Made by Anderson & Sheppard in 2008; a wedding present from my wife.
At the first fitting, it seemed boxy, shapeless, and worst of all, ordinary. Walking home, I resigned myself to a comfortable geography-teacher’s jacket which might at least age more gracefully than its owner, but which would never bring me any real pleasure. Sad, because the purpose of spending beyond necessity on clothing (especially when it's someone else's money) must surely be pleasure.
I felt disappointed; but more than that, I felt old in becoming so drab.
A decade earlier, I had accompanied a friend to collect his father's suit from Anderson & Sheppard’s old shop on Savile Row. The ageing grey wraiths behind the long, forbidding counter dealt with us brusquely, for fear our jeans and T-shirts might contaminate their customers; they rapidly stuffed the suit in a bag and chivvied us back to the door.
But while the manager was trying not to help us, I was entranced by the shoulder-seams of his worsted suit.
A decade earlier, I had accompanied a friend to collect his father's suit from Anderson & Sheppard’s old shop on Savile Row. The ageing grey wraiths behind the long, forbidding counter dealt with us brusquely, for fear our jeans and T-shirts might contaminate their customers; they rapidly stuffed the suit in a bag and chivvied us back to the door.
But while the manager was trying not to help us, I was entranced by the shoulder-seams of his worsted suit.
They were like no others I had seen: organic, alive. Softly and beautifully puckered to a crumpled arch of stuff, not disguising but flaunting the soft keratin-spring of the wool; quite unlike the firm, smooth, military line of my father’s jackets. There was an insouciant magic in them that would never leave my head.
When I went for its final fitting, this jacket had been transformed by that magic. For an object made from hair and scratch, home-made and waulked on a cold, Atlantic outcrop of rock, it is obscenely yet effortlessly elegant. I will be dead or magnificently fat before my son gets his hands on this.
When I went for its final fitting, this jacket had been transformed by that magic. For an object made from hair and scratch, home-made and waulked on a cold, Atlantic outcrop of rock, it is obscenely yet effortlessly elegant. I will be dead or magnificently fat before my son gets his hands on this.
You better keep your dog away too, looks like you have competition. I also loved the previous post: I never got the pair of lilac adidas gazelles (yes) I wanted either. It's character building.
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So you say. But between those trainers and the BMX I wasn't allowed to have when I was 11 (because it didn't have a rear brake)... scarred for life, I tell you.
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