No Night Sweats N o  N i g h t  S w e a t s No Night Sweats
Sydney's Post-Punk Bands
I Like Music
Slapp Happy are Terrific
A List of CDs
Text is What I Write
Crime Fiction is Silly
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As I have probably said before, I've never been known for my satorial elegance. Fashion trends have mostly passed me by and designer labels have almost always been anathema to me. Nowadays I simply put things on to cover me in the most comfortable way, in the least amount of time possible. And this is as it should be. 

The only time I really tried to have a 'look' was in the early Eighties. I affected a fairly retro guise made up with Op-Shop suits of dubious vintage topped, almost always, with a quite fetching green vest that I wore to distraction. I also started to sport a cheap felt hat ('nothing up my sleeve...presto') bought from Sydney's main old style menswear outlet - 'Gowings'. [I eventually lost this up the windy London tube lines amidst much gnashing of teeth and wailing of throat]. The whole look was quite down-at-heels 30's or 40's and, I'll admit readily, was in direct emulation of street photos taken of my Dad, looking hungry, sharp and whippet-thin, with an innocent twinkle in his eye and a perennial cigarette dangling rakishly from a permanent grin. I just wanted to feel more of a connection, I suppose. 

At the airport before I went overseas in the mid 80's I stood between my Dad and Mum for a quick polaroid or two. Dad had ditched the depression look years ago and, instead, looked comfy in his 70's style cardigan, perfect for Saturday afternoons at the RSL. I'm next to him in my well-worn, emerald coloured vest and scratchy, brown woolen pants held up by thin red suspenders and with a shock of root-permed quiff (many Japanese would stare at me in abject amazement during the coming weeks). 

At least the ghost of a similar, uncertain smile lies on both our faces.
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