Dress Sense

I dress badly as befits a man of my age.

There comes a point when it does not really matter what trousers you wear with a tweed jacket; the fact is you are wearing a tweed jacket. I dread to think of the level of despair my wife feels. She is Italian, a race for whom style is as embedded deep within their double helix as lack of urgency. Perhaps more.

However, I offer as a lame excuse the fact that I was born out of my time. Any fool can see that I was meant to be a 19th century Lord. Obvious really. I was meant to fill in a hard day riding with the hounds, dressing for dinner and taking long, lonely walks were one is bound to bump into an Austen heroine. And upset her.

IT COULD HAVE BEEN ME!!! But fate has decreed a different path. Instead I will merely gaze with awe upon the society paintings of Sargent, Boldini, Zorn, Lazslo et al; I will devour the writings of Austen, Trollope and Proust; I will consider myself a latter day 'soul'.

In the meantime, where did I put those brown loafers that go so well with my black chinos?