The Most Sustainable Garment is the One You Already Own: My Decade in a £300 Coat

At 52 years, I’ve realised that my wardrobe is a lot like my personality: small, occasionally expensive to maintain, but remarkably consistent.

Photo: Media from Wix

For years, I’ve endured teasing from friends and family. They see the price tag of something I’ve just purchased from The White Company and act as if I’ve just put a down payment on a small island. Meanwhile, they are on their third ‘bargain’ jumper of the season - the one that currently looks like it was washed in a blender.

But I have a secret weapon in this debate: Allow me to tell my story, the one I have named: The Legend of the £300 Coat.

The year was 2016. I was shopping in Manchester with my two children, then aged around 13 and 11. I had spent most of the morning firmly refuting their pleas for the latest gadgets - gaming gear that I knew from experience would be obsolete within weeks. But however fraught the nerves, however red faced the sulks, no shopping trip was ever complete without a peek in The White Company.

And that’s when I saw it. The Coat.

It was perfect. And it was £300. Having only moments earlier pleaded poverty to the children, I decided to break my own rule of honesty and buy it ‘discreetly’. I failed. As the young person behind the till announced, ‘That will be £300’, my children - who were parked what I had thought was a safe distance away - responded with horror. One of them actually shouted across the serene, eucalyptus-scented shop: ‘How much?! You’re spending £300 on a coat after saying no to us?!’

The looks from the other shoppers? Priceless. My conscience? Surprisingly clear.

Fast forward to 2026. Where is their tech now? It’s in a drawer, broken, or at the bottom of a landfill. But The Coat? That coat worked for its living. For ten years, it was my shield against British winters, my ‘polished’ look for school runs, and my comfort blanket for decade-defining walks. It didn't pill, it didn't date, and it never needed a software update.

And here is the kicker for the sceptics: I recently sold it on Vinted. The Maths: I bought it for £300. After ten years of heavy use, it still had enough life and brand value left to be snapped up by someone else who knows a winner when they see it. Meanwhile £40 high-street coats from 2016 have long been acting as insulation in a loft somewhere. My ‘expensive’ choice was actually a decade-long rental that I got paid to finish.

I know we’ve all had those impulse buy moments. We see a £15 polyester top on a mannequin, or it pops up on Facebook, and we think, ‘Maybe I’m a neon-pink person now?’. But after one wear, we realise we look like a high-vis highlighter, and eventually, it gets passed on to a niece - just to get the mistake out of our house.

My advice is simple: buy for the decade, not the season. Brands like The White Company, Barbour, and Baukjen are built for longevity; if a seam looks sturdy enough to survive a gale, it’s an investment worth making. When you curate a high-quality ‘canvas’ wardrobe, the hollow thrill of the impulse buy loses its lustre. Instead of chasing trends, embrace the Rule of Three: challenge yourself to style a single piece in three ways you’ve never tried before - belt it, tuck it, or layer it under a sheer top.

Photo: Media from Wix

Take that legendary ten-year-old coat, for example. Over the years, I’ve reinvented it countless times: cinching it with a belt for structure, throwing it over a hoodie for a casual edge, or draping it over a silk slip dress for evening elegance. This mindset turns every item into a modular masterpiece. That Reiss blazer from 2014 isn't ‘old’; with shortened sleeves or a fresh set of buttons, it becomes a bespoke 2026 custom piece. Even a summer staple, like a silk slip dress, becomes a winter hero when layered under a heavy Barbour knit.

Before you reach for your wallet, reach for a high-quality fabric shaver or a professional steamer. Spending £20 on maintenance provides that ‘new clothes’ feeling without a shred of environmental shame - and without spending money on a replacement.

We often treat ‘sustainable fashion’ as a buzzword, but in 2026, the data is staggering. The fashion industry is responsible for roughly 10% of global carbon emissions - more than all international flights and maritime shipping combined. The impact isn't just about the air we breathe; it’s about the resources we consume and the waste we leave behind. To make a single cotton t-shirt, it takes roughly 2,700 litres of water, which is enough to sustain one person’s drinking needs for two and a half years.

Furthermore, our reliance on cheap synthetic fabrics means we are effectively wearing plastic. Every time we wash a polyester or nylon garment, it sheds hundreds of thousands of microfibres into our waterways, accounting for 35% of all primary microplastics found in our oceans. When my family and friends tease me for my ‘expensive’ white shirt, they are looking at a price tag. I am looking at a garment that didn't require 3,500 different chemicals to produce and won't be sitting in a landfill for 200 years.

And that is why my conscience is clear – if I bought ‘cheap,’ I wouldn’t actually be saving money; I’d just be shifting the cost onto the planet. Did you know that the average garment is now worn only 7 to 10 times before being tossed?

Now, when my friends and family tease me for my ‘expensive’ taste, I have some factual comebacks: I’m not ‘posh’; I’m a waste-management expert (I didn't just buy a coat; I actually prevented ten cheap ones from entering a landfill). I’m not ‘extravagant’; I’m a financial genius who knows that quality is the only true bargain.

My wardrobe is small because it’s elite. My clothes are old because they are winners. And if anyone wants to tease me for wearing a ten-year-old shirt that still looks brand new? Go ahead. I’ll still be wearing it in 2036 while you’re ‘bargain’ coat has no sleeves left.

So, let them laugh at my eucalyptus-scented habits and my 'extravagant' price tags. While they’re busy scrolling for their next 'quick fix,' I’ll be right here, comfortable in my ten-year-old linen, knowing that my conscience is as clean as my aesthetic. I’ve traded the clutter of the impulse buy for the clarity of a curated life, and there is nothing more fashionable than a woman who knows exactly who she is, what she’s worth, and precisely how many ways she can style a single white shirt.

I often think back to that day in Manchester and my children shouting across the shop. They thought I was being reckless; I knew I was being efficient. Ten years later, the proof is in the Vinted balance and the ten-year-old fabric on my back. I’m not just wearing a brand; I’m wearing a decade of memories and a commitment to a cleaner planet.

And if the kids ever want to borrow those Vinted profits for their next 'must-have' gadget? They can certainly ask. But after ten years of lessons, they already know the answer is still a very stylish, very sustainable 'no'.

No brands paid for this article - though my children would argue I’ve paid them enough over the years! All recommendations are based on my own ten-year rule. I only linked to brands of things I’ve actually worn, repaired, and loved.