Suits you, Sir


I MISS the old days when clothing and shoe sizes were exactly what they said on the label, and didn’t depend on who made them or whether they were drunk or sober when they did it.

I have weird shaped feet, sort of aero dynamic and pointed – dangerous really.

However my shoe size has always been nine and a half in UK terms and supposedly 44 here. But I have always found that 43 is the perfect fit for me with Spanish shoes, the equivalent of size 9.

Fine on the face of it, but having purchased a pair of comfortable 43’s recently, I went back to the store during their sales and tried another pair that had caught my fancy. Good job I did.

The 43’s were too large but when I tried a pair of 42’s aka size 8, a size I left behind in school days, they were far too small.

And yet both pairs were made by the same Elche manufacturer.

It’s the same with patterned tee shirts. I have found through trial and error that in one international Spanish chain, those made in Bangladesh or Portugal are less generous in their sizing than those made in Morocco.

A Moroccan XL fits perfectly whilst the others look as if my body has been decorated by a mad tattooist.

Length of leg is another issue I have, because unless my lower appendages have shrunk in the wash, the strides that I need today are a full inch shorter than the ones I previously required.

But now I’m thinking, hold on. It’s inside leg measurement in the UK, and perhaps they measure it from some other location on the leg in the rest of the world.

Which brings back some unsavoury memories from my younger lad-about-town days when I used a bespoke tailor for my three piece suits.

I didn’t stop buying made-to-measure because I could no longer afford it, but because of the measuring process and numerous fittings.

The assistant always took far too long taking my inside leg measurement for my liking, and seemed to dally around the crown jewels longer than was necessary.

My patience snapped one day when he asked me for the hundredth time, which side I dressed on, and I snapped: “You’re the expert mate, you tell me” and walked out.

From then on it was off-the-peg at Hepworths.

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