TOM JACKSON
I always thought I had enough clothes
already to last the rest of my life. Surveying
the basket of washing I got off the airer the
other day – my favoured go-to wardrobe,
worn week in, week out – I realised that
I was wrong.
“Crikey,” I said to Nicola. “I’ve been wearing
a pile of old rags.” “I’ve been telling you that
for years,” she replied.
The shirt you see in the picture on this
page is now not fit to be cut up for dusters, let
alone donate to the hospice shop. My socks
have holes in; my pants do too, in rather more
potentially embarrassing places. When she
was home at Christmas, I asked my daughter
if she’d darn my favourite sock, a jaunty
Scandi-style patterned affair.
“OK,” she agreed, reluctantly putting her
initial feminist opposition to one side on the
basis that it was something to do.
“There you go,” said Rachel, presenting me
with the mended sock ten minutes later.
“Thanks,” I said, putting it on, my toe
shooting straight through her repair to poke
out in the air, covered in snapped strands
of cotton.
My top five T-shirts are faded, or torn,
or stained. The breast pockets of all of my
favourite shirts are torn. That’s because I keep
my phone in there. And because my phone’s
battery is basically shot and I need a new one,
but haven’t bought it, I have it plugged into
a portable booster pack the whole time, and
that weighs down the pocket to the point of
ripping it.
Obviously, I have to keep the phone on
me everywhere I go to record my steps,
because my Fitbit is broken and I’ve been
unable to get it repaired.
The thing is, I didn’t ever normally go
shopping for clothes as such. I just, sort of,
came by them. They appeared. Which means,
of course, that Nicola would buy them for
me when she was out and about doing other
stuff, in Marks & Spencer or Next usually.
“Why have you got me these?” I’d moan
as the latest pack of pants turned up. “I’ve
told you a hundred times I just don’t need
any more stuff!” Turned out I was wrong
about that as well.
The only times I regularly bought clothes
for myself, even vaguely under my own steam,
were when we were somewhere else, in Hull
or Wales, France or Kent. Or at an airport.
Because you’ve got time to kill at the airport
and because, unlike most travellers who regardairport terminals as places to get pissed at nine
in the morning, I prefer to spend the downtime
acquiring underpants.
As we all know, money spent in airports
doesn’t count. A bit like the food you eat in
airports. That doesn’t count either. Nor, as
I say, does that cheeky bottle of sauvignon
for breakfast.
The last garment of any expense I bought
was a jumper in Copenhagen last January. The
last garment of any price was a shirt at the
Kingsdown garage safari in September. Cost
me three quid from a bloke on his drive, same
guy I’d bought something else from the year
before. That guy is the closest thing I’ve ever
had to a tailor.
Generally, in France, if it’s cloudy, we’ll
have a “Leclerc day” at the hypermarchŽ in
Villeneuve. After browsing the books and
buying one in French I’ll never read, I then go
next door to Intersport and buy training gear.
I could do with some right now. Last week,
I did my Sapan session wearing my Danish
jumper. It’s all I’ve got without holes in.
In Wales, when it’s raining, we’ll mill
around in St Davids and buy cagoules.
Those familiar with the Welsh climate will
appreciate that I’ve got a surplus of cagoules.
You need one or two cagoules in Wales, but
not six. Cagoules are one item I really do
not need to buy any more of, ever. But
I probably will.
Up in Hull in August, the family persuaded
me into a vintage shop on Humber Street.
It was nice gear, cheap as well. I didn’t get
anything on that occasion, but my son Sam
did, a Carhartt coat.
Thing is, I didn’t realise he’d bought it
so when he showed me it, I said, “Nah, son,
doesn’t suit you!” His face fell.
“He’s just paid £30 for it,” said Rachel,
delighted at my mistake. Their cousins, Alex
and Izzy, were there too. They absolutely
lapped it up as well.
Naturally I should do what everyone
else does and buy online. I’ve had a couple
of forays, ordering novelty T-shirts from
the excellent RedMolotov site as presents.
To do more, I’ve got to overcome
conservatism, technophobia and sheer dread
at having to get up to answer the doorbell
to take in packages even more than I do at
the moment. Maybe I’ll give it a go this
weekend and report back. n[email protected]I looked at my
laundry. ‘Crikey,’
I said to my wife.
‘I’ve been wearing
a pile of old rags’
Beta male
Robert Crampton
© Times Newspapers Ltd, 2021. Published and licensed by Times Newspapers Ltd, 1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF (020 7782 5000). Printed by Prinovis UK Ltd, Liverpool. Not to be sold separately.