The Yahtorialist


by Thomas Cuthbertson

I spend an inordinate amount of time staring out of the window. You would have thought that the charming view from my bedroom (one pane totally obscured by a tree, the other offering the delightful sight of my next door neighbour’s compost heap) would have spurred me on to find better ways of filling my time. Alas no: afflicted with the attention span of a giddy child and with a propensity to be easily distracted by shiny objects, whatever I am doing my gaze inevitably migrates outside. For the past few weeks, undoubtedly ominously dark clouds that seem to wait to empty their contents until the precise moment at which I decide to venture out have largely obscured the view.

The recent weather conditions represent something of a problem for me on both a practical and a sartorial level. I lived in Glasgow – a city composed more of rain than of stone – for five years, but in spite of this I never seem to have quite managed to acquire an even vaguely waterproof garment. Getting a sensible, waterproof coat would be a concession to pragmatism I just don’t know if I am ready to make. The day I become fully waterproofed is the day I finally become a fully functioning adult, able to do all of those things real grown ups seem to do – like knowing when the clocks go back or how electricity works.
I did flirt with the idea once but ended up buying a coat in such an aggressive shade of yellow that I am too shy to wear it. So after a day of being soaked, you have no idea how close I came to buying a Barbour off eBay. Don’t get me wrong, I think they are great coats, just maybe not for me. They are a bit wholesome, a bit countryfile, a bit posh. With dwindling self-confidence levels still not high enough to brave my yellow jacket, I may just wrap myself in bin bags. Although on balance, that’s probably weirder than a Barbour…


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