The brave little Tailor

by theodotdoron

Savile Row, London England. The place where Kings and Princes get their suits made. That holy of holies, gathering Hollywood Stars of all culeur. Elderly and aspiring youngsters squat on tiny tables, with utter patience, fixing that one button hole. The button hole having to last throughout the entire Academy Awards, with HD Cameras showing up any kind of imprecision.

 

Oh, beloved Savile Row, the place where I was holding the white linen suit, wiping my hands what felt like every two seconds so as to not get any stains onto the expensive piece. Marvelling over the meaning of diamond dust in a suit, making it cost triple or even more than one made of “regular” material. Number twelve, the door underneath that number that saw me slip out in secret at night to get a particularly bad mistake fixed, so as to not risk loosing my head.

 

That little row which has always, and always will focus on understatement rather than flashy exterior, on skill rather than Marketing. Taking time to teach me to stitch a straight line, three month nothing but stitching that straight seam. Via hand. It took me two more months learning to sew a straight line on a machine. The machines? Old School as you have ever seen old school. Hundred years and more. Rusty, yet durable. Grandeur hidden in detail.

 

Every seam to serve a purpose, every millimetre of utter importance. My head tailor was judging in half millimetres, I dont even know what that is in inches. So many seams coming together, if only twenty of them are one millimetre out, the jacket looks jagged. Not a good look, not even for Mick Jagger. Oh, there is not much in the natural that excites me as much as a well crafted jacket. It is worth every penny, and will be a companion for a live time if well looked after. 

 

Maybe it represents something sought in vain around me, as things have shorter and shorter life spans. Understatement, that beautiful notion. I know, and its all that matters. I dont have to shout it out to the world. Something of durability, quality and longevity. The suits made on Savile Row satisfy a longing in me, that of being rooted. Nothing is quite as rooted in tradition and history as a bespoke suit. 

 

I want my life to be like a Savile Row suit: of slow and unexcited manner. Actions that matter and serve a purpose. Things that take a long time to get them right, but in the end they will be with me for a live time. Funnily enough, while I was on Savile Row, my live was its complete opposite, all about now, here, satisfaction. Sometimes called Hedonism. Inside though I felt this longing for more depth. Next time when you see a flashy Goth dressed in Latex trousers, with pink hair and a dog collar around her neck, think that maybe all this is just hiding a bespoke suit. That suit is just still in the making, so, give them time just like making a suit takes time. None of us are quite finished yet. 

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