I have started down a path that will end in syphilitic exile. It’s not the first time that I’ve started down such a path but it may be the last. Because this path, dear readers, is a nice one. And I’m more than willing to take the walk, striding merrily into the abyss, leaving behind a good-looking ghost that only appears when people say: “Whatever happened to Ryan Oakley?” Well, let me tell you what happened to Ryan Oakley. Bespoke happened.

Today I started the process of buying my first bespoke suit. To get the vulgar part right out of the way: It is expensive. This suit costs much more than I can sensibly justify spending. I looked around and found my tastes where they usually are: perched right atop the price point. Not that this is the sort of place that has price tags. It is the sort of place where, if you have to ask, you can’t afford it. I had to ask. I’m buying it anyway.

I could try to justify it. I could say that, considering the quality, this is not only a highly reasonable price but a bargain basement one. Off the rack sometimes costs more. Off the rack, this suit would cost more and wouldn’t even fit. I could look at it that way and I would be right about it all. But I won’t bother.

There’s no sense deluding myself. When I was in my tailor’s shop, looking through the cloth and taken on a tour, I had an old and familiar feeling. I am beyond self-justification. I cannot be justified or explained. I just am this, this is just what I want and I will do what I want. The incident will speak for itself and I will remain silent.

I used to get the same feeling every day before I started drinking. Then again later, right before I did something stupid, illegal or both.

There’s something adolescent about it. There’s that youthful craving to live, to break the chains and just run around screaming like a maniac. I still have that feeling. I still want to grab life by the neck and kick it in the balls. Drinking was a part of that until I learned that booze had grabbed me by the balls and was kicking me in the neck. But, on that feeling’s strength, I managed drink a lot for a long time.

I have that gut feeling again. It’s like an old friend. A troublesome, dangerous and inexplicable old friend. Today, I bumped into him at the tailors. I didn’t recognize him at first because he was sober and well dressed. But then he looked at me, winked and said: “Hello Ryan. Fancy meeting you here.” I nodded. Then I smiled.