Good Evening Dress

Was invited last night, after punting along the Thames for the evening, to a workmates house dinner. Gathered closely around a candle lit table, eating a curry, and drinking wine from a pitcher with a group of Oxford University students, two of whom have just finished their studies with the highest possible honors and served as presidents of their respective college's student bodies. A little out of my depth? Yes. And so you know, do not get involved in a debate on British foreign policy and its various images during the Thatcher and Blair administrations with a group of well-informed Oxford graduates who quite probably know more about your own government than you yourself do. Other topics of conversation, such as the Jerry Springer opera, however, are absolutely fine. The evening too was made more into of a production on English life due to the presence of my work compatriot, who is the quintessential English gentleman, and, provided one can still buy their way into the Peerage and House of Lords, will one day be Lord Longland. Quintessential is rapidly becoming one of my favourite English words; largely because I only vaguely know what it means. Mister Longland's taste in clothes hearkens back about a hundred years, and he's more than willing to, at the slightest provocation, reveal to anyone at hand his rows of polished shoes and top hats, white ties and coat tails, silver-tipped canes and shoe trees. A small fortune in attire.

His collection of tweed is particularly impressive.