Dressing for dinner

For those of us chaps who hail from a certain middle-class background in the UK – ‘bourgeois’ one might call it were it not for the pejorative connotations thereof (the Urban Dictionary includes this definition: “Bourgeois: originally refers to the middle class people in a capitalist society, however now used to refer to posh people!“) – there may be shared trajectory when it comes to the ownership of the necessary apparel and accoutrements for ‘dressing for dinner’.

This may be a little cryptic for some. Let me explain…

When one is a young man and goes up to college – or for some when they first find themselves in the sort of professional environment in which formal entertaining is de rigeur – there comes a point at which a young chap must needs have access to a dinner suit – or tuxedo, should satin be your thing. For most of us at that age and point in life, the purchase of such an outfit is out of the question and the costs of hiring seem similarly prohibitive.

For many the best course of action is (as it was for me) to scout around the many antique emporia with which the UK is blessed, searching for a suitable second (third, fourth, fifth!) hand outfit at a reasonable price. Given that most dinner suits see very little wear in their lifetimes this is an eminently sensible approach. I myself picked up a rather splendid Edwardian DJ many decades ago in an establishment that might have been in Bath – or just possibly in Camden Market in London… I forget which.

This sort of cobbled-together outfit usually does just fine until one slopes into middle age, expanding all the while in more ways than one. Of course, by that point one is usually also rather more comfortable in all regards and the hiring of a tux from a gent’s outfitter becomes just one of the incidental costs of life.

This course of action would probably see one through, were one not – like me – to find oneself in the sort of situation in which the invitations at certain times of year flood in so thick and fast that visits to Moss Bros (or other clothier of choice) become an almost weekly occurrence. There came a point in my middle years when the costs of repeated DJ rentals caused me to rethink the math (as they say in North America) and to accept that it was time to bite the bullet and to purchase my very own dinner suit. It might also at this point have crossed my mind that I could pass the fruits of such an investment on to my son and heir – if I had one – which I don’t…

What I did not anticipate was that at some later point the aforementioned tux would be unexpectedly rendered obsolete. For this some of the blame must be laid at the (dainty) feet of the Kickass Canada Girl, for it was she who suggested that – for our then impending nuptials – I might finally acquire for myself the complete Highland regalia. Once one owns the full eight yards, the Prince Charlie, the Ghillie Brogues, the Sgian Dubh and all the other trimmings one has little need for an alternative formal dress.

Or so I though until a few weeks back! When I offered to assist a dear friend with the hosting of a pre-Christmas ‘At Home’ at her magnificent residence but a short hop up-island, I am not sure quite what form I expected that support to take. It turned out that what she had in mind was that I should dress formally for the occasion in tails (I fore-went the white tie, but at least my black tie was a ‘real’ one: most Victorians seem prepared only to sport the ‘pre-tied’ variety!). Now – I don’t have a tailcoat of my own and had to hire one, but to save money I determined to press into service my old dress trousers (‘pants’ for Canadians).

I had not worn these for over a decade and nor had I tried them on until the day before the event. I hardly need say that I am somewhat more stockily built than I was in my younger days and even after emergency button-shifting surgery I learned over a five-hour period a little of what it must have been like for the ladies back in the days when corsets were worn.

Of such rich experiences our lives are made…