Let’s All Wear Tweed!
Let’s wear tweed. It’s fall, well, it’s winter where you are, but it’s slightly warmer where I live, so, still fall. But either way — winter, fall — let’s wear tweed. Blazers, scarves, hats, skirts, pants, all in tweed.
I myself am currently wearing a tan and brown tweed blazer (over a ripped T-shirt), and I myself currently feel amazing. Incredible, in fact. I highly recommend the feeling.
So let’s all wear tweed, whether it be wintertime, falltime, whichever. Let’s wrap a tweed scarf around the pale neck of our lover.
Tweed bestows a certain beauty and dignity upon the wearer. So let’s wear brown, tan, red, black, gray tweed overcoats and jump jump jump in crunchy piles of snow, of leaves, of snow intermixed with leaves.
Fuck plain fabric. Fuck it up the ass, in fact. For I love the subtle intermixed fibers, the weave of grain, the simple, graceful beauty of tweed.
A graceful, pale English girl, standing out in the snow. The collar of her tweed jacket turned up. A cigarette pressed to her chapped lips. Fuck yeah.
Tweed season: Harris Tweed. Herringbone. Heathered tweed.
Mulled wine; hot chocolate; nogs of various kinds.
You; standing there, in a beautiful tweed jacket. It says a certain thing. Tweed says, in an affected tone, “I also have a summer home.”
“A summer home, with a yacht. Do you know how hard it is, to spell that word ‘yacht.’ Only rich people can spell that word. ‘Yot, yatch, yacth,’ that is how poor people try to spell the word. Anyway. …A summer home, with a yacht; a summer home where I eat capers, and smoked salmon, and wild blueberries — these things are served at my summer home by my butler: or by my ‘gentleman’s gentlemen,’ if you prefer, who is named something like ‘Wadsworth,’ or ‘Cadbury.'” …This is the sort of thing that tweed says.
“…Also, of course, I am the sort of person who hunts foxes, riding through the woods in my spare time, in my tweed, though of course I am so rich and pleasant and gentilé that I would never actually catch or harm the foxes.” …This is also the sort of thing that tweed says.
Though of course when we say these things, we are fucking lying. For we are poor. We buy our tweed jackets and skirts at the Salvation Army, at the thrift store, which is a lovely and beautiful and fine thing to do, to go to the thrift store like that. Especially to go to the thrift store with a friend, on a crispy fall day — leaving crumbling under your feet, readying yourself for winter — or on a snappy winter day, your cheeks blooming from the cold.
…So let’s do that, go to the thrift store and buy thrift store tweed jackets, and be pleasant and jovial and happy. So let’s just go do that. Buy jackets and smoke cigarettes and drink coffee and be happy.
I want to fall in love with a girl in tweed; and then, also, weirdly, I’d like to drape random things in tweed, so lovely is it — like an indolent king, like Henry VIII: “This item displeases me; take it away and drape it in tweed for me, if you would, random peon.”
So let’s do it. Piles of tweed. Pretty boys and pretty girls. In tweed. Let’s do it all. Tweed, tweed, tweed; in conclusion tweed rules, forever. It’s time to start wearing it again, so let’s go out, and let’s do just that.