Suits Me

My ‘good’ suit is 28 years old, and has holes in it. Cigarette burns or moths - hard to tell. Perhaps the moths were smoking. It was a nice suit in its day - Nicole Farhi - but even without the holes, fashions change, and it looks fucking terrible.

So I went to try to buy a new one. I hate clothes shopping, so Mrs McG came to lend moral support, ie telling me how awful I looked and that I needed to lose some weight, shave and get my hair cut.

At the first place a bloke tried to measure me, so we could get in the ball park, dimensions-wise, but his tape was too short.

'Oi, Colin,' he yelled,' can you fetch the big tape?'

'What, Jumbo? We've not had that out since, I don't know, the 90s. You sure?'

Then he caught sight of me, and the long tape was procured.

Anyway, I was finally measured up and handed something suitably tent-like. It looked shit. Plus I was beginning to sweat, as always happens in these situations. And panic.

'We've got to get out of here,' I hissed at Mrs McG, and ran for it, pulling my chinos on as I went. She caught up with me on Oxford Street.

Then we went somewhere else. Whatever I tried on made me look like my dad, a small round Scotsman. Actually, not like my dad, who was a natty dresser, and was proud of his suits, which he always had made to measure by a Jewish tailor in Leeds - the ‘Jewish’ was, for my dad, a mark of quality workmanship. There were tailors, and then there were Jewish tailors.

So, in the end I got a suit that looked OK.

'Knowing my luck I'll get killed on the cycle home,' I said.

In truth, this is why I've put off buying a suit for so long - I was convinced that I'd drop dead, and not get value for money out of it. 'I suppose at least you can bury me in it.'

Mrs McG looked puzzled.

'But I can take it back, if you haven't worn it.'

Looks like I'll be buried in the old Nicole Farhi, with the holes.