Swingate blackberries.


Yes you can hunter-gather in Swingate in August. Slim pickings the rest of the year, though there was a pair of jeans in the bushes a while back. And that duck.

SuperDry season is back.

It’s started. As the days shorten and October beckons us with its gnarled twig-like fingers, we inevitably turn to parts of our wardrobe untouched since perhaps April.

We rediscover jumpers, cardigans, hoodies, scarves and long-sleeved t-shirts. And our trusty SuperDry jacket. I say this as I know this to be true. Every single commuter of blog-reading age and ability has one. Be the stitching white, red, green, orange, yellow and now pink (!), we all have the jacket of many zips. I know because I have conducted an unofficial census.

Here we go again.

They are warmer than they look, which is why it’s easy to jump the gun. I’m keeping my powder (super) dry but it seems at least one Technical Windcheater has emerged from the winter wardrobe just in time to say cheerio to the tortoises as they go into hibernation.

Now this chap disappointed me. As a wearer of the same jacket we are part of a wider socio-economic demographic. We dress the same: we are the same.

For a start his jeans were too short. Not in a Haggerston hipster way either. In a kind of Next or Asda way. And the trainers? Again, disappointing. Clumpy, perhaps suited to real running but not a credible accompaniment to the jean/SuperDry jacket combo.

And the way he walks? Up on his balls too early. Too springy. Too eager. We used to have a kid on our street we called Hooey because he’d bounce along the road calling “Hooey” to no one inparticular. Like him. Without the Hooey.

For the record, this chap had plumped for the white embroidered logo. Mine is red. Perhaps this is a more fundamental difference than I thought.

I certainly hope so.

Excess jeanage.

A little random. A discarded pair of jeans by the fire assembly point.

Had a near-death experience brought two colleagues together in the heat of passion (and a massive office fire)?
Had they cast aside their clothes with gay (or straight) abandon to share the joy of survival only to dress hurriedly and not-quite-completely afterwards?

I, for one, would notice if I had neglected to put my strides on, but smoke inhalation and post-coital endorphins can do funny things to the best of us.

%d bloggers like this: