The gloves


The gloves on the picture is not a picture of my own brown gloves but simply a poorer looking replica to illustrate the fact that this text really is about a pair of brown leather gloves. My own pair of gloves are so good looking that they cannot be displayed in a such a visually below par arena as this blog.

The find
They took some time to track down. I had an image of how they would feel and look like. They had to be brown. This winter I’ve had my private crusade against black, the all star colour of Swedish winter fashion which has swept the icy streets of Stockholm. I was determined not to encourage this development. My glows would be brown. They took time to track down and after spending two hours in the city walking between stores only to meet rows and rows of black gloves I finally found them. They looked expensive. After putting my hands in them I knew there would be no turning back. So I paid the price, pretended to not care about the financial aspect, and left the store relieved.

Two weeks later
I had been drinking too much whiskey to try and block out the cold. I stood talking with an old homeless woman who eventually tried to kiss me in a laundrette in East London. I ran out and found that the police had shut the party down. People were walking around aimlessly on the sidewalk. I was hugging the remains of my whiskey as if it was all I had. My hat and gloves were gone. After harassing the police, who were admirably patient with my drunken drivel, about their limited interest in my brown glows I left. A week later in Sweden: my London friend tells me that she has my gloves. She sends them by mail to me. We are reunited.

Three weeks ago

I am rushing to beat the traffic on my way to the Swedish mountains. I realized I need a fleece the same day I left and ran into a store and tried one on. I threw money on the counter, jump into the rental car and push down the pedal hard and firm. You can read all about it here. When arriving I could no longer find my brown leather gloves. When I return to the city I told myself that I should go to the sport store and look for them. Then kept forgetting about it for weeks.

Two days ago
I finally step into the store with a certain degree of shame for not coming back for my poor gloves earlier. I ask if they have seen any brown gloves. The cashier is stressed. She tells me that they only have black gloves. ‘Maybe you can check in another store’ she offers. I sense a misunderstanding and make it clear that I am looking for my lost gloves and have no interest in acquiring new ones in her sad-looking-fleece-jacket-carrying establishment. She pauses in her stress and blushes. ‘Oh, you lost your gloves. Hold on and let me check’. She walkes into a side room and starts pulling around things and suddenly she is waving my brown gloves, asking ‘are these the ones you are talking about?’

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