Sumit

since all the contents are in piles in other rooms, but nearly all the decoration is done and the furniture’s ordered.

... and beside them, the Sweet and the Treat, the authors of an eponymous grooming algorithm. The principle was simple: should a woman dress like a sweet or a treat? A sweet enticed the beholder to delve for the goodies within; a treat laid those goodies bare. Wedding dress? Not for nothing were they slated as meringues. Sweet. Little black dress? Little left to the imagination. Treat. Bikinis, ballgowns, A-lines and V-necks: all could be neatly pigeonholed – or at least shoehorned – into Sweets or Treats.

That insight would not by itself have amounted to much; but the Sweet and the Treat had successfully parlayed it into a minor media empire by adding the dimension of time to that of choice. Millions of women had been persuaded: the key to heteronormative happiness lay in selecting the correct mode for the correct occasion. First date? Sweet. Third date? Treat. Now they were pushing at a bold new frontier: The Sweet had been working for two years on an equally pithy summation of mens’ clothing choices.

Thus far, however, the breakthrough insight had proven elusive, and the strain pulled at her normally placidly doughy features. By contrast, The Treat, whose waspish dominatrix stylings gave the double act its straight man, seemed blithely carefree; or perhaps pinpricks of poison had frozen her sentiments as effectively as her forehead. She stared, with cool self-assurance, across the table at the figures of The Salt and The Tart …

Making pancakes. Took my jacket off in favour of an apron, but the tie stayed on.

Today I went to see a friend whose marriage is dissolving. Once there, I realised that I was wearing these cufflinks, which he and his wife gave me for being one of the readers at their wedding. Since I have more cufflinks than occasions to wear them, it was actually the first time I had used them. I don’t think he noticed; but it goes to show that you can still be dressed inappropriately no matter how smart your clothes are.

Babysitting. A few tears and some messy eating, but mostly okay. (And that was just me, boom boom.)

I don’t really carry a purse, but I like the idea.

So on day eleven I went to Sunday service at church. This is more remarkable than it sounds, given that a) I’m an atheist b) it was a Brazilian congregation, and I am not Brazilian c) it was conducted entirely in Portuguese, which I don’t understand. But at least I was appropriately dressed, for once.

Moving day for a friend. Suit didn’t get in the way as much as expected – and looked less out of place given that my fellow removal man also showed up in jacket and tie!

So I was having a conversation this morning about how my suits and ties (which are, on the whole, pretty conservative) don’t really match either my personality or the ways that I normally dress. Which is true, but misses the point as far as this particular project is concerned: I want to wear a suit that’s as neutral as possible.

Part of the intention is to see what effect the formality has on my interactions with people – something I think would be compromised if I was wearing something that gave away more about my personality, or for that matter, which I felt less more comfortable in. But I do think I’ll be looking for some new threads once it’s over.

Taking the compost out in the snow wearing a nasty suit whose buttons have all fallen off: priceless.

So yesterday was the first day that I couldn’t really be bothered with the suit – not so much the suit, but the rigmarole of grooming that goes with it. It turned out to be an unexpected playday and I’d rather have just put on the first clothes that came to hand than get into the ritual of shaving, hair arrangement, smoothing and tucking. (I realise this will sound ridiculously whiny to anyone who actually has look presentable every day, but there it is.)

Didn’t help that the suit for the day was the cheapo disposable, which feels more like dressing down than dressing up. Clearly it’s not just the action of wearing a suit that’s important (for me); it needs to be a suit that feels like I’m making some kind of effort. Or else it might just as well be a tracksuit.

Hardware, hardwearing. Cold today, hence the lousy jumper.

So today was the first day I wore the “disposable” suit I bought for the purposes of this project. Dedicated though I am, there’s no way I’m going to destroy any of my existing (expensive) suits for housework and the rest. So I bought a cheapo suit from Tesco (and yes, I am conflicted about that, thank you for asking) for such purposes.

It’s not bad value at 25 pounds; less than it cost to buy the shirt I wore it with, and with change left over for a two quid silver polyester tie. That said, the material is pretty nasty, albeit probably durable, it doesn’t fit well and there are innumerable little quality issues with it. Not least the aforementioned detachable button feature.

The fact that (I thought) it looked cheap undoubtedly affected my carriage today. There’s probably quite a bit that could be said about social attitudes in general, and my moderately-affluent middle-class snobbery in particular. But it’s past my bedtime, so just one observation.

During the course of the day I had to go down to Hounslow West to pick up some money for my builders. I’m pretty sure that in my normal suit I’d have felt a bit wary; it’s not the best area to be wandering around with large sums of cash. But I felt dressed down, and therefore not a target.

Almost certainly an illusion: both that I was ever a target, and that wearing a nominally cheap suit made me less of one. But it’s of such illusions that self-image is made.

Standards. That’s what it’s all about. Keeping up standards. A man wearing a suit is a man who has standards. A man of probity. A man of high morals. A man who means business. A man whose word is his bond. A man who will defend rectitude in public life. A man who does not shirk his responsibility.

Imagine a world in which we men, like our forefathers and their forefathers before them, bore the serious, adult garb of the suit no matter what the occasion or task at hand. No jeans and T-shirts; none of the odious venality of “smart casual”; no polo shirts, no anoraks, chinos, sweaters or trainers.

Would that not be a formidable world? A world of seriousness and intent, a world in which great things were done by men who rose to the occasion rather than slumping into their bulge-waisted khakis and shapeless fleeces? Would it not be a better world if we cast off the trappings of the boychild to stand proud and declare through our words, our actions, and our dress that yes: we are men?

Or, y’know, we might just look like we’ve been thrown out of a casting call for Saturday Night Fever.

A suit is not a particularly extreme garment. But mine has been provoking a distinct reaction among both casual passers-by and closer acquaintances. Whether this is because I’ve been wearing one in unconventional circumstances, because people aren’t used to seeing me in one or because I’ve been carrying myself stiffly, I couldn’t say.

It’s probably a combination of all three – I think the third, in particular, is quite a major factor. There’s nothing remarkable about wearing a suit, and when I wear one “normally” I’m pretty comfortable in it. But the knowledge that I have no particular reason to be wearing one, and the consequent feeling that I’m wearing a costume, pervades the way I’m conducting myself at the moment. And there’s also the assertiveness that typically arises when wearing business armour.

So minor interactions are that bit more formal; there’s a little more evaluation mixed into casual glances on the street. At Borough Market this morning (where today’s picture was taken, about to eat an oyster) the traders were a bit more respectful than usual, which I didn’t really like. Again, it’s hard to say if they were reacting to the suit itself, or to my self-consciousness in it.

For my part, I’m a bit more carefully spoken and perhaps playing a role at times: slightly to my own surprise, I took a taxi rather than be late to my writing group this afternoon. (Normally, you understand, I count myself more or less on time if I arrive anything up to forty-five minutes after the appointed hour.) There was also a mild thrill when I swore a couple of times over the course of the day – it would hardly ever be acceptable to cuss on the occasions when I’m suited and booted for more conventional reasons.

I’ve been surprised by how interested people who know me (but don’t know about the suit-wearing project) have been. I’d expected that at most a couple of people at my support group last night, and the writing group today, might ask if I’d come from work or was off somewhere after. But actually the questioning has been much more swift and universal: Why are you wearing that?

It seems that we’re pretty keen to police our unspoken dress codes; a suit is perhaps particularly puzzling since it’s less attention-grabbing than most forms of stuntwear. Most have been amused by the explanation, though a few simply haven’t really got it until I couch it as “for a bet” – which it isn’t really. For some people, it seems, even such a minor stunt as wearing a suit in unexpected contexts is a cryptic and perhaps dangerous deviation from social norms.

And perhaps they’re not wrong. The most extreme of today’s reactions came from someone who was almost certainly not quite right in the head – in the City, of all places. (Surely fewer places on Earth must see more suits than the Square Mile, even if it was a weekend?) Having spotted me, he saluted smartly and launched into a foghorn-voiced sergeant-major impression, barking orders and strutting down the road. I hastily turned a corner. He carried on shouting.

In retrospect, February was probably the wrong month to do this. Brr. But that didn’t stop me from having an ice cream – without spillage, amazingly. Today’s whistle was again my black travel suit, my cheapo disposable (bought specifically for this project) having lost a button before I even finished doing it up. Gah.

I will be wearing a suit throughout February – all day, every day – for reasons that will be explained later. Today’s discoveries: pasta salad and suits don’t mix (note to self: remember the existence of napkins); and it is hard to carry a fully-loaded rubbish bin at arm’s length.

but my favourite was this one, on a beach in Bamburgh on the northeastern coast of England.

all the time, often without knowing it. But I’ve used this goal to spur myself into finally sponsoring a child, something I’ve been meaning to do for a very long time. I have no idea whether the money I give really does go towards an individual child’s needs, or whether it’s just a marketing device (with the best of intentions) that personalizes the act of charity; but I don’t really care. Either way, I hope it really will change somebody’s life for the better.

a long story with this one, which maybe I’ll tell when I get the time.