I don’t have too many true regrets at this stage of my life, but one past decision occasionally haunts me. It often leads to moments of gazing out longingly into the middle distance with a vacant expression. I rue that decision – especially on days when it’s pleasant, but not too warm, with a clear blue spring or autumn sky – when I parted ways with a perfect suede jacket.

It was a Drake’s five-pocket chore jacket in a heavyweight crosta suede, in a shade of deep emerald green that had started to wear and patinate just so. The sort of jacket that, when you wore it to the pub, strangers would stop you at the bar and say, “That jacket is really nice, where did you get it from?” or “That’s a great jacket!” Or “You look very cool and handsome in that jacket, are you some sort of Hollywood star?” (I may have slightly embellished that last one.)

Call it hubris, or the dulling effects of living in a city that is mostly grey, wet or windy, which meant that I could count on one hand the number of times I could enjoy wearing it, but I sold the jacket. At the time I justified it as a necessary measure: what’s the point in having something beautiful that you can hardly ever wear? Isn’t it better to have a concise wardrobe, a versatile one? I blame Marie Kondo. I blame Steve Jobs. I blame myself.

As I regrettably learnt, the entire point of owning a suede jacket is that it’s the sort of outerwear that you should only be able to wear a handful of times throughout the year. You don’t necessarily want a suede jacket to be your whole thing. It rewards patience; with each outing, drop of rain or scuff mark adding character. It’s an overused cliche in the world of menswear, but suede really is a fabric that improves with age, wear and the occasional spill.