I didn’t admire what I saw in the mirror. But then I turned my mind to horticulture...

ILOOKED in a mirror the other day. One of those big tailor’s mirrors which presents a reflection of the whole man, from top to toe. I was not sure I altogether admired what I saw. The rumpled hair was a little too tousled to be passed off as casual. The fit of the shirt was somehow off kilter and the carnation in the button-hole could not disguise the fact that the jacket had seen better days. Even the flower – a rare impulse-buy – appeared to droop, failing to deliver the desired jaunty effect.

The otherwise acceptable trousers bore a stain left by a pip, serving as a reminder that it is always best to close mouth before biting into cherry tomato.

The shoes were scuffed and spattered with mud, woefully short of the near military standard demanded by my late grandfather.

Grandad was too short-sighted to attract the attention of the recruiting sergeants from any real army. Yet he could somehow spot a dusty brogue at twenty paces and he made sure that superior officers were briefed on any shortcomings committed by those serving in the junior ranks.

In other words, when I did not come up to standard, there was no way that the lapse from grace escaped my parents’ notice.

Grandad was a most lovable man but footwear was his thing, his pre-occupation and, indeed, his profession as he spent a lifetime employed in the shoe department of a Dublin wholesaler.

They say that many characteristics skip a generation. Make that two generations in the case of Grandad and Eldrick.

For it turns out that our son too has something of a shoe fetish, putting style and smartness ahead of mere comfort.

He shares the same pre-occupation though what Eldrick pulls on to his feet bears no obvious resemblance to the shoes of yesteryear.

No one ever turned up to a 1930s tennis club hop in immaculate orange runners, not even the women, let alone any of the men.

Grandad was bound by a colour code which restricted his choice to black or brown, the leather maintained in good order with brisk polishing which was part of the daily routine.

Eldrick’s palette as he considers his options before setting off for a GAA club disco includes, not only the lurid orange, but also a shade of luminous green that verges on sickly.

The use of the word ‘runners’ in this context is questionable, of course, because he has an entirely different set of shoes on call whenever he is engaged in sporting or athletic activity.

Nancy Sinatra’s boots may have been made for walking but not all runners are made for running. Some are made for peacock display…

Examining the vaguely scruffy individual reflected back to me in the mirror, it occurred to me that I am not a naturally natty dresser.

The struggle to keep up with style was abandoned in or around 1977, since when sartorial decisions have largely been focused on keeping under the fashion radar. The process has been made easier by the decision to abandon the use of neck-ties and of suits, thereby saving myself a great deal of dithering and expense.

I tossed aside the wilting carnation, took off the jacket and prepared to put in a shift with spade and fork in the Side Garden.

The recent snows and storms have put everything behind schedule on the horticultural front and some effort must be made to catch up.

Dressing for the digging of drills and planting of potatoes is like slipping into the company of old friends. The outfit includes a padded check shirt so old that it may disintegrate on the next trip to the washing machine.

The trousers are mole-skins acquired some time before 1983, though the exact date is now beyond reckoning, but still in good order. The jumper was knitted by Big Sis back in the days before she turned her needles to kitting out grandchildren and it fits like a second skin.

Finally, the condition of the gardening boots would have outraged Grandad, since they are so layered in muck that it is impossible to tell what colour they may once have been. But they have moulded themselves around my bunions and still keep out the wet in the soggiest of conditions.

No need to as much as glance in the mirror – here is a man at ease with his appearance.