As they wandered along oblivious to anything and everything, I got to thinking maybe that's how my granddad saw me not so long ago.
He was always very formally dressed. Jacket and tie, preferably military, even to go to the shops. When he got home the jacket came off and a cardigan went on. I can't be sure, but I think he slept with the tie on.
Nonetheless, he was always very smart right up to the day he died. Obviously the cardy and tie did the trick.
Ladies of all ages would often comment on his smartness.
While I may not have set the world on fire, in my younger days my stylish attire was not without its admirers. Of course I'm supposing that open-mouthed gaping is, in fact, admiration. It may well have been the opposite.
Whatever. I'm sure they still talk about my appearance at my first school disco, way back in 1974.
I had arrived in New Zealand from swinging London only months before and for the big night out I wore what any self-respecting English lad on the brink of the teenage chasm was wearing - flared Oxford bags (trousers to the uninitiated) with deep turn-ups (cuffs), paisley shirt, skinny rib jumper and four inch-high black and red platform heels.
The crowning glory was my David Bowie-inspired, ginger-dyed haircut. Spiky on top and long at the back, though it was growing out by that stage and probably resembled a fat ginger tom. But as far as I was concerned, I was the bee's knees.
Unfortunately, my big NZ debut was in Greymouth on the West Coast where, in those days, men's fashion basically revolved round a black T-shirt and jeans. Even adidas stripes on the sleeves were unacceptable and a sign of a big noter spending money over the hill in Christchurch.
Thus, it didn't take long for me to ditch the ways (and clothes) of the old country. It was made all the more easier by the introduction of the Punch A Pom A Day campaign at that time. I mean, why would you want to stick out like a sore thumb with plenty of would-be Muhammad Alis wanting to join the fun?
Anyway, I survived and these days I'm pretty much a traditionalist when it comes to clothes. I've noticed my attitude to them has changed the older I've got. The medical experts in the family tell me it's a physiological thing.
Basically, at a certain time of your life, the hormones realise they can no longer have their wicked way with you and sensible, rational thoughts begin to take over. Apparently it's irreversible.
I'm not happy with that. I'm determined not to slide into cardy and tie territory like my granddad so as a symbol of my intent to keep it at bay, I've taken to wearing my jeans halfway down my backside and I'm off out to get a second medical opinion.
Only trouble is I can't walk like this and every time I shuffle past Mrs P she tells me not to be a silly old sod and pull my pants up.
