A double-breasted chalk-stripe suit, made for my father in the 80s.
According to Glenn O’Brien, part of the reason so many men dress badly is because their parents casualised children’s clothing:
“I think it’s sort of the result of a generation or two of parents taking their eye off the ball and dressing the kid in T-shirt and jeans and sneakers. They just wore that until they became 19 and had to go to college. And then they were put into a college sweatshirt and different sneakers and different jeans and then suddenly they have a job and they don’t know what to do.”
So I have something else to thank my parents for: they taught me how to dress. That doesn’t matter much when you’re young; but as you fumble towards middle age, these things come back to you when you need them, even if you choose to ignore them.
I remember the shoe on a piece of card, to teach me to tie my own laces. I remember my tears of disappointment, returning from school to a camel coat (not the nylon parka I wanted). I remember learning the four-in-hand - because anything else is contrived. I remember learning to polish my shoes - an animal died for their leather. I remember learning to wash my own clothes, and how to iron a shirt. I remember my mother on tip-toe behind me, to-ing and fro-ing a bow-tie’s knot. And I remember learning not to worry too much about all of these things.
And then occasionally, the trivial details matter; sometimes more than we realise. I remember learning the rules for fastening jacket buttons: the middle of three, the top of two.
In the Spring before my father was taken ill, we were talking in the kitchen before he went to lunch. The top button of his suit was undone, the bottom one was buttoned. I pointed it out to him, and he responded, “What do you mean? That’s how you do it.” But I knew he was wrong, because he had taught me what was right. The tiniest part of our world was out of place.
The button came back to me after he died, and then I understood: this was the brain tumour, quietly introducing itself to me. ‘Trivial’ - from trivium, a crossroads.
According to Glenn O’Brien, part of the reason so many men dress badly is because their parents casualised children’s clothing:
“I think it’s sort of the result of a generation or two of parents taking their eye off the ball and dressing the kid in T-shirt and jeans and sneakers. They just wore that until they became 19 and had to go to college. And then they were put into a college sweatshirt and different sneakers and different jeans and then suddenly they have a job and they don’t know what to do.”
So I have something else to thank my parents for: they taught me how to dress. That doesn’t matter much when you’re young; but as you fumble towards middle age, these things come back to you when you need them, even if you choose to ignore them.
I remember the shoe on a piece of card, to teach me to tie my own laces. I remember my tears of disappointment, returning from school to a camel coat (not the nylon parka I wanted). I remember learning the four-in-hand - because anything else is contrived. I remember learning to polish my shoes - an animal died for their leather. I remember learning to wash my own clothes, and how to iron a shirt. I remember my mother on tip-toe behind me, to-ing and fro-ing a bow-tie’s knot. And I remember learning not to worry too much about all of these things.
And then occasionally, the trivial details matter; sometimes more than we realise. I remember learning the rules for fastening jacket buttons: the middle of three, the top of two.
In the Spring before my father was taken ill, we were talking in the kitchen before he went to lunch. The top button of his suit was undone, the bottom one was buttoned. I pointed it out to him, and he responded, “What do you mean? That’s how you do it.” But I knew he was wrong, because he had taught me what was right. The tiniest part of our world was out of place.
The button came back to me after he died, and then I understood: this was the brain tumour, quietly introducing itself to me. ‘Trivial’ - from trivium, a crossroads.
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