I love to wear great clothes and I’m willing to pay over the odds for something really nice. I think this is mostly because during my working day I have to wear a terrible uniform that has no style and was tailored by a shortsighted man with an out of date tape measure. The fashion and identity that go with the uniform are for the benefit of corporate character and any choices about what I wear are taken out of my hands and for the most part I think I look terrible.
However, I’m not much better at finding clothes for myself. Frankly, I hate buying clothes. I can never decide what I like and I often take other people along for advice and support. I’ve got a good visual eye for most things and I can tell what’s a load of crap and what looks good, but it’s always good to get a second opinion. Like most people I’ve had my fair share of dodgy fashion faux pas, but my pain is not knowing what to wear it’s the process of actually buying it.
I’ve found that some stores have very helpful people who can direct you and have a hunt around for what you want. I’ve found brands that I like and keep gravitating to because of the style and a quality that just lasts and lasts. However my experience today is a common experience I’ve found and I’m sure you have too. The experience of clothing sizes, and I don’t mean should we have a size zero or why aren’t there more plus size models in fashion.
When I buy a shirt I pick the collar size that I’ve been measured for and it fits perfectly. However, there are other ways I can buy a shirt. S,M,L,XL,XXL and so on but unlike a shirt, which measures the collar size, these can come up very different. Some a little tighter than others but today was a joke. I decided against advice to visit Abercrombie & Fitch in London. The place was so dark I needed to use a torch to find my way around. Upon entering the doorway a half naked man with half a brain was standing there looking cold and surrounded by children looking in wonder at his hairless body and empty personality. Having gotten past sparrow chest you move around the store with hands stretched out to avoid hitting a wall you. Your eyes start to adjust and then your ears are treated to music so loud that when you ask for help from another set of pretty children who act as sales assistants, the most common response is, ‘Er?’ or ‘ What?’ The quality of service is purely decided on how little help they can offer and how much pouting can be achieved per hour.
I know that I’m a big guy but if I pick up a shirt that’s XXL, it will fit either well or be a little tight.
However, this shirt was so small, I had to check that I hadn’t picked up a medium or accidently picked up some clothing for an action man doll. The only time I noticed anyone with a tape measure was when a manager was checking that a picture frame was the right distance from the shelve. I mean, for fuck sake, can’t they actually use this when making the clothes instead? I guess not as I’m sure the other children in this process can’t actually read anyway while in their sweat shop factory and being beaten with a stick for 7p an hour is fairly distracting.
I know that I’m not their ideal customer, being old, ugly and fat but I’m not that big that XXL is beyond fitting me anywhere else. I don’t mind if they don’t want fat people buying their clothing. Just don’t make them in that size and I can’t buy them. What I hate is going through the whole buying process of making my choice, waiting in line for the changing room and then finding its all for nothing.
M