Open All Hours

I dress, almost exclusively, in charity shop clothing. I say “almost exclusively” because I am, on very rare occasions, prone to treating myself to a rather nice, new shirt for those times I never actually go out. These rare new purchases hang in the wardrobe like exhibits in a museum of unfulfilled social plans.

You may wonder what the above image of Ronnie Barker and David Jason references, but that will become clear.

My mornings start clean. Serviceable charity shop polo shirt, trousers or shorts, depending on the weather, and every intention of remaining presentable until bedtime. Hay, ever the voice of reason, will warn me to change into my second-best charity shop clothing if I’m about to do anything that might involve grease. “Second-best” meaning the stuff already boasting the faint whiff of petrol and that subtle patina of mystery stains.

The problem is, I sometimes “just pop” into the garage to do a clean job on the GT6 – something that doesn’t, at first glance, require a change of attire. That’s where the rot sets in. I think, “Well, if I’m careful, I can do so-and-so job,” which invariably turns out to be a so-and-so job involving enough grease to lubricate the QE2. Even if it’s just on my hands, those hands inevitably find their way to my clothing, like an absent-minded MP fiddling with the expenses forms.

I have, in theory, a solution: two grocers’ coats, the kind worn by Ronnie Barker in Open All Hours, that can be quickly thrown on to protect my clothes. I also own a full set of overalls – brand new, never used, hanging there like some mythical suit of armour for a battle I’ve never fought. The trouble is, I rarely use either. It’s always “just a minute” and “it’s a clean job” right up until it isn’t.

The net result is a constant migration of the morning’s clean clothing to the work clothes drawer – a drawer now twice the size of the clean clothing one, which needs constant restocking from the local charity shops. It’s become a sort of textile black hole, sucking in pristine garments and spitting them out with mysterious black streaks and the faint aroma of EP90.

One day I’ll learn. But then again, probably not.