The moment he clapped eyes on the plaid jacket, Nigel was smitten and had to have it, “Gangsters’ Ball” or no gangsters’ ball. This was the epitome of the style that he envisaged for himself, a style to make his soul sing, the angle of the fedora conveying the insouciance of a raised eyebrow, the boldness of the colour making the hair on his forearm tingle.
Still he felt an element of timidity. Nigel’s day job was as ‘boy’ in a concrete pour team. His style of dress was khaki King’ Gees, a bluey, eco socks and hob-nail boots, all topped off with the battered Akubra he purloined during his gap year as rouse-about up in the Pilbara.
Nigel leant against the power pole and dragged on the roll-yer-own dangling from the corner of his mouth, lost in thought. He ran his fingers though his greasy hair, wondering what next.