I smiled wryly when a friend asked if the ring I was wearing belonged to my late father. Given a choice between donning anything vaguely resembling jewellery, or having a wisdom tooth extracted by Mr Bean wielding a rusty pliers, he would have opted for the latter.

The Kinks would not have found their Dedicated Follower Of Fashion amongst the adults I grew up around. In matters sartorial they were dyed in the wool (pun intended) conservatives. Clothes were purely functional; to keep out the elements, and very importantly, preserve modesty. Even on the hottest day of the year layers were shred with great reluctance. As he reached the point of near expiration, my father would finally remove his jacket, as he toiled in a sweltering glass house. But the Donald Duck style waist coat, containing his pocket watch, remained steadfast in place.

The first time I saw an open neck shirt was when a man appeared on television, uttering the immortal words: “Hello I’m Johnny Cash”. Impressed with the new role model. I grabbed my little guitar, undid my top shirt button and hopped up on the kitchen table. My grandiose ideas of fame in Nashville were soon dashed as my mother cried out: “Button your shirt or you’ll catch your death of cold!”, quickly returning me to the reality of life in rural Fingal in the late 1960s.

Before large chain stores made shopping a leisure activity, local drapery shops like Taylors (long gone) on the main street in Swords, provided good quality clothing at reasonable prices. The management and staff were on first name terms with their customers, knowing their style and size as they came through the door. Head cover was mandatory. By in large working men wore flat caps, while the bosses preferred felt hats with brims. Protocol dictated where and when head gear should be worn. For example: failure to remove one’s cap at the dining table could result in being awarded the title of a “bowsie”.

The ladies had a range of head scarves and hats that hadn’t changed much in centuries. In a moment of grave misjudgement my mother purchased a navy-blue pill box hat for my confirmation. Said hat caused great embarrassment to her, and unbridled hilarity for the rest of us; when dislodged by a rouge gust of wind, it hit the ground rolling and broke the land speed record for a piece of millinery, as I gave chase to the cheers of onlookers. Who could have predicted the era of the designer label and selfie? But then, I guess the pendulum of life seldom settles in the middle.