Fitted Out, Fitted Up

I am a suit man.

I grew up in a family of suit wearers.

My Father was a Bank Manager and a black or dark navy suit with a starched detachable collar, tie and shiny shoes represented the epitome of dependability and trustworthiness. It was a uniform that went with and was expected of that responsible and lofty position in the town.

It did have it's positive spin offs for us children. When first at a new school, after a family move, the teaching staff when aware of what our Father did for a job seemed to treat us with a degree of respect. One of the senior tutors even went so far as to seat me on an unruly dinner table hoping that what he called my 'civilised' upbringing would bring peace and calm to what he obviously regarded as a bit of a rabble in my peer group.

Fortunately being a bit weird, geeky but lean and strong I was not relentlessly bullied or otherwise found strung up on the school flagpole with something permanently inked across my buttocks.

I think that I must have been the only 12 year old in the whole town in possession of a purple sports jacket. Already I can see that you are formulating images of, let's say, William Hague as a spotty 16 year old at the 1977 Tory Party Conference, Little Lord Fauntleroy or just a wholly ridiculous way for a 12 year old to dress. It was, after all, 1975 and the youth attire of the day was a tank top and very bell bottomed trousers, for the boys that is.

That jacket did me well, however, and at Butlins in Skegness I got off with a 14 year old lass. Talk about sophistication and style. I recall feeling a bit hot and bothered in that jacket when queuing up to see an age appropriate edited screening of James Bond's Diamonds are Forever and being stared at by the sons and daughters of miners and factory workers as though I was a freak.

I shamelessly flaunted that purple flecked clothing item and that led to my brief three day holiday romance with that older woman. I did recognise her some years later when she walked past me as I played Christmas Carols in the town Brass Band. I must have coloured up a bit in youthful embarrassment because, again, everyone stared at me.

As naturally happens I grew up and out a bit and the jacket no longer fitted. I am not really sure what happened to it because my much more fashion conscious younger brothers dismissed it as a bit poofy and it was not handed down.

I like to imagine that it found it's way to the Church bazaar or was bundled up and sent out to Africa or the Third World. The polyester and wool mix in a ratio of 80:20 would not be that comfortable in an Equatorial Climate. Still, it had a generous array of pockets and that can be useful in any world setting.

Father's old suits came into their own niche of fashion in the late 1970's when I wore them during my brief association with the Mod Movement. An oversized, worn at the lapels and holed at the crotch suit was ideal as a statement of my affiliation to The Jam. It was not however a good fit but with braces at tightest adjustment and the waistband drawn up to just below my sternum I could get away with the trousers as long as I kept the jacket on. The jacket itself swamped me but thanks to David Byrne and The Talking Heads that oversized look was the epitome of style and increased the longevity of the hand me down suit right into the early 1980's.

It was soon time for me to think about buying a proper suit as I got my first proper job after graduation.

My employers were celebrating their Centenary Year when I first arrived. As part of the publicity for this momentous milestone I was sent to get a formal portrait photograph at the best studio in the city.

I would need a suit for this.

My budget, based on what I had seen in Greenwoods Outfitters, Marks and Spencer and Mothers's  Brian Mills Catalogue was £150. Quite a large sum to me.

In full confidence of my new position and basking in the high regard in which my employers were held in the community I went to the best suit shop. This turned out to be a bit of a Pretty Woman type experience in that I was bluntly told by the proprietor that my money was no good in his establishment and that the lowest, but not cheapest, priced two piece business suit started at £300.

That was a major dent in my ego and I have never been able to erase that feeling of inadequacy when it comes to shopping for suits. I vowed, one day when I was affluent, to go back to that shop and spend an outrageous and extravagant sum on a Jaeger or similar brand. I will get there one day. I am playing a clever waiting game and, 27 years on that supercilious boutique owner should be mighty worried about my intended triumphant return.

My fallback position was the shop at the clothing factory on the large industrial estate on the edge of town. The showroom stocked manufactured seconds and end of line garments. It was a bit hit and miss to actually locate a matching combination of trouser and jacket but it was possible with patience and endurance.

The main problem was to try to guess what was wrong with the item for it to be relegated from the main contracted order and sold at a reduced price to the frugal and bag a bargain minded general public.

The stitching on seams could be erratic either from a poorly set up machine or following a liquid lunch or personal crisis of its operator. Pockets could be set out of alignment. The fabric could be flawed or had faded from poor storage in the warehouse.

The typical clientele in the Factory Shop seemed to be heavily overweight until I realised that many of the display racks were of XXL or XXXL sizes. I could not hazard a guess to whom such an order had been destined.

It was soon clear to me that self assembling a suit would not be possible unless I went on a two week food binge and bulked up.

I was jealously guarding my discovery of a perfect fitting navy blue blazer that I had found on the floor beneath one of the carousel displays and in search of some trousers. My colleagues in my new job were senior to me but carried off well the casual smart look of a blazer and light coloured slacks.

As a younger man it might just work and perhaps add a few more years to command authority.

Light grey would go well with the classic colour of the blazer. There was a large amount of this shade available in the shop. They were beautifully made and I quickly glanced around in case I had stumbled upon a consignment ready to send out on an order to M&S, British Home Stores or Moss Bros.

The size and style were just right and I tried on and decided that two pairs would be a good idea to be worn in rotation between machine washing.

It was only when I got home that I noticed something strange. The labels were crudely cut out but residual edges indicated that the trousers bore the logo and insignia of British Airways. The manufacturer had evidently won a prestigious order with the airline for their Corporate Uniforms.

I actually felt rather proud to be, in some way, flying the flag but every time I went to work in those trousers I was a bit on edge that if an occasion ever arose that justified my being stopped and searched by the Police I would give the impression of being a terrorist or ne'er do well.