The Jacket: a Corrugated Comrade

Blown and buffeted, snow was falling hard. It swirled about my fringe and settled on my scarf – my one concession to winter. Its flurries scampered and bounded, each one as impish as the last, naughty siblings determined to spoil an enjoyable day.

They succeeded. I was cold and in need of warmth, but it was Christmas. My usual haunts were packed, and I had no other choice.

Thinking back, there was less leather than I expected and fewer riding crops, but it was a day that reddened my cheeks. After all, I was 20, a musician: I didn’t buy clothes from an outfitter.

Browsing the racks in a state of bored indifference did little to change my mind, but its fan heater was welcome enough. As soon as I heard its faint but seductive hum, I headed for the stairs.

Now, there are some things in life we can’t replace: threadbare bears, childhood books, scribbled notes and ticket stubs. For me, it’s a jacket, the one I found upon a mannequin of curious deportment at the top of those stairs. Three-buttoned, chestnut cord, and cut in a way that undid my preconceptions, I couldn’t resist it.

I still can’t.

I’ve worn it on and off for 18 years, tossed it over numberless barstools and bedsteads, flung it upon my shoulders through thick and thin, and it still retains its charm.

True, it’s a little worse for that wear: the left-hand lapel is a pincushion of youthful folly, one pocket home to irremovable gum discarded moments before that unexpected kiss, an elbow witness to free refills and easy chairs as the London rain coloured the world outside the lines of my notebook.

That’s why it’s irreplaceable: it’s a record of my life, a collection of memories more vital than any Facebook or Instagram post.

It’s something real – a life lived instead of captured. No matter how it may fade, it’ll always hold those moments.

It’s both keepsake and living item, a corrugated comrade that preserves my past and allows me to meet the future in shabby style.

I can’t ask for more than that.