Amanda and I were
in the smoking room at the bank. Yeah,
they used to have them, honest. In the good
old days you were at liberty to kill yourself slowly on the clock, and the bank’s
main entrance didn’t look like closing time at the Hippodrome.
I was showcasing
my new, dark brown, three-piece suit. I
spun round and the smoke offered an additional choreography. Personally, I think it worked really well.
“What d’you
think?” I said.
Amanda waved her
fag towards me. “You’re not cut out for
this banking malarkey.”
“What? Why not?”
“Well look at you. You look like a cross between Professor
Yaffle and Mr Hanky The Christmas Poo.”
“Well he sounds
clever. Not sure about the Hanky poo part
tho.”
It was always the
same. Suits and me just didn’t go
together. Most mornings on my way to
work, I felt like I’d put in an eight-hour day before I even got to the
office. Shower, wet shave, clean shirt,
collar stiffeners like razor clams, cufflinks like drawing pins, tie like a
noose, jacket, handkerchief, jabby pointy watch, brogues with sharp edges that had
to be shoe-horned on.
 |
| Daniel Craig and his smug suits : a SPECTRE to me long before filming started |
Even with all
this effort, I looked awkward. I’d
usually have to hold my stomach in and my back fat would poke out if not
checked on the minute. I never mastered
the art of walking in leather-soled shoes either. The slightest suggestion of rain and I’d be clinging
to the outside of Waitrose, screaming at my own reflection in wet marble.
At my workstation,
I spent my days sucking in and sitting up and just rolling around in front of
flashing red numbers like Billy Bunter.
“Dave – you don’t
look comfortable here,” said Harry. “Why
don’t you get Guru to sort you out?”
Harry was borderline-hot
ex-Army and his shoes always clicked like a horse coming down the
corridor. He always ironed something
into his shirt called a sweat crease and he was in danger of saluting everyone
after every morning meeting.
“Who or what is Guru?”
I said.
“Oh, he does all
the top brass, mate. I’ll get you his
number. If he can’t sort you out, no-one
can.”
 |
| Harry insisted his Asian market updates were kept informal |
#
Two days later
and Guru, tailor to the top floor, was fussing around me, heavy-breathing,
measuring everything and anything reachable.
“Mmm …” he said,
stepping back and tilting his head to one side.
He looked like he was doing long division, his eyebrows drawn together
and downwards with confusion. “I’ve
never seen anything quite like it. Were
you ever in a car accident … when you were younger perhaps?”
“Not that I
remember," I said. "Although there wasn’t a safety belt or a headrest in sight.”
“Something else life-changing? Maybe?”
“Um. I did do a cream round,” I said.
“A cream round?”
“Yes. I used to sell cream door-to-door in
Aberdeen.”
“Interesting. How much did you used to sell?”
“Not very
much. That’s why I had to carry most of
it on my back.”
“It could have
been that. Anyway, Mr Vanderpump, I’m afraid to tell
you that your arms are quite different lengths. So are your legs. I’m not sure.
It doesn’t quite add up. In all
my forty years …”
“Guru – please
just fax Calcutta and get them to run all this up pronto. I’ve got to get back. I’ve got some Greek long-dated zero coupon convertibles
to sell and frankly, they make selling pots of cream to every fiftieth house in
Scotland seem like a dream job. And
quite lucrative.”
 |
| With the right tie, Guru said people wouldn't notice. |
#
Despite more pins
and adjustments than your average haberdashery might see in a year, the right
sleeve always rode up and the trousers were too short at the front, too long at
the back. It was like their seamstress
was working part-time for “Tales of the Unexpected”.
“You need to
stand differently,” said Guru, prodding at me on the fifth fitting like a
petulant horse. “Stand forward and they
will be right. Twist your upper body. Ok, head up Mr Vanderpump, up. Ok. Just
hold that. Now, pull your core in.”
“This is fucking
ridiculous,” I said.
“It’s a suit, Mr
Vanderpump. Not a magic cape. There.
You’re ready – you looking great Mr Dave. Go.
Please.”
Harry grimaced and
took cover behind Amanda as they saw me sailing across the trading floor in my
new get-up, like a big bride in a meringue on wheels with an imaginary book on my
head. I imagined Joan Collins might feel
like this on the red carpet. One false move
and it was all going to come tumbling down and out, buttons popping right and
left, shoulder pads and back fat and gunt and all.
“Wow, sorry mate,”
Harry said. “I feel responsible.”
Amanda looked at
me like she had stomach cramps.
I bravely
soldiered on, sitting down to do a lengthy conference call about what we were
going to do about this whole collapsing financial system thing. I couldn’t concentrate. The trousers cut in and rode up and the
jacket twisted me until I was barely able to breathe. I was forced to let the phone drop from my
hand like I’d been poisoned. I needed to
be free of all this. “I can’t do
it," I said. "It’s not working.”
Someone on the
other end decided that, for once, I was right and we should just leave the financial
situation as it was a bit difficult to fix and it was nearly lunchtime.
 |
| Popping to Pret was a humiliation |
#
Luckily I didn’t
have to be uncomfortable for long. Days
later, Ed was sitting in the corner meeting room, grimly shaking his head and
talking about deteriorating market conditions.
I paced around, desperate to free myself of Guru’s miserable and not
inexpensive cloak.
“Dave,” said
Ed. “Why don’t you sit down and we can
go through the terms of your redundancy?”
“I’d prefer to
stand if that’s alright. This is all
very difficult for me.”
“I understand,”
he said.
“I don’t think
you do. I’d like to sit but I’m scared. I’m not sure what will happen.”
“We’re all scared
of these financial markets, Dave. We’re
all scared.”
#
For people
that go to work in normal, civilian clothes, they have no real understanding of
the horrors of suit-wearing. It’s great
if you enjoy dressing up and would secretly like to wear a hat and shoulder
pads, maybe carry a snuff box, but alas – for everyone else, a life of misery.
These days, if
it’s not soft cotton and pull-on, I’m not interested. Quite simply, I’m drawn to the
drawstring. A capsule wardrobe a la
American Apparel and I’m thrilled. I
literally could not be happier.
“For your birthday present,” said Hubby, “I
was thinking of getting you something for your new career direction.”
My back stiffened
suddenly, chin jutting away from my martini.
“New career direction?”
“Yeah - a
onesie.”
“What?” I
said. “Are you kidding me? You mean like a one-piece soft leisure suit
to wear around the house? Made of
cotton? With a hood?”
“Yeah, would you
not like that?”
“Yes I
would. I would like that. I’d like that a lot.”
DVP
