Fiona (She Who Must Be Indulged) has decreed that I am become a scruffy bugger of late and really need to do something to sharpen up my image before all the brouhaha of publication occurs. Particularly the threat of being seen, or worse: photographed, in public.
Now I’ll admit that sartorially, I may have let myself go a bit over the years. Never having been overly vain I’ve not been a desperate follower of any sort of fashion. In fact, like most men, I’m quite happy never buying clothes. Buying clothes requires walking round shops and trying things on and being bored and trying other things on and walking round more shops and OH GOD MAKE IT STOP! Suffice it to say that it’s not my favourite past time. The last time Fiona dragged me off shopping it was to pick out a suit for starting my new job. That was four years ago and I’m still wearing it, though on a bad day it now looks like it’s wearing me. And isn’t too happy about it. There are shirts in my wardrobe from 1987.
Fiona (The Monster Under The Stairs) claims that I scrub up nicely and have no excuse to go round looking like a tramp on his day off. You know, when he doesn’t have to get dressed up special? I tried pointing out that looking all smart and well-groomed will only encourage book-groupies, but she’s having none of it.
So tomorrow, ask not for whom the changing room tolls, it tolls for me...