As I got dressed this morning, I realised a button was missing from the clean shirt in question. I started to think I’d have to sort out a needle and thread and sew a spare in place, when it dawned on me: it’s about time I started wearing cufflinks. After all, people do send me them to wear.
A pair of lovely vintage silver ones appeared in the post recently from the US, in the shape of little 1930s automobiles. Here’s the note that came with them:
Dear Mr Edwards
These belonged to my great uncle. He was a gay Mexican paratrooper in WWII (and after as well I suppose). You are the only one I know who would do them justice. Enjoy!
Ms Brandi Shawn.
I’ve got them on now. I like to think this diary reads like it was written by the sort of person who is sent vintage cufflinks previously belonging to gay great uncles, Mexican paratroopers or not.
In fact, someone else told me the other day they suddenly felt the urge to send me some cufflinks. Well, now’s the time. From today, I am officially a cufflink wearer.
(Is it ‘cufflinks’, ‘cuff links’ or ‘cuff-links’? Glancing at newspapers online, all three versions appear to be in usage. However, the Compact OED and the London Review Of Books prefer ‘cufflinks’, so I’ll go with that.)
