I am, and always have been, a dress girl through and through. The devotion to flippy skirts and girly dresses that carries me through dreary winters in a haze of opaque tights and scuffed boots only intensifies with the sun. An excuse to let my dresses lead the life they were intended for, a life of bare legs, pretty flowers and sunlit frolics? Why, of course.
This summer, however, something odd has happened to me. Sometime between my love affair with 70s French girls clad in pale denim and the inevitable in-flux of Glastonbury pictures, I have developed an over-riding desire to own a pair of high waisted denim shorts.




