Winter is well and truly here in Redhill. And yet I've always had a soft spot for this time of year. Not least (and I'm sure I'm not the only one here, readers!) because a change of season oh-so-often necessitates a change of wardrobe.
Anyone who knows me knows I'm a fleece man. Always have been, I'm afraid. Guilty as charged. The cosy warmth provided by a high quality fleece is the selling point for me, and is the chief reason why I just can't seem to stop buying them.
So anyway, I was out and about the other day, getting some fresh air in the park and soforth, when I couldn't help noticing that my fleece just wasn't affording me enough protection from the low November temperatures. I'm a practical man, so when I got home I was soon flicking through some old catalogues to help me find a solution.
And it wasn't so long before I found it.
I snuck out of the house (avoiding one of Margaret's notorious attempts at a vegetarian Sunday lunch) and took the car into town. Before long, I'd found the item of my desire, and after a brief glance at myself in the changing room mirror, completed the purchase.
I returned home to find Margaret and the kids sitting at the dinner table, just finishing off the main course of a nut cutlet (!) and roast veg. I was still wearing my purchase as I sat at the table and poured myself a glass of Chablis.
"Why are you wearing that at the dinner table?"
"Oh, this?" I said, nonchalantly examining the lapel.
I bet you're wondering what it is, aren't you readers. Well I'll tell you.
North Face. Black. Sleeveless. Windcheater.
I know you're jealous, but what can you do? Sometimes you just have to let a man have his due. I'm stylish. End of story.
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