PRISCILLA L. BUCKLEY
She lists many of the vulgar and loathsome shops which you will wish to avoid. Come with me instead. Buy a pair of superb hand-made shoes at Lobb’s, an umbrella from Brigg’s, a bowler hat from Lock’s (where they still call it a “Coke”), a suit from Anderson and Sheppard, a bottle of port from Berry’s (where you can see the big grocer’s scales in which Beau Brummel weighed himself). None of these names, I promise you, appears in Miss Halasz’s book. And after dinner at White’s or Brook’s or Boodle’s, let us take a stroll through London, keeping well away from Carnaby Street and the King’s Road and the blare of discotheques. It will, I hope, be an autumn evening, with the pavements damply sticky and a halo of mist round the lamps and gleams of mysterious light between drawn curtains—Sherlock Holmes weather. And, as we walk, we can dream of better days when Britain was still herself and London stood as foursquare and unswinging as the Portland stone of which it’s built.




Comments