About this time of year I’m in a quandary concerning clothes. My clothes always in a quandary. Either they’re too loose or too tight according to my avoirdupoised excesses.
I’m speaking about forsaking winter woollies, the clutch of winter singlet and venturing into the athletic attire which is the only athletic thing about me.
Recently I wore my Harris Tweed suit and the day turned warm and steam rose from me by the time I had breasted the railway station barriers.
Next day I had taken the plunge into summer apparel; the wind whinged, and goose pimples came up like Australia II on the last leg.
One day I wore winter under-pants and a summer singlet so that I would be half right. This brings me to weather forecasts; it’s all very telling graziers about a cold front, or forecasting air pollution levels, but what about underwear forecasts?
People in the Adelaide area are advised that wearers of trunks may for chilly kneecaps after 4 p.m. Winds will switch to the south-west around the armpits.
And so on.
One must blame the current epidemic of throats, chests and viral vexations on this uncertainty of underwear. Hot, moist air is all very well, but when it’s blowing over my infected tonsils because a virus sneaked by when in singleted frailty I went to wheel a barrow in the garden under the impression that it was spring, I become unsure and uneasy.
I still go to work with a bag of pullovers and have been seen stripping at my desk while office colleagues have gathered around, shrieking, “Take it off, take it off,” amid much obscene whistling and catcalls.
This brings me to my summer wardrobe which came out amid cloud of evicted moths while I began trying on coats to see whether they fitted and shirts to see whether they buttoned and trousers that had been let out to their last stitch.
May I say my summer wardrobe will be about the same as last year; the usual greys and blues, the old safari suit that looks as if it has been mauled by a lion, the buttock bracers which some people de scribe as shorts and my long socks which will again unleash my unique knees upon the sensibilities of an unsuspecting public.
I haven’t the name of Lard Legs for nothing!
My tailors are ready for my onslaught. They have been practising all winter on wheat bags.
I envy my wife and women who can buy nice frocks at reasonable rates while I must needs go for measuring and reflecting by my trouser-makers who said last year. “Man has built the Great Wall and the Colossus of Rhodes. Now for the real challenge.”
So I’m putting the dark suits of winter into their slumbering recesses, hibernating on their hangers until the cold breath of another season arouses their drowsing lapels.
This brings me to the great pyjama switch. There is some disappointment that I’m moving away from the frenzied marriage of heliotrope stripes and wool that caused cars to run off the road whenever I appeared in the garden.
I now go into my shortie pyjama circuit. This year I am in lavender and pink.
I appeared briefly on the verandah in the new season’s wear and several people rang the Meteorological Bureau to say that Halley’s Comet had arrived earlier than expected.
This will go with my new high- line dressing gown, mottled and spectacular, that sends shocked visitors back to their cars and neighbouring dogs whining to their kennels.
I can’t help it. Summer brings out the gipsy in me. Sometimes I wear a knotted handkerchief over my brow and my old cricketing hats and fishing regalia are out again airing themselves atop that fine dome of bone that presents one of the most interesting cranial structures since the discovery of the Piltdown Man.
All this means the human frame, like Nature itself, turns and acclimatises to the seasons.
I have looked over my thong rack wondering whether I’ll wear the ones with pink plastic straps or blue rubber. It also reminds me that it is time to cut my toenails, if I can find a friendly blacksmith.
I find this transition period difficult but I am prepared for the changeability of climate. Dress must not cause duress; comfort before haute couture. I shall not hide my tights under a bushel.
Sail into summer with sincerity. Let your garments play fast and loose. Indulge and bulge. It’s changeover time!
Max Fatchen