My clothes were once bespoke. They said: "It's not our fault we are a funny shape but at least we fit right." Now, alas, in this current economic crisis, when my old cufflinks are worth more than my retirement account, I am forced to shop at high street retailers for pre-packaged shirts with so many pins in them that they could be mistaken for voodoo doll attire.
All the usual suspects are represented in these racks: Klein, Claiborne, Karan, and the clownish Ted Baker and BCBG whose stripy, multi-colored creations look like the wallpaper in Oscar Wilde's downstairs lavatory. And what in the name of Savile Row does the designation modern fit mean? I suppose a literal translation would be something along the lines of "not for fat guys."
Fortunately I am a fellow of slender build, for whom banally fashionable tailoring, however vaguely constructed it may be, is no too-tight obstacle, and so, somehow, I leave the store clutching a button-up thing in a color described as "rhubarb," wondering what the Hell I'll wear it with.
