I used to believe shedding world. I was young, idealistic clothes might create a better and pretty slim at the time
IT’S an incident I’ll never forget. I had just moved into a flat in the centre of Leicester. I was making my panto debut in a city I like a great deal. Was middle England ready for a Scottish Sikh genie?
Performing in panto means temporarily making a place home, joining a family for a few months. This time, the cast had been spread around the city. As the “senior” (old) member of the actorly set I had been given a modern flat near the theatre. The place was fine and had doubtless been swish when newly built. But time had been unkind to it. The bathroom looked out onto the road (and the flats across). I had never seen a cludgie like it: light streamed through a large window. It was unnerving as the window had been treated with a special veneer making it opaque without excluding too much light. For some reason the veneer had come away, returning what had once been opaque into a regular window.
It was bad enough for the goodly folk of Leicester to see my kilted, Scottish independence-loving genie without seeing me in the scud coming out the shower. I notified the theatre management who couldn’t have reacted more quickly. That day I watched a very garrulous young man from the maintenance company remove the old and apply the new veneer.
Somehow it didn’t look right. He assuaged my worries.
“This is a new product. It blocks the light one way but allowing it in the other.”
I pondered. “But I can’t see the flats opposite …”
“Exactly!” he replied joyously. “And they can’t see you.”
I’ve never done a day’s DIY in my
life so I had to accept his answer and trust his expertise. After a week or so there was an unexpected chap on the door. I answered.
“Hello,” said a rather awkward-looking man. “I live in the flat across the road …”
“Is it my car? I was told to park it in that spot.” He shuffled, yet more awkward. “No. It’s just ...” He pointed at the newly-refurbished window.
“Me and my girlfriend. We can see right in. Right in.” Now we were both awkward. “Thanks.” I closed the door behind him. So, basically I had been prancing about the bathroom naked for the world (and him and his girlfriend) to see.
Ironically I’m a firm believer of being in the buff. Privately.
Suffice to say, I won’t be attending Nudestock in Doncaster this weekend. This week-long celebration of the scud is in its eighth year, with music, quizzes and barbecues – they even have a Burns Night. In May.
I’m seldom happier than wandering around my flat or house in my birthday suit. I have even been known to cook a massive fry-up while in the buff. I used to have very militant views on clothes, while also loving them.
Clothes can be mechanisms of class distinction. Between the wars, posh women would never be seen in black; it was the colour worn by “staff”. Coco Chanel elevated the black dress from below the stairs to above, creating the “little black dress” and in so doing redefining society at the time.
A friend from Livingston told me that a woman who habitually wore a white shell-suit was known locally as the “bride”. I was once told that there was even hierarchy conveyed in the width of the pinstripe on a suit – the wider the stripe the more senior the man wearing it.
Clothes carry connotations. I used to believe that if we shed all our clothes we might create a better world. I was young, idealistic and slim at the time.
There’s a lot to be said for the freedom that nudism affords. Some might worry about ogling, but those who go in for naturism argue that tendency has more to do with the habitual wearing of clothes. What’s more, there’s an inherent levelling that comes with our natural state of being, an acceptance of all that we (and others) are when shorn of our armour.
I commend and congratulate those who are confident enough to make their way to South Yorkshire to get their kit off.
But I would warn them about one thing. In my experience, cooking in the buff is effectively an extreme sport. I wonder if the cook will be allowed to wear an apron?