It’s said clothes maketh the man. Certain clothing has evolved for specific jobs or professions. These clothes say what you do. A man wearing a white tunic with black and white checked trousers is a chef. One wearing blue denim overalls is a farmer. Somehow it’s reassuring when the correct clothing is worn for the job and disconcerting when it’s not. In the US, a doctor wears a white smock and has a stethoscope hanging around his neck. In the UK, a doctor may wear a mini skirt and a torn teeshirt. I don’t actually want my private bits examined by a girl fresh from a nightclub.
Certain clothing and accessories have also evolved for specific tasks or activities. These say, “I’m going to go do this.” These clothes are optional but some people seem to always have the right kit for the job. When my brothers put on their red plaid flannel shirts, they’re going hunting. Insulated coveralls mean they’re shovelling snow from the driveway. Once our neighbour in Holland was going to touch up a few paint chips on his front door. He emerged from the house in full painter uniform; paint spattered white coveralls, cap and plastic gloves. This man was no tradesman. He is a classically trained musician and a talented Chinese calligrapher. yet somewhere in his house he had a shelf of painter clothes.
Sports require an array of special clothing and some people can’t walk out to the postbox without first visiting their sporting goods store. As I noticed the morning of our blizzard in Nasbinals, the French seem to always have the right kit. As I drank my coffee and ate my petite dejeuner (croissant, hard salami, 3 cheeses including the very tasty cantal with a ripe crust, and pound cake with bits of candied peel) I watched a group assemble for a hearty walk through the snow. These were middle aged, menopausal type of people. It took them ages to get ready because they had all the right gear. Zippered bodysuits, earmuffs, goggles and fur-lined snow boots. Some also wore waterproof sleeves on their calves that were ingeniously fastened under the heel with straps and diabolical buckles. A woman outside waited impatiently and flopped around in the drifts with the plastic version of the tennis racquets worn by Scott on his excursion to the South Pole. These were also connected to her boots with several straps and buckles. Each woman had a pair of aluminium walking sticks to fall over and get in the way. I finished my breakfast at about the same time Joost finished digging Merlin out from the snow. The snow was deep and I was leisurely over my coffee. As we drove out of Nasbinals, I was surprised to once again see the menopausal group ahead of us. From their kit, I’d assumed they’d be descending deadly gorges and scaling icy peaks but I was deceived. They were walking on the reasonably plowed road and stepped aside as we passed.
For me, the right kit is usually gear from a periodic self improvement campaign. When I packed up the house, I found a pair of running shoes in the back of the closet. They were full of spider webs and strangely flat – as if run over by a steamroller or an elephant sat on them. It’s funny how that can happen to shoes. Unloved and unused, they lose the will to be shoes anymore. To my knowledge they hadn’t been outside for years.
I sometimes worry that Joost doesn’t have the right kit. On his 40 kilometre walks he wears a red jacket somebody left behind in our house years ago. It’s a few sizes too big. (by the way, if you’ve lost one, it’s in France). He carries a plastic water bottle from the gas station and wears the sweater we gave him for christmas one year. He doesn’t have a hypothermia blanket, tourniquet, or tyvek tee-shirts. What he does have is a wide brim hat, wooden staff and scallop shell. Joost doesn’t have the right kit to walk 1500 kilometres but he’s an immaculately-dressed pilgrim – and there are more just like him on the route to Santiago.
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