hlandes61
It had begun in the dusty corner of a dark dingy shop in the burlington arcade. He was 14 at the time, and the thought of menswear was appealingly exotic, even in such a context as England. The garment in question was old silk, worn soft and stained by time, draped pleasantly over the corner of a box filled with its compatriots. Something about its color or position must have jumped out at him. He left the shop with the bowtie curled up silkenly in his pocket, unpaid.