Sense memory

Last time I was able to visit my parents (i.e. some time ago now), I stumbled across a pair of fingerless gloves in what was my old bedroom. They were tucked away in a drawer of a long-forgotten wardrobe. I fished them out and brought them back with me, and then tucked them away in a drawer here. Fast forward to winter, scrabbling around in said drawer for something to keep warm, I actually fished them out and put them on.

At this point, I should make it clear that in every material way these are completely unremarkable: a simple pair of black fingerless gloves. The label inside tells me they were made by Damart, a company that is incredibly still going but at the time I would have dismissed as "makes thermal clothes for old people". But it's that "at the time" that is so important, and why the feeling that putting them on triggered was so visceral. For these gloves were a mainstay of my wardrobe in the late 80s and early 90s - if I was going out and the weather was anything less than clement, than I would either wear the gloves or at the very least have them in my jacket pocket. Putting them on again after thirty years was momentarily transformative, transporting me back to how I dressed, looked and felt back then.

Aside from the fact that I had a lot more hair, no glasses and a smaller waistline, how else did I dress, look and feel for a night out in the late 80s? Well, I would have been wearing jeans with a belt, though no belt was strictly needed. The bottom of each leg would have been folded in on itself to reduce the width, and then folded up into the world's thinnest, sharpest turn-up. Below them would sit a pair of black suede shoes, regularly restained with some kind of weird dye that came in a plastic tube with a sponge applicator on top; this was to maintain maximum blackness, you didn't want to be turning out with grey suede shoes. I probably wore white socks with these, most of the time, for contrast. On top, I would have had a band t-shirt (my Wedding Present George Best shirt and Smiths Hatful of Hollow did particularly sterling service), although other T's that I wore to death featured Diana Rigg (this pic) and Audrey Hepburn (this pic) - I thought myself so cultured, and wanted people (who am I kidding, girls) to see that, but it was all academic because I would immediately have layered a shirt over the t-shirt, though the shirt would have been half-unbuttoned, leaving a V of the t-shirt visible to anyone who was interested. I mean, no-one was interested, but the thought was there. One such shirt was a special favourite, grey with green stitching and tiny white buttons, slightly over-sized but bought cheaply in a little clothes shop called Marcus, just across from the post office in town, a shop that was like Mr Byrite but, can you believe, even cheaper.

To top it all off, I would have had a denim jacket over the shirt, in cooler weather at least, the sleeves of which were long enough to pull down over my hands. The collar wouldn't have been down but neither would it have been fully turned up - hey, this was the 80s, not the 50s, after all. But it would have been sort of half turned up. Similarly, the jacket wouldn't be done up, but then it wouldn't be totally undone either - just the bottom button would be fastened. And finally, the black fingerless gloves. Not full gloves, heavens no, fingerless, mandatory. Quite a look, eh? Calm yourselves, ladies.

Anyway, the reason I know I wore these from the late 80s and not earlier is that the previous pair of fingerless gloves in my wardrobe went onto a post-pub beach bonfire with The Man Of Cheese, when we ran out of anything else to burn. I know, I know, but you made your own fun after a night drinking cheap cider in The Royal Oak, especially when there was nowhere else to go and nothing else to do.

It was a golden time though.

Later, as the 90s got going, the black suede shoes were replaced, first by a battered pair of desert boots with green laces, later by a pair of cherry red 8-hole Doc's. The white socks were replaced with black. Reluctantly, the grey shirt with green stitching got replaced too, as did the denim jacket, both usurped in a bold two-for-one move as I adopted a purple jumper that I wore to death, anywhere, for anything, until it basically fell apart. The jumper/jeans/boots combo became my new outfit, my new uniform, the new version of me.

Putting on those fingerless gloves again, for the first time in more than thirty years, was weird. The world has moved on. I have moved on. In many ways, my time is no longer golden. But just for a moment I was transported back, and instead of being a middle-aged man walking to the shop to buy some milk I was a kid again, '87 maybe, walking with The Man Of Cheese through his home town to meet other school friends in the park, maybe have a sneaky drink from a giant plastic bottle of Strongbow or Woodpecker that we'd pass around, before heading off to a disco in a faded seafront hall, where the big attraction might be a personal appearance by whichever member of Grange Hill had recently outgrown the series and was trying to establish a career for themselves beyond kids' TV. Flirting with girls, circling and being circled by the opposite sex. A time when just kissing one of them would be considered a success worthy of punching the air on the way home. Of sleeping it all off on a Z-bed at The Man Of Cheese's, knowing that you'd be doing it all again in seven days time. It probably sounds very tame to the sixteen year olds of today, but it wasn't, you know, it really wasn't.

All this from pulling on an old pair of gloves ... sigh. A song is in order, I think. This isn't from 1987, nor is it about gloves, but it does seem very appropriate. Plus it's a cracker, and if you don't agree then I'm sorry but you're wrong.

Your favourite shirt is on your bed, do a somersault on your head...