A couple of weeks
ago, while holidaying on the luxury island resort of Arran on the Costa del
Clyde, me and the woman I call my wife dared to think the unthinkable.
I don’t even
think we’d taken alcohol. There
was no excuse, except perhaps an uncharacteristic fit of joie de vivre brought on by some unseasonably clement weather. We decided we were going to buy coats
with North Face written on them. Coats
with three-figure price tags, boasting as much technology as the International
Space Station, but far more desirable to get into to. Because it suddenly occurred to us that it’s what people
like us do; save thirty quid a week by shopping at Aldi then blow two month’s savings
on a coat that keeps us warm at -30ºC.
