I somehow came upon this. It is true there is a world war two officers jacket languishing in my wardrobe. I made a poor internet attempt to search records to prove that my Grandfather was an officer but found the records hard to find I am sure many people have better sources than I. However yes the jacket is there.
There is a ghost in the wardrobe it sleeps uncomfortable on a plastic hanger expensively tailored as befits the rank. One of the few things of my grandfather’s I can touch there is that clock bearing that title forever tickless a wedding present for the wearer I have never yet found a safe house for it it to peal in. The jacket lies noticeably cleaned, shrouded in a torn bin liner my attempt at preservation, fear moths, consider museums the ordinariness of this item lowers its historical value the ghost has not been attended properly. I wore this jacket it was last seen in public when I was boyish it was floodlit on stage masquerading as another, further, war the one now celebrating it centenary I had the closest thing to historical accuracy. I forget the lines I spoke and it is of no matter. I worry this fabric can never speak of the wearer’s reluctance and fear.