A Little Razzle-Dazzle Never Hurt Anybody

A Little Razzle-Dazzle Never Hurt Anybody

E DDIE.

Eddie?

Eddie. Psst. Ed-die!

I look up.

A little razzle-dazzle never hurt anybody

, the shirt whispers from the men’s clothing rail. Come on, Eddie

. You can’t wear that beige cardigan for the rest of your life.

It creeps up on you, dressing like an old person. First you eschew the things that make you cold – the thin jumpers, the short-sleeved shirts – then it’s comfort, and out go the shoes that pinch or don’t support your arches, the smart trousers that are too tight, and then you don’t want endless buttons because that’s a lot of faff for your fingers, and soon, before you know it, you’re heading, hands outstretched like a zombie, for the sand-coloured section of Marks and Spencer’s Very Old Menswear Department for the quarter-zip camel jumper.

Take a good long look in the mirror, Eddie

, the shirt says.

You don’t belong in camel-coloured comfort. You belong in splendour

.

From behind the till, I make my way to the rail and pull him out. Emerald-green silk printed with cheetahs, prowling up and down the sleeves and the chest. If nothing else, I’ll be protected from predators.

Marjie will absolutely kill me if she comes back from her trip to the Beef Buffet or wherever she is having lunch this afternoon and finds me in the changing room trying on a piece of stock, the till and shop left abandoned. ‘Changing room’ is a generous term for what is a curtained-off area in the far corner of the shop with a scratched mirror that never sold propped up against the wall. And it is Marjie’s beefy wrath that propels me to move with haste, popping into the changing area and undoing the easy zip of my camel-coloured jumper. Off come my grey shirt and bow tie and on slips the silky cheetah shirt. I’m halfway through buttoning it up and I’m already certain I’m going to buy it. It is like nothing else I have ever owned. And while I have a certain penchant for hats and I do have my bow ties, I don’t own anything this singularly… jungular.

Now that my torso looks so dazzling, my grey slacks no longer look right. Still wearing the shirt, I re-emerge into the empty shop and stop to listen.

You know you’re coming our way, old bean

, they say. You remember the day you pulled us from a donations bag and thought,

What a pair of trousers! Let us not waste time by pretending you want anything else. No other trousers will do.

They’re right, of course.

I pick them up from the folded piles of men’s trousers on

display near the window. They are a deep burgundy velvet corduroy. The colour of a good red wine.

I’m zipping them up when I hear the shop door open.

‘I’ll be with you in two ticks!’ I call to the customer. I button and zip the red corduroy trousers. Admittedly, they look fantastic. But I’ll need a belt.

Well, the customer won’t mind that. Perhaps they can make a recommendation.

I pull back the curtain and Marjie is standing in the middle of the shop, looking amused.

‘Oops,’ is all I can manage.