody makes a fuss about it. Women our age simply stop buying them, one by one. We end up with a wardrobe full of complicated summer tops with floaty sleeves and wrap fronts, when all we really wanted was a decent t-shirt.

What I had wrong

I had always thought it was all or nothing. Either the whole arm is covered by a proper long sleeve, or you grit your teeth, wear the little cap sleeve and feel conscious of it all afternoon.

It turns out the answer was about three inches.

A sleeve that ends just below the elbow covers the part you actually mind, the upper arm, and leaves the rest as bare and cool as any t-shirt. It looks like a small difference on the hanger. On you, it is the whole difference.

See The Marigold Tee

The top is called the Marigold

It is from The Boathouse Wardrobe, a small Australian boutique where Aunty Joan has been quietly dressing women our age for thirty years.

The top is called the Marigold. It is a plain t-shirt in a soft charcoal grey, with a proper round neck, sleeves that come down to just below the elbow, and a gently curved hem. No print, no slogans, no cleverness. Just a t-shirt that somebody our age was actually consulted on.

It is light and soft, and loose without being shapeless. The body has a little swing to it, and the hem curves so it skims over the hips and sits nicely over trousers instead of clinging or riding up. And the sleeves stay put at the elbow. They do not creep up when you reach for things, which I tested, over and over, at the washing line.

That is really all there is to it. It is not complicated. It is a t-shirt somebody actually thought about.

What happened at the birthday party

I wore it for the first time to my grandson’s birthday party, with my navy trousers and my good sandals.

Three women asked me about it before the cake was cut. One of them was Sandra, who I have known for donkey’s years and who has never once said a word about anything I have worn.

She asked me if I had lost weight. I have not. It is the hem.

What I noticed more than the compliments was that I forgot about my arms completely. I handed round plates, I waved at people, I lifted the birthday boy up for a photo, and not once did I do that thing where you tug the sleeve down or fold your arms without meaning to.

The next morning I put it straight back on to hang the washing out, and it was just as right for that. That is the rarest sort of top. It goes to a birthday party and then does the ironing, and it feels right both ways.

Three things I have learned since

One. It is the sleeve that does it. Just below the elbow is exactly the right place for a sleeve to stop at our age. You are covered where you want covering and cool everywhere else, with no cardigan needed over the top in January.

Two. The hem earns its keep. It is cut longer and curved, so it covers the top of your trousers and skims instead of clinging. You stop thinking about your middle, which I had forgotten was possible in a t-shirt.

Three. The sizing is honest. It goes from an AU 8/10 to an 18/20, with the same relaxed shape the whole way up, and it comes in seven colours. I started with the grey because I am sensible, and I am going back for something that is not.

About the price

I want to be straight with you about this, because it was the thing that made me suspicious.

The Marigold is $45.95. It was $90.00.

My first thought, to be honest, was that there had to be a catch, because a decent top with sleeves in the right place is something I would have paid full price for years ago, if anybody had bothered to make one.

There is no catch that I have found. They are a small boutique selling directly, so there is no department store taking a cut in the middle. And after thirty years, Aunty Joan is retiring, so her last picks are in Joan’s Retirement Sale.

I did what I imagine you are doing now and went and read the reviews before I ordered. Over three thousand of them, sitting at 4.7 stars. Not the suspiciously perfect five you see on some websites, which if I am honest made me trust it rather more. I read the bad ones first, and the worst one said the colour was a shade lighter than the photo. That was the one that decided it for me.

Then I ordered the white one as well.

See The Marigold Tee

What I would tell you if we were friends

If you and I were sat in the garden and you asked me, this is what I would say.

If you have spent the last ten summers walking straight past the t-shirt rail, it was never you that was wrong. It was three inches of missing sleeve. And that is a much cheaper problem to fix than a wardrobe full of complicated summer tops.

Not because a t-shirt will change your life. It will not. But there is something in being the woman in the garden in a t-shirt again, instead of the one boiling in a blouse. I had quietly given up on it, and I would rather you did not give up on it too.

Two practical things. The sale is on at the moment, and the middle sizes are the ones that go first. They do it in seven colours, from an AU 8/10 to an 18/20, and once Joan’s last picks have gone, they are gone for good.

I own t-shirts again.

Jenny

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Jenny Walsh is 67 and lives in Wagga Wagga with a labrador. She is not a fashion writer.

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