Wednesday 12^th January 2011

I was saying: at Martin Margiela, I told the God-lettes in charge, after purchase of some honey-beige slacks: ‘My Sales shopping is over. I’m going home.’

I spoke too soon. It was the Constructivist (I stand corrected by my architect, Bruce MacBain) shirt by Raf Simons, one of my other Sales gains, that caused the unravelling to begin. I put it on for New Year’s Eve. Its trimmings and edgings are navy blue, so a black jacket with was out of the question. I have a pseudo-tweed Topman jacket in brown, but it’s got plain brown trimmings. You don’t want too much trimming. I wore the Topman brown but only had 6/10 outfit satisfaction.

I began to conceive. There was a heaving within. A grey jacket. If only. And a memory, of what the divinity running Topman within Harrods had said: Did I know, at Oxford Street  Topman, they’re doing Harris Tweed jackets? Pure. The real thing. Had a delirious success. Might be none left. But only from Oxford Street.

Before I knew it the vision was lodged irrevocably: tweed, so much texture, such subtle flecs, such a good contrast. Nothing else would complete my wardrobe.

I pounded to Topman. Yes!  Harris Tweed. There it was. Actually a bluey grey jacket with flecs of amethyst and ocre. Unimaginably right and new and different. I gunned through the  rack. And gunned again. The wretched truth could not be riffled away by endless rummaging. Only Size 36. Minute, even for me. In fact even trying to wear it could have resulted in strangulation, fatal straining of the limbs, death from arterial constriction.

Topman were adamant, God-like hard: no hope of further Harris Tweed. Not at Oxford Street, nor any other branch. I tried on-line.

To think, that Harris Tweed has been sitting in Topman since October and I never knew. What weakness and failure!

I re-visited all the other clothes shops of any kind, a complete revision of the Sales. Well, I’ve done that before, many times. Then, after suffering, I remembered my spiritual lesson, learned for the first time this Sales: hang above, watch, wait. Topman will provide. There will be a substitute for the Harris Tweed. Topman will think of something.

I left it a week. Last Saturday Topman knew me again and had given a rack of grey Harris Tweed jackets, not the yearned for blue-grey, of course. Maybe they were there before. Maybe not. No size 42 but 44, fitting all right on the shoulders, sleeve-length fine, just sacky round the middle. ‘I’ll get a tailor to hack it down,’ I told the attendant who was got up like Brains from the Thunderbirds. I’ve done that before too. Joe Allen in Cross Street, London N1 is marvellous. Risky, of course. It might not work. But a risk you must take.

I’m getting some Balenciaga trousers that were too tight on the thigh altered while about it. Joe Allen called yesterday. Everything is ready. Next week I can launch out for Paris and the Monet Exhibition and hotel life for two nights with 10/10 outfit satisfaction.

The Ideal Topman Tweed but Not in My Size

The Topman Harris Tweed Actually Achieved by Me, Before Alteration. I'm Having the Top Stitching Taken Out As Well