You should never try and buy your own clothes, W. learned that long ago, he says. Sal buys his clothes for him, which is why he looks so natty. – 'You need a woman in your life', W. says. 'No woman would have permitted your vest phase'.
'Your vest phase', W. says, and shudders. – 'What were you thinking?' And then, 'It's not as if you have a body worth showing. You're fat, not muscly. And you're pale, you have that dreadful Northern European pallor, for all your Hindu genes'.
He remembers my excuse: my washing machine broke down. I couldn't wash my clothes! So bought cheap vest after vest from Primark. Cheap vests, made by some third world child, no doubt, and from Primark! He remembers the bags of vests in my flat, dozens of them. Dozen of bags full of vests in military green, that cost no more than £2 each.
When it was cold, I would wear one of my jumpers over my vests, W. says. One of my golfing jumpers, not that I ever played golf. A mauve one, or an orange one. Didn't I have several lilac jumpers? Didn't I have one in coral? It was a terrible sight, W. says. A man in a vest with a golf jumper over the top.
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