I spent about four years buying black jackets that were almost right. Slightly too shiny, slightly too cropped, one with a zip that caught my jumper every single time I did it up, and I did it up hundreds of times before I admitted defeat and gave it to a charity shop in Peckham. So I’ve earned the right to say this properly: a black jacket is the one thing in your wardrobe that has to work harder than everything else, because you’ll wear it more than any single dress or jumper you own, and a mediocre one shows its cheapness within about three wears.
What makes one actually good has almost nothing to do with how it looks on the hanger. It’s the weight of it, whether it holds a shape when you move rather than flapping about like a bin bag in the wind, and whether the lining doesn’t bunch up under a jumper. A proper collar that sits flat, buttons that don’t strain, a length that means it doesn’t ride up when you sit down on a train.
None of that photographs well. All of it is the difference between a jacket you reach for constantly and one that ends up at the back with the tags still threatening you.
Styling wise, the whole point is that it should do the opposite of overthinking.
Over a plain t-shirt and jeans it looks like you tried without trying. Over a slip dress it stops the whole thing feeling like you’re off to a wedding you weren’t invited to. Thrown over a jumper for the school run it says you’re organised even if you left the house eating toast. I wear mine with wide trousers and trainers more than anything else, because the shape does the smart bit and the shoes do the honest bit.
Occasion wise, that’s the whole appeal, it doesn’t ask you to pick one. Office to drinks without changing. A funeral if it’s the right cut, a first date if it’s the wrong cut in the best way. My colleague Priya once wore hers to three completely different events in one week and just changed her earrings each time, which felt like the most efficient thing I’ve ever witnessed a coat do.
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