It’s winter here in the
UK. That means two things: it’s
cold; warming layers are the only fashion statement. Switch your brain’s visual display back on, recall Sir
Rannulph Fiennes fine comment “ There’s no such thing as bad weather, only bad
clothing”, think golf course, think Michelin Man (America - the look is poppin’
fresh Pillsbury Doughboy) and you have us down to a tee. You cannot see gender easily (or so I
thought): we are all homogenously onion shaped from the neck down. Sounds sensible but I have a few things
to say about layers. Stick with me
here, reader, it’s worth it…
A week later and
somewhat recovered, there I was standing on the tee box, strutting my layers
and yielding my body into the power force that constitutes a perfect drive
when, all of a sudden, the resultant four pound weight loss from the trajectory
of Le Bug through my system manifested itself. I could scarce believe my rods
and cones but my eyes were not deceiving me. Suddenly, I was wearing that low-slung-crotch look beloved
of “saggers” and hip-hop youf culture everywhere. I don’t rate the look and I can only describe the event as a
bum rap or, to be spot-on pedantically precise, more like a bum unwrap. Intent as I was at modelling the Rory
McIlroy bombing-it-for-an-eagle-on-a-par-five swing, I had swivelled fast and
furious. All was well with my body
but not with my now loose trousers.
They took on a life of their own and headed south, along with two other
layers, till I was inadvertently showing what is graphically described as
builder’s bum. Since I am a fully
paid up member of the gym bunny brigade, perhaps I exaggerate the yardage of my
lower cleavage. Maybe barefaced
cheek might be a more suitable euphemism.
Whatever phrase you use, there was a lot of unwanted flesh hanging
out. A thoroughly frozen asset, I
might add, that left me somewhat embarrassed.
Oh yes! I am hot on layers. Comes with the work territory. It wasn’t in the Job Description when I
signed up to my current post in the cardiac world but I quickly learnt it was
an everyday part of wintertime clinics.
Roger Neighbour wrote a seminal book on how to conduct a medical
consultation. I plough my way fervently
through that inner consultation model with each consultation and every
patient. It works
brilliantly. The appliance of
science and I’m lovin’ it, Rodge, except for one thing: nowhere in that
sterling textbook of yours does it tell me how to find my patient under the
Layers ‘R’ Us ensembles that appear in my clinics in the guise of
patients. It’s obvious women score
high in the layer department: there the vagaries of a bra, then the thermal
camisole, over layered petticoat, blouse (with tiny buttons), skirt, waist high
tights, cardigan, and overcoat.
But I have to hand it to the men.
Yet again, they’ve managed to outrank and outsmart the ladies on
layers. More importantly, it’s the
manner in which they apply them that’s the problem. Take your average man: thermal vest (occasionally
string…OMG! what’s that about), shirt (with even tinier buttons), pullover (the
tighter the better), fleece gilet, lined jacket, underpants, long johns that
extend from ankles to armpits with gripping elasticated waistband tight enough
to stop the circulation, woollen socks to the knees, and surmounted by an overcoat. Every item on the top half is tucked
deeply into the folds and layers of the bottom half and then he adds the final piece de resistance: belt and
braces. It’s total lockdown. Carnage. It would be easier to pull a successful heist on Fort Knox
or vanquish the vaults of the Bank of England than unsheathe a man ensconced in
these items of body armour. I
don’t think the Crown Jewels have such tight security. And I lose fifty percent of clinic time
just digging out my male patients from the bowels of their clothing. Now if Lady Misfortune were to smile on
such a person and decide to send an unsolicited gift in the shape of a cardiac
arrest or myocardial infarct, there would be little hope of exposing that chest
wall to the timely necessity of a zap or two from a defibrillator. In essence, it’s a pretty dead
end look in every sense of the word.
Keep these clinical
findings in your brain’s visual display and let me lead you back nicely to
where I was standing on the tee box with my trousers way below the axis of
decency…well, let’s not replay that scene. I looked round surreptitiously to see who had seen my
denouement. And all I could see
were layers. Rammed down in your
pants layers. Belted layers. Braced to the hilt layers. And suddenly those onion-shaped
Michelin Doughboys had gender. Man-shaped
gender. I forgot my predicament as
the rush of cold air from my derrière
esposé hit my brain and, in an instant, I realised what a great disservice
the Royal And Ancient do to their male members. Oh yes, we ladies thought we had it bad with the lads-only
rule at Muifield and Troon - and let’s also include here the miscreants from
the other side of The Pond: guilty as charged Lochinvar, the shameful Black
Sheep Golf Club, the boo-hiss Bob-O-Link, Butler National and Burning Tree Golf
Clubs, and the dated attitudes of Old Elm Club and The National Golf Club of
Canada – but those faux pas pale into
insignificance by comparison with the men’s dress code so gloriously upheld by
most golf clubs and at the behest of the R&A. For once, something in the golfing world swings in our
favour. We ladies don’t have to
tuck anything in.
My light bulb moment of
inspiration would have me say this:
Boys of a certain age or if you have acquired a cardiac history at any
age, ditch the belts, braces and tucked-in-the-waistband look. Pay no regard to the Royal and Ancient
rules and regs. Defibrillators
weren’t on the scene when they wrote those rules. Forget your local golf course dress enforcement policy. There’s a tight working window when
your body pulls off a cardiac event.
If anyone has to spend thirty minutes seeking your sternum, you’ll have
hit the great exit ramp of life at high speed and those bolted down layers will
merely be accelerating your exit. And
for what and whom? Just let it all
hang out.
Vinnie Jones is worth a
look-see. Watch and learn from the
hard man.
And if you don’t believe in the golf course scenario, listen to Alan’s story.
http://youtu.be/M2STeerbaWA
http://youtu.be/M2STeerbaWA
Victor: I’ve made it easy for you to follow my scribble this time round. I put the French words in italics
