Ian MacMillan: I looked like a boy sculpted from lard by a child

My dad wore one all year round, although in summer he allowed himself the questionable luxury of a string vest which made him look as though he’d applied teabags to his nipples to stop them chafing on his shirt; however most chaps discard their vests once July lumbers over the horizon and they put it back on once the Advent calendars start appearing in the shops because it’s turning that bit chilly in the evenings. And this time of year makes me think about vests. And I don’t really want to think about vests.

When, as a younger man, I worked on a building site in Sheffield, most of the blokes wore vests, but only temporarily. As the sun rose in the sky they’d discard layers of clothing one by one: the jumper would be off, then the shirt. The vest would be revealed. Then, in an excruciating moment for me, they’d take their vests off revealing muscles and tattooes. It was excruciating for me because I hadn’t got muscles or tattoos: I looked like a boy sculpted from cheap lard by a child in a lard sculpture workshop. A child in a lard sculpture workshop who’d left at half time.

“Come on lad, get your vest off, get some sun on thi back!” Vinnie the bricklayer would shout. “In a minute” I’d say, which I realise made me sound indecisive and pathetic, a talking lard sculpture who’d learned a few words of English. So, all though the hot summer of 1978, I kept my vest on, which meant that all the areas not covered by my vest got tanned. Consequently, in a warmish September, when I’d developed a few muscles and enough courage to slip my vest off behind the safety of a half-built wall, the horrible truth was that I looked like I’d still got a vest on. The area the vest had covered up was still as white as semi-skimmed milk. I stepped out into the unforgiving air. “Get your vest off!” Vinnie shouted. “Get some sun on thi back!” I scuttled back behind the wall like a frightened insect and put the vest back on. Nobody noticed.

So now, in act of defiance to Vinnie and the rest, I never wear a vest. I dislike them for two reasons: they remind me of my building-site humiliation and they feel like symbols of approaching middle-age. And even though I’m 55, I’m nowhere near middle-age. Well, maybe I’m approaching the foothills. Slowly. From a long way off.

But then the other day, in a big supermarket, I found myself lingering by a display of vests. There were pictures of men wearing vests and they didn’t look middle-aged: they looked young and trendy. I picked up a packet of three vests. I almost dropped them into the trolley. Almost, but not quite. All men turn into their dads, eventually. But not just yet…