tweed and leather


I was always out playing. With Lizzie, mostly. Up and down Mare street, nicking whelks off the one-eyed man with the seafood stall. And she’d distract him by asking for a pint of prawns and a blank stare and I’d blindside him and pocket a fistful of cockles. Oh, I adored Lizzie! And she adored me. Every night, when we dragged ourselves away from each other, I’d say, “Cash or cheque?” And she’d say, “Cash.” And I’d get a kiss on the cheek.
Our favourite game was wedding day. She was always the bride, of course, and I would be the groom. I’d get my dad’s best coat. Grey tweed, leather buttons, smell of sweat, coal. Bits of dried-up tobacco in the breast pocket. I’d have to wait for her at the end of the aisle, the back alley where our mothers would hang the washing. And I’d watch her, holding my breath, as she picked her way through the grey sheets and stained drawers, a huge, stupid smile on her face. And when she reached me and put her arm through mine… I fair exploded. I loved her. I knew that. I longed to take her in my arms and kiss her neck. Would she allow it? Could she? I just didn’t know.
Then bloody William Foyle turned up. All big muscles, crooked smile and twinkly-eyed. And she fell for him straightaway. He bought her a tuppence bag of aniseed balls and she was lost. I was heartbroken. She still said “cash” when we did manage to see each other, but… I could see her heart wasn’t in it. She looked sad. But not for her, for me. “Don’t be like that, Ellen,” she’d say. Touching my arm. Once, she took me in. She took pity on me. And we sat by the fire. I had my arms wrapped around her waist. And… I just let my hand drop lower and lower until it was resting in her glorious lap. I moved my hand slowly, slowly. She froze… then relaxed. I waited. Minutes groaned by. She let me. She… let me. And then, all of a sudden, she jumped up, grabbed her shawl and ran out the back door. I called after her, but she didn’t turn back. It was exactly two weeks later than I ran into her buying a loaf of bread. “Lizzie,” I said, “I’m sorry. Please, please speak to me.” “Don’t,” she said. She sort of hissed it. I searched her face for a sign of softness, but there was none. There was only fear. Only fear. She turned on her heel and marched off.

The Perfect Gentleman (written by Jackie Clune)


I don’t care if it’s spring. It’s cold and I’m going to wear this because I’m keeping autumn alive in my heart.

All the favourites are here - donegal tweed, flannel, Fair Isle, grain leather and purple socks!

The tie is one that @drakesdiary sent me out of the kindness of their hearts months ago when I asked for some of their lookbooks. Thank you for the square and all the inspiration!

Yesterday’s Seiko makes and appearance and I think it looks good in this ensemble as well.

Jacket - Patrick Johnson with fabric from @caccioppoli1920

Cardigan Vest - Jamieson’s

Shirt - Borrelli

Tie, Square - Drake’s

Flannel Trousers - Howard Yount

Socks - Uniqlo

Shoes - Crockett and Jones

Eleutheromania- The Rebel

At night she leaves.

She runs to the monsters in the streets

and the monsters in the sheets,

to leave the monsters under her bed dead and in her red bed head-

then blue, black, blonde.

She always neglects to set the alarm.

Because of bets and debts,

she’s disarmed herself

in the hope the strawberry vodka

will render her long gone.

Because it’s better to drown

the sounds of her screams in lean,

than be stuck in a never ending cycle of bad dreams.

So she runs faster, further, farther from her father,

while thoughts of “auto-slaughter” run beside her:

his least favorite daughter;

though she’s the only one he has.

Even as her fingers twist in the sheets,

and her lungs fill with weed,

she’s chalked her regrets up to

the young dweeb in a tweed jacket,

with leather elbow patches,

that stole her heart for the first time.

So on Friday and Saturday,

pills are popped and lips are locked

as the drip drop of the bathroom tap

plays in the back,

like the eight track in her grandfathers cadillac,

and on the Sabbath nights, she’s having her first, second, and third thoughts

racking archived catalogues,

for something that’ll show she’s not completely lost,

laying in a bed she never bought.

On the trek home she has to make,

her left heel breaks.

It’s raining so hard the street is a lake,

but she’s still far too drunk to give the walk of shame it’s namesake.

Monday comes and she’s staring in the mirror,

holding her favorite pair of scissors and

trying to convince herself no one will miss her if she just disappears.

She writes her favorite people letters

and puts on that fated black sweater,

because things just arent getting better;

but as hard as she tries,

something just won’t let her.

Tuesday through Thursday pass the same,

with the smoke from the kush clouding her brain.

But on Friday at 6,

she swears,

she swears she’ll do it.

She can’t.

Instead she leaves.