Following my own path has meant I have also followed my own dress sense over the years, much to many people’s amusement. These days, I’m happiest in a black t-shirt and jeans, or a ‘happy’ shirt if I’m on TV. I do remember to wear trousers too, of course. But when I was younger, I used to have a ball just experimenting. I’m still proud remembering the orange council dungarees with jacket to match I bought once and wore forever. I’d go to London for the weekend feeling like ‘one of them’ while nobody batted an eye, though back home rooms would hush as I entered and you’d psychically hear them think, ‘What on earth has he got on today?”
I once booked into the Ritz for the night, when I was eighteen, and waltzed in, in a new pair of legwarmers that were fashionable at the time.
“Excuse me, sir,” said the concierge, peering down at my woollen accessories, “We have a strict dress code for the restaurant.”
Out with it!
“I have just had an operation on my ankles,” I said firmly.
“This way, sir,” he said quickly and ushered me to the best table in the room. Confidence. Or maybe cheek. Probably both.