A stroll in the parka

With apologies to the Inuit people, who I grant have been working the fur-lined hood look for a while, I would claim the parka as the quintessential British garment. A parka is utterly practical: unlike a blazer-style spring jacket, which is useless on a blustery day, a parka is loose and light enough not to be an encumbrance in the sunshine but cosy enough to keep you warm and dry.

Whatever Burberry might prefer us to believe, the trenchcoat is more truly French than British. So chic, so flattering, so self-consciously nonchalant. So dependent on that Gallic talent for chic knots, in belts or scarves. The real British raincoat is a parka, or a Barbour-style waxed jacket - which is just a parka for posh people. Both have a crumpled, stuffed-in-the-car-boot air which makes them immensely likable.

Parkas were once for Mods; now they are for rock'n'rollers and their followers. It's a festival thing. (Never underestimate youth culture, however far it feels from your Saturday night dinner in the gastropub. After all, the vogue for wearing sunglasses at inappropriate hours as a badge of glamour and hedonism stems from the Balearic dream that you'll still be dancing when the sun comes up, but is now ubiquitous even in LA, where the party ends at midnight.)

Parkas look as good over cocktail dresses and heels as they do with skinny jeans and Converse. What is more problematic is anything in between: a parka with a cardigan and skirt tends to look geeky, and not in an ironic way.

By the way, should you doubt my contention that the Barbour jacket is a snob's parka, please note that Lily Allen was recently photographed wearing a Barbour over her cocktail dress and heels. The aspirational parka has arrived. Corgi optional.