The year is 1925, and Arthur Shelby is a retired man.

Padding around his garden, baby son under one arm, he's collecting fresh eggs. He's Vito Corleone in the tomato plants. He's Tony Soprano on the fishing boat.

He's not thinking about killing, he's thinking about opening a garage. "I like fixing cars," he says, wistful in the mid-morning sun.

He looks a little different, too.

The famous, 'harsh-as gun-butt-to-the-cranium' crop has gone in favour of a bucolic bard centre parting. (The 'tache is still there of course, masking Arthur's vulnerable heart). The razor-lined cap is out, too. No faces to slash out here in the country.

Then check out the clothes. Arthur's loosened up. A granddad collar shirt, two buttons open. An excellent, soft brown woollen blazer, snug but comfortable: just right. Braces over a pair of casual brown slacks. Well worn wellies.

He's let go, without letting himself go.

Of course, none of this will last. Now he's being hunted by a small army from the Italian mafia, Tommy needs his 'mad dog' brother and the show must to 'return to its roots' to recapture the magic of season 1, Arthur will be strapping back on the waistcoat and pulling up the laces on his heavy-soled boots ready to march back into the piss and fire of Birmingham.

Still: it was nice to glimpse Arthur - and his wardrobe - at peace. Even though you knew it could never last.

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