My Gay & Glamorous Life – Celebrating the 26th of April

We all have special days in our diaries, days which seem humdrum and unremarkable to everyone except oneself.  For me the 26 of April is one of those impossibly dreamlike, fairytale days that will never dim or diminish, no matter how long ago it was.  I try to spend the day in London each year, and celebrate and commemorate it in time hallowed rituals.

Last week – I am posting this late since I was cut off from my blogger fans by inefficient internet providers, may their beards wither – my attempts to mark the day where somewhat thwarted by the inclement weather.  It rained most of the time, although I did manage to nip out in late afternoon and shoot a few photos.

To start of the day I went to the dentist, a new one though in the same location.  I have been with the same dental practice for twenty five years, and changing now makes me a little sad.  But the practice has to close, and I shall never use that little elevator again, nor walk down that corridor, nor ring that inefficient bell, nor sit in the little waiting room …  At least I will still be in Knightsbridge Court, opposite the Hermes shop – I try to reward myself with a scarf for a good result!

This time I had an excellent result, using an electric toothbrush is paying off.  If anyone deserved a scarf it was me.  But alas and alack, none were to my liking.  I am very particular when it comes to buying things, most especially expensive things, so I regretfully left the store.

However, sensing my disappointment I decided to nip into Harrods and buy myself some little treat or other to make up for the lacklustre performance of my favourite scarf merchant.  But I never reached it, because half way between the dentist and Harrods I was waylaid by a cashmere sale.

There is a lot of sub-standard cashmere around these days, most such garments pill like mad and become unwearable within a few seasons.  I tend to buy mine second hand from thriftshops and markets.  By the time a cardigan has been worn for a few years and washed a few times it shows its true worth – if it is inclined to pill it will look horrible by then (if indeed it still exists and has not pilled itself out of existence).  But if it is made of good quality cashmere it will be as warm as the day it was made, and ten times softer.  For good cashmere starts out not fluffily soft, like the lesser quality stuff, but smooth and firm – more like lambs wool than cashmere.  The longer it is worn and the more it is washed the softer it gets.

The only problem with buying cashmere second hand is that I rarely find the colours and sizes that suit me.  Buying good quality cashmere new is of course a ludicrous proposition for non-millionaires, because it is obscenely expensive.  I would have to be very rich indeed before I would pay £600 or even £850 for a cardigan!  Besides, no matter how costly such garments are, they still suffer from two drawback; firstly, no pockets, secondly, over-long sleeves.  Pockets are only found in men’s clothes, presumably because women have handbags.  As for sleeve length, for a few years now they have been consistently too long.  I don’t know who these designers have in mind, their pullovers and cardigans might fit Chimpanzees or Gorillas or similar knuckle-walkers, but any human wearer will find the sleeves are at least half a foot too long.  Why do they hate their customers so much?

Anyway.  I drift into this shop and find myself surrounded by cardigans of excellent quality, with pockets, sleeves which fit me perfectly, lovely colours, and ON SALE!!!!!  80% to 90% off.  And get this, ONLY MY SIZE IS ON SALE!  Apparently women my size don’t buy top quality cashmere cardigans with normal length sleeves and pockets, so they had to massively reduce prices to shift their stock at all.  I wasn’t sure whether to feel insulted or blessed, but I bought as many as finances permitted.  After all, it was the 26 of April, and I had just been to the dentist!  I flagged a taxi and rode to the Club through the rain-whipped streets like the Queen, laden with Ballantyne merchandise.

You might think after that the rest of the day could only go downhill, but you would be mistaken.  I spent an enjoyable hour reading a few newspapers in the Bar of the Club, waiting for K and R who were joining me for lunch.  Usually I only lunch there on the weekends, so I was a little surprised to see how many people were thronging the premises.  Mainly men between 60 and 80 meeting old friends and entertaining business contacts, or so it seemed.

 After a three hour lunch followed by coffee – ah the decadent life of a woman about town! – my friends had to return to their various lairs, while I haunted the neighbourhood to reminisce, take photos, and generally mooch around.  Then it started to rain again and I returned to the Club, to read more papers while waiting for S, who had dinner with me.  Dinner was in the palatial breakfast room (weirdly named, but there it is), and we dined off smoked eel and duck and talked nine to the dozen and were happily engaged until well after ten.  Despite its huge size the room is rather cosy, what with its red wallpaper and huge oil paintings and mahogany furniture, and somehow or other these little banquets with my friends always last longer than can reasonably be expected.  When we realised the lateness of the hour we had to conclude our deliberations somewhat hastily and rush to our respective modes of transportations, S to the Underground and I to the coach to Oxford 

On the way to Marble Arch I caught sight of yet another of those strangely alluring works of art that litter London these days – see photo below.  I finally slipped between my linen sheets at 1 in the morning, happily exhausted and at peace with the world.  Of course getting up the next morning was another matter!