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Is there anything more chic? I scrub mine. I watch as the water swirls round and round the bucket, sloshing down the drain.

Whirlpools of dirt pulled from the fabric.

I love a good white shirt with nearly everything – black pants, blue jeans, light weather, dark moods. The ironing time is always worth it. Steam hisses as I fight with white.

Streams of heat as I pull and smooth.

At last count I have – let me actually count for accuracy’s sake – six! More than pairs of shoes or jeans. Unrivalled. I feel like nobility when I wear one, or like I’m wearing the “white privilege uniform”. You know the one – slack shorts, shirt (sleeves rolled up) dark sunglasses and leather sandals/ sockless loafers.

A good white shirt is enough to hide insecurities beneath a blazer, contain an undershirt and layers of regret masquerading as fat. Yet not enough to betray with the help of some sweat. It shan’t conceal what you aren’t willing to.

Oh, and make no mistake, do not confuse it with a bad one. One with yellow sweat stains around the armpits and a dark line cordoning off the collar. No. A good white shirt will be faithful, and hang in your cupboard for just long enough, tempting you. “Wear me”, but never “pick me”. Never desperate. A command, not a plea. Never fighting for your attention.

Whether a mindless uniform, or carefully considered, a good white shirt will never be a bad choice.

<p>Author <a href=”https://plus.google.com/102128103971030481396” target=”blank” rel=”author”>Jerome Cornelius</a></p>

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