There are worse ways to spend a Sunday morning than pulling books off the shelf. Reg and I share this particular affliction — the menswear library as both reference tool and comfort object, the kind of collection that justifies itself every time you actually need to know something, and the rest of the time simply sits there looking authoritative.
I was recently leafing through Nicky Smith's The Style of an Englishman — 1989, and showing its age in all the best ways — when I came across a page that gave me pause. Smith lays out what she calls the basic 'basics': a travel checklist for the well-dressed man embarking on a business trip. Three suits, six white shirts, one blazer, one trench coat, two pairs of black Oxfords, a selection of ties including, she specifies, one black silk knit. The whole thing organised with the calm certainty of someone who knows the rules exist, that they work, and that deviation is for people who haven't thought it through.
She was right, of course. For 1989.
The world she was dressing for had fixed occasions. Office. Meeting. Cocktails. Conference. Weekend dinner, formal or informal. Each with its own dress code, each dress code legible to everyone in the room. The dark navy for evening, the grey flannel for day, the cords for the informal weekend — not arbitrary choices but a system, and the system worked because everyone agreed it worked.
Thirty-seven years later, the system has not collapsed so much as dissolved at the edges. The office is sometimes a Zoom rectangle and sometimes a co-working space in which someone is wearing a hoodie worth more than your suit. "Smart casual" — still the most useless phrase in the English language, and showing no signs of improvement — has become the default dress code for everything from client dinners to gallery openings to occasions that simply couldn't be bothered to specify. Trainers are acceptable almost everywhere, except the places they're not, and the line between those two categories remains invisible until you have already crossed it, in the wrong direction, in front of people whose opinion you would have preferred to keep.
The question is not whether Smith's list still holds. It doesn't, entirely. The question is what the 2026 version looks like, built on the same logic — economy of means, maximum versatility, nothing that doesn't earn its place in the bag — updated for a world that has genuinely changed.
Here, then, is my attempt.
One mid-grey in lightweight tropical wool — the workhorse, the default, the suit that takes you from the morning meeting to the evening dinner without apology. One dark navy, cut slightly slimmer than you think you need. The double-breasted has made a serious return; if you can carry it, this is the suit to try it in. The third suit from Smith's list has been quietly retired. Three suits in a carry-on is a packing fantasy for a different era.
Not a blazer in the 1989 sense — the brass-buttoned navy blazer belongs to a world of yacht clubs that most of us do not visit. A soft-construction jacket in a neutral — camel, mid-brown, olive, lightweight tweed or cashmere mix — that works equally over tailored trousers and dark denim. This is the 2026 Swiss army knife. It goes everywhere and apologises for nothing.
Two white — one formal for the suit, one slightly more relaxed for the jacket. One pale blue Oxford cloth, button-down, which has survived everything the last four decades have thrown at it. One fine stripe or subtle check. Smith had six. You don't need six. You need four good ones and either a travel iron or the discipline to hang them in a steamy bathroom. One of these options is more reliable than the other.
One pair, darkest indigo, cut straight or very slightly tapered. Not skinny — the moment has passed. Not distressed — you are not twenty-two. Dark denim with the right jacket and a proper shoe will take you further in 2026 than three pairs of odd trousers would have in 1989. This is not a concession to casualisation. It is an acknowledgement of reality.
Mid-grey or charcoal. For wearing with the jacket when the denim feels insufficient, or with the grey suit jacket when you want to break it up for a second day. Smith had the flannels and the cords. Keep the flannels. Lose the cords — unless you are going somewhere that cords are specifically correct, in which case you already know who you are.
One black Oxford — the single constant connecting Smith's 1989 list to this one, and likely to whatever replaces it in 2037. Beyond that, the shoe question has become genuinely complicated, and I will tell you exactly where I stand.
The leather trainer worn with a suit — a look that has achieved mainstream acceptance on the American Eastern Seaboard and certain parts of West London — is, in this writer's considered opinion, one of the sloppiest combinations in modern dressing. It ruins both garments simultaneously: the suit loses its authority, the trainer loses whatever casual ease it was supposed to provide. You are left with something that reads not as deliberately relaxed but as insufficiently dressed, which is an entirely different thing and considerably less forgivable.
If the occasion requires a suit, wear a proper shoe. If it doesn't require a suit, don't wear one. The leather trainer is not a bridge between these two positions. It is a hole in the middle of the bridge.
For occasions where the dress code is genuinely ambiguous — and 2026 provides these in abundance — the answer is not a cleaner trainer. It is a better shoe. A tasselled loafer in cognac leather or suede reads as considered rather than casual. The Belgian loafer, for those who know them, operates in the same register — effortless, if you have the insouciance to wear them with or without socks. Or, for something with genuine transatlantic authority, the Bass Weejun in cordovan: an American staple crossing the boundary between formal and casual with aplomb since 1936, and showing no sign of stopping. Any of these three will take you places the leather trainer cannot, worn with things the leather trainer should not be near.
Smith's four-ply cashmere V-neck in cream remains correct and you should own one. Add a lightweight merino crewneck in navy or mid-grey — thin enough to layer under a jacket, substantial enough to wear alone. Between these two you have covered every temperature differential a modern hotel will throw at you.
The trench coat survives intact. It is one of the few garments that has never needed updating because it was correct from the beginning. If you don't own one, buy one. If yours is showing its age, have it cleaned and pressed within an inch of its life — which is, in itself, a kind of elegance. A well-maintained Barbour, as an alternative, covers suit, denim and everything between. This is a very personal choice, and you know if it's yours.
Optional — a word that would have been unthinkable in 1989. Bring one: the black silk knit Smith specified, still the most versatile piece of neckwear ever devised. I have written at some length about the tie and its proper uses (Ties That Know Their Place, Feb 2026) and will not repeat myself, except to say that the man who knows when to wear one and when not to is more interesting than either the man who always does or the man who never does.
It is a question, despite what certain corners of the internet would have you believe. I have expressed a view (Cufflinks? Seriously?, Mar 2026) that need not be restated. The short version: they matter, the right ones reward attention, and the wrong ones undo everything the shirt was trying to achieve.
A good linen handkerchief. Two, if you have room. White, plain, folded simply into the top pocket. Not silk attempting to be decorative. Not a printed affair announcing its own presence. Linen — which washes easily, travels without complaint, and has the particular quality of looking better slightly worn than fresh from the packet. The pocket square has become sufficiently optional in 2026 that its presence is now genuinely noticed. This is an argument for wearing one, not against it.
Dark, well-cut chinos — occupying the space between tailored and casual that 1989 didn't quite have a name for. A plain white or navy T-shirt in quality cotton, for under the knitwear, for the hotel gym, for the Sunday morning when you're not seeing anyone who matters. A belt — one, in dark tan or cognac leather, for everything except the black Oxfords, for which you need a black belt. Yes, you need both.
The logic is the same as Smith's. Everything earns its place. Everything works with everything else. The number of pieces has barely changed. What has changed is the occasion they're dressing for — less fixed, less legible, but not, if you know what you're doing, any harder to navigate.
Smith got it right in 1989. The basics are still the basics. They've just learned to travel lighter.