Days passed in my red cardigan are unreservedly fabulous 🙂
A few weeks ago, I awoke on an appropriately sunny sunday and took a trip to the markets. As always, I was optimistic that something utterly fascinating and useless would catch my eye and I would be forced by my own persuasive curiosity to purchase it. As I wandered stall to stall, trawling through old books, hideously glazed pottery pieces and tiny collectables that had fallen out of fashions favour, I could find nothing that caught my eye. I wandered past the serbian man that set up the furniture every week without fail and found nothing that took my fancy, past the crowded cages of chirping canaries that sat nextdoor to the brightly coloured potted blooms. I found myself wandering amoungst the secondhand clothes, vintage dresses hung there hopefully and I admired them all and secretly applauded their misunderstood style. Most amazingly the red cardigan was present there as well, sitting quietly, and most unassumingly, waiting for the right person to chance upon it. Both of us, pre-loved and with our pasts met, and sold ourselves to one another, so begins the adventures in the age of me and my red cardigan.