Watching me leave the house one day, for an appointment having to do with financial things, my father glanced askance at me and said, You look as if you're dressed for a party. Of course he was right; in sartorial matters he was preternaturally right, and I admired him massively for it. Thinking about it, I realised I was wearing the identical suit and shoes, belt and shirt and socks and tie I had worn to escape my wedding reception, a portrait of which was on a tabletop somewhere at the time. I hopped upstairs and removed my scarcely-more-than slippers, and set myself into some lace-ups of antique gloss. And I felt that this set just enough of Joan Crawford's tone with the Board at Pepsi, to get me by.
And yet, while I can tell you, I have never subjected (mainly, because I never needed to) his sight or his memory to trousers of this arcane and eccentric, preposterous and silly complexity, I have undergone a long life of regard for the lusciousness of fabrics and an idealism in their cut, which I would not have missed for anything. Here, the T-shirt hangs with such ease that one could not apologise for accepting its coverage or its comfort. Robbie's breeder was right: you can love a show dog, as well as a pet. A black-and-white English Cocker, to Geordie's and Whit's blue roan, he was a knockout baby and an inexhaustible zealot for the chase. Robbie would be 11 now.
As usual, great and funky juxtaposition of thoughts - warp and woof!
ReplyDeleteApart from the detection of pattern and the stray compliment in your appraisal - funky juxtaposition, but constructive - you certainly do put your finger on a mode in which one likes to play, sometimes with excess sincerity, sometimes with too little. But be warned: this entry very nearly could have drawn on your thornless rose from a recent entry at St Tyl, which remains subject to plunder without notice. :) Thank you for your visit and your thought.
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