give your kids the gear they need!

all my friends at the rather exclusive international school of geneva had their pocket monies indirectly funded by the vast network of resident united nations agencies or miscellaneous parental diplomatic and tax-free perquisites. mine had a variable component based on how many domestic chores were completed.

some of my classmates, progeny of the privileged elite of assorted third-world banana republics and tin pot monarchies, had unlimited expense accounts. children of secretive bankers, arms dealers and corporate honchos made up the rest of my junior school classes. tinker, tailor, solider, spy, there were all there and this was the place to be.

of course, we don’t pay for the sins of our fathers and mothers, and most of these kids seemed affable and decent enough. “don’t try and compete with your classmates, we cannot afford it” my parents warned me; “you are much richer in other ways”, they added, attempting to mitigate the already evolving inferiority complex of a 10 year old.

living in geneva in the the early 1970s on a father’s income who was, literally speaking, a man of the cloth, was a non-competitive proposition. if only my father was a real tailor instead of dealing in the vestments of faith!

at any age, switzerland is not a cool place to be poor. poverty of course being largely relative to the obscene wealth of the entitled. we were not badly off. we avoided the culinary narrowness of most rice-eating indians abroad and experimented; lived in an apartment with an unimpeded and majestic view of mont blanc on one side and the jet d’eau on the other. we even managed shoe-string budgeted holidays to greece, italy and yugoslavia.

by the age of 12, i’d seen michelangelo’s david, badly bruised myself in the minoan excavations of crete and gotten my first alcoholic high on crème de menthe within the secretive walls of the vatican. i’d even spent a summer alone in america. the ultimate boy fantasy. not a bad repertoire to have. i appeared to be happy, understanding this to be the “rich in other ways” condition of life, as my parents called it.

but parents always unintentionally contrive to come up short, usually in areas of critical importance. so, while we were fed with food for the soul and mind, we were clad in bargain basement steals and other best-buys, not to mention the odd hand-me-down. i suppose it was no accident that we spent a christmas in london, timed to make full use of the post festive season sales. it was not about style, my mother warned us, it’s about keeping warm and dry.

encouraged to blend in with the local, skiing classes were sanctioned. but, instead of state of the art geze snap-on bindings, rossignol fiberglass skis and nordica boots, it was generic spring clasp bindings, wooden skis and lace-up leather ski footwear for me. my humiliation on the weekend school ski trip was almost complete.

the icing on my sartorial cake, was the £ 20 duffle coat: a survivor of antiquity and the great war, 3/4 in length, hooded with a neck strap locked into place with a single button, two over sized pockets with flaps (great to stuff cheap chinese mittens), and all this held together with four wooden mini horn-like fasteners attached to simulated leather loops. it was the ultimate sack cloth. in an emerging age of high tech fiber and goose down, i looked like a camel trying to trek across the alps as my classmates whizzed airily down the pistes, scarcely able to conceal their derision.

i’m surprised i wasn’t scarred for life. as happy children tumbled out of the bus at the end of the excursion to be greeted by waiting chauffeurs and herded into warm, leather upholstered vehicles, my parents waited, bus schedule in hand. i was last out, embarrassed and close to tears. i’d peed in my pants, blame ascribed to the polyester and other synthetic fibers which failed to retain body heat. like they say, it’s all about the gear.

so, today, i make no excuses for my wardrobe. it’s a decent collection of top drawer designer labels. it gives me the sartorial confidence i so lacked in my adolescence. the RM williams boots substitute the embarrassment of knee-high latex wellingtons: “they will keep your feet dry”, mother said, never wondering why they didn’t ever show signs of wear (i hid them on my way out, slipping into a pair of more chic adidas sneakers instead).

i hear duffle coats have made a comeback and wellington boots are now called funky wellies, both on the cusp of high fashion. in new york, a duffle coat can set you back several hundred dollars. even clint eastwood, icon of masculinity, has been sighted in one.

my father once told me in the late 1970s, “if i’d kept my suits from the 40s, i’d be on the cutting edge of style”. perhaps if i knew then what i know now, i would have had a less sartorially traumatized childhood, a child ahead of his time.

i cannot disagree more with those that say that spending on childrens clothes is a waste of money. give them the gear they need, i say!