DRESSED OVERALL

Harry Ingham

Thinking of a way to brighten up the dismal grey days around the December solstice, I sent off to Fred Brown's wondrous emporium for a couple of things I hoped would enliven the winter gloom. One of the items Fred sent back was a bow tie with the gold flying fish motif and, to give it its initial airing, I selected a shirt with infinite care, separated my number one tiddly suit from its mothballs and then, tying my new bow with just that touch of je ne sais quois, moved out into the already sinking dusk to show the good burghers of Kensington what the Sailor About Town is wearing this season.

My forward planning was immaculate and pausing only to call in at my local pub, I threw a devil may care glance at the plate glass mirror and promptly froze into a passable imitation of the late Mrs Lot. `Through the smoke and the haze, there stood Pop in a daze' sang Spike Jones in those dear dead days beyond recall; and as a titter ran round the bar all I could discern, in my ghastly reflection, was a vision of my little gold flying fish being aerodynamically disadvantaged. In short, they were upside down.

A wave on panic seized me as I wondered if I could make it to the small room at the back in order to adjust my dress, but already derisive fingers were being pointed at me by people who could not normally be relied upon, even on a good day, to tell the difference between a flying fish and a flying buttress.

All was lost. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time and now, but a pale shadow of my former swashbuckling self, I staggered to the door where I made an excuse -- and left.

Drawing a merciful veil over that terrible experience and in a much lighter vein, my divorce on the grounds of mental cruelty is going like a Whitbread 60, and all because the former light of my life gave me a copy of The Bumper Book of Knots for Christmas. I expect Fred knows he has the right to remain silent.