Brogues from Smith-Perkins came from a set writing prompt: describe a character through their casual outfit, writing for up to fifteen minutes.
Eight thirty-five, a.m. Breakfast things cleared away. Chin shaved. Hair oiled.
Twenty five minutes before the cleaner arrives. Then the secretary at ten. Time for the most important decision of the morning.
Not so easy. The fussy Belgian downstairs has his gramophone playing already. Prokofiev or some avant-garde nonsense.
I go to the wardrobe.
Shirt from Harmessons. Plain white, obviously, none of these garish stripes. Never the same since they gave up stiff collars. Cravat, of course. A pair of casual bags, cream. Properly creased at the front. I check the turn-ups for fluff and detritus, then I notice the back button for the braces has a loose thread. One for the tailor. Except I don’t currently have a tailor, not since the business with the unpaid bill.
There’s one chap at my club confessed to admitting his cleaning lady dressed in pyjamas. And another opened the door in his dressing gown. His dressing gown! Not even a smoking jacket.
It’s too hot for corduroy, which is a shame as the green jacket is so comfortable. I could open the windows but the noise from Hammersmith bridge and the Belgian musical hooligan downstairs makes it so difficult to concentrate. I take out the faun-coloured blazer.
Just the shoes then. Brown loafers from Hemmingways or something more shiny? Brogues from Smith-Perkins, perhaps? The neighbour up the hall answered the postman in slippers the other day. Slippers. At half past ten. I wouldn’t be able to look the postman in the eye.
Some people’s standards may have slipped, but not mine.