I need help. My friends and family would say that I’ve never had any particular fashion sense or style, but having just nudged into my 40th year I’ve smashed head-long into a genuine clothing crisis.
Ultimately I reckon I’m suffering from being a young old bloke and an old young bloke.
My wardrobe is packed with much-loved hoodies, t-shirts and raggedy old shorts.
Yet my social and professional conscience is screaming ‘give up fool, wear a smart shirt, shoes and trousers. You dress like a goon; no-one is going to take you seriously when you look like Worzel’.
I have vivid memories of my dad heading off to work; clean-shaven, polished shoes, tidy suit and a Windsor-knotted tie that had been crafted with military precision.
He embodied a professional – dressing smart, thinking smart.
I go to work looking like a skateboarder who’s just stumbled back into civilisation after being stuck on a desert island for 11 years.
I’m stubbly, haggard and sloganed.
Looking at smoothly-dressed chaps my age, I want to look like them.
Yet when I head out to the shops and try the clobber on, I look like a 1970s geography teacher and I feel trussed up like a Christmas turkey.
The annual shopping trip has become a calamity.
My wanton appetite for sharply-cut shirts and flannels hastily descends into a rampant sweep through the sale rails, feasting on retro Adidas t-shirts.
I’m hoping that it’s just a simple age issue.
Fingers crossed, one day I’ll wake up and decide that I want to spend my waking hours stepping out in Farah trousers and enjoying the sensation of cheap polyester against my skin, donning supermarket easy-iron shirts.
If that doesn’t happen, the future is worryingly bleak.
The Bunker family photo in the year 2038 will feature my wife holding our grandchild – looking graceful, stood beside a dishevelled, platinum-bearded, misplaced OAP in a surfing hoody with corduroy patches on the elbows.