Casual Clothing
What happened to ritualistic coach-potating on Sundays of yesteryears? Casual clothes, like the near-shredded old Cashmere and some un-ironed baggy pyjama trousers, or, supreme indulgence, staying all day with previous night silk shirt, you had ended up sleeping with. No hair gelling, no steam-room antics, even no shower at all! All (sun)day long, pollinating some books and magazines, and weekend glossies.
Last Sunday was none of the above. Crisp trousers, linen blazer, and twice shirt changing, twice! Flea market morning trip more like Christie’s South Ken Monday afternoon; lunch with garden-formality with the Taj al~Sultana, Lalande de Pomerol, the Moralejian See-Eeh-O, Ruinard, Garbo and the Fischer-Asskicker; elegant dinner-party with the Torino Set (including the Hostess-Architectoress plus some Tías and Tíos).
At lunch the usual Clash of Worldviews: Centre-Right Politics vs. Liberal Centrist School of Economics. Should Emigration be included in the Sex, Religion and Politics triad of Thou-must-not-mentioned-it-at-table? Well, drama-free, non-confrontational meals are boring anyway. Seafood curry was bliss to such a chilli-addicted palate as mine.
At dinner, lots of reverse or paradoxical roles. A Milanese who berates the rojoneo and is very sceptical about added value of horse riding to the Corrida; a Florentine writer who’s straightforward and prefers Wednesdays to go out and liberate himself; a former transalpine HisExcellency who speaks with the courteous charm of Old Spain; against Cervantes, a female Pancho who’s slim and tall; and Parisian Frenchies who mock Paris. Glamorous Sundays and self-deprecating French: is the world upside down?
The skinny-legged smiling Otter was using a “as per our conversation last night” mini-skirt, with “risqué” fishnet stockings. ("Rollo" stuff?..). The fungi porcini married with the pasta in a sublime way . The risotto was up to the challenge thrown in by the perfumed mushroom neighbours at the dinner table. Delicate Palazzo-grade crystal glasses and old-Venetto porcelain contrasted powerfully with white urban furniture and mustard yellow-jacketed camareros. The Architectorezza well deserved an extra paragraph.
Last Sunday was none of the above. Crisp trousers, linen blazer, and twice shirt changing, twice! Flea market morning trip more like Christie’s South Ken Monday afternoon; lunch with garden-formality with the Taj al~Sultana, Lalande de Pomerol, the Moralejian See-Eeh-O, Ruinard, Garbo and the Fischer-Asskicker; elegant dinner-party with the Torino Set (including the Hostess-Architectoress plus some Tías and Tíos).
At lunch the usual Clash of Worldviews: Centre-Right Politics vs. Liberal Centrist School of Economics. Should Emigration be included in the Sex, Religion and Politics triad of Thou-must-not-mentioned-it-at-table? Well, drama-free, non-confrontational meals are boring anyway. Seafood curry was bliss to such a chilli-addicted palate as mine.
At dinner, lots of reverse or paradoxical roles. A Milanese who berates the rojoneo and is very sceptical about added value of horse riding to the Corrida; a Florentine writer who’s straightforward and prefers Wednesdays to go out and liberate himself; a former transalpine HisExcellency who speaks with the courteous charm of Old Spain; against Cervantes, a female Pancho who’s slim and tall; and Parisian Frenchies who mock Paris. Glamorous Sundays and self-deprecating French: is the world upside down?
The skinny-legged smiling Otter was using a “as per our conversation last night” mini-skirt, with “risqué” fishnet stockings. ("Rollo" stuff?..). The fungi porcini married with the pasta in a sublime way . The risotto was up to the challenge thrown in by the perfumed mushroom neighbours at the dinner table. Delicate Palazzo-grade crystal glasses and old-Venetto porcelain contrasted powerfully with white urban furniture and mustard yellow-jacketed camareros. The Architectorezza well deserved an extra paragraph.
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