There are two things a woman dreads purchasing.  A bathing suit and jeans.  I think that largely contributes as to why I have such an expansive collection of handbags. And sarongs, for that matter.  They always fit.

I remember my first pair of jeans.  I was twelve, they were skin-tight grey paisley and I thought they were heaven. Up until that point, my mother had always refused to allow either of her daughters to wear denim.  She thought it wasn’t ladylike.  So, after weeks of pocket money saving, I took myself into Forges of Footscray and bought them with My Own Money. I thought I was so fashionable and wore them at every given opportunity.

That winter, during the school holidays, my family went to our regular caravan park at the foot of Falls Creek, and for the first time, my mother agreed, much to the chagrin of my stepfather, to take my sister and I to the snow for the day.  I donned my grey paisley jeans, and stylishly co-ordinated my baby pink parka, baby pink gumboots and frosted pink, strawberry flavoured lip gloss (I think you’ll agree, I’ve always something of a flair for fashion).

It was a wonderful day. We frolicked for the first time in a winter wonderland, had a snowball fight, built a snow man, took the chair lift up to the restaurant (I remember I  had lasagne, over which there was a most amusing incident with a bay leaf which I dramatically mistook for a gum leaf…while my fashion sense was before its time, my culinary awareness was not -  oh, how we laughed!), and generally had a wonderful day.

With an hour or so to go before we were due to board the coach back, my sister and I begged to be allowed to hire a toboggan.  Mum agreed, and for a time my sister and I had a lovely time skidding down the slope.  Until, that is, we decided to take the toboggan to the highest point of the slope, knowing that it was well outside the specified safety zone.  Disaster struck.  And it hurt.  A lot.  We raced down the slope and halfway down, hit a large rock.  My sister and I were thrown from the toboggan.  I lay screaming in the snow while my sister disappointedly inspected the miniscule cut on her baby finger.  My pained yelps reached the ears of our now frustrated mother, standing on the viewing landing above. ‘Get up, Janelle!’ she angrily called down at me, ‘Come on!  Don’t make me come down there!’ I clutched my leg in throws of agony. ‘Mum!’ I feebly called threw my tears. ‘Stop being ridiculous, Janelle!’ Mum retorted, ‘You’re not fooling anyone!’ By now, quite a group of other tobogganers had gathered in concern around me, and after briefly suffering their disdainful looks, Mum decided that she’d better come down and inspect me after all.  I remember her storming down the hill to where I lay writhing in the snow. ‘Really, Janelle!’ she huffed, and grabbed my elbow and yanked me to my (soon to be diagnosed as broken) feet.  I crumpled and she knew I wasn’t crying wolf after all.

 The next bit is a bit of a blur, but I know it involved a crowd, a ski bob and a blow-up canoe-like thing in which I was placed and raced to the first aid building.  The next thing I knew, I was lying on an examining table.  My pink gumboots had been removed, and my right ankle had been confirmed broken.  The next thing I saw was the glint of what appeared to be enormous silver shears, winking menacing at me from the hands of the nurse.  With a dramatic swish, the shears loomed over my ankle, but more importantly, my first pair of jeans.  It all became apparent to me, and I became hysterical.  ‘No!  Not my jeans! Not my jeans!’ I cried.  The nurse patiently explained to me that the jeans had to be cut from my leg as they were too tight to slip off without damaging my ankle even further.  I cared not, and blatantly refused to let them touch my treasured jeans.  In the end, they did pull my jeans off, forcing my little ankle to be fully extended.  At the Mount Beauty hospital, after the ride down the hill in the back of the ambulance, the x-rays showed that my ankle was broken in three places – interesting enough in the same pattern as the inside of a peace sign - and ultimately resulted in a major operation, three pins, 2 unsightly scars and 3 months on crutches. 

 Fashion victim?  You bet your arse.