Town Mouse

Tom Hodgkinson

When I was a country mouse, getting dressed each day was a simple affair.

I just threw on any old thing because no one was going to see me and those who did – my landlord and the farmer, who drove around in his tractor – were not dedicated followers of fashion.

So I became very scruffy. I wore a shirt from Mole Valley Farmers, the local farmers’ superstore, torn jeans and an old hoodie and slippers.

At the back of mind I had, as a justification for my careless ways, the sloppy dressing of the Greek cynics. They went around in torn clothes because they considered flamboyance and dandyism marks of vanity. Punks likewise tore up their clothes as a gesture of resistance to conformity.

On returning to town, this attitude didn’t seem right. Now I was going to meetings and even the theatre occasionally. I was entering the bourgeois world once more and I was going to have to smarten up. Dr Johnson advised men to be carefully dressed and I would follow the sage.

But what’s a middle-aged mouse to wear? I bought a pair of jeans without holes in them, shined up my old Church’s brogues and found a nice dark jacket in Hamburg Airport. I thought I was now dressed smartly and stylishly. Like a kind of ageing punk.

But then I read a piece in the Guardian complaining that men all seemed to wear exactly the same thing: jeans, dark jacket and brogues. The writer said they all looked so boring.

It’s true. Every time I think I’ve done something original, every one else has beaten me to it. I thought I was being slightly cool by wearing a flat cap and a Barbour. But when I get on the tube, I find myself almost blushing as I see at least three other middle-aged men in flat caps and Barbours.

Then I read another piece complaining about the way most men dress. This journalist said that men had become completely inelegant. She glanced at but quickly wrote off Jacob Rees-mogg – accusing him of ‘preening vanity’ – and finally gave the example of Childish Gambino as a well-dressed man.

I don’t expect Oldie readers to have heard of Childish Gambino. Mr Gambino – real name Donald Glover – is a famous actor and singer. He was in one of the Star Wars films and his song This Is America, which featured people shooting each other, was a huge hit.

In search of fresh inspiration and ideas on how to escape the jeans and jacket trap, I took a look at a picture of him. I decided that a double-breasted jacket with nothing on underneath – except a gold chain – was not a good look for a mouse.

Now, in my youth I was not averse to a bit of light dandyism. At the height of my peacockery, I wore a pale blue suit from Richard James and shirts from Paul Smith. So why not, I thought, go back to those more carefree days? The worst thing would be to end up like my father, who wears various shades of beige so colourless that he practically vanishes in front of our eyes.

As luck would have it, a fine tailor who has a studio in the same building as I do was having a sample sale. A frock coat in green velvet with a Nehru collar caught my eye and I tried it on. I felt marvellous and rushed off to show Mrs Mouse. She scowled and said I looked pretentious.

I bought the frock coat of green velvet despite Mrs Mouse’s objections. I fancied myself as a Dickensian hero, with perhaps a dash of Oscar Wilde, being witty in a drawing room in Tite Street. Or like those elegant gentlemen town mice in Beatrix Potter. I wear it very occasionally and enjoy the feeling of dressing up.

It would have been nice to have had the frock coat when I visited David Hockney a few years ago. Hockney is always very well dressed. He has his suits made for him and told me how surprised he was that men waste money at the gym; they should be spending it on good tailoring, which can cover up all sorts of imperfections.

One clothing purchase I have never regretted for a moment is my proper bespoke suit. It cost £800 ten years ago but has given me wonderful value and lots of pleasure. The finishing touch is a blue silk pocket square that I stuff in the breast pocket. To my mind, it adds a touch of elegance without being overly vain. Sometimes I wonder if it would have been more sensible to invest in a new suit rather than the green velvet frock coat. And I worry what Jeeves would have thought of it. And whether he would approve of my red socks, for that matter.

But then I think, if a mouse can’t wear a green velvet frock coat if he wants to, and red socks, when in town, then what is the point of being alive?

‘Men waste money at the gym; they should be spending it on good tailoring’