This evening, mon cher lecteur, I have engaged in one of the gayest activities in my life to date¹: I rearranged my wardrobe. I’ll confess that it was long overdue: three bin bags have been filled ready to be taken to a charity shop and another, containing those articles too horrific to inflict on the general public², to be taken for recycling.

This binge of sartorial housekeeping was brought on by a number of things, not least the happy realisation that I’ve lost enough weight over the past couple of years that most of my wardrobe no longer fits me in any sensible way- although I have kept a couple of old t-shirts, just in case the need ever arises that I have to accomodate a medium-sized scout troop in the garden. Additionally, because I am a Bad Gay, I’ve never really had much of a sense of fashion or style. I’ve spent much of my life in uniforms: first at school, then in the trade. Given that my workwear has generally either been a black trousers/white shirt combo or chef’s whites, my casual clothing has always been something of a reaction against this. Probably out of some desire to “fit in”, I’ve frequently latched on to all sorts of absurd trends and consequently bought clothing that does not suit me. Not only that, as I realise that I’m now closer to 30 than I am to 20, I can no longer get away with looking like a scruffy fashion-blind undergrad, let alone aspire to the chic, studied dishevelled look that my more fashionable younger friends acquaintances at university pull off so well.

Sick of the burning, acidic envy which arises every time I see some stylishly-dressed guy of my own age (who is, of course, oozing that smug self-confidence born of a disposable income, active social life and decent career), I have resolved to do something about it- mainly for the sake of my own self-esteem and because in the latter years of this decade it is thoroughly reprehensible for a man to wear boot-cut jeans, let alone own five pairs of them.

So, what is a bookish, faintly dorky, mid-to-late-twentysomething fashion disaster to do? Buy a book, of course. It arrived this morning (along with the latest and last Deverry book), and I’ve been studying it well. Casting an appraising eye over what’s left of my wardrobe after throwing everything that’s hideous, that doesn’t fit or that’s falling to pieces, I see that I can probably carry off a fairly sophisticated, vaguely preppy style with what’s there. I could do with a few more things, another pair of decent jeans, some more good pullovers, socks without holes etc; but hopefully this will set me on the road to dressing with somewhat more style than I currently have.

Vanity rules.

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1) Short of, y’know, actual penetrative sex with another man.

2) Distressed boot-cut jeans, scaggy decade-old briefs, old trainers, a fur-trimmed denim jacket and other such terata.