Jottings of a Traveller III (Sardinia Oct 2009)

They say that things always come in threes. Of course they don't, not always, but sometimes they do. Take this week for example. At the age of exactly 44-and-a-half (on Sunday) I experienced three 'firsts' as follows;

 I. My first visit to Italy. Sardinia, to be exact. Castelsardo, on its north coast to be more exact. Okay, so it's not the mainland, but say you'd never been to Britain, the Isles of Sheppey or Man would still count.



II.Our hotel room has a bidet. I won't go into detail, but I did take advantage of the facility and I don't mean I cleaned my plimsolls in it. Never used one before.

The bidet, gifted to us by our good friends from across the Channel, has never quite caught on with Tommy English. At least, not with the foot soldiers. Officer class, yes – for the bidet is seen as a symbol of the upwardly mobile. A monument to those who feel a deep need to keep up with the Joneses and thus is eyed with utmost suspicion and scorn by the working class. Posh people have them.

At school there was a lad whose dad was a bank manager. There was another lad called Wilf. Wilf was the one who dished out all the nicknames – even his own, for his real name was Ian (the same as my real name – insert appropriate smiley).

One day the bank manager's son had a birthday party and Wilf was invited. Once Wilf discovered that there was a bidet in the bathroom he instantly changed this lad's nickname from Doughnut to Bidet. And it stuck. He was called Bidet by everyone for the remainder of our school days.

III.Here's where I get really confessional. There is no easy way to put this on paper – or on monitor – or whatever the computer screen is called.

Before I let this particular cat out of the bag, I need to put a case for the defence. I like clothes and am very particular about how they are worn. I appreciate good style. Sure, I have made mistakes and some days an outfit or combination just doesn't 'work'. But I do have standards. I eschew clothes with writing on, bar the odd t-shirt. T-shirts don't count, I'm talking about proper clothes, leisure wear, with writing festooned across them. Same goes for logos. There is always an exception and I do have a weakness for the Fred Perry laurels, but this is because a classic FP shirt is a classy garment.

I suppose you could say that there is a Vic Templar style. More a VT wardrobe. A Harris tweed or corduroy jacket with 60s tie and sober shirt. I am very particular about shirts. A pin stripe has to be prison issue; a plain shirt can be in bold colours (like The Monkees wore); a white shirt should be crisp and of quality cotton. I still lose sleep over the best plain white shirt I ever had whose collar eventually wore threadbare and Mum threw it out. I give a fair bit of leeway to checked shirts, but the colours have to be right, as does the collar and fabric. I like a 60s button-down, but they have to be just so, pointed with a nice, slightly pronounced bulge, where a tie might be but never is. These shirts come and go. Some years you can get them, some not.

Shoes - my brown Tricker brogues, several years old, having been re-heeled twice and re-soled once, are my standard daily footwear. Nice suede Hush Puppies too. A pair of sand coloured desert boots, green 'Chuck Taylors' (my American friends know what I'm talking about), and I would love to get a pair of corduroy lace-up plimsolls, last purchaseable in the UK in 1983.

I could go on with my fussiness regarding trousers (Rupert checks=good), cardigans, hats, jumpers and overcoats. I like autumnal colours – mustard, rust, olive green, brown. My default look is 'chap' with a side order of 60s casual. Suffice to say, I believe in taking care before stepping out in public.

So, Sardinia, in October. The climate is good, we've had a couple of light showers, one slightly chilly, breezy day, but generally sunny. Sunny enough to spend the day on the small beach on what was once a tiny fishing vilage at the foot of a clifftop Mediaeval walled town. It's a beautiful setting and we've done some good walking, a little sightseeing, as well as snorkelling and plenty of lazing under the sun with several good books (Motel Life by Willy Vlautin, Burning Out by my friend Katherine May and begun re-reading Paul Auster's New York Trilogy).

 It's the Thursday of our holiday, the best part of the week already gone, and the breeze is getting up again as Debbie and I decide to take an early evening stroll before dinner. I'm wearing a blue Ben Sherman checked short-sleeve button-down, my favourite brown v-necked jumper, my standard holiday-issue white jeans and, as the plimsolls are a little damp, I decide that I'll wear my sandals. Now, these sandals are proper leather ones. Not those velcro thingys that old people and backpackers wear. Consider them 'shoes with ventilation'. They are of a type that someone like Eric Gill would wear, which is not necessarily something to shout about, I know.

Can you tell where I'm going with this?

I'll get to the point. I've no idea why I'm confessing this to you. Anyway, here goes...iworethemwithsocks.

Now, hear me out. It was cold and even as I did so I knew I was doing the wrong thing, but I also knew that once done there was no turning back. I was on holiday, my mad muddled mind reasoned. It's okay, everyone does it on holiday and it's not as if the socks are black or grey. White socks with sandals on holiday in a hot clime, turned temporarily chilly, of an evening, is acceptable, isn't it? One of the joys of a sunshine holiday, for me, is to not have to wear a pair of socks at all for a week or two. But, when conditions dictate, emergency procedures are activated.

 We stroll along the promenade and I ask Debbie if she's noticed yet. She doesn't say 'noticed what?' She knows. Yes, she says, she had noticed. I ask if she's embarrassed. Only slightly. She's fairly calm and unruffled in all situations.

I ask if she's considering chucking me when we get home. She laughs and says she'll think about it. Because although, back in Blighty, I'll be firmly shod in my favourite brown brogues, the damage has already been done.

There is no photographic evidence of this crime, and I know that, as a proud Englishman, I should have done the decent thing, but I did not have a loaded revolver to hand.

There can be no going back. Never again will I tread the earth as someone who has never been to Italy, who has never enjoyed the benefit of bidet ablutions, or who has never worn leather sandals with socks in public.

For which I beseech your forgiveness.