So I must admit that I harbor a certain prejudice against vintage clothing. I don’t know whether it grows from the gag response that the smell of mothballs induces, or because when someone mentions a vintage store the first thing that comes to mind is the episode of Seinfeld where George steals his father’s old cabana clothes and sells them to make a quick buck. Of course, they are moth infested and the owner ends up burning them in the alley. Alas, poor George Costanza. When I have been compelled to enter, I have often found them staffed by dudes with ironic facial hair and women who think that bathing is done with pachouli oil instead of water. This motley crew can opine for hours about the superiority of a Phish groove to a Rolling Stones riff. Seriously? Almost as off-putting to me as the mothballs. But in the last few weeks I have been forced to reassess my long-held bias. The shirt I am wearing in this picture is one reason. It is a vintage Jil Sander which from the structure of the collar and the cut of the shirt must date back to the late 1980s, or early 1990s. Yet it still looks as sharp and minimalist as it did when it was purchased. It’s un-pictured brother is in a soft, black cotton that looks like it could have been wardrobe in the movie version of Less Than Zero. Neither of these pieces of clothing would have set you back more than a meal at the McDonalds in Holborn. So if you are fortunate enough to live in central London don’t let the first generation Sony Playstation in the window scare you away from the random Romanian Charity Shop.