Making a sartorial effort seems increasingly pointless – especially when my fashionista toddler is grabbing all the attention
For some time now, my son’s clothes have looked better than my own, and I’m starting to resent it. We deliberately keep him nicely, if cheaply, dressed, but I hadn’t anticipated him having so many outfits I’d happily wear myself if they came in my size. (I’ve asked and they don’t.)
Not that they’d even have the same effect if they did. When I wear high-top trainers and skinny jeans, the philistines in Hackney’s parks barely notice. When my son does it, they clutch their faces like he’s Jean Paul Gaultier, scandalising Milan with another of his audacious creations, albeit while falling off a swing. His oilskin jacket, covered in tiny little dinosaur icons, stops traffic. Stick him in a woolly orange overcoat (with fox ears on the hood) and planes fall from the sky.
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