I've been cheering myself up, amid the January gloom, by trying to appear posher than I really am. I began by fishing out my old waxed jacket for yomps across the Heath.
When, about ten years ago, I bought this in an east London "Mind" shop, I assumed it was simply a knackered Barbour. In fact, as several awed Country Life readers have pointed out to me over the years, it is a Purdey, which is more prestigious because . . . well, nobody knows why. It is also knackered to just the right degree, and one of the pockets is ripped in a way that is obligatory on the grouse moors of Scotland.
I've been wearing my one remaining pair of Church's shoes as well, which I bought when I still had money to spare. Such is the state of the soles that, every time I wear them, I have to sacrifice a pair of socks, but nobody is to know that, and expendable socks are one thing that we 39-year-old men have no shortage of in the aftermath of Christmas.
The most prestigious thing to be doing in Britain in January is getting away from it. (Most of the people I needed to speak to over Christmas, but couldn't because they were away, have now returned, only to tell me that, in fact, I needed all along to speak to somebody else who was around at Christmas but is now skiing.)
Well now I've managed to fix up a couple of jaunts for myself. These are journalistic assignments but, again, nobody need know. Instead, I shall be irritating people on my return by beginning sentences with the words "When I was in New England last week . . .", which cuts more ice than "When I was in New England on a freebie last week . . ."
I also went for the "Special" at my local car valeting centre, which includes a thorough clean and lacquered tyres "for that just fitted look". This piece of swank backfired, however, because thieves, probably lured by the "just fitted" look, broke in and did a thousand pounds worth of damage. I suppose I could start crowing that Skodas are now worth vandalising. On the whole, though, the gloom of January persists.
