Max Olijnyk

Nearly four years ago, on my birthday, well, the day after my birthday, we were strolling around a fancy part of old London town, walking past cafes where Kiera Knightley is a regular and looking in the windows of fancy shops, all the while being warned off buying anything by our host and notorious spendthrift Siggy. ‘You can waste your money if you like,’ he had shrugged the day before, as we set off to have birthday brunch at Ottolenghi, ‘but Charlotte can make us that food for a fraction of the cost.’

We were in an upmarket men’s clothing shop, the kind that sells American work boots, socks spun from fine silk and, weirdly, Palace skateboards. A blue jacket caught my eye. ‘Oh, that’s cool,’ I said. ‘It’s like the one Bill Cunningham wears.’ Rosie agreed and told me to try it on. It was one of those perfect retail moments: the jacket slipped on like it had been made for me, the fabric so soft, the sleeves a perfect length. The mirror had a similarly positive report. I suddenly looked smarter, yet relaxed. I put my hands in the pockets. I did up the buttons and undid them again: smooth. This jacket was amazing! It was ridiculously expensive, and I took it off and returned it to the rack, but even Siggy suggested that perhaps I should reconsider. ‘It’s a good jacket,’ he said, eyebrows raised, surprised at himself. Rosie was already at the counter, buying it for me as a late birthday surprise.

Since that fateful day, I’ve worn my blue jacket nearly every day. Part linen, part cotton, it’s perfect for all seasons, and its slightly longer than usual cut makes it ideal for a bike rider. I can see why Bill wears them religiously. Over the years, the jacket has aged quite a bit, to the point where the shoulders had gone white and there were holes in a pocket and elbow. I searched online for a replacement, but they really are an elusive item. Many brands now produce a similar jacket – probably inspired by someone like me who wanted a new one – but none of them are quite as good. I’ve even had a pattern made of it, but can’t seem to track down the right fabric. I moved on to other jackets and tried to kid myself they were worthy replacements.

A while ago, I decided to try to fix bluey. I’m not sure why the idea hadn’t occurred to me earlier; maybe it was a part of emerging from the first year-and-a-half of Fred’s life, blinking at the sun, dizzy with the prospect of an hour or two to myself. I began looking into Sashiko stitching, a Japanese method of mending holes in fabric by hand. I did that at night while we watched Game of Thrones. I got in trouble for dropping pins on the floor. Then I bought some navy dye from the supermarket, but hesitated before using it. This was my blue jacket, after all. I ordered a natural indigo dye kit from the internet and waited for it. I did it all over the weekend just been. It was quite a production, but very enjoyable. The first dip was very satisfying: when I pulled out the jacket and some other shirts I had committed to the process, they looked greeny yellow, but as I hung them on the clothesline, they changed colour before my eyes. It was magical! I had forgotten to wet the fabric first, so the garments that started white had a marbled, crumpled, yet still lovely look to them.

But old bluey looked magnificent. Over the weekend I dipped her back in the dye four or five times, though I’m not sure how much difference it made. She’s finished now, restored nearly to her former glory, and I’m almost scared to put her on again. What if she’s not as good any more? Am I clinging onto the past too tightly? Is this all an elaborate form of procrastination from writing my stories? I almost prefer the shirts, because they’re so strange. Ah well. Fred just woke up.