This morning my foot winced a little as it vacated the warmth of the duvet, leaving me reaching for a weighty double breasted number to brave a slight chill in the air that I'd forgotten existed.
The rain lashed down as I left the car park. Cowering under my umbrella I scuttled off to work, passing non-brollied people pulling epic rain-faces, gurning away like Blake Fielder-Civil after a big weekend in Ibiza.
I've already delivered quite a few overcoats in preparation for the onslaught of Winter. Classic covert coats with velvet collars and bright linings are always popular and I'm currently making a couple of things that are a bit different.
Today I'm doing a first fitting on 'The Swashbuckler.' It's very long and heavily skirted, inspired by the caped character in the Sandeman Port adverts with a pinch of Pirates of the Caribbean and Withnail & I (one of my favourite films) thrown in for good measure.
Something that won't have escaped your sartorial radar is the popularity of Tweed at the moment. I've blogged about it in a previous post and have recently got some bunches in that would knock the balls off a mighty elephant.
Bold over-checks and LSD inspired designs are the name of the game here, vastly removed from the dour browns and greens favoured by damp Scottish gamekeepers as they grumble into their Whiskeys.
That said, you don't need colour to make Tweed look stylish. Check out this little baby we made for a recent customer. It's a very fitted three button coat and I'm loving the patch pockets and flap on the out-breast welt.
I'm also a big fan of the Storm Collar, particularly when it's worn with the collars up, à la Eric Cantona. It's tough, confident, full of swagger and says don't call me names or I'll kick you dans la tête.
But the French man, like myself, would snort in disgust at an 'ooh ahh' collar worn on a lounge suit, like the one I spotted on Peter Jones whilst watching Dragons Den last night.
Utterly, teeth-clenchingly, balls-rising-upwardly grim. A storm-collar was designed to fight the wind and keep out the cold and should only be found on overcoats and garments of substance.
What on earth was he thinking? Maybe the air conditioning gets a bit full on in the back of his Maybach but that is still no excuse for placing what is tantamount to a penis extension above the lapel. It's a veritable carbuncle and ultimately sacrilegious towards a silky Super 150's cloth. Shameful.
Now it's just possible that I'm getting my knickers in a twist over nothing. To paraphrase Withnail, the fact that the best tailoring Peter Jones has ever seen is above his appendix doesn't mean anything.
Perhaps I need to chill out a little, and that, my friends, is the plan for next week.
I will be heading to Croyde Bay with my family to indulge my passion and love for surfing. Yes, if Mother Nature is kind to me, by Saturday lunchtime I'll be top-to-toe in rubber and up to my nipples in the healing waters of the Atlantic ocean.
And later that night, as I flounce into The Thatch Inn and demand the finest wines available to humanity, I will politely inform the landlord, that I'm not from London you know.
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