A shirt

A check shirt from Crichton, bought by my father in the 1990s.

I last wore this shirt in Milan a decade ago. I was meeting a colleague who was moving to London, and it seemed important to show those Italians - with their comically studied sprezzatura - who invented this thing of ours. So I wore this with a red and blue Debonair woven tie,a navy-blue windowpane-check bespoke suit from Kilgour French and Stanbury, and a pair of Johnny Moke chelsea boots. Nice.

The office in Milan was a former brothel, so each room had its own lavatory and overlooked the atrium so the ladies could advertise themselves to punters below. We ate ham and figs for lunch, and on the ground floor there was a deli where I bought fresh pasta and cheese to take home. British menswear conquers all, but Italian food wins every time. 

Steve took us to the tourist spot in the city where you heel-spin in a well-worn depression on the bull’s balls - an omen that you will return to the city; but like the shirt, I’ve yet to go back.