They arrived in the post last week, neatly packed in crinkly plastic inside a sturdy cardboard box. Mrssoulcompost has been filling her wardrobe with stuff from a classy mail order firm and left the catalogue lying around on the kitchen table. I had a leaf through the men’s section, and there they were: in ‘charcoal’, ‘corn’ and ‘olive’, thick cord trousers sported by rugged-looking models with earnest expressions. Something in my head went click and I had to have a pair.
Mine are olive. I know they look a little roomy, but that’s the cut. Nice deep pockets too, for squirrelling away all my essential urban accessories: now, how often do you get that in a contemporary man’s trouser? And the weight of the things makes you feel like, in a tight spot, they could hold you up on their own, or at least be relied upon to go and fetch help. Very reassuring.
Oh, come on! These are the sort of trousers your dad – no, your grandad – would wear. The voice of youthful vanity, ever fainter these days it seems, asked me to stop and think about where this was leading. Well, I did think about it; you don’t invest in trousers like this without considering the consequences. Anyway, I’ve gone and ordered a second pair; in ‘corn’ this time.
And so I enter my corduroy years. Maybe Bletchley Park Chic will even catch on as a look in time. But if it never does, or at any rate while we’re all waiting, as the late Nina Simone might have been moved to say, they are feeeeulin’ good.
Soulcomposting 