There are some objects and ideas that humans will spend their entire lives searching for. A flattering haircut you don’t need to blow dry. A pair of smart shoes you can walk more than 40 metres in without developing blisters. Another creature who will love you totally and eternally.

For my mother, there was only ever one object of total and unattainable desire: The perfect Hot Day Dress.

The hunt for the perfect Hot Day Dress is multi-generational.Credit: Joe Benke

Born into a subtropical climate with a love of the outdoors and later to be cursed by the creeping heat of menopause, this mythical dress takes up more emotional space than any of her children or grandchildren ever have. Yet despite spending most of my life trailing behind her in the hunt for it, I’m still foggy on its exact details.

From my observations as her longtime expedition assistant, the consummate Hot Day Dress is made of the thinnest cotton you can legally wear, cut in a way so as little fabric as possible will actually touch your skin, while also being full-length and covering arms.

A Hot Day Dress will be worn all summer, so must travel freely between beaches, shops and dinner parties. It will require a lot of washing, so can’t be dry-clean only. It should also be brightly coloured and patterned, ideally in a style that represents the holiday location it was purchased from.

My mother considered sundresses, kaftans, sarongs, muumuus and the occasional nightie. Despite being the owner of countless breezy and colourful ensembles that, to my eye, come pretty close to the brief, she remains unsatisfied. She has searched through seaside stores, tourist carts, high-street retailers and old lady boutiques – each year, as the temperature spikes, she announces her search shall resume. Like Sisyphus doomed to push that boulder forever, so too shall my mother try on Hot Day Dresses.

I never really took her quest too seriously given that all the items she tried on seemed indistinguishable to me. Then, a few weeks ago, it was my birthday and with my kid in childcare, my work schedule light and the weather good, I had the whole day to do whatever I liked. With the world at my feet until 4pm pick-up, I somehow found myself locked in a brutally lit shopping centre change room, navigating my way through dozens of dresses.

I hadn’t set out to bury myself in cotton, hemp and linen. Honestly, I had been on my way to Brunetti. But somehow I found my way into a whirling dervish of mid-priced consumer goods.

First, I tried on the spaghetti strap slip, but I couldn’t bring myself to spend money on a dress I’d have worn to a year 9 social. Then it was the peasant dress, but I couldn’t embrace the urban milkmaid delusion. The gingham wrap dress almost made it because I liked the idea that I’d pass for a chic French grandmother, but its synthetic blend made me perspire. Several shift minis were considered, until I remembered I never wore the ones I already had.