When I edited the men’s magazine GQ in the early 1990s, I commissioned a piece on the delightful sight of girls in their summer dresses.
I don’t know whether it’d be politically correct enough to run with today, but the idea was sparked by a man I knew who told me how much he looked forward to that moment when the dresses would suddenly appear on every street in all their wafting, colourful prettiness.
These days, the hot weather instead brings out the shorts in many of us – and not with very flattering results.
The Italian fashion brand Max Mara last week opened its show with a model wearing the briefest of shorts, inspired by Italian actress Silvana Mangano in a 1949 film. On Silvana, a slender beauty accessorised by immaculate hair and make-up, they looked glamorous.
But that’s not the way shorts are making their appearance at the local Sainsbury’s. It’s almost impossible to look chic in them. There are a few people – hands up, Alexa Chung – who appear gazelle-like, but shorts do few of us any favours.
This summer there’s a trend for women in culottes, which strike me as the worst of both worlds – like a pair of childish trousers pretending to be shorts.
And as for men in shorts? I don’t know when it became generally acceptable for men to wear them around the city, but it’s a terrible look. Possibly, like so many things, the blame lies with that first Covid summer when we were confined to home with peerless blue skies.
But we’re not in lockdown now. And while shorts are fine on holiday, in the garden or on the sports field, there’s something intrinsically slobby about bare-legged men.
I think shorts on anyone of either sex over the age of 12 should be banned on public transport. Particularly on planes.
As for vests… imprisonment. Even if you’re Harry Styles.
Usually I’d say it’s OK to wear anything so long as you’re comfortable. But there are exceptions to any rule. Incidentally, I happen to be wearing a pair of shorts right now.
Food for thought in a futuristic world
Communal tables have always struck me as a nightmare. So I’ve never understood the appeal in clubs, where who you dine with is pot luck. But there’s a first time for everything.
The other night I found myself at one of those long tables in an old-school London club. The man next to me was extremely companionable and spent much of his meal chatting to me. He was scornful about the lifespan of journalism in this AI world. Journalists, in his opinion, are already toast.
When he asked what I’d be writing this week and discovered I hadn’t yet decided, he suggested AI should write this Notebook. The following morning, I woke to find him demonstrating his point over WhatsApp, where he’d sent me an AI column under the title What Shall We Do With All This Time.
In brief, the column suggested that since we are all going to live to 120, we should become university students studying Sanskrit in our 70s and ceramicists in our 90s. Serial monogamy – going from one committed relationship to another – would become the norm.
Naturally, I didn’t think the AI contribution captured my voice, but I had to admit it was reasonably interesting. Though not nearly as interesting as what my dinner companion did for a living (which I am not at liberty to divulge).
All I’ll say is that he was a thoroughly intriguing and teensy bit Machiavellian character, operating levers of power in worlds I would never usually come across.
It’s certainly changed my views on the possibilities offered by communal dining. And I doubt this piece will change his view on journalists.
MI6’s new C has stars in those eyes
Pictures of Blaise Metreweli, the new and first female head of MI6, show her as a cool, gimlet-eyed beauty who’s oven-ready to be played by Cate Blanchett on the big screen.
Female spooks are endlessly fascinating, and I can’t wait for the biopic.
I’m such a busy bee in the morning sun
In this wonderful weather, the early mornings are heavenly; the shimmering sunshine makes it so easy to get a good start on the day.
I was feeling rather smug about this – watering the pots, dealing with some personal admin and making chicken stock before 7am – when my boyfriend wandered down. Bleary-eyed and critical of what he regarded as an unnecessary amount of early-morning activity, he was having none of my smugness.
‘Did you not,’ he asked (surely one of the most annoying phrases in the English language), ‘read that article in the Daily Mail the other day saying that it was beneficial for your health to spend time doing nothing?’
Will Enfield be the Bel-Air of our era?
Southwark’s not my favourite part of London. But the Romans felt differently about it. Look at the amazing mosaics and frescoes of a large villa unearthed by archaeologists.
From their discoveries, experts have concluded that Southwark would have been an upmarket suburb in Roman times. They even compared it to Beverly Hills in Los Angeles.
How might London’s current suburbs be regarded in another 1,500 years, when the remnants of today’s homes are dug up, I wonder. Will Hillingdon, or perhaps Enfield, be looked back on as the Bel-Air of the times?
Wine does NOT belong in a can
The list of unacceptable things in life grows longer every year – it’s just a side effect of ageing. So my new pet hate is canned wine.
OK, it has taken me a long time to accept that boxed wine is fine (a trip to stay with friends in France, who poured their wine from a box, changed my mind). But canned wine just tastes disgusting.
