"The truth is rarely pure and never simple."
I turn the handle and the jets of hot water stop immediately. I slide open the glass door, step, soaking wet and naked, into the warm, steam filled bathroom and reach for the plush towel of Sea Island cotton on the heated rail. I dry my face, but neglect the rest of body, simply drag the terry cloth lazily down my chest and wrap it loosely around my waist.
I stand in front of the fogged up mirror and clear the condensation away with the edge of my palm, revealing the familiar sight of my own reflection. I inspect my features carefully. My advanced years are definitely visible, but I've held up well. Distinguished, not old and haggard. I always think I look best straight after a shower.
Each almond shaped eye is centred by a coffee brown iris around a black pupil. The surrounding whites are still bright and clear. My nose is prominent, but not obnoxiously large. Fleshy lips, bottom heavy, but with good vertical symmetry. A thick, slightly salt and pepper, beard frames my face nicely.
Lifting my chin and turning my face from side to side, I run my fingertips across the coarse stubble on my cheeks and neck. I load the badger hair brush with Taylor of Old Bond street shaving cream and whip up a lather, which I apply in quick, tight circles. A fresh blade in the heavy double edge razor. With measured strokes I slice through the excess growth, leaving behind smooth skin, contrasted by short, dark, wiry hairs along my jawline and around my mouth. The rich, oriental perfume of sandalwood hangs in the air. Lather again for my head and by expertly gliding the sharp steel over my scalp, I reduce the brushy, suede texture to a shiny, polished finish. A splash of water to remove the leftover foam and my grooming is complete.
I examine my handiwork. No nicks, cuts or grazes, just clean shaven skin, along side neatly shaped facial hair. I can't resist a sly smirk of approval. I may not be a devilishly handsome eighteen-year-old anymore, but I'm several levels above merely presentable.
I dry myself off, deodorant under each arm and a splash of cologne. A masculine, woody scent, infused with spice, bay, bergamot and a slight, fresh citrus note. I cast off the towel and walk into the bedroom.
Standing, still naked, in front of my open wardrobe, it's time to pick my outfit for the evening. I reject my usual combination of chinos, Oxford shirt and blazer. Tonight is a special occasion and calls for something sharper.
I have a few nice suits, but which one to choose? Not the pinstripe, of course. Maybe the black Prada? No, tonight is not the night for Italian. The Christian Dior, in glen plaid, I bought in Paris last year? Closer, but still not right. Then my hand lands on the black nylon cover hanging at the end of the rail. I think I had already made the decision long before opening the cupboard door. Toying with the other options was just killing time. This was the clear choice from the very beginning.
I remove it and hang it on the door. As I slowly pull down the zip, the cheap, black, man made fabric of the case parts, exposing the charcoal grey, 100% merino wool suit inside. An exceptional piece of British craftsmanship. This isn't just a suit, it's
the
suit. Bespoke, cut by hand, from Bernard Weatherill, number 5 Savile row. It took two months and three fittings to get right and is, in every way, absolutely exquisite.
You will never experience a suit like it, if you only buy off the peg. No designer label could ever create the fit, feel and finish of a creation such as this. Well over a hundred years of tradition and skills, passed down from one generation to another, have gone into its manufacture. Made by men who have devoted their lives to achieving perfection in cloth.
I run my eyes over every inch of it, from collar to cuffs, looking for a flaw. I find none. Not one single stitch or thread is out of place. Step lapels, just the right width to never be fashionable, but always stylish. Real horn buttons, carefully placed. Almost completely symmetrical, save for the breast pocket on the left and the stylish, yet subtle, ticket pocket on the right.
I stroke the sleeves. They have an almost silky quality, despite being wool. This is a material you can sit in for hours and when you stand up, the creases simply drop out, without leaving a single wrinkle. My fingers caress the finely woven fabric, slowly tracing the edges and seams from the gently sloping shoulders, down the full chest, sweeping into the waist and over the hips.
I choose the rest of my outfit with care, nothing loud to distract from the suit. I pull a pair of boxer briefs up my muscular legs. Not silk or any fancy nonsense, just simple, white cotton jersey. They hug my arse and give support to my heavy cock and gravid bollocks. Fine black socks on my feet. Then a crisp, white poplin shirt, from Harvie & Hudson on Jermyn street. Each arm slides in effortlessly and I fasten the buttons one by one, concealing my dense, swarthy body hair.
I slip the trousers off the hanger, shake them out in front of me and step in. I tuck in my shirt and button up. They are snug and secure, but not tight. Just the right amount of give so I can sit comfortably and still look sleek, no unsightly bulges or bagginess. However, there is a discreet amount of ease on the left side to accommodate my manhood. No belt is necessary, these trousers don't even come with loops. I push my feet into my chestnut coloured, Foster and Son, derby shoes. Skilfully moulded, they fit like a glove. With my shoes on, the trousers are the ideal length. Standing up straight, single breaks form on each leg, just as intended.
I pick a tie from the rack. Plain black silk, not too glossy. Narrow enough to be contemporary, but not so thin as to look like a waiter. I drape it over my neck, small end shorter than wider, then deftly wrap and fold the finespun textile strip into a precise half Windsor knot, turn down the stiff collar and position it dead centre.
I open the watch box with a snap and take a few moments to pay silent homage to my little collection. I don't need to choose, there is only one option for this suit with these shoes. The Jaeger-LeCoultre dress watch slips over my hand and I click closed the deployment clasp on the mahogany alligator strap. I check the time. Twelve and a half minutes past the hour, I need to be making a move. Two silver cufflinks go quickly through the buttonholes in my double cuffs and hold the opposite ends together around my wrists.
Now for the coat. Colloquially known as a jacket, but as they say on Savile Row, jackets are for potatoes. The interior hides the one splash of colour, a tasteful pale blue lining. In with my arms, over my broad, round shoulders and across my 44 inch chest. A light tug on the lapels and it's in place. The artfully tailored garment envelopes my body, hugging my torso in all the right places, while still allowing me to bend, move and flex with ease. A silk handkerchief is stuffed into the top pocket. White, to match the shirt.
I turn my body left and right in the full length mirror, taking in the complete look. This suit doesn't just fit, it flatters my form and accentuates my manly physique. The angled pockets slim my waist and the cut even adds inches to my height. It exudes refinement and sophistication with its understated elegance. I look, I feel and I smell, phenomenal. I'm ready to leave.
The weather is slightly cool, but not cold enough to necessitate an overcoat. I slip a few essentials into my pockets. Door keys, credit card, cigarette case. I descend the stairs, step out onto the chilly London street and pull the door to, behind me. A brisk breeze whips past. I feel it on my freshly shaven face and head, but not on my body. I will be warm enough tonight.
I raise my arm and a shiny black taxi, with glowing orange beacon, pulls up beside me.
"The Savoy Hotel," I say through the open window.
