Suzanne Harrington: All butch on Brighton beach — but when I come home to Ireland, I'll be wearing a dry robe

I have a confession — I have become One of Them. The owner of a dry robe. Not even a real one — they cost more than my car is worth — but a €50 job off the internet.

Ankle-length and lined with thick orange fleece, windproof and wraparound. I am now, unofficially at least, a Dry Robe Wanker. An off-brand member.



Part of that collective noun I'd always resisted — a smuggery of Dry Robes. My aversion has been both cultural and aesthetic. The connotation of Dry Robe ownership is far more weighted than merely owning a hefty outdoor garment; for a start, DRWs are the kind of people who call swimming 'wild swimming' if it happens anywhere beyond an indoor chlorinated rectangle.

What began as a practical solution to avoid hypothermia on windswept winter beaches during lockdown, when we were all throwing ourselves into icy seas to remind ourselves that we were still alive, has since morphed into a kind of aspirational fashion statement...

Suzanne Harrington.