My View - Wednesday 26th September 2018 

We’ve had school skirt wars in our house after both daughters got into trouble for rolling theirs up so high they resembled little more than a weightlifter’s girdle. Having warned them every morning as they wiggled out of the front door, I had no sympathy. 

What surprised me though, was my husband’s response. He basically congratulated them on their rebellion, adding that while teachers may not be impressed with their lapsed exemplary behaviour, no-one wants to be bezzie mates with a goody-two-shoes.

Well, he should know. I’m in the unusual position of having been to the same school as my spouse, so can remember which gang he was in and what their reputation was. There were about eight of them and they were as fit as they were feared. Admittedly, Sam was only allowed in because his big brother was top dog, but the point is, when you’re at school, tribe rules do matter. 

At Bingley Grammar circa 1984-89, it was easy to identify the cool kids from the squares and the snobs from the scuffers, simply by the clobber they wore and how they wore it. 

For girls it was more about how tight, rather than how short your skirt was. De-rigueur was a derriere squashed as snuggly as possible into a pencil skirt. Ideally, this would be matched with a shaggy perm, tucker boots and a slick of twilight teaser lippy. In winter, you were nobody if you didn’t have a ski jacket (preferably turquoise) and rolled-down over-the-knee socks. 

One group in particular insisted on a year-round fake tan. The only time you spotted their original skin tone was on PE days when they’d forgotten to apply Tangerine Dream further up their thighs.

For the boys, it was all about Farah trousers and Kappa jackets, with a classic head bag and curtains hair. There were a few wannabe hellraisers sporting long fringes and winkle-pickers but nobody was as daring as a lad called Lee, who got suspended for his recalcitrant hedge cut. Imagine a grade two all over, apart from the front, which was fashioned into the shape of a sprawling ginger Leylandii, and you get the picture. Also suspended that year was a boy who rocked up to class with a dead hedgehog stapled to his satchel.

So I understand that my girls want to blend in and I realise that in the grand scheme of things, my wrath at the length of their skirts will fade, to be replaced no-doubt with disbelief at their choice of boyfriend or iTunes playlist. 

But that’s my job, just as it was my mum’s job in the eighties. In fact, Margo's guiding voice remains in my head even now. If I’m looking in the mirror and I sense a “super darling”, I know I’m good to go. But if I hear the harsh yet honest “You'd look a right trollop in that”, it doesn't even leave the coat hanger.