IT was vintage, the dress that should have been mine.
And yellow.
A bright canary yellow as glorious as the sunshine it shone in, when it caught my eye.
Short, with layers upon layers of delicate fringing, it winked at me as I walked past it hanging from a shop door way and said: “I am yours. Come and buy me.”
And I nodded and whispered back, “I will later, I promise.”
And I meant it too.
I did go back to the tiny vintage shop in Manchester, fully determined to walk away with the sexy, sassy showstopper. The party frock of my dreams.
With a spring in my step, I was so excited at the thought of wearing it on those hot magical kind of summer nights, dancing the hours away.
But I was too late.
