There are relatively few occasions when one does not look incongruous in a linen suit. Last Friday morning on the district line at nine o’clock is definitely not one. Squeezed in amongst the bleary eyed masses stinking of last night’s jaegerbombs I stood out like a busy firefly minding his own business in an onyx Amazon night.
Three hours later I was under the effervescent English sun at Glorious Goodwood in a vast sea of linen clad brethren.
The day began with the usual shower and shave. However, I decided against my usual racing gear of grapefruit and red trousers and set off in a wholly different route. The linen suit framed a pink shirt and Paisley tie; bold blue and yellow dotted socks were slotted into my favourite tassled loafers.
Breakfast was a mountain of glorious protein on a plate in a pub washed down with Guinness. I took…
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