Whenever I hear people rationalizing expensive purchases with the words "ah, but it’ll last forever...and I can hand it down to my son/daughter/fashion conscious cocker spaniel" I feel the need to protest. That I never do says more about my inherent British-ness than any lack of vehemence in my feelings. For I am an example of that particular subset of the population, a child to whom mother’s wardrobe was handed; and, truth be told, more often than not I’m not very happy about it.

Because, and here’s the point that the rationalizers never consider, my tastes differ from those of my parental unit. And while a closet full of vintage Moschino, Ralph Lauren, and the like may stir some girl’s passions they are, to me, a continual nuisance to be stored, moved, and protected from moths.

I’m unable to get rid of them; even if I was able to move past the guilt factor, I have a fair idea of how much they cost and wouldn’t want to sell them for a mere sliver of their former value. Regardless of stylistic differences, I can’t wear them; for, whatever else I inherited, it was not the same body type as dear mama. And they haunt my current acquisitions; a coat can never just be a coat...it's the addition of another coat...even if a good portion of the closet is taken up with such things as Ralph Lauren ski jackets whose only virtue...hidden deep among the red, blue, fur, gold frogging, and other ephemera...is warmth. It would be a waste of money, or so my guilt-ridden mind tells me, to buy something that I essentially already own.

And so it goes on; like the ghost of Christmas past they’re always around, yet rarely a tangible (i.e. wearable) part of my wardrobe. Therefore, I entreat you, make that luxury purchase because it’s something that you love and you will enjoy...not something to foist on future generations.