If I stand in my garden I can hear sirens. The echo of emergency vehicles is distant, but frequent. They have not yet reached my road.
It’s a daily reminder of this new normal. And that I’m lucky to have a garden in the first place.
Last weekend I watched as, between strained breaths and tears, hospitalised sufferers urged the country to stay indoors. Last weekend I watched footage of people picnicking in busy parks.
If Brexit taught us that this country is home to millions of dumb fucks. Then the parklife footage suggests there are thousands even dumber than that.
As I say, I have a garden — arguably I’m not best placed to criticise. But what struck me most about the alfresco scenes of frisbees and frisée, was the middle-classness of it all. These were not single mothers briefly escaping the shackles of a tower block, these were swarms of lovely chums, in trainers and haircuts, gulping Prosecco, bothering the world with their Bluetooth speakers and by-numbers bants.
None of which has any bearing on this Studio Nicholson jacket — I can’t even be bothered to fabricate a tenuous link. That was a rant. This is a jacket. And it’s a good one.
Check the irregular hemline at the front. Done up like that it looks superb. Although it’s a shame there are no pics of it undone, I’d like to see how it hangs. It’s got neat looking buttons and a breast pocket for your pens. And there’s a zip under that front flap too. To my mind all of that makes this piece a jacket — although Studio Nicholson insist on calling it a shirt. I suspect that’s just a ‘cool’ thing to do right now.
Under normal circumstances I’d be racing down to the Studio Nicholson outpost in Shoreditch to try this on. But of course I’m not. It’s closed. But even if it wasn’t, I wouldn’t go. This Studio Nicholson jacket is my game of frisbee, it’s my bottle of Prosecco in the sun. All of which would seem pretty fucking trivial viewed from inside an IC ward.