I’m sorry, but I’m putting it out there. I don’t do clothes. I’m not saying I’m a naturist, I’m just saying that clothes are not important to me. I wear what’s comfortable and, if given the choice, would wear the same thing day in, day out. I do know where the shower is, and, thankfully, I’m not a smelly person, but I have been known to wear the same clothes for a season. It drives my kids mad. And C’s not always happy wandering around with a hobo.
I went straight from school (where we wore uniform – no choice necessary) to Sandhurst where we were told what to wear. The stuff the quartermaster chose was, by and large, comfortable and practical. Twenty five years in the Army followed the same pattern. When they updated the uniform, they gave us new stuff. When the formal wear didn’t change, I just got into my old stuff – and having not changed shape, I think I wore my best (mess) kit without it ever going into the dry cleaners. I’m sure C would say that’s not right, but I never missed it long enough to think that it might have disappeared for a bath.
And, out of uniform, I wore, well, uniform. You know. Chinos and polo shirts. Boat shoes and flip flops. Checked jackets and the odd pair of jeans. But, down time was such a precious resource in those days, what I wore remains a blur.
School. Simple. Chinos and a jacket. The same pair of shoes until they fell apart and then I went to TK Maxx and bought another pair. It was uniform, plain and simple.
So, you see. I’ve never had much interest in clothes, because I have never needed to. And I am hardly a clothes horse. I’m 18 feet tall with a pigeon chest and, as my Saville Row tailor told me once (we had no choice … M&S suits weren’t acceptable in my Regiment), ‘You have very big thighs. Suits you, sir!’, his head at crotch height, his tape measure in his mouth and his hands too close for comfort.
Today we left Bristol for Mary’s. Normally that’s easy from a wardrobe perspective. Walking trouser (or Empire-building shorts), t-shirt and a fleece. Easy. Two days? I might need a second pair of pants. But the same socks will be fine.
But, no. We are going to a lunch party on tomorrow, with a pile of gay men who talk about their shoes a lot. What am I going to wear? Oh, God. Look at my wardrobe! I’ll be ridiculed. What about my white jeans? No, they have a mark on the pocket. What about some school chinos? Are you kidding me? Normal jeans? You know, the ones you’ve not been seen in this century because, as you say, ‘Old men don’t wear jeans.’
I think I broke down at one point. It was a disaster, darling.
Anyway. I’ll let you know how it goes in my jeans, lumberjack shirt and Weird Fish fleece. It’ll be sooooo 2000s, darling. And don’t even ask about my shoes…
Well, this week I finished the hall/stairs/landing carpet and it looks OK, I think. I finished Chapter 14 (87k words), which is a pivotal chapter as it introduces the main villain, which will be a shock to most of you. The problem is, whilst I know the conspiracy, I have absolutely no idea what happens now. Really. I have 50k words to scribe and no plot, other than Sam gets beaten up a bit, and finally gets her man. I think.
Oh, and book sales have dropped off the cliff. And I had my very worst review on Thursday. A 1-star horrible thing, written by someone who thought I was both an amateur and an impostor. Horrible … followed by two lovely, 5-star reviews. It was as though they were both reading a different series. Whatever, it’s fair to say that it’s not been a good book week. But I am still writing, grinding out some good stuff I feel. And even better after an edit.
Anyhow. Must go and polish my Doc Martins…