A pocket squared is a pocket halved.
The man was dressed rather wonderfully in a suit and wide-brimmed hat and most notably sported a midnight blue pocket square handkerchief.
Casually wondering if I could get away with wearing such a garment in Glasgow without being snottered irrevocably, my hand became drawn to my own breast pocket.
To my surprise I discovered that the pocket was still stitched up, as fresh as if I had bought it only yesterday. I did a quick sum in my head and discovered that I had owned this suit jacket for eight years.
The bloody pocket had been stitched up for eight years without my ever noticing. Eight years this recatangle of fabric had been a professional pocket impersonator.
It may as well have been painted on.
I find this more distressing that you can know. What does this say about me? Answers on a postcard and don’t be afraid to get Freudian on my ass.