When I was twenty five years old I began to worry that I was dressing like a twelve year old. For one quarter of a century I had pranced between fashion statements – some more statement then fashion – but all equally loved and all suited to the time and frame of mind I had existed in. That all changed on a cold evening in June.

It was my little sister’s twelfth birthday. Mum, dad and I sat at one table whilst ten tweens took over the other. Dinner was the first part of a two part celebration which would culminate in a sleep over of epic proportions. The girls were doing the things twelve year old do – swapping chairs, squealing, posing for photos with pouty lips and ordering lemon lime and bitters. Everything seemed perfectly normal.

Then I noticed her shoes. One of the girls was wearing Doc Martens. They reminded me of the pair I had pain stakingly broken in as a fifteen year old and recently pulled out of storage. The Docs were smartly paired with a tailored blazer and mid length flowy skirt. I had worn a similar outfit less than a week ago. I turned to my mum.

Sarah: ‘Am I dressed like a twelve year old?’
Mum: ‘No dear, they are dressing like you.’

I wasn’t so sure. Every one of these girls dressed like the fashionable offspring of Kate Moss. At twelve years old, I had been wearing basketball shorts and a daggy tie dyed t-shirt. At 26, I was proud of how far I had come. My style had painstakingly evolved through time. Each year I had become more confident in myself and the result had fittingly filtered into what I chose to wear. Now I realised that this theory was just that, a theory. If these girls dressed like me but better, where did that leave me? I felt a small lump in my throat which I allayed with a hefty fork full of pasta.

A year later, when I was about to become double my sister’s age, she asked me what I wanted for my birthday. I looked at the pint sized fashionista sitting next to me and responded, ‘A pretty dress please’. So Naomi borrowed my dad’s credit card and scoured the internet for a suitable dress. Come my birthday, I was presented with three parcels, all from my sister, containing a uniquely gorgeous piece of clothing. One was a silk smock with purple polka dots. Something I would never normally try on – I loved it. And that’s when it hit me. My little sister was never a fashion rival. She is something amazing. A pint-sized stylist bound by blood.

Not only did I dress like a twelve year old, but they rocked their looks better than me. I honed in on my sister. Naomi’s quirky dress sense was just the right balance of youthful cool. A small lump rose in my throat.