On Saturday me and Charlotte went to a wedding. This rare joint excursion into the outside world- like much in our lives nowadays- had to be planned with the meticulous detail of a military operation. With 6 days to go, everything appeared to be in hand. My mam and dad had agreed to babysit little Frank in exchange for for the price of a Chinese takeaway and a couple of bottles of lager, the present had been bought and wrapped, and on the previous Saturday afternoon Charlotte had breezed into town, coming back three hours later with full wedding regalia, comprising dress, shoes and matching handbag. Now the only detail outstanding was my outfit- or rather, a tie to go with my newly dry-cleaned suit. Well that couldn't prove too difficult, now could it?
Well, I had reckoned without the fact that I seem to have forgotten how to shop. A wave of nausea-inducing chronic indecision came over me at the Tie-Land barrow on the concourse of Piccadilly station at half past eleven on Sunday morning, and got steadily worse as the day wore on. During the next three hours I walked approximately six miles, visiting in the process every purveyor of cravates in Manchester, including both branches of Next, two separate high-class tailors on King Street, a retailer of fantastically dowdy 1950s- style formal attire opposite the Town Hall, the Afflecks Second Hand Arcade, TK Max and three different Tie-Racks. With tea-time approaching I was no nearer a decision, and in fact had quite lost the ability to distinguish between the multiple patterned arrangements in the various displays. Dizzy and exhausted, I was ready to admit defeat and get the next train home, but resolved to make one final effort. Two minutes later I emerged from Debenhams, where I had swooped on the colourful display like an angry magpie raiding an exposed windowsill, and grabbed the most eye-catching item that came to hand. The thing in my bag- whatever it was- had set me back twenty two pounds in High Street shopping tokens.
Back home in Levenshulme Charlotte surveyed the fruits of my afternoon of retail shock therapy, trying hard not to look too aghast. 'It's very, er blue, isn't it?', she eventually was able to remark. She was right, of course. It was very blue indeed. Blue and silver and shiny and stripy and downright gaudy, like something a fresh-faced junior sales rep might wear to make an impression at a conference in a hotel outside of Milton Keynes. In 1982. Damn it, the thing was a downright abomination, and despite our efforts to make light of the matter- 'come on now, it's only a tie, there's no need to cry.. ', it was clear that the thing would have to go back.
So, on Monday lunchtime I returned to Debenhams and picked up something more understated. Then spotted something else that looked maybe slightly more the ticket, picked up that instead, and headed for the counter. Then changed my mind, picked up the first one again, and headed back across the floor. Then, just as I arrived at the tills, executed a sharp 180 degree turn, headed back to the display, and picked up the second one again. And then put it down and picked up the first one. And stared at it for a while, before placing it back on the hanger, heading out into the street, running straight into Tie Rack on St Anne's Square and paying $10 for the plainest, brownest, and most straightforward item on their shelves. At last my ordeal was over. Now I just had to attend the actual wedding.
And so we did, and it was lovely- a service at the Catholic Church in Chorlton complete with textbook Irish priest straight off the pages of Father Ted, a hired coach into town, a meal in a grand high-ceilinged Victorian stock exchange converted into a top-notch Italian restaurant, eloquent speeches, dancing, excited conversation with people who we only seem to see nowadays at big social events like this one, champagne, wine, Nastro Azzuro on tap, and in a moment of weakness, several double Bacardi and cokes. Well, we don't get out very often.
Through it all the tie played a blinder. At something like half-past one in the morning I caught sight of it in the toilet mirrors. It had become a trifle loose, the knot was dangling like a medallion at somewhere around chest-level, and there was a questionable stain towards the bottom, which could have been soup, sweat, Nastro Azzuro, or a combination of all three. I leered woozily at it, tucked it as best my impaired co-ordination would allow back under the dishevilled shirt collar and headed back into the fray. I think it was about half-an-hour later that the double bacardi and cokes really started to kick in, and half-way through the rousing second chorus of 'Come On Eilleen' by Dexys Midnight Runners I mislaid my footing attempting that complex manoevre, the drunken backwards three-quarter reel, and landed on my back on top of a pair of startled bridesmaids. Shortly afterwards a taxi was called, and I was dragged, probably kicking and screaming although my memory of this part is a trifle hazy, inside. Our day in the outside world had come to a sudden and slightly sticky end.
And the moral of the story? Well, I suppose it is this- if you're going to attempt a backwards three-quarter reel to Dexys Midnight Runners after three double bacardis and a half-gallon of Nastro Azzuro, no tie in the world is going to save you from the loss of balance, not to mention dignity, that is sure to ensue. Although I'm still glad I took that blue affair back- I really wouldn't want to be send a group of startled wedding guests skittling across the floor into the hired speakers while wearing a gaudy multi-striped abomination straight outta the Thatcher era- God no, that really would be just too embarrassing.
I would first like to congratulate you on your correct use of the word "comprise," which many a better-behaved man might have stumbled over. Indeed, it is only through abandoning all dignity that a man can truly master English grammar.
Now, with that said, I want to advise you that what you should have done is to buy yourself a bargain day-return from Manchester to Prague and headed straight for the Tie Rack at Myslbek Shopping Centre, NA Prikope 19 where there is an unassuming woman with an air of romantic sadness who is a world class authority on what tie to wear with what outfit on any occasion.
During our recent month in Prague, which was dedicated solely to achieving sartorial elegance, we were faced with a similar days-long dilemma that left us close to tears on more than one occasion. And it was worse because we were going for the almost-the-same-coloured tie-as-the-shirt technique, which only the true artist can master since it is a matter not only of hue but of saturation, texture, and the type of understated elegance that is acquired only through ancient bloodlines linking one to the old families of Europe.
This woman took one look at John (the purchaser of the tie) and his Marks and Spencer beetroot-coloured shirt, and picked from a rack of thousands of ties the most perfect and subtle yet dashing companion. How she and her venerable ancestors survived the revolution, we cannot imagine.
Posted by: Abby | May 31, 2005 at 09:10 PM
nice, comfy place you got here :)..
Posted by: guile | June 08, 2005 at 03:34 AM