Thrifty mother
My mum was a real classic... Growing up wasn't exactly a barrel of laughs with both parents being as dysfunctional as an Albanian fake Furby, but my mother's understanding of economics caused young me many a moment of anguish.

Despite having a generous middle class family income, my mother was obsessed with making economies wherever she could. Aged three, I recall being sat on a dining chair in the street while my mum hacked away at my hair like Edward Scissorhands with Parkinsons until I yelled out in pain as she sliced my ear with a pair of rusty and blunt scissors. It was apparently better than paying 95p for the local barber shop do it. Amazingly, she scythed into my left ear not just once, but three times until my pre-haircut traumas got too much for her and I was entrusted to the care of someone who didn't shake like Ozzy Osborne when snipping.

Mother wasn't deterred. Growing up into teenage me meant that my brother's old clothes (which she had kept in the loft in eager anticipation) were again pressed into service with me. However, my bro is ten and a half years my senior. Her sense of fashion was decidedly eccentric too, as although she was dimly aware it wasn't 1975 anymore, she measured the useful life of fashion in decades. What wasn't worn threadbare was recyled.

One autumn afternoon, while Dad was decorating the spare room for the third time in two years (using the most expensive wallpaper, lighting, paste, paint and brushes money could buy) my mum called me downstairs.

"Why don't you try on this lovely suede jacket. It's nice" (whenever the words "it's nice" were used, my blood ran cold).

Dear god...

She held out something last seen in Starsky and Hutch circa 1976. It had collars you could use to scare air traffic controllers with. A brown monstrosity, with elasticated cuffs and waist picked out in knitted brown. MMMMhhhhmmmmmMMMMMhhhmmmmm.

"Erm, I don't really like it mum" said I, guiltily. I wasn't a brat or anything like that, but I knew I'd be lynched if I stepped out of the house wearing it.

"Oh, but it's lovely! It's really nice!"

I gritted my teeth and put it on. Luck really was a lady that day, as I was a good dear bigger than bro was ten years earlier. It looked like a hideous pastiche of a pimp's bolero jacket on me.

"Oh..." The disappointment in her voice was palpable. I knew she was a little upset as she liked the jacket and more importantly, liked the fact that it would save a few quid.

"Oh I wish you didn't grow so fast. You cost us a fortune" she sighed.

Three days later, I'm asked downstairs again.

"I made some alterations. Try this on".

Oh fuck no.

The knitted waist and cuffs had been extended by two inches.

Mercifully, even my mother realised I looked a complete dork and that was that, the monstrous suede thing was consigned to the loft, presumably until either myself or my brother spawned.

Dad? Well he was even worse. Aged fifteen I was promised a leather jacket for christmas. I was painstakingly walked round shops and told to try stuff on so both mum and dad had a few ideas.

Cue xmas day

"We want you to have this" said Dad - note the use of the royal "we" which Dad always used when he thought that "I" wasn't threatening and dictatorial enough.

"It's exclusive, it's the very latest thing from an Italian designer. We want you to wear it and look different from all the other herberts" droned my father.

Fuck me...

It was a leather jacket alright and it was even fashionably distressed. However, I never left the house in it.

Why?

It was algae green.

The chap at the local market stall knocking em out for a tenner.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Fri 4 Jan 2008, 14:22, Reply)