Very few young people can afford, or have the faintest desire to save up for, a tailor-made garment. Those that do probably go to John Pearse.
I find the 77-year-old tailor in his airy shop on the pedestrianised Meard Street in Soho, which is buzzing in the way it only does when the sun is beating down. Pearse, never one for moving to Savile Row (“I’m much more exclusive here,” he says), looks seasonally-suave in a slouchy beige suit, sitting on his leather sofa. He offers me a cup of tea. “Yes, please,” I respond. “I’ll have one too. If you find the girl downstairs, she can help you make it,” he says. Off I go then.
