Nike Matagi pack: winter not included

Let's fast forward a few months. The snow is piling up at the back door and the wind is whistling past the windows. It's a cold and bleak night and I need more logs for the fire. They're piled up at the bottom of the garden.

Quite a task to retrieve and not one for the faint hearted, but one which I am prepared for nonetheless, because I have on my toasty feet a pair of Nike Air Baked mid QS.

All fur lined and suede in a kind of eskimo slipper type fashion but with a trainer sole, these little beauties were clearly made for late-night dashes into the frozen wastes of the mid-winter garden to restock on firewood.

All that and back in front of the fire to toast some more marsh mallows before you can say "Linford Christie," and without even having to take them off.

That's what I call versatile. What do you mean I need a pair of wellies?

CP Company 20th Anniversary goggle jacket

Now I wouldn't want to own this jacket myself, a little too terrace casual for me these days, although I guess I could be persuaded if I was given one of them, along with a 1932 Bugatti in which to compete in the Mille Miglia in Italy.

But there's is no denying the thought that CP Company designer Aitor Throup has put into his re-invention of the company's signature jacket. If the fact that it is made from Gore-tex, and dyed with a pigment taken from the very earth itself doesn't impress you, how about the fact that it is designed around the seated driver, so that it provides sufficient protection both standing up and while hairing down a country lane with the roof off.

Add to that the redesigned ergonomic hood, complete with trademark inbuilt goggles which make you look like a retro super hero, and you have the ultimate in technical jackets.

If you still have any doubts about the whole thing, just take a look at Aitor Throup's account of his redesign, which begins with the effect the legendary Goggle Jacket had on his career and more importantly his decision to go into fashion design. It's a tale written with the sort of passion only a true devotee could author, complete with concept sketches which are a work of art in themselves.

It's enough to make you want to speed up to Beak Street in London and grab one of those iconic creations for yourself. Then hack the roof of your Escort, just so you have an excuse to put the goggles on.

Scarves: big up your neck

I have a selection of scarves - little dandy silk numbers for when I'm feeling flouncy, nice thick heavy warm affairs to stop the ice chill of a February morning penetrating my gullet, and even a massive cotton thing I got in Ibiza one year which doubles as a beach blanket. Actually I think it is a beach blanket, it's just that I roll it up and use it as a scarf.

But no matter how many of these little oblongs of material I acquire, I can always find room for more. That's the beauty of them, they occupy the smallest of wardrobe spaces and even the most luxurious of scarves can be justified on the grounds of practicality.

Now the sporting of a scarf is not without its detractors. For the one thing, a scarf is to all intents and purposes a cravat that hasn't been properly tied, and thus a scarf tied with a flourish, like in a fancy bow, becomes a cravat. The wearer, to the uninitiated, becomes Terry Thomas, and while Mr Thomas was quite a chap, his memory does carry with it a certain caddishness, which one would be wise to carry off with confidence and more than a little self deprecation for want of being quite royally ridiculed by the opposite sex.

If in doubt of the cravatishness of one's neckwear it might be best to stick to the traditional scarf material of wool and its varying forms, and to only sport a scarf outdoors.

If you have no shame, no fear, and a penchant for the ouvert, then when it comes to scarves in their varying shapes and forms, the world is your crusty shellfish. You could even go for one of those snood thingys all the kids seem to be raving about.

Just don't tell Terry. I say!

My three preferred scarves for A/W 2009: Acronym neck gaiter, €129, The Glade; Louis Vuitton Eaton scarf, £300; CP Company light depoul wool dogtooth scarf, £75

40 Thieves featuring Qzen: Don't turn it off

Don't expect much from the video, because that light swtich is all you get. I suppose it's some kind of reference to the title of the tune, a lazy disco number reminiscent of the kind of thing they were churning out in the Studio 54 days.

This tune's been around a while but this is the first time I've found anything on it that I can post. If I come across anything else, such as a moving image, I'll let you know.

Ralph Lauren makes a decent coat? Really?

Sometimes I'm flicking through the latest mag, not really paying much attention, when I'm optically grabbed hold of by the short and curlies to stare in wonder at the sheer genius before me.

This vision can take any one of a number of forms, some of which I choose to share here, as with this Ralph Lauren over coat.

Even if I forgive him for using Ken doll models with dodgy hair, I don't even like Ralph Lauren really. Theres nothing wrong with the clothes, and let's face it, he's cornered the market when it comes to preppy dressing. But he's too good. In making his brand just the affordable side of expensive and easily available, he's become the easy option.

Can't be bothered to seek out something rare or inspired? Fear not, just slap on a Ralph Lauren Polo shirt, available on any high street.

So it was with a mixture of surprise and regret that I was looking at the perfect overcoat, the Chesterfield coat with vest, and it was made by Ralph Lauren. He only narrowly avoided being dismissed out of hand by the revelation that this garment is from his Black Label line - a more refined collection, and a bit harder to track down.

And damned expensive, I turns out. Which is why I'll let someone else have this one.

The roof is falling in

No, it's not a metaphor on the state of the economy, the roof really is falling in. The bathroom ceiling to be precise. What I always thought was a damp patch caused by the shower has turned out to be the bed of a lake, the water above growing in volume with the passing of every downpour.

The recent high winds and general monsoon-like conditions have clearly proved to be the downfall of the ceiling, which has started to bulge in an alarming manner, with water oozing through.

Now I know that on the scale of things this could be a lot worse. The bathroom could be within the house for one thing, meaning the lake could have been caused by a burst pipe - just imagine the carnage.

But it's still a pain. On the plus side, now I've (on builder's advice) poked a few holes in the plasterboard to release the water, I have the choice of two showers under which to stand in the morning. I could even do that hot/cold routine they like in Finland, or some other arctic territory.

Luxury. International luxury no less, soon with a bonus view of the sky through the collapsed roof.

Nike Livestrong M65 jacket: catch one if you can

I don't really know why I'm showing you this, because if you don't pick one up today you're going to have a bit of a job finding one.

So if you're not already living in New York or Los Angeles, you might as well forget it.

The Nike Livestrong M65 jacket is available today (October 10) only, in select stores in the US, including Undefeated LA and Nike Sportswear and Dave's Quality Meat, both in New York.

For your $395 (£247) you get a lightweight nylon jacket, with ultrasonic welded and taped back construction replacing the stitching. This means it will fold down and stash into one of its own pockets.

Now personally I can't stand that egomaniac on wheels Lance Armstrong, but he does raise money for an admirable cause, and there's no denying the personal hardship he's been through.

So before you make too much noise about that price tag it's worth remembering that the entire proceeds from the sale of this jacket go to the Livestrong foundation.

The proceeds from the plane ticket you buy to get to New York will just go to British Airways. And cost about four times the price of the coat, but hey, there's always Ebay.

Raleigh 'High Life' cyclocross bike

When I was a kid, Raleigh was the make of bike to be riding. You had your Burner BMXs, the Commando (which my overweight neighbour snapped in half), Grifter, and then there were the racers.

That was the heyday, back in the eighties. These days, Nottingham based Raleigh has about as much clout on the bike scene as Puch or that other crappy make, Universal. At least that's what I thought until I stumbled upon this Raleigh cyclocross bike, in a colourway inspired by Miller High Life.

All white with deep red graphics, some serious wheels and a pair of Easton forks just to reinforce the quality aspect.

The thing is, this bike is nowhere to be seen on the Raleigh UK website. Instead we're presented with an uninspiring selection of Airlites and Avantis.

Click over to Raleigh USA and it's a different story - single speeds, fixed gear, racers you would actually want to ride. And to add insult to injury, the website even looks good.

So what's going on Raleigh? You're an English brand, once the Number One English cycle brand, and all these years you've been churning out nothing but mediocre offerings.

Meanwhile, your American counterpart has caught the cycle zeitgeist and run with it, producing dreamy single speeds and racers to slobber over, as well as a cyclocross bike that looks so good it would be a shame to get it muddy.

Best you get your act together.

The last train from Fenchurch Street

There I am, plotted up in my usual seat, last train home, last man sober, the only one who's just worked till midnight, and there's a phone ringing.

It's one of those old fashioned ringtones, the default one you get on a Blackberry - urgent, loud, piercing - and the bloke in the seats in front of me is saying "Hello?" but he hasn't pressed the button, he's so out of it, so it's still ringing, and he keeps saying "hello?"

And after about twenty rings or so we're all telling him to push the button, and he says "Im trying", and eventually he finds it and he's speaking in this sort of gibberish, all his words merging into this monotonous tone. It's pitiful.

Then he passes out, forehead in his torpedo roll, phone in hand outstretched.

Further up the carriage, a security guard is standing between some seats. Just standing there, smiling, not saying a word, and from behind these seats you can hear a couple of blokes, sounds like they know each other, but they're getting a bit fresh, giving it the large. And all the while the guard is just standing there, smiling.

Next stop is me. That phone starts ringing, like it's some sort of alarm, right on cue. But this time it's ringing and this bloke keeps pushing the button, semi-conscious, then it rings again and again, like someone's desperate to speak to him.

So I tap him on the shoulder, tell him it's ringing.

He looks at me with this half grin, like the words have gone in but he's forgot how to process them. And then, like it's the most natural thing in the world, no dramatics, no nothing, he gives this tiny jerk and throws up. Mainly red wine by the looks of it, I can smell it now as I'm typing. It's all over the table, floating his torpedo, sloshing onto his suit.

The doors open and I'm gone. As I'm walking along the platform, I can hear a phone ringing.

Ahoy there, enormous houseboat thing

I can't really say I've had occassion to step aboard many boats in my time. Despite my best efforts I've still managed to avoid knowing anyone in possession of a ship, yacht, or even a dinghy. The nearest I have come so far to a life on the ocean waves has been the ferry to the Isle of Wight in 2004.

But that hasn't stopped me gaping in wonder at any new arrival in St Katharine Docks as I stroll through on my way to work - it might even have stoked my fascination. I spend the entire walk through the docks wondering what exactly the Dutch barge Noelle looks like below decks, and if Playbuoy really is lined in faux tiger fur as its name suggests.

Every now and then a vessel turns up that has my jaw scraping the floor. This is usually a multi-million pound Sunseeker (Eddie Jordan's, The Snapper, springs to mind) or a round-the-world yacht with a brushed alluminium hull.

Or this. Matrix Island turned up last week and it is basically a houseboat on steroids. A floating five-bedroom home. It has the lot - portholes the size of bistro tables, and double glazed windows cut out of the hull that you could fit a jetski through. There's even a water-level balcony.

Two things fascinate me about Matrix Island; first, what kind of mind decides to turn what appears to be a massive barge of some description into a floating detached house, and second, how it managed to stay afloat on the open water long enough to make it into the dock. Surely even mildly choppy water would have those windows out in a splash.

The fact it is floating at all makes it a lot more interesting than a Sunseeker.

The sun always shines at Louis Vuitton

The leaves are falling off the trees and it's been chucking it down for most of the day, so the last thing on my mind right now has to be sunglasses.

And what happens? Along comes a clip for Louis Vuitton sunglasses. As slick as the puddle outside the front door, it takes the viewer on a journey around one of the latest designs, with its Damier signature check etched into the framework and all that precision workmanship.

You just know that this is a pair of shades built to last. Especially since with the speed the winter seems to be steaming towards us, you're not going to get the chance to wear them for at least six months.

Blow me (up), it's a shopping bag

I still haven't made it to a supermarket till without having forgotten to bring one of the 2,000 Bags For Life presently spilling out of the kitchen drawer.

The thing is, it's not like I don't intend to take them. I'm an environmentally conscious person. I separate my waste.

But Bags For Life do not lend themselves to being re-used. First off, they look crap. The bags I'm constantly given are the most aesthetically unpleasing to the eye as I could possibly imagine. They have pictures of groceries on them for god's sake.

Besides that, they never seem to figure in my checklist before I leave the house. Keys and pants for sure, shoes optional. A Bag For Life? Not even on it.

But now I need to forget my Bag For Life no longer, because it will be attached to me at all times like a ripe hemorrhoid, dangling utility-like from my belt.

This is thanks to Greenaid, who have invented a re-useable shopping bag that rolls up and stuffs in a neoprene shell, shaped like a hand grenade. A weapon in the fight against climate change.

And just imagine the fun you could have with a hand grenade shaped piece of neoprene. Lob it into the basket on your trolley and watch the sea of Saturday morning grocery shoppers part before you as you make your way through the aisles. Play keepy uppey at the deli counter, volley it through the tills.

If you're really lucky you might even get the Counter Terrorism Unit to take you home with your shopping.

These boots were made for crying

We were about halfway down the hill - about 500 yards at a push - before I knew something was seriously wrong. It was the boots. My brand new, just out of the box Visvim Serra hikers were going to kill me if I took another step. They were already killing me - it had been foolhardy to set out in nothing but a thin pair of dress socks between the leather uppers and my tender heels.

But those boots had been burning a hole in my shoe collection for a couple of months. Ever since I nabbed them at a bargain, but still eye-watering, price, they've been sitting atop my wardrobe waiting for some suitaby inclement weather to get an outing. The lack of a suitably stout pair of walking socks wasn't going to ruin their christening.

"I'm not going to make it," I said to Lizzie through gritted teeth."Leave me, and save yourself."

So Lizzie carried on down to the train station as I made the long trek back uphill, wincing with every step, to slip into something more comfortable.

The episode was proof if further were needed that the pain threshold of women is far above that of men. Lizzie also had her new shoes on - a pair of dainty little brogues. No socks, no nothing. After a trip to London which involved us getting lost in Bloomsbury and somehow ending up in Wagamama's in Soho, then tubing over to a pub in Islington before the long trek home, her feet were so raw that they were actually weeping blood. Not a whimper, all night. That's well hard.

Meanwhile, I continue to suffer. My heels are still showing the evidence of the failed outing of the Serra hikers, and even with the thick walking socks I have now invested in, they're still agony to wear some 24 hours on. I have been forced to admit that in contrast to the butter-soft nature of other Visvims, these blighters are going to need a bit of wearing in.

Looks like I'll be needing some lessons in pain control from Lizzie.