The reason I got robbed in Buenos Aires was that I stood out from the crowd. Every Porteno, every man jack of them were in denim; I was in chinos.

I could have passed as a citizen, quite easily in fact, B.A. is as multi-cultural as it gets, but it was the chinos, they gave me and my friend who was with me away, We might as well have been dressed in jesters motley and be carrying a pig's bladder on a stick.

Since then, (even before when I think about it), I dress to blend in, I camouflage myself, which these days, means the middle aged man's uniform of dark everything: jeans, coat, shirts, shoes. It's as standard as look as the furniture in a classroom, built for utility, designed for anonymity, hence why I wear it.

Only a handful of my male friends have the charisma to carry off a bold, bright palette of colour in the way they dress. My cousin, probably the boldest of this tiny bunch; he's a good eye for what matches, how to colour block and so on.

So when he and his wife brought me a bright red windcheater one Xmas, I inwardly died, bluffed a hearty thanks, and then stuck it on a hanger. A coat in exile.

But they knew more. No colour is an orphan. Everything goes with something. Something sat on my shoulder this morning, whispered in one ear, then fluttered over to the other and did the same: "That red coat? Try it, go on..."

I did, and it does. My little red windcheater and I got on pretty well today. Enough to make me want to take it out again.