Albany's golden jocks of Glory

Dear Lacksadaisy,

I've been wondering..

When I look in my wardrobe, my stuff looks a bit daggy so I relegate

some items to the "I'll wear that when I am gardening category, or if

it's really daggy, 'I'll wear that when nobody is around when I am

doing a bit of concreting or painting' category. Some times there is a

bit of 'wardrobe creep' when I am getting a bit low on what's left of

my vaguely respectable looking gear and I resort to wearing something

out and hope that I don't bump into someone who might like to say hello.

Can you please advise how to resolve this quandary? Maybe I should just

take the plunge and buy a pair of overalls.

Undressed and Depressed, Albany.

Dear Albany,

I like overalls. I especially like their use in Sesame Street, rap videos and on pregnant women in made- for- TV movies. I like them less on pot bellied painters because it makes me wonder about whether the pot-bellied painters are wearing underwear and I don't want to wonder about that. Also I have a slight aversion to having to undo my top when I need to use the toilet. Same problem with a onesie, bathers and body suit. However, this is not about your overalls Albany, it goes deeper than that.

We have all been there; those days when you look at your clothes and you have less to wear than if you were a little duck in my shredded duck curry puffs. I feel those days are a reflection of my/your self-image, (or images if you have multiple personalities). Some days I will look in my wardrobe and see a land of promise, clothes which make me look like a hot TV skank called something like "Hillary", who has had her hips removed and put into her cheekbones. On those days I can smack together with ease an outfit that whispers: "Foo-dih-fah-fah" in French as I saunter by, smelling of French cheese, rose water and marmalade hair products.

Other days it is more of an uphill ordeal. The battle lines are drawn. I look at my wardrobe with a kind of paralysis and fear normally reserved for moments requiring a 000 phone call and a double length episode of Midsummer Murders. I attempt a swallow but my throat is dry, my brown starts to crease and I pick up a sorry, grey jumper and start to sob with quiet shame into its worn out seams and dusty smelling armpits which are held together by congealed sweat. I hate my clothes. Those little bastards have conspired against me to make me look as bloated, ugly and outdated as possible. I might as well have shopped at the store named: "Ha ha, we make you look like a tramp and then make go out in public looking like a tramp!!". It's a shitbox store, why did I ever shop there and fill my entire wardrobe with it's clothes? Then the fog lifts and once again I can throw on a scarf, find my marmalade conditioner and impress the world with my charm and lady-flair.

The moral is this: it's not the clothes, it's you. Sniff the air Albany. Does the air smell sweet? Do you smell the air of promise? If you put on the daggiest man-under-garments which should have been relegated to the incinerator years ago, but you kept them just in case you needed a rag and then forgot about that decision and just kept wearing them, but you manage to wear them with flair, with grace and the confidence of The President of Italy then we will think they are made of gold. "Albany's golden jocks of glory" we will cry. We will say: "Look at him go, the man with the golden pants" and girls will sigh, men will do man-swoons and horses will gallop along side you in slow motion if you feed them carrots.

If, however, you're feeling a little bit drab then your wardrobe will be a cacophony of doom. All your clothes conspire against you and you end up wearing a business shirt, high heals and overalls at the same time in a desperate attempt to look normal....but no, you look avante garde....or at least that's what you tell yourself, but really you just look wierd. Then you spend the rest of the day squirming about in the clothes that betrayed you and curse yourself forever daring to keep up with the youth of today. (Sumo buns, leggings and long shirts are in by the way... basically you want to look like an anorexic, bogon, Caucasian sumo wrestler).

So. It's not the clothes, it's you.... but sometimes it's the clothes.

Examine your wardrobe as a whole. If your clothes smell bad, have faded to the point where you ask your wife what the original colour was and whether you should attempt to co-ordinate with the present color or original color, if they have come back into fashion after 20 years (wear it first time round, you shouldn't wear it second time round), if they are stuck together, or stuck to a dead rat, if they make you look like a terrorist (you don't want to be stopped at airports), or a Mormon, or a weird uncle, or generally so daggy that not even a dog will hump your leg then maybe it's time to join me in my eBay addiction. Make your treasure someone else’s treasure and get some new rags. If you're strapped for cash you can dress like a Chinese pimp for a sweet price thanks to the wonderful world of eBay, the world is your oyster.

Either that or you could sniff the sweet air of inner strength, snap on your daggies and parade around like the King of Tasmania.

Either way take a shower.

Love Lacksa.