fully equipped for hipster melee

(Sunday's lunch-shoot style confusion resolved, plus full tilt accessorisation antidote to Dalston trendy posturing)

(click on all accessories names to visit relevant sites)

Wrestled with versions of deconstructed black tie for an hour. Got nowhere fast. A brief exchange of text with eponymous designer/tailor put me on right track. 'Sharp lunch' was the gist, not black tie. Easy. Black smedley roll neck with grey worsted nail head one button Spencer Hart suit, cordovan Ferragamo tassel loafers and a camel DAKS cashmere covert coat (which robe-shoulders to great effect). Deployed vintage Hermes pocket square in chocolate and blue. Then I went in really heavy.

Accessorised for both sun and rain with black Oliver Goldsmith bespoke bins and tightly rolled whangee handled slim 'fox frame' umbrella from James Smith&Sons.

Also packing IWC Ingenier Automatic on wrist, Toby McLellan signet/pinkie ring and unfinished Amis novel in the inner enlarged invitation pocket of the DAKS. Tooled up one might say.

Lunch was a very civilised. Baroness Mingay (The media's very own Keyser Söze) was there and had a hoot sat with her. It was a smashing, and stylish little gathering, and met all manner of people ranging from impossibly tricky to talk to 13 year olds to ageing elegantly Indie pop stars. Trundled back on 38 with book and was pleased to find out Holden drinking in E8. Robe shouldered, bins on, all the way from bus stop up Graham Road and visited him at The George on Parkholme. Found effervescent form from him and his pal. Two drinks later bowled 100 yards to the trendy haunt that is The Spurstow on Greenwood Road. Now I normally go here in weekend garb and feel a little left out of the style stakes as an old fella. Yesterday discovered by going in all guns blazing with full West End regalia, suited and tooled, one puts 'self very much in the action. Think this is the antidote. Look dropped nicely at the bar with the couple of bods I knew and felt good to be tarted right up on a weekend. The young are now into dressing up, in which case 'dress the fuck up Sundays' are in order, even if you're forty. Not sure what point was really, but think what I mean is don't bother trying to compete with young 'uns at their game, hit 'em with yours, full on, no compromise. If you're still inclined to bother that is. The next interesting bit is sauntering home fully regaled without being relieved of some/all of your bits by hood rats. I had a plan. Was gonna say my James Smith & Sons was also a sword stick. That'll tell 'em.


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