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The puffer jacket is the enemy of sartorial refinement. The other morning, the thermometer hovering at 3 degrees Celsius in the hinterlands of the north, I put on my black puffer jacket over a Black Sabbath t-shirt.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and thought, “WTF! I am old man dressed like teen.” A character in a bad sitcom.
The puffer jacket: ubiquitous winter wear.Credit:James Brickwood
David Bowie’s Young Americans was the soundtrack of my youth, which reminded me that I once paid homage to the elegance required of that song.
For years I vowed to never ever wear one of those horrid little doonas. This a fall from grace. What next, socks and sandals?
Sure, the puffer is warm, it’s light, it’s durable, it’s functional. And? I am no trekker. The outdoors is just that – outside the door.
Even as a toddler I was a stickler for sartorial elegance.
From three generations of Greek haberdashers, dressmakers, tailors and shoemakers and I have come to this?
We had no cash as a migrant brood, but we dressed. My father said, “A tweed jacket should not look too new, it smacks of aspiration.” My mother was an extraordinary dressmaker. My uncles were shoemakers. Classic Greek lower middle-class work.
Our house was full of hardcover Vogue pattern books. We found what we liked, and they – the elders – made it, if they had time. Time meant somewhere between 9am and 3am. They were the hours they kept bent over sewing machines, cutting patterns, stitching, sewing buttons, sticking on soles, buffing and so on. Ceaseless work. But we all looked good.
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