Generation of actors have strutted and fretted in their costumers. Charles Darwent probes a wearing business.
'Excuse me,' explodes Tim Angel suddenly, causing your correspondent to exhale hot coffee through his nose. 'Excuse me. Look at that. Look at that.' One alarming bound and Angel is over by his office window, jabbing a forefinger at the dingy North London street scene beyond it. Through a mist of nasal pain, it is just possible to make out the particular object of his attentions: a white transit van, opportunely pulled up at traffic lights opposite. It seems an unlikely cause for jubilation, but there you are. Chacun son gout.