Above: Dianne at Avebury, England next to a standing stone.
I bought it in a London shop, full of Americans buying similar coats, scarves, anything with the shop logo…as advertised in The New Yorker magazine. I bought a different color. Mostly they were khaki and suitable for riding in a field marshal’s car across Europe.
I liked the coat and had the money. One of my frivolous moments, perhaps. I blame my therapist who believed “every dollar I spent came back to me multiplied.” She said I needed to ‘lighten up and spend a little.’ I don’t think an old British Army uniform was what had in mind.
Had I the proper Middle Class mentality, I would have taken the £500 and invested it in some rising stock. But I was becoming a clothes horse with little horse sense. “Use a little horse sense,” Daddy used to say.
A few years later, I was with my youngest son in Amsterdam sitting at a small table for two in a bistro. When we got up to leave, I put my coat on and swept everything off my neighbor’s table, coffee, buns, cookies, glasses, napkins and silverware…onto the floor. Apologies all over the place. “Nice coat” said the kind young Dutch woman at the coat swept table. I fear I would have been quite nasty if someone upended my crumpets and overturned my cooling coffee.
I wore the coat to work for years until I grew fat, then it hang in my closet dry-cleaned and forgotten. It was a great-coat.