On a recent family outing my teenage daughter turned to me and, with a pointed finger, ticked off my attire from head to toe: “Barbour scarf, Joules coat, Ralph Lauren jeans, Chelsea boots...”
A wry smile twitched the corners of her mouth: “You’re dressed like me. Are you having some sort of mid-life crisis?”
Her amusement arose from the fact that I’m not what you would call a dedicated follower of fashion. I take pride in my appearance. I have never, for example, left the house in my pyjamas – not even to put the bins out at the klaxon call of a rolling rubbish truck. And I simply do not understand some men’s inclination to wear shorts all year round. Smart and presentable, yes. But a fashionista I am not.
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