My husband was offered no less than £150 in the street for his Berghaus jacket the other day.
It is an early 90s number. Better than functional – it is an anti-elemental fallout shelter. It is loud blocks of primary colour. Primary school, that is. You could learn all your shapes and colours from that coat. It is a bit like wearing a very big shoe around yourself. It has a hood like a tunnel so you have to move your eyes with your whole body. It is not snuggy.
A guy said: “I sell them – they’re coming back. Here’s my number. £150.”
He made my old man’s day. Had the guy said, “I really like your coat. Where did you get it?… What’s that? It’s so old I won’t find one in a shop? Oh no! I love it. Oh well, good luck to you. Nice coat, mate.” Jonathan would have taken it off and forced it on him on the spot.
Reader, that’s the bloke I married.
So today he is a Dad in a Trendy Coat which he couldn’t possibly bring himself to sell because that would feel all wrong.
But it’s nice for him to know he is teetering on the cutting-edge of fashion, oblivious to the sartorial razor right under his feet. I think that’s how it is, really.
“£150!” he says, “well you can leave it but it wasn’t £150.”
“What was it?”
“£100.” Then he sucks his lip a bit, “I think. And it was early 80s.”
The coat has been in his life longer than I have. So has our television.