Our new Mk. II Games Suit – cut from a Japanese ripstop cotton – is utilitarian workwear you can fine dine in, whether that’s lobster at the Wolseley, or pork scratchings down your local.
Aside from a couple of creased, sun-faded snapshots taken on the banks of Loch Lomond, I don’t really have much evidence of my parents’ early courtship. There’s just the odd treasured Polaroid with the pair of them foolin’ around in flares – dad with his unruly blonde hair and mum giving it the full 1970s Cher treatment with barely-there eyebrows and an itchy-looking sparkly halter-neck.
Amongst this streamline collection, though, is a slightly larger black and white picture that was quite obviously taken by a professional. The first time I clapped eyes on it, I wasn’t sure whether it belonged with our crappy family albums because it looked more like a still from a film. Taken in a nightclub maybe, or a snazzy restaurant, a good-looking group of twenty-somethings sit closely together at a horse-shoe shaped booth, the table littered with open packets of cigarettes, loaded ashtrays and half-empty booze glasses. On closer inspection, I realised that the slender-armed woman with heavily mascaraed eyelashes and the dark, glossy, centre-parted mane was my mother, and the grinning guy perched next to her, was of course, Mr. Cloudsdale. What made it so striking though, was the squad of densely bearded heartthrobs sitting opposite them. Turns out those three Celtic studs with steely stares and cheekbones sharper than a sushi knife were in fact, my Glaswegian uncles; Jackie, Jimmy and Stewart.