I am not blessed with sartorial elegance as I think I may have commented before. Indeed I usually look as if I have been dragged through a hedge backwards and a rather prickly and rough sort of hedge at that. Occasionally I make an effort and last week as Mrs BW and I wandered, slightly ill at ease, around Manchester, she decided that it was time that I had a new suit. Having managed to get me into several trendy shops where the prices were inversely proportional to the sizes of the suits that they sold we eventually fell back on M and S. With the minimum of fuss and bother I managed to find one that fitted me and that I liked (actually Mrs BW liked. The first one I showed her she felt made me look too severe) Success. When we got home I decided it was time to clear out my wardrobe and discard the various ill fitting, sightly stained suits that I had. At the bottom of the wardrobe I found a pair of seemingly smart shoes. With a bit of a polish they came up a treat, so today as I had to go down to Derby to a meeting I wore my new suit and my almost new shoes. It had rained all the way down from Buxton and the car park was full of puddles. As I stepped from the car I realised fairly quickly why the shoes had been discarded in the bottom of the wardrobe. They leaked. Never mind, I still had my new suit. “You going to a wedding?” one of my colleagues greeted me. I smiled and tried to join in the amusement. “Must be an important interview” another one offered. Well at least they had noticed. I got home to find that Mrs BW had bought me a track suit to wear to rugby training. I had been complaining about the cold and bless her she had come up with a nice warm snug track suit to keep me warm. I tried it on and as it was close to what we in the North refer to as Tea, decided to keep it on. The Weasel breezed in, took one look at me, sniggered a bit and then said, “Dad you look like a common chav!” I was a bit crest fallen. The Munch launched a sort of defence by saying that it was the wrong sort of tracksuit and anyway I was too fat to be a chav. I suppose he meant well in that strange warped way that teenage boys have. I sneaked upstairs and put on my jeans with the comfortable expanding waist and consigned the tracksuit to my sports bag. Context is everything.