Aside from a choker, I spent much of my teenage life in camouflage. It was very much the fashion at the time. This was somewhere in between bootcut jeans and a slight resurgence in flares.
There was an amazing kind of material around at the time.
Depending on how the light caught it, it would be pink or green. Here’s Buffy, running in it.
I couldn’t even hazard a guess at what that material was called, but there were about eight months when no one wore anything else.
Apart from me.
I wore so much camo, I was mistaken for an Army cadet repeatedly. A pal of mine, who is known for his tall tales, told me once that wearing camo jeans or any kind of army surplus stuff was a criminal offence. Of course, he also said that, when he was younger, he used to be six foot six, “but you lose some height as you get older.”
He’s only mid-sixties, which is far too early to start getting shorter.
Also, he’s my height, and you could fit me in a top pocket.
Of course, it is worth noting: when you wear camouflage trousers in the High Street, you don’t disappear from the waist down.
A pal of mine used to run on Dartmoor late at night. Most of the time, she used a head torch but sometimes, for a thrill (presumably), she turned the torch off and risked various limbs, running across the rocks, bogs and hills, with only the light of the moon to keep her alive.
One night, and she still can’t say why, she decided to switch the head torch back on mid stride, and she nearly went smack into a soldier.
He was all in camo. Like a boss.