It is neat enough to look smart, without being sheepish; it is bold enough to be a fashion statement without looking mad
It is ridiculous for me to even think of buying any more cardigans. I have loads already. There are cardigans hiding under coats on the hooks in the hallway. There is a drawer stuffed full of cardigans squished up like cotton wool balls, from which when opened a heady scent drifts out of anti-moth lavender oil mixed with the woodiness that permeates knitwear worn to watch an entire box set in the cosiest spot on the sofa right next to the fire. There is a cardigan that took up residency on the back of the bathroom door years ago and somehow never budged.
But all of those cardigans are wrong. They fall into two camps of equal and opposing wrongness. Half of them are crew-neck, fine-knit, waist-length cardigans, which I have in endless colours. They have no shape on the hanger, being essentially designed for shapeless arm-and-shoulder coverage over a dress or vest or T-shirt. They are undeniably useful when you are a bit chilly but don’t want to wear a coat. But there is something irritatingly apologetic about them. They are cardigans for a boring woman who puts a boring cardigan on over her boring dress to ward off goosebumps at a boring party. Who wants to be her? Let’s be Rihanna, who if she got chilly at a party would shoulder-robe a massive shiny padded jacket instead.