Uniform

You only get one chance to make a first impression.

It’s true.

Clothes are the way we present ourselves, they can be a truthful representation of a person at a given moment or might be manipulated to tell a different narrative.

We all read what we are presented with, how we interpret this presentation may vary due to circumstances. A man in a suit and tie for instance looks professional, respectable and business like, but he could of course be the defendant in a street robbery case, dressed to look less criminally inclined, or, he could be a professional, business like criminal with no other wardrobe options.

I try to be wary of jumping to conclusions at a glance, but still I get caught in the trap.

The judgement trap.

Many times I have been the recipient of kind acts from apparently unlikely quarters. Once I was pulled from a potential crushing to death scenario by a skinhead, when the danger had passed he also retrieved my one shoe that had come off in the crush. Once in a socially difficult situation at an after show party, my rescuer was a very gentlemanly Hells Angel.

I bring this up as after this last weekend I am harbouring bad feelings towards fat, white men with shaved heads wearing casual clothing.

When pictures were released of the man who urinated beside the memorial of Pc Palmer, there were calls for him to be identified. My first thought was, how can you tell one right-wing, possibly nazi saluting, statue guard from another? Fat, white, bald, with or without a bag of beers and a full bladder. They all look the same to me.

Walking through the park with a friend on Sunday, I spotted a fat, white, shaven headed bloke standing by the zoo entrance. He was wearing the big T-shirt and shapeless trousers uniform of a Nazi thug. I said to my companion, given the current situation, you’d think that if you don’t have nazi tendencies you might want to address your style of dress. Try not to look quite as much like you’re a style free right winger. Before he could reply, the subject, laughed and spoke. My Nazi bloke was in fact a woman. Immediately in my mind the chances of this person trampling through people’s Hyde Park picnics, chanting about taking it up the bum, diminished to zero.

The lesson I learnt was that, no, non Nazi, fat, bald, white blokes or women don’t need to rework their wardrobes. I need to wait until they, salute, piss on my foot or chant sexist slogans before making up my mind about them.

Soz.