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When tradition calls for it, I’m sure many naturists enjoy dressing up. Sadly, I’m not one of them. I do dress for safety – in cases of barbecues, power tools and rock climbing – and for warmth, but little else. And when I recall the dreadful suit I got married in, I’m inclined to feel a naturist wedding might have been a good idea too.
But for me, it isn’t purely a question of aesthetics, politics or practicality; it’s a complex tapestry of issues. Nudity is like a suit that hangs in my wardrobe and one I should like to wear more freely and more often than I do. I actually consider that I look better with my clothes off than on. Whether I do or not is largely irrelevant because, in truth, I’m all but done with the fickle world of appearances.
I look forward to the summer sun. When others loosen their handsome ties, my jogging bottoms and T-shirt will already be an untidy pile on our secluded patio. I shall ponder many of life’s mysteries there in that naked state (and a few household and garden chores) and my wife will soon join such ardent, if unproductive, contemplation with a tray of refreshments.
I know dear, I would like to do more… but it’s hot today.
She will nod understandingly.
I’m a lazy man but not idle. For therapy and profit I play music and write. This makes me one of the luckiest people I know and life is pretty much idyllic. But it is only human nature to want for more. More of things I don’t really need.
The house I live in bears no resemblance to the palatial affairs of celebrated musicians. It’s a humble end of terrace. My immunity to worldy things is not complete and unassailable in this poor man’s castle. So what if my mobile phone is unfashionably large? Life is still good. I ask for nothing more.
However, it can take only one thorn in the lion’s paw to invoke the beast. Recently there were two such thorns in my side, causing me to bellow my discontent at the demands of our material society: shopping and (worse still) shopping for clothes!
The loathsome prospect of a shopping expedition surfaced when my sister invited us to her Hollywood home. It was after all, the hundredth request. I could no longer decline. In the past twenty-five years she had always been the one to suffer the expense and jet lag. I felt obliged not only to arrive in her world but to do so in style. To her Hollywood cronies I should, at the very least, appear presentable and… clothed!
My wife took the news surprisingly well. In fact, there was a distinct glimmer of enthusiasm for the challenge. The flight was booked. How difficult could it be to dress a naturist?
It proved very difficult indeed!
I fancied a jacket, turned up at the collar and rolled at the sleeves, in a certain Don Johnson, eighties chic. But no such passé attire could be found. I couldn’t even find sleeves long enough to meet my wrists. My chest measurement, manufacturers’ insisted, went with the undercarriage of a portly hippopotamus. There were strange excesses of material billowing about in front of me. Fine for secreting an ample picnic hamper, I thought, or a means of propulsion on a windy day, but not quite what I had in mind for Hollywood.
By the time we found a jacket that fitted only very approximately (by throwing out my belly, shrugging my shoulders to withdraw those long arms, and grinning inanely) my wife had had enough. With the utmost tact she hissed:
“You know darling, I’m not sure you’re a jacket sort of a person.”
“Nonsense!” I countered “I must be. I have the vital statistics of a model!”
Her eyes rolled skyward, but she knew I had a point. By dint of regular workouts at the gym, and a life of moderation, I had indeed retained the improbable proportions of my youth.
Predictably, it was an equally fruitless search for trousers. My gaze finally settled on some Levi 501s. They had served me well enough twenty-odd years earlier. In desperation I snatched three pairs from the shelf – one in every colour – before some other lanky unfortunate got there first.
I left that emporium of passable rags confused and dismayed by the entire process. I also added another six T-shirts to the bill. How shopping could ever be thought a pleasure was a complete mystery to me – on top of having to pay for the privilege!
Thinking about the compromises I had made – how a smart jacket and slacks had turned into jeans and T-shirts – depressed me. Oh well, ten out of ten for effort, I convinced myself, my sister will understand.
The flight though, afforded time for reflection. A hectic social agenda awaited us and my sister and her husband invariably dined out. There would be all manner of embarrassing transgressions, all eyes glaring at me as each doorman pointed out the dress code. It would have to be burger bars and take-away pizzas, for a stomach not nearly young enough to endure that sort of abuse. The nightmares and recriminations came and went as I dozed fitfully over the Atlantic and ever onwards to the West Coast of California.
We landed at some hour of the night (American time) that my body (still in British time) refused to fathom. My sister, Jayne, and her husband, Richard, picked us up at ‘Arrivals’ in their 4x4 – Richard, I was delighted to note, wearing nothing more formal than shorts (and was that a smudge of cranberry sauce down his T-shirt?)
Once through the doors of their home, three boisterous and moulting pugs – dribbling with friendliness and none too fragrant – overpowered me immediately. I was covered in hairs and smelling like a dog’s dinner in ten seconds flat!
Of course, devotees of doggy ways quickly forget what a shock this can be to the uninitiated. I was speechless. Behind my glazed expression I at once thanked God for T-shirts and denim. I didn’t think I’d ever feel clean again but these wonderful fabrics, at least, could be thrown into the washing machine and restored. If only I could have jumped in with them.
We dined later that night with friends on Sunset Boulevard, our restaurant table out on the pavement, two grudging participants of the Hollywood tradition: seeing and being seen. Many famous people were either seated or passing by. I had to apologise for my ignorance; I simply didn’t watch much television. But compliments flowed with the wine. Did we work out? Where did we get our tans?
Why, yes we do… Well, we had recently returned from Florence (neither of us confessing that these suntans originated in an English back garden, nor the full extent of them). From her blatantly fake Louis Vuitton handbag my wife, Carol, produced a photo of our daughter, which occasioned a fresh barrage of compliments. I noticed too her reproduction Cartier dangling very prominently from her wrist as she did so. If more discerning eyes detected fraudulence it was still quite the done thing here – keeping the originals in the safe (or not, as the case may be). Carol was clearly indulging herself and playing the game expertly.
After confronting the endless spending opportunities of Rodeo Drive however, even my wife’s enthusiasm began to flag. If I had lived there I might have perceived the need to own a mountain bike made by Porsche. But I didn’t. I merely lingered, nose pressed up against the window in incredulity. At once I craved reality; the reality of the great American outdoors would do nicely.
Reminding my sister how as children we had enjoyed the simpler things in life - the countryside – we loaded up the 4x4 and headed for Yosemite National Park. Here, far from designer labels, the sun-bleached sands of Malibu beach and its like, appropriate clothing and good boots were firmly reinstated in my affections. It snowed as we arrived and sank to freezing on our first night in a tent. To say this was the beginning of our happiest time in America would be an understatement. It was strangely perfect.
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