Does every occasion have a dress code? I’d like to think so. In the same way that a gentleman in the ‘thirties may have pondered the vagaries of kitting himself out for a three-week autumn woodcock shoot in the foothills of the Andes*, I perhaps wrongfully assumed that there is a sartorial status quo for every conceivable circumstance. Which led me to a painful and entirely unforeseen wardrobe cul-de-sac recently.

Struck down by a mere cold a few weeks ago, you could say that I felt a bit ropey all ‘round. Two days later, I seemed to have a chest infection. Then pneumonia, which I thought was a disease reserved for the likes of anyone with the surname ‘Fiennes’ or frail old ladies in those public information films that British Gas aren’t entirely partial to. Jokes about man-flu from my colleagues fell flat when I started to tell them about intraveinous antibiotics and emergency blood tests. All of a sudden, I wasn’t a poster boy for how truly rubbish blokes are when they’re tickled by the slightest of semi-colds. In fact, the only poster I could have graced convincingly would have been for zombie shocker ‘28 Weeks Later’. Which also felt like the duration I had to stay in bed to get well again. All of which left me thinking – what does one wear to an ‘illness’?

I have some good news on this front. You can literally get away with fashion genocide on this one. Typically, it’s the only time a man is allowed to wear Ugg boots, grey marl sweatpants, a ‘Christmas’ jumper, pink aviator sunglasses and a deerstalker and people will not laugh. Not even a snigger. All because you’re a ‘poorly lamb’. I took my sickness getup to new fashion heights. I wore my snowboarding clothes, combined with a pair of brogues for extra warmth. In bed. For three days.

I developed ‘ill-hair’, which involved a side parting, which a slight backcomb and a vicious root-boost. When I could finally stand again, I explored heavy fleecy hooded tops from the late ‘Eighties, which I’d kept in case of another ice age, teamed up with big tweedy trousers, Birkenstocks with socks and Russian military cap. As I started to feel a full recovery was in sight, I almost lamented the passing of this unusual style blip, as one would mourn the end of a crazed, lucid and wholly compelling dream. I’m become accustomed to the rich vulgarity of my clothed appearance in the mirror as I sipped Lemsip and chomped Nurofen. Maybe there’s a lesson for us here? When you have absolutely no interest in making sure your outfit is ‘appropriate’, it’s possible to reach a higher plane of style. The ultimate dress code? Get yourself a nasty virus and freestyle. You’ll be amazed at the results.

* Four 30oz three piece tweed suits comprising a Norfolk style jacket, plus 2’s and an asymmetrical waistcoat cut to maximise the ‘throw’ of your favourite Purdey, expertly cut by Huntsman on the row. And some nice socks.