I Need Your Clothes, Your Boots and Your Motorcycle

I'm not fashion conscious.

You may have noticed, if you've ever seen me clothed.

I'm decidedly fashion unconscious. I'm basically in a fashion coma. I'm not quite fashion dead, but if I was in Holland, they'd probably pull the fashion plug.

It's not that I don't want to look nice. I'd rather look good than bad. I'd rather people wolf-whistled than wolf-vomited. I just don't prioritise my wardrobe.

I have about four shirts. I have one pair of jeans that fit poorly. I have one pair of pin-striped trousers that are quite constricting in a certain area. I have two almost identical hoodies.

Those are the blobs on my fashion palette. My body is the canvas. The finished artwork is bland, derivative and displays a poor knowledge of anatomy.

I like to stay as anonymous as possible. Nothing too bright, nothing with stripes, nothing with LED arrows pointing towards my face.

I don't like to buy clothes with logos on them. I feel that a massive picture of a frog with attitude, or the motto of a false surfing university, might draw the unwanted gaze of strangers. That's probably not true.

If anything, I should have more complex and ostentatious designs, to draw attention away from myself. Anything less complicated than my own face will probably force people to look at me. And nobody wants that.

It's confusing.

When I'm rich, I'm going to wear expensive suits all the time. Even in the heat of summer. Even in the swimming pool.

Only the wealthy can dress well. Or the poor. The later have a stylish frugality that's very "2011".

I'm going to have to lose a lot of money. Or inhibitions. Or patience.

***

I assumed this examination of my clothing would lead somewhere interesting. But it didn't.

I've been taught by fantasy fiction that the wardrobe can be a portal to a magical land. But they're referring to the wardrobe as an object, rather than an inventory of apparel. I don't see any snow or lions or talking beavers or anything.

It's probably too hot for snow. And all of the beavers in our flat have been gagged. They're trying some sort of sign language, but it's not exactly talking.

Never mind, here's a photo of Arnold Schwarzenegger looking tiny next to Wilt Chamberlain and Andre the Giant:

There. That's better than some witch on a sledge, isn't it?

***

On the long walk home from work, Lucy and I get bored.

It's OK for the first half an hour, but round about Lonsdale Road things get difficult. We hilariously call it "Longsdale Road". Because it seems long. That's the kind of fun we have.

Techniques to make those last few streets bearable include: singing stupid songs, nudging each other into hedges (it's only ever me nudging Lucy, but I'm sure she enjoys it), playing numberplate games, swearing creatively and kicking stones.

All manner of genius has come from those desperate moments between sanity and a nice sit down.

At this time of year, a new opportunity presents itself. The sun is sinking low, and Longsdale Road goes East. (Actually, it goes both East and West, but we go East)

This means there are shadows to play with. On the walk home recently, our shadows have been nearly as long as the walk itself. They make us look slightly alien.

My favourite thing is to straighten my arm and rotate my wrist, so my hand is side-on. It makes it look like the whole limb is one long, tapering blade. Like the T-100 in Terminator 2.

You have to get it just right, or else you'll look like a fool! If you're going to make your arm into a shadow weapon, you need to take it seriously. It's the only way to get respect.

I can tell you're pretty impressed.

Look at it! It could be a bayonet! You can barely see any hand-contours at all!

You can also do shadow animals, but they're not as lethal.

This fun game usually ends with me doing my uncanny 'scythe' sound effect until Lucy shoots me with a silhouette Berreta.

And by that point, we're pretty much home.