Suit

The only thing more dispiriting than a cycle trip into Watford is two cycle trips into Watford. On Tuesday I have a legal meeting to attend for work. I must make a cursory attempt to look smart and professional and since I have mostly spent the pandemic years hanging out with my dogs and getting fat, nothing smart that fits me exists in my wardrobe.

Hence I cycle, reluctantly, to look for a new suit. I stop off at my favourite Japanese café in the market; it is busy, and they apologise as they have too few staff to be quick with an order. The Tempura Don is of course well worth the wait as ever but probably a contributory factor to my plus size frame.

I wonder over what used to be Moss Brothers: It is now Sari shop and for a short minute of fantasy I imagined what sort of reaction the Barrister would have if I turned up as a 6ft 4, bearded and bald Lata Mangeshkar drag tribute Act.

"I put it to you Mr Deans.."

Whereupon I would give a dramatic hand movement as stirring Bollywood strings swelled and I would answer only in song.

The case would collapse and I would be pensioned off sympathetically.

Alas, Moss Brothers had moved into the shopping centre. I ambled in and asked if they had anything that would fit my "petite frame". The shopkeeper found me the "one" jacket available in my size which I still considered a bit snug.

I headed into Marks & Spencer's. Shopping when you are as big as I am, is not a subtle or graceful process. I grabbed the largest size of jacket, trouser and white shirt I could find and took then to the changing room.

A black suit. Surprised that it fits.

I view myself in the mirror - I have my pork pie hat on and I look sufficiently scary. In fact, too scary, like an undertaker or a character from a certain show where he dissolves an adversary in an acid bath. Kind of Heisenberg.

I take the suit to the counter and note that they have the same suit in Charcoal. Great, I thought, I can tone down the psychotic killer look a bit.

So I cycle home with it. Unpack it and then issue an exasperated...

"I. DON'T. BELIEVE. IT!"

The coat hanger for the jacket clearly says "48L" whereas the jacket on it is a "40S".

It's like trying to cover a Silverback Gorilla with a tea towel.

Second cycle trip into Watford.

Explain the annoying mishap to the shop assistant. I go through each jacket; no coat hanger matches the size of the jacket. I eventually find my size.

Fortunate I found the problem before my court date as my gravitas would reduce, by looking like Norman Wisdom.

Is this an act of sabotage by an aggrieved short person?