The murky world of fashion is as a closed book to you, Peter.
A thing (or rather a person) that I noticed the other week while pottering about the Tate like some vaguely middle-class oik pretending that standing next to some capital-C Culture would rub off on me in some as-yet undetermined manner, perhaps in the same way that people think/thought that fondling the preserved body parts of an alleged saint and/or Socialist Personage makes/made them more saintly and/or Stakhanovite, was a chap in an old black suit. He was wearing his beret pulled down towards his ears in the manner of my grandfather, and seemed of military bearing. Artist's Rifles, perhaps, although more artist than rifle.
Since it was rather warm in that there Londons (in fact the light was positively Ballardian), he hauled off his jacket to reveal a long-sleeved t-shirt of strikingly dark lilac. (At least I think that was the colour. The version of purple that leans towards Blancmange with a hint of Potassium conflagration.)
... Which is a somewhat long-winded way of failing to explain that I dug his style daddio.
Since it was rather warm in that there Londons (in fact the light was positively Ballardian), he hauled off his jacket to reveal a long-sleeved t-shirt of strikingly dark lilac. (At least I think that was the colour. The version of purple that leans towards Blancmange with a hint of Potassium conflagration.)
... Which is a somewhat long-winded way of failing to explain that I dug his style daddio.