I’ve had a chequered relationship with corduroy.
In the 1970s you’d struggle to avoid it. Brown, mustard, burnt orange. Trousers, dungarees, the lot. A childhood uniform.
Cords weren’t a problem for me… until a traumatic day at the playground.
This was pre-health-and-safety Britain. Equipment better suited to a commando course. Monkey bars over concrete. Merry-go-rounds capable of near-orbital velocity. Towering metal slides with no guard rails. (As per the example pictured.)
The slide was my favourite. But when polished metal meets thick corduroy, you get an emergency braking system.
I came to a halt halfway down. Very publicly. Mum never got me into cords again.
Through my teenage years and early adulthood I regarded them with mild disdain. Geography teacher territory. Slightly uncool engineer energy. Then I moved to Dubai.. where thick corduroy simply wouldn’t work.
But these past few months I’ve worn little else for office days: fine-wale corduroy in deep navy, and its twin in dark sage green. Warm. Textured. Surprisingly refined. They even look good creased – the winter equivalent of linen.
Glorious strides. They pair rather well with an old Jag and a Range Rover too.
Funny how you can grow out of something… and then, years later, find it fits perfectly.
Andrew Greenhalgh 