I STILL WEAR THEM . . . AND I AM 73!

JANET STREET-PORTER

IN 1967, I got married in a purple crepe midi dress by designer Ossie Clark — but, for the party in the evening, I changed into the tiniest, velvet romper suit, which barely covered my bottom.

I was stick thin and wore the shortest skirts possible, although going to work (then for the Daily Mail) on the London Underground was tricky as my pelvic area was at eye level for anyone who had a seat. I’d bought my first mini from Mary Quant’s shop Bazaar on the King’s Road when I was still at school. It was black, skin tight and knitted, designed to cling to non-existent curves.

When she went on to invent hot pants a couple of years later, I was even happier — adding knitted shorts with a green fur jacket to my work wardrobe. I must have looked like a giant budgie.

I wore short skirts (as I am 6ft anything readymade was always about four inches too short anyway) right through the 1980s — choosing fitted jackets and tiny skirts, worn with Dr. Martens boots.

It was my uniform when I was a BBC executive, the only female in a white male environment. By then, I teamed my minis with thick black tights — it was less draughty.

The mini is a very empowering garment — it gives you a sense of superiority and freedom, the freedom to be yourself. Along with the trouser suit, the mini represents what modern women are all about. We fought for equality and we fought for the right to express ourselves.

Power dressing — dresses and suit jackets with big shoulders — just mimics menswear, whereas the mini belongs to women alone. Wearing a mini meant you had to watch how you sat, constantly aware that it brought a lot of attention (not always welcome), but the mini changed how women dressed for good and gave us loads of confidence.

Wearing a mini has never meant you are dumb or easily pushed around, quite the reverse.

I still wear one — at 73 — but now I’ll stick leggings on underneath.