When you live in London, you can wear whatever you want. Walk down Greek Street at 9am in a full body PVC bondage suit with a zipped mask and nailed collar
and you won’t be a freak, simply someone heading back from a late party. Wear an Andian hat and the chances are you’re either a Peruvian resident or a new
media wannabe. This complete anonymity has always appealed to me, as I’m what my wife would call, sartorially challenged.
Then we bought a house in Lymington, a town on the edge of the New Forest and also a major sailing centre. At the same time, I inherited a lots of what you
might call classic English country clothing. This included Barbour jackets, tweeds, corduroy and Tattershall shirts. For those who don’t know this look,
imagine a cross between Brideshead Revisited and PG Woodhouse. So I donned these clothes not confident that my non-urban wardrobe would work but hoping I
wouldn’t look like a complete jerk.
Last night we drove down from London and headed straight for our local pub in Lymington, the Mayflower. I walked in wearing a tweed jacket, Brookes Brothers yuppie shirt and cords. I felt like a retarded American golfer wearing tartan trousers and a sun visor. Everyone else was in rugby shirts, shorts, stripped shirts and jeans. In a moment, I realised my brand references weren’t Barbour but Heni Hansen, not Aquascutum but Musto. Luckily, I didn’t have to switch on my neon sign which reads ‘Hello, I am a tosser’. I think they got the message anyway.
So today we hit the sailing shops and I apologise in advance to my colleagues. Sir Bufton -Tufton just got nautical. And don’t get me started on Waitrose – I am enslaved.