For many years I have quietly spear-headed a fashion revolution with my vest. Urged on by WordPress communities I shall now detail my passion for the twin set, sky blue vest and pant combination. I am indeed driven to write this most informative article and I am not alone. We proclaim from our rooftops that the wearing of vests has emerged as the subtle indicator of a modern gentleman. Even below, where roam the scum and cart wheels – on your high streets, ladies, we are among you, the knowing wink shared between gents with the tell-tale underbrace ridged against the crisp white shirt.
Meanwhile, for me, back at home there is something very satisfying with the tuck of a vest into the robust charcoal y-front.
You reader, of course, may only picture my sturdy frame stood here at the dresser; the doily: brush and comb with which I am able to describe the most perfect of partings upon my plate. The addition of brill cream and talcum powder that billows like a pillow of powder from the Victorian antique poofter acquired at Portobello. Delightful Gardeners’ Question Time plays on the Bakelite wireless and the pigeons outside chirrup their most elegant melodies.
Where was I? My hair is now arranged to perfection. I have the pants and vest upon my chest. I pause briefly and perched on the edge of my chaise consider the dreadful state of world champagne. I must step over towards the Stilton chest of drawers where-in are bundled the 1700 pairs of grey socks.
Which pair and which Christmas I must ask myself? The garters hang from their string stretched inside the door of the 1812 Viennese wardrobe. Socks, braces, pants, and vest. Hair, smart and presentable as I detailed. Next come the shoes. I pause at this moment and call my wife – downstairs in the kitchen, for guidance in the matter.
‘Moleskins darling,’ she replies from aside her own agar.
I do not expect the little woman to appreciate how she is completely misinformed. Next – the hand-stitched pink shirt and tie from my tailor Benjamin. Now, I hear you say, ‘Windsor or wanker?’ I have always tied a wanker, never in all my years have I worn the traitor’s knot. ‘I too am a wanker,’ I said to his archduke highness.
In conclusion: I discover there is no pink shirt available. It is of course, I reflect, the weekend for Molly as well. There is very little irritation from this quarter, and as a man through all time, I don the agricultural check shirt and muse – for the Lobb leather derbys are upon my feet already. When did this happen? I scratch the hairs of my slim thigh and stand at the window frame. Again, there is debate on the issue, like with your milk and tea. Which comes first, the ‘feet or flannels’ you people might say. I know many American ‘gentlemen,’ those progressive show ponies dress with the trouser first. I maintain tradition, climb the stool, and most gingerly slide corduroy over my toe-caps.