Michelsberg Tailoring
I’m not exactly what you’d call a key demographic for Sports Direct.
I’ve never run, cycled, pumped iron, or played for a team in my life, bunking off rugby and cricket at school, preferring stud poker sessions and cigarettes with my friends.
The only sport I’ve done with any regularity is swimming, so when the David Lloyd closed down their pool in March for Lockdown #1, I needed to find something else to compensate for my spirited consumption of juniper and ethanol based treats.
Wednesday 4th November, 6am.
Squirming under the duvet, I sighed deeply into my pillow with worry.
The ‘tup’ sheep needed bringing down from the fells, before I could shut down my shop for ‘Lockdown Two.’
In that curious, hallucinogenic phase of sleep, where dreams become reality, James Michelsberg – Leeds tailor extraordinaire – had transmogrified into James Rebanks – Lakeland Sheep Farmer and author of my latest bedtime read, ‘The Shepherd’s Life.”
So there she stood on parade, my first born daughter, all ready for her first day at Big School.
Shoes polished, a dimple in her tie knot, sleeve length perfect, a credit to her tailoring father.
It would have been churlish to bemoan the polyester fabric, fused construction, with not even a Milanese button hole in sight, so instead, I just drank in this vision of beauty and innocence.
My angel, Daddy’s darling, the next chapter of life upon her.
Last week, whilst ‘Airbnbing’ with my in-laws in a rather splendid pile tucked away in the boonies of Lancashire, the owners mentioned they kept hens, and we were very welcome to collect our own eggs.
Every morning, my excited daughters would throw on wellies, rush outside and proudly return with the day’s clutch.
I’d then serve them poached and runny on artisan sourdough, a sprinkle of Maldon salt and cracked pepper, and sit back contentedly with a cup of coffee, the traces of last night’s bourbon, a fading memory.
On Monday 15th June, my days as a gin-soaked house husband, ended.
Hanging up my pinny, I bounced into the Victoria Quarter, a whirling dervish of enthusiasm and pent up energy, sporting a new summer suit and highly polished Oxfords.
Bright eyed, head held high like a meerkat on patrol duty, I surveyed my surroundings.
Horrendous.
Like a welcome home party for Dominic Cummings, hardly anybody had bothered to turn up.
Where were the dancing girls, flashing lights and the big neon sign shouting out to the world, “We are open!” ?
Like a whippet on crystal meth, I’m exploding with boundless energy, now that Boris has set the retail hare running.
I am thrilled and delighted to say that Michelsberg Tailoring will be reopening it’s doors on Monday 15th June, and not a moment too soon.
My liver, to paraphrase Scotty in Star Trek, “cannae take any more cap’n, or she’ll blow!”
All good things must come to end, and I have to say, for the most part, lockdown has been kind to me.
“Keep it covered, James.”
Those were my father’s (rather embarrassing) parting words at the airport, before I headed off to Portugal with friends to celebrate the end of our GCSE examinations.
As far as Personal Protective Equipment goes, a ‘love glove’ is all I’ve ever needed, but until now, that’s all changed.
In preparation for the re-opening of Chez Michelsberg, I’ve had to scour the web for visors, masks, gloves and gel, to keep my customers as safe as possible.
April has left me tanned like George Hamilton with the liver of George Best.
Yesterday, was my first day back in the showroom since lock down, to check for mail, leaks, rodents and pick up a spare computer for home schooling.
Unfortunately, Daddy’s darlings had fully committed to their maths “Rock Stars” homework, and decided to go all Keith Moon and smash the monitor on the tiled kitchen floor.
After some passionately delivered spit-flecked prose, I felt marginally better.
The Corona iceberg has been struck, and the good ship Victoria Quarter, is on her way down.
It’s ‘Lock down’ – to members of the public, verboten.
As I sit here at my desk, putting my business in mothballs, I am officially the last man standing.
Violin poised, bow in hand, I must serenade a sad farewell to you all, until the good times roll again.
But for now, this period is one of the biggest tests many of us will have to endure.
So this month saw the beginning of Brexit.
As an eighteen year old boy, I remember my father dragging me into the polling station in Bingley for my first General Election.
When I joked I was voting for Neil Kinnock, he entered my booth and to the gasps of poll workers, forcibly moved my pen towards ‘the correct’ box.
I didn’t really mind, and with the exception of watching “Yes Minister” and “The New Statesman” on the telly, my apathy towards politics remains the same.