Even psychotherapists do fashion. After all, you must present yourself so as not to alarm your clients. Once, a traditional woman took exception to my cagoule and never returned. Outside California, nudity in therapy is unacceptable so ideally you pick garments modern-seeming enough yet professional – neither jumpers-and-beards nor Freudian tweeds.
My son might think that fashion comes from online stores like Thomas Gun but I personally love an Armani suit and have spent legendary amounts on classic tailoring. Or used to since men’s tailors took leave of their senses and removed five inches all round from the average combo of jacket and trousers. Poor old 007 in his new movie, for example, mincing about in a pseudo-Italian two piece which doesn’t fit his lean frame at any point of contact – neck, elbow, waist or crotch. The cut is narrow and then it’s cut again. There’s no coverage of chest or gut – he obviously fell into the Thames two days back in the line of duty and the damn thing has shrunk-dried to his skin. It is menswear for chorusboys; spivsuits for strippagrammers; streetware for the equator because you’ll freeze your arse off otherwise. I also pride myself on my footwear. My choice of smart shoe is a Gucinari menzi tan tassel brogue, in fact I insist on one.
I can’t wait for fashion to regain its senses, splurging on cloth as if Cary Grant were still the main man.