Plumage
With the retreat of the glaciers and the lunch-time hoards descending upon the green spaces of London, tucking their skirts into their knickers and sunbathing while getting outside of an egg salad sarnie, early signs indicate a spell of warm weather.
This has led me to see if any of my summer suits are in a fit state to be worn. The sad answer is 'probably not'. Once, many summers ago, they were crisp linen creations that made the wearer cool. Now, having suffered the indignities of public transport, inner city grime, aggressive dry-cleaning and, it has to be said, the odd encounter with the bar-room floor, they resemble more the sort of thing that a sweaty villain might sport in one of your greasier film noir shockers, possibly set below the cactus line.
Still, something has to be done. My morning walk to the train station is increasingly ending in my arriving in a sweaty heap (no problem getting a double-seat to myself then!). This is in part the result of my having to dash the last 70 yards to the platform as I see the train pulling in, a sight that never fails to amuse: partly because of the way my jacket-tails flap, partly because of the way my briefcase bangs against my legs but mostly because I run like a big girl.
A woollen suit is not helping. Neither is getting up late, but the suit at least I can change.
Time to open up the Boden catalogue I think. While there are many irksome features to the catalogue (irritating habit of listing model's likes and dislikes i.e. Amy. Likes: kittens. Dislikes: getting loose clothing caught in threshing equipment.), it does at least steer well clear of the tradition of paying for clothes by instalments. This was an excellent idea in principle, but the dangers of the bank screwing up a direct debit leading to repossession of your trousers cannot be overstated!
This has led me to see if any of my summer suits are in a fit state to be worn. The sad answer is 'probably not'. Once, many summers ago, they were crisp linen creations that made the wearer cool. Now, having suffered the indignities of public transport, inner city grime, aggressive dry-cleaning and, it has to be said, the odd encounter with the bar-room floor, they resemble more the sort of thing that a sweaty villain might sport in one of your greasier film noir shockers, possibly set below the cactus line.
Still, something has to be done. My morning walk to the train station is increasingly ending in my arriving in a sweaty heap (no problem getting a double-seat to myself then!). This is in part the result of my having to dash the last 70 yards to the platform as I see the train pulling in, a sight that never fails to amuse: partly because of the way my jacket-tails flap, partly because of the way my briefcase bangs against my legs but mostly because I run like a big girl.
A woollen suit is not helping. Neither is getting up late, but the suit at least I can change.
Time to open up the Boden catalogue I think. While there are many irksome features to the catalogue (irritating habit of listing model's likes and dislikes i.e. Amy. Likes: kittens. Dislikes: getting loose clothing caught in threshing equipment.), it does at least steer well clear of the tradition of paying for clothes by instalments. This was an excellent idea in principle, but the dangers of the bank screwing up a direct debit leading to repossession of your trousers cannot be overstated!
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