British Tan and Gingham

I’d say that spring is finally in full play around  my neighborhood and since it’s May 5^th, that means that it’s gonna be no time before moderate temps become sweltering. I just have that feeling. The transitional weeks in the mid-Atlantic area generally don’t present too much of a sartorial dilemma. Like our neighbors farther south, we can generally don tropical weights of wool as well as poplin and linen fairly early. 

This year has been an exception though. We had a flurry of warmth and sunshine followed by rain and cold temps requiring sturdier swathings. Finally I’d had enough last week. By Friday last I’d squired seersucker, linen and tropical wool…all within five days. Enough is enough.

Bankers, lawyers and other professionals might better leave the gingham-British tan contrivance for the weekends. But pimps and healthcare strategists may wear such rigging any time. And so last week I did. This suit was bespoken in June 1991 so I figured a 20^th birthday stroll was in order. The two-button, lower button stance reflects the decade of its making. I’d yet to settle into my standard ADG House Model at Flusser…my 3/2 single breasted peak lapel strategy.

I can’t rationalize my sartorial addictions. But my frail efforts to do so include gandering my 20 year old garments and seeing that generally, given minimal weight changes, the lines, the fit and the overall stature of the garment (not to mention its stunning owner) remain solid.

Paul Stuart tie and gingham shirt from The Andover Shop…the George Frazier-Charlie Davidson Mother Church of Trad. Vintage tie bar…askew.

You can read all you want about how to fold a pocket handkerchief. Please do. Read the Flusser pages on it. Then read Roetzel and whatever else you have on the shelf. Schedule fifteen extra minutes per morning devoted to getting it right. Then forget it. Grab the damn thing like a chicken about to experience neck-wringing. Say nothing. You need not sh_t talk your pocket square. 

Just treat it stridently so that ambiguity regarding who’s the daddy becomes non-existent. Then stuff the thing in your breast pocket.  Tweak it and pull a couple of the pointy bits up so that they barely preen, fern frond style and that’s it. If you spend more than 30 seconds on your pocket square you’re manifesting Von Noviceposeur Syndrome by Proxy.

Shodding this rig was a no brainer and these side gusseted giveaways look fine. But  after my Cleverley intervention last Friday, these things now seem to look more like blocks of wood than well cobbled slip-ons.

And finally, my Flusser Macintosh remained closeted forever. It seemed that whatever rain we’ve had over the last forever was more Barbour worthy than Mac manifest. But I’ve had more reason over the last three weeks to wear my FlussMac than I have in the last year.

Onward. Traveling. But home tonight.

ADG II