I gave up on fashion in 1984 at the age of 14 when I was late riding the lemon jumper/ pink jumper craze which had been vogue in Melbourne’s east.
Having scrimped and saved my paper-round money, I finally bought myself an outfit consisting of not only a lemon jumper, but also cream baggies with crocheted apricot belt and cream Ciaks for shoes (anyone remember them?) in preparation for a date that coming weekend.
Accompanied by my then home-tipped and blow-waved mullet I must’ve looked like I was auditioning to be the new keyboard player for Pseudo Echo.
On the day, as I walked through Eastland - to get to the station and catch the train - I became acutely aware that the lemon jumper and baggies phase may perhaps have passed. I became even more cognisant of that fact in a tense 10-15 minute ride to Boronia Station (I believe the folks of Heathmont, Bayswater and Boronia - hell, of every suburb along the Belgrave line) may not have even been aware it had been “a thing”.
On disembarking at Boronia Station and arriving at the cinema, the crestfallen look of the girl I was meeting said it all… I had completely missed the boat (and missed the mark). My hopes of a cheap fumble in the back row during Electric Dreams had just been totally dashed.
While I do consider myself very fortunate to have made out of Boronia (in that get-up) without getting the s h i t kicked out of me, it was that day which convinced me that fashion is a mug’s game and should under no circumstances be pandered to.