'Do I look sartorial?' says the man in the bookshop. He has voluminous white hair and gestures towards a moth-eaten cardigan. He doesn't have an opinion about the book I am buying as a present about Coco Chanel. Nor does he have a middle name.
Instead, at the party for which the present was bought, I ask the husband of a friend of the birthday girl who, we find out, was two years below me at school. We don't remember each other. He is now a musician and owns four cats. We talk of red blazers, Mr Beard and the peculiarity of a single-sex education.
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