After a lunch with my dear friend, Mark Ogilvie-Grant, at the Savoy, I mentioned I was en route to a tailor. When Mark asked which one I frequent, I was unable to answer. "Mr. Taylor's," I invented.
"Nonsense, he doesn't exist. I know every tailor in London. Your Mr. Taylor is imaginary."
After accepting defeat, he steered me toward his own on Saville Row. In the shop we moaned and groaned about not finding the right shape, fit or color. This one will make you look short. This one will drown you. This cashmere will accentuate your gin blossoms.
"Your rather boyish shoulders are difficult to fit, Sir," piped in the tailor.
"Thank you," I curtly replied, cursing my mother's thin-shouldered Irish heritage under my breath.
Then, like a gleam from the Heavens, was a men's journal on the work table held open by a French curve. Under said curve lay a gorgeous J.D. Leyendecker illustration. The Beltsac. "This, this will do."
"Quite right, Sir, will it be double or single-breasted?"