Fundamentally unsuitable

I really need a new suit. My expensive blue one suffered an unfortunate rear-end trauma last year when I hitched a drunken ride on the back grill of a friend's bike. For a glorious few seconds we freewheeled down the street like E.T. and Elliott flying in front of the moon before, with a great crunch, the grill cleaved in half and the jagged metal drove through my suit trousers and into my poor unprotected arse. My bum healed but in the name of idiotic false economy I took the suit to the tailoring equivalent of a back street surgeon, whose repairs transformed a small hole into a deranged scab of stitching. That I still wear it says more about my utter lack of interest in my physical appearance than its social acceptability.

Sadly I work in a professional services environment where people do care about their own and other people's clothes. As I only have my (now) tramp suit and one other I need to diversify. But buying a suit is such a FUCKING CHORE, made worse even than getting a haircut or buying new shoes by the expense and general fannying about involved.

I really did try yesterday, though. I asked my smartest friends for recommendations in advance and set off grimly determined to do the deed. But then the Jubilee line was shut and buggered up my tube route. And then the Victoria line was shut and buggered up my plan B tube route. And then I got to Jermyn Street, jostled through the hoards of upper-class congenital retards in mustard cords and burst through the door of my first recommended shop. A Bob Hoskins lookalike with a tape measure slung over his shoulder took one look at my trainers and adopted a protective bouncer stance in front of the suit display. I reversed and went to the second shop, blankly fingered suit fabric for about three minutes and then blacked out. What happened next is a mystery, but when I came to I was handing money to the nice man in Fopp in return for a teetering pile of books, CDs and DVDs. And then I had to go home and try to simultaneously watch, read and listen to everything I'd bought whilst eating a cake.

Maybe next weekend. Maybe this week I'll win the lottery and can hire someone to do this sort of dreary cack for me. Or I'll use my winnings to quit my job and just wander around London wearing a barrel held up with braces and never be troubled by this nonsense again.