The male mid-life crisis is not what it used to be. In the bad old, sad old, please-can-we-have-them-back-old days, a chap could greet the arrival of thinning hair, sagging jowls and a tightening waistband by following a well-trudged path, replacing pinstripes, executive saloon, marital fidelity and a quiet pint of Old Leg Over on the way home from the office, with leather jacket, sports car, bibulous nervous breakdown, then slow and shamed return, possibly with the help of understanding wife to something approaching sanity, sobriety and solvency. (“No, dear, you can’t keep the Maserati. And take out that bloody earring.”)
Today, when prolonged adolescence, or at least the appearance of it, seems to extend into a man’s sixties, when suburban dads in slogan T-shirts slurp craft lager from jam jars while Snapchatting their tattoos and planning their next triathlons, the male midlife crisis is harder to spot. Every man over the age of 30 looks like he’s in the throes of one.
In my case, the midlife crisis — the most recent manifestation of it, anyway — is easier to distinguish, because it is strictly sartorial. (You may have guessed from the photos accompanying this piece.) For a decade I have affected the appearance, if not always the behaviour, of a responsible adult. I wear business suits in restrained shades of navy and grey, business shirts in white or pale blue. I wear a tie, always. An overcoat if it’s cold. At weekends, I take off the tie.