Shirtfronted

Leaving Italy and in desperate need of some clean clothing, I found myself strolling down Jermyn Street.
There's nothing Aryan about it. It couldn't be more English; by its locality – in the centre of London – and by virtue of what it provides, access to high quality British artistry and craftsmanship.

Shopping on this strip can be an intimidating experience. Dating back to 1664 when Charles II authorised Henry Jermyn, the Earl of St Albans, to develop the area it has flourished ever since and is home to the city's finest men's tailors, suppliers of leather goods and shirt makers.

You need to have a purpose to shop on Jermyn Street. Enter a store, make a decision and don't look back.
I know shopping, at least I thought I did.

Captain Peacock swooped as soon as I stepped foot in his shop full of shirts.  He stopped short of asking the obvious question, "are you being served?" Instead, he politely enquired into my immediate needs and henceforth sprouted all the styles, cuts and colours of shirts that his boutique offered; straight-point collars, semi spreads, cutaways, long-button-down collars, short-button options, club collars, trim fit, slim fit, regular. I could feel myself starting to sweat, again.

Thanking the Captain for his introduction with the universal shopping acknowledgment of "just looking", he retreated to behind the till. With a pathway clear, I worked my way through the various displays and it was while flicking through a rack of brightly coloured threads that I soon realised there was nothing in the store to suit me.

At this point, Captain Peacock piped up again, "those are a collection of ladies' shirts sir". "Oh," I said. "I'm often attracted to female clothes. Must be the colour that does it," I replied. Silence. You could have heard a pin drop from a buttoned collar and onto the dark polished parquetry floor. I steadied myself and searched for a more fitting reply.

Instead, blood shot up from my ankles to my ear lobes in seconds. My face was hot, turned a rosy shade and I felt more like Thomas PINK than Simon Dean.

If there was room on the shelves, I would have slid between the paisleys and the stripes but there was nowhere to hide. The boutique's entrance was a long cuff away and I needed to shimmy past the Captain and his colleague in order to leave. There were no other potential buyers in the store, so the focus was well and truly on my shambolic frame wearing shorts, runners and a ragged check shirt from Massimo Dutti, one that I simply wanted to replace.

Shuffling sideways and avoiding eye contact, I retraced my path, one that ran parallel to the racks of expensive finery. Flicking through the hanging shirt sleeves that I'd already viewed, I tried to maintain the necessary false appearance that I was in total control. Far from it. I was a quivering mess, underdressed and hopelessly ill prepared to cope with this gentlemen outfitter.

I reached the door and blurted "thank you, goodbye" over my left shoulder before exiting. I could have sworn Captain Peacock responded with "thank you madam" but I was in no state to mount a challenge nor get shirty with him.

Once outside, I inhaled a deep lungful of oxygen and ran in the direction of Germany.