Cardies

Did you know a revolution is occurring? It’s outspoken and renegade, punk in its truest form. It is individual yet collective, emotion-based and with its own particular uniform.


Singleness. Not chosen singleness but singleness by default. Being part of this revolution, a newcomer but already a very committed revolutionary, we live quietly, unheard, often unseen but existing and spreading our declaration in quiet, passive-aggressive pamphlets. An underground scene, we recognise fellow revolutionaries by a certain item of clothing, a common garment but with a certain identifying mark.


We wear cardies on a regular basis in varying shades of drab – greige, creams and ecrus, browns and charcoals. It is an item of highly particular distinction. 


First of all it’s not a cardigan, it’s a pristine item preferably in cashmere or merino, fitted and in rich colours worn for nice events and purchased for fashion or style. A cardy is bought either in Marks' or a charity shop (never vintage which again elevates to cardigan status via the price tag); if once an old relative’s and hand knitted, so much the better – this is for the Robespierre of revolutionaries.


A cardy is worn at all times despite whatever weather experienced, hot or cold, worn with various layers, misshapen, bobbled and stained. There should always be a dribble of egg or coffee on the front; for those truly alone, a cigarette burn on the sleeve. Crumbs will inevitably be found within the knit, hobnobs or digestive or shortcake; for suburban dwellers ever lemon puffs. A lingering aroma of fried bacon, eggs and chips permeates the garment and yourself and the person must be adorned with a dab of baked bean juice at the corner of the mouth. Only dab, mind you – any more and it’s a sign of dementia. We are compo mentis and are proud to be.


Our loneliness is put upon us, not chosen; it is a situation foisted upon us because our place in modernity is deemed unworthy, and so we read our loneliness away, read and ponder, muse and peruse, cogitating and comprehending. Loneliness has paid the high price for our gained intelligence, debts repaid with celibacy and cold beds. Installments are heavy and regular, but we bear the situation with more books, radio and cigarettes. It’s all we know. To experiment is a concept far out of our reach; the challenge of a new author and genre is welcomed but it’s a calculated risk.


The last time we risked it was on the last date we had, several months (or, for some, years) ago, so horrendous that it cemented our determination to give up on humanity. It simply no longer exists, the proof in the amount of mutants and zombies we have had to share a beer or coffee with.


After each horrific date we ran to the comfort of our books, to chain smoke with a mug of coffee, warmed by the cardy. It is the ultimate safety net; it will cosset when trembling, shroud when pale, warm when cool. The cherished garment to keep near at all times, it was depended upon, but is now required for fear of the world collapsing or one’s blood halting in circulation.


It was our companion in the hermit existence, but since realising we are part of a Lonely Hearts Club, it has become our members badge and is worn with pride.