Last Saturday was an odd day. First, I went to London; secondly, I bought a suit. Nothing too remarkable in that you may think, but I hate shopping, really loathe it. The internet is the perfect excuse for not going to the shops. But not last Saturday, and not, according to my wife, for a suit. As we left Hampshire, the wild birds were singing gustily, as if spring had already arrived. In the distance, I could hear the pop-popping of shotguns on our local shoot. What a time to go! The suit was the first one I had ever needed to buy, as I had survived so far on hand-me-downs from my father.
Our waists had gently expanded together with age, his always an inch or two ahead of mine. It had been an endless supply, but then he retired, and there were no more suits. In the end, the suit purchase was a pleasure. I wondered, briefly, if my son would one day wear it, but I doubt it. It’s a different world he’s growing up in. Long after the shops had shut, we left for Hampshire. To cap it all, at 8pm, in the middle of January, the temperature outside was an astonishing 13C. It was an odd day.