The other day someone in my family ordered 10 packs of Dylon by mistake. Well actually they’d been sitting in the Amazon basket waiting for me to edit them down. So obviously I had to use them.
I’ve had a soft spot for Dylon since, aged 17, I dyed a pair of second-hand cricket trousers pink (on trend even then). They were splotchy and technically mauve-pink-with-white-swirls, but it was the late Seventies and you could get away with murder, sartorially speaking. Everyone said they thought the trousers were gorgeous and I was a genius.
That’s what’s charming about Dylon. It makes you feel like a Blue Peter presenter (or in later years, as I set my sights higher, someone from the Dior atelier). Plus there’s an element of jeopardy as you never quite knew what was going to happen. Aren’t you frightened of wrecking something, people would ask. Er yes, that’s part of the point. I don’t do drugs or drink. Dylon is my weakness.