Floss Among the Dross

The day after Thanksgiving, Boy and I drove across the Hudson River in search of vintage Christmas ornaments to add to our collection.  Our destination was a large and rather seedy group shoppe in one of the near-forgotton, near-abandoned towns that line the river's western banks.

We've had good luck finding pretty, old-fashioned ornaments at the shoppe in the past.  The first time we visited it, a dozen or so years ago, we came away with an avalanche of attractive and unusually shaped vintage ornaments.  Over the years, though, the shoppe's ornament pickings have become increasingly slim, with fewer and fewer attractive vintage ones to be found among the ugly, modern plastic Christmas junk that appears in the shoppe's booths from Thanksgiving onwards.

This visit, however, we despaired that we would find any vintage ornaments worth buying at all.  Although there were some plain round vintage ones to be found, we weren't interested in adding any more of them to our collection, since we already have more plain round ones than we could ever use.  No, we were on the hunt for interestingly shaped vintage blown-glass ornaments.

It was only in the final minute of our troll through the shoppe that Boy found two ornaments—shown in this essay's photograph—that met our collecting standards.  That one of them was shaped like a pine-cone was a particular joy, as Boy specifically collects that form.  He scooped them both up and we happily brought them back to Darlington House where they will most assuredly soon hang on the Christmas tree we plan on putting up this weekend.

Tell me, Dear Reader, do you also collect vintage Christmas ornaments?  If so, is there a particular shape or type that you focus on?

Photograph by Boy Fenwick

Reggie's Alden Slip-Ons, and Why He Wears Them

Last week, Dear Reader, I treated myself to a new pair of Alden shell cordovan, full strap slip-on loafers.  Doing so triggered a rush of memories of when I first started my career in finance in New York City, thirty years ago.  It also prompted me to consider the social and—dare I say it—tribal significance of one's chosen footwear, at least in the dwindling world of those of us over the age of forty who are still employed in the city's beleaguered financial services industries.

Reggie's new Alden slip-ons
sitting on a horse hair covered dining chair
at Darlington House on Thanksgiving Day
Photograph by Boy Fenwick

I slipped away from the Investment Bank where I work the day before Thanksgiving for a much-needed wardrobe replenishment shopping trip on Madison Avenue.  My journey started at J. Press and concluded at the Brooks Brothers flagship store.  Imagine that.

The Brooks Brothers flagship store at 346 Madison Avenue,
where Reggie bought his shoes last week
Image courtesy of Brooks Brothers

I came away with half a dozen shirts, two pairs of trousers, a sweater, a jacket, and the shoes shown in the photograph at the outset of this post.  As readers of this blog may recall, the topic of shoes is one that Reggie has returned to more than once or twice.  In previous posts I've written about my affection for Belgian Shoes, white bucks, and classic Gucci loafers.  I've even written about a much-loved pair of shoes that I wore as a toddler and that I still own (but have long since ceased wearing).  Now, Dear Reader, I turn my attention to another favored shoe in my wardrobe—Alden slip-ons.

The original Alden Shoe Company factory
in Middleborough, Massachusetts, 1880s
Image courtesy of same

I bought my first pair of Alden slip-ons the year I graduated from Yale, more than thirty years ago.  They were brown calfskin and had tassels, and I loved them.  I charged them to my father's account at the Brooks Brothers store in Washington, D.C., to wear at my first job in New York at an old line  commercial bank that has long since been absorbed into what is today Bank of America.  I had been accepted into the bank's corporate lending officer training program, and I wanted to be sure to dress the part correctly.  My father graciously underwrote the purchase of my initial post-college work wardrobe, including the Alden slip-ons, several suits, an overcoat, and assorted shirts and ties.

44 Wall Street,
the building where I began my career in finance
Photograph courtesy of ABS Partners

In those days (the early 1980s), young men in New York's bank officer training programs—such as Reggie—wore Alden (or similar) slip-on tassel loafers to the office.  While older bankers wore conservative lace-up oxfords, by the time I appeared on the scene most of the younger bankers had adopted tassel loafers as their preferred shoe.  What I didn't realize before I started at the bank, though, was that one was expected to wear only black tassel loafers.  I was dismayed to learn on my first day that I had blown my pre-employment shoe allowance on brown shoes, and that all the other young men in the training program were wearing black shoes.

Reggie mistakenly wore Alden brown tassel slip-ons
to his first day at the bank, all those years ago
Image courtesy of Harrison Limited

In those days, men didn't wear brown shoes on Wall Street (yes, the bank I worked in was actually located on that famous financial thoroughfare), but only black shoes.  Brown shoes were considered "un-bankerly" (a withering criticism), and only appropriate for weekend wear.  My father, who was a lawyer and regularly wore brown shoes to his office (where they were perfectly acceptable), thought it "poppycock" (a word he used with some frequency in my presence) that I felt uncomfortable wearing brown shoes to my office, instead of black ones.  Clearly, he didn't understand the cultural and sartorial differences between a bank and a law firm.

The Brooks Brothers store at One Liberty Plaza,
where Reggie bought his first pair of black Alden tassel slip-ons

Needless to say, once I received my first paycheck I high-tailed it over to the Brooks Brothers on Liberty Plaza and bought myself a pair of Alden slip-on tassel loafers in the desired and approved black.  My brown tassel loafers got pushed to the back of my closet, and didn't get much wear thereafter, except on weekends.  I held on to them for many years, though, stored in their original box.  I gave them away ten or so years ago, since by then I was no longer able to wear them, as my feet had grown in my forties and the shoes no longer fit.  It was a bittersweet moment when I finally decided to donate them to charity, as their significance still resonated with me.

Reggie's own well-worn
black Alden tassel slip-ons
sitting on a chair at Darlington House
Photograph by Reggie Darling

By then, though, I had pretty much ceased wearing Alden tassel loafers, having moved on to tassel-free Alden slip-ons in my later thirties.  For those of my readers who may not be familiar with Alden slip-ons, be they tasseled or not, they are a mainstay of a certain group of grown men who work in the lofty office towers of Manhattan.  They are a particular favorite of those of us employed in the worlds of finance, be it investment banking, private equity, or commercial banking.  Most of the investment bankers over the age of forty where I work have at least one or two pairs in regular rotation.  Alden slip-ons are probably the most popular shoe seen on such men walking the halls in the Investment Bank where I work, followed closely by Gucci loafers.  Shoes worn by the younger men at my firm tend to be sleeker, and are usually Italian.  I suspect that Alden slip-ons are to them what lace-up oxfords were to my generation when I started out in banking—the favored shoe of the older generation.

Wall Street today,
the old Manufacturer's Hanover Trust on the right,
US Trust beyond, and Trinity Church in the distance
Photography courtesy of Picasa

When I first started my career in finance, in 1980, those of us in the training program at the bank were handed a sheet of paper on the first day outlining what clothes we were expected to wear, and what clothes we were not to wear.  I wish I still had it, Dear Reader, as I would dearly love to post it here.  However, I don't, so I can't.

A Brooks Brothers window display, ca. 1960s
Photograph courtesy of Esquire

I can summarize it, though, for you.  We were expected to wear suits of a conservative cut in "somber" colors (gray or navy) every day of the week (no Casual Fridays back then).  Shirts were to be either white (preferred) or light blue.  Ties (mandatory) were to be a discreet foulard, club, or rep stripe.  Shoes were to be black, although dark cordovan was acceptable.  Should we need to come into the office on weekends (a regular occurrence, I might add), we were expected to wear a jacket and a tie, and tailored trousers such as gray flannels (winter) or khakis (summer).  No blue jeans or sneakers were allowed under any circumstances.  Ever.

J. Press was (and remains) Reggie's
"go-to" source for smart sport jackets
Photograph courtesy of LIFE Images

As all of us are well aware, these days clothing restrictions have loosened considerably.  At the Investment Bank where I work, suits and ties are no longer required, unless one is meeting with clients.  On an average day I'd say half the men do wear suits, and the rest are in blazers and gray flannels, or some variant.  At least half are tieless, regardless of whether they are wearing suits or not.  Most of us keep several ties in the office should we unexpectedly need one.  While black is still the preferred shoe color, brown is now entirely acceptable.  Long gone are the days when a man would be sent home to change his shirt if he had the audacity to show up at the office wearing one in any color other than white or blue.

The approved shirt as seen in a Brooks Brothers
catalogue from the 1980s.  White or blue.  Only.
Image courtesy of the Trad

So, Dear Reader, you may ask: What is it about Alden slip-ons that resonates with me?  Why have I kept buying them for the past thirty years?  Why did I buy yet another pair last week?

The same shoe Reggie bought, except in calfskin
Photograph courtesy of Harrison Limited

I like the way they look, Dear Reader, and they are one of the favored shoes of the men of my profession and background.  They are flattering to a grown man's foot, they have an easy elegance to them, and they are popular with the well-dressed Ivy League-educated men I have coexisted with my entire adult life.  In other words, they are one of the shoes of the Tribe.  I've bought more than a dozen pairs over the years, both with and without tassels, and I think they look just as good worn sockless with khakis on a summer weekend afternoon as they do wearing Pantherellas and a suit to one's office on Park Avenue during the week, as I do.  I bought last week's new pair to replace an identical pair that had become worn beyond redemption and that could no longer support yet another reconditioning.

The box my new shoes came home in . . .

Photograph by Boy Fenwick

At $650 a pair, Brooks Brothers' Alden cordovan slip-ons are not inexpensive.  However, they are well worth the cost, I believe, because they are beautifully made.  I like the fact that they are also made here in the United States by one of the few remaining American shoe manufacturers.  When the shoes are well cared for (which, in Reggie's book, includes the use of properly fitted wood shoe trees), they last for many years, and Alden does a terrific job of reconditioning its shoes if asked (they have a handy mail-order business for doing so).

The cover of an Alden catalogue
Image courtesy of same

And for all of these reasons, Dear Reader, Alden's shell cordovan, full strap slip-ons will always be part of Reggie's shoe wardrobe.

Please note:  Reggie has not received, nor does he expect to receive, anything in return for this post.  He is posting it solely in the interest of entertaining his readers, which is why he writes this blog in the first place.

Reggie's Five Favorites: Drugstore Staples

Please note: For those of my readers who may be somewhat squeamish or faint of heart when it comes to the subject of personal hygiene, please be forewarned that today's post includes the discussion of products that, in some cases, one uses in the privacy of one's bathroom.

Continuing the series in which I discussed my top five favorite household cleaning products, today's post focuses on Reggie's five favorite drugstore staples.  These are inexpensive products widely available in pharmacies and supermarkets.  Many have withstood the test of time and have been sold for many, many years.  While Reggie's bathroom cabinets are full of expensive potions, lotions, and soaps from the likes of Kiehl's® and Molton Brown®, he doesn't use such products exclusively.  The more quotidian, everyday products that he reaches for are the subject of today's essay.

1. Listerene® Mouthwash

Reggie is a great fan of old fashioned Listerene® antiseptic mouthwash, America's oldest over the counter mouthwash.  Reggie prefers the original yellow formula—first sold to the public in 1914—that burns the inside of one's mouth free of germs with the intensity of a propane torch.

Reggie doesn't care for all the new-fangled, less assaultive, minty- and citrus-fresh flavored versions the company has brought out in recent years to appeal to a broader consumer base.  If Reggie is going to use a mouthwash (which he does), he wants it to be the real thing—and for him that means the original Listerene® antiseptic mouthwash that is so intense that rinsing one's mouth with it for more than a few seconds brings tears to one's eyes.  Pow! 

2. Pinaud Club Man® Talc

I first learned about Pinaud's "World Famous since 1810" Club Man® Talc from a barber I went to many years ago, who ritually dusted his clients' necks with this wonderful, old fashioned talcum powder.

Club Man® Talc isn't all that easy to find in drugstores these days, since when it is stocked at all it is usually relegated to the bottom shelves, along with other low-priced goods that appeal to an older, less-affluent clientele.  When I do come across Club Man® Talc's iconic green containers, though, I am sure to scoop up several of them to take home with me to stockpile.  I love Club Man® Talc's retro name and its packaging adorned with an image of a top hat and frock coat wearing, dandified swell from the 1930s.  I like the scent of the talc, which is not too over-powering.  And I believe it does a marvelous job for what it is intended for: namely, to sooth one's overheated, clothes-constricted body with soft, moisture-absorbing powder.

3. Rubbing Alcohol

Another drugstore staple that I return to again and again is rubbing alcohol.

When administered with a nail brush, rubbing alcohol is an extremely effective agent for maintaining the hygienic cleanliness of one's toes.  And that's all I'm going to say about that here.

4. Mentholatum® Ointment

Introduced in 1889, this menthol-infused ointment has been a bedside staple in the Darling households for generations.

Mentholatum® is particularly useful for moistening the inside of one's nostrils during the heating season, when one's bedroom's air can be dry as a bone.  Not only is it effective, Dear Reader, but a single jar of it can last for years.

5. NyQuil®

A newcomer when compared with the other staples discussed here, NyQuil® was introduced relatively recently, in 1968.  Described as "the nighttime, sniffling, sneezing, coughing, aching, best-sleep-you-ever-got-with-a-cold medicine," NyQuil® is my "go to" over the counter cold medicine.

There is nothing more effective than a healthy dose of NyQuil® to help get one through the night when laid low by a nasty cold.  And yes, I do sometimes take a swig of it directly from the bottle instead of measuring out the suggested dose in the provided plastic cup.

And there you have it, Dear Reader: Reggie's five favorite drugstore staples.  Open the bathroom cabinet in our city apartment or at Darlington House and you will be sure to find these waiting there to greet you.

Tell me, what are some of your favorite drugstore staples?

Please note: Reggie has not, nor does he expect to, receive anything for recommending these products.  He is doing so for the sole purpose of entertaining his readers, which is why he writes this blog in the first place.

IPhone photographs by Boy Fenwick

The Downs and Ups of Mummy's Cooking

My mother, MD, was not a good cook.  She was able to get food on the table when she had to, Dear Reader, but her cooking was, well, uninspired at best.  Born into a world where the lady of the house was expected to supervise those who did the cooking, rather than do it herself, MD was an indifferent and reluctant mistress of the kitchen.  She much preferred to leave the culinary arts to others, whenever possible.

One of MD's "go-to" cookbooks
Image courtesy of Misprinted Pages

Until I was twelve or so, my parents employed a revolving door of domestics whose primary responsibility was to prepare and serve our family's meals.  MD would supervise them, plan the menus, and do much of the shopping, but she gladly surrendered to them what she considered to be the drudgery of their occupation.

"Mmm-mmm good!"
Photograph courtesy of TV Guide

I remember the excitement and anticipation I felt when a new cook would join our household, as the prospect of learning her specialties was appealing: Who knew what tasty dishes we would come to enjoy?  Would there be cakes and cookies, too?

"Nothin' says lovin' like somethin' in the oven . . ."
Photograph courtesy of LIFE Images

When the cook was from England, as we once had, we dined on a steady diet of roasts, puddings, and pies.  When she was from South America, such as the nefarious Marta (the subject of a previous series of mine), we encountered strange vegetables and indeterminate meat dishes (that is, until my father put his foot down, demanding that he be served "real food").  And if she was African-American (as several of them were), we happily tucked into fried chicken, corn bread, and other Southern staples.  MD generally gave the women who cooked for us a fairly free rein, so long as the meals they prepared and served were balanced across the primary food groups.

The cover of the 1964 edition of Joy of Cooking,
MD's default cookbook

But there were times when we didn't have someone cooking for us, and my mother would resignedly pick up such responsibilities.  That invariably meant our meals would take a turn for the worse.  If it didn't come in a can or jar or carton or box or frozen package, it was unlikely to make an appearance on our dining room table when MD manned the stove in the 1960s.  She did pride herself in buying only best-quality meats, which she invariably broiled, but fish was a rarely served.  We would sometimes get fresh vegetables instead of frozen ones.

Is there any other kind?
Image courtesy of Sunburst Kisses Rowena

MD's idea of a salad started and ended with iceberg lettuce tossed with Good Seasons carafe-made dressing.  She was not a baker.  I don't remember her ever making a cake when I was growing up, although I do have a dim memory of baking Christmas sugar cookies with her and my sisters.  Once.

This is not a childhood memory that resonates with me
Image courtesy of Pintarest

The only baking I recall that MD did with any regularity was of potatoes or squash, and chicken.  She loved butter and half & half, and she used them both liberally.

MD's well-used copy of Joy of Cooking
owned by my dear sister Camilla
Photograph courtesy of same

When it came to seasonings, a dash of ginger powder or nutmeg was about as adventuresome as MD would get.  Thoroughly rinsed spaghetti with pressure-cooker made tomato sauce and Kraft Parmesan Cheese was considered ethnic in the Darling household, and was—not surprisingly—served infrequently (and only when my father was out for the evening, as he considered it nursery food).

This was not MD's idea of "fun"
Photograph courtesy of the Daily Green

But that all started to change in the late 1960s.  Two things happened.  First, my mother took over, once and for all, the cooking in our house.  By then it was just me and my sister Hermione left at home (Camilla had by then graduated from college, and Frecky was away at boarding school), and we no longer needed the level of domestic support our once-larger family had required.  Second, the food revolution had begun in this country, and people were realizing that there was more to be had than the packaged and processed food that filled supermarkets' shelves.

The interior of a Giant supermarket in Rockville, Maryland, in the 1960s.
MD shopped in a similar Giant on Wisconsin Avenue
in the Cleveland Park neighborhood of Washington, D.C.
Photograph courtesy of LIFE Images

Slowly and gradually, MD's cooking became more imaginative, or at least experimental.  She tried a recipe for stew that a friend brought back from a diplomatic stint in Africa (not a success), and she enrolled in classes to learn Japanese and Chinese cooking techniques (both of them successes, but quickly abandoned due to the amount of effort required).  Brie and yogurt appeared.  And once, I think, she may have even cooked with fresh garlic.

MD owned a copy of this cookbook.
I think she may have used it . . . once or twice
Photograph courtesy of Etsy

But MD never became an accomplished or inventive cook, as she might have under different circumstances, because shortly thereafter my parents' marriage sputtered to an exhausted end, as did what had once been family dinners.  Within a year or two I left for Saint Grottlesex, and that was pretty much the end of my sharing home-cooked meals with MD, at least with any regularity.  Shortly after I graduated from college MD moved into a life-care retirement center, where she—much to her relief—gave up cooking, once and for all.

Proust may have had his Madeleines,
but nothing evokes memories of
Reggie's childhood like frozen peas . . .
Image courtesy of Vintage American Advertisements

Even though MD was, in retrospect, an indifferent cook at best, when I was a little boy I enjoyed the meals she prepared for my family.  I loved the frozen peas, canned corned beef hash, and Betty Crocker® Au Gratin potatoes that were in her regular rotation.

A Darling household favorite!
Image courtesy of General Mills

It was only after I left home for boarding school and then college that I came to appreciate that one's cooking (and eating) horizons could stretch far beyond the extremely basic meals that MD had fed us.  MD was very much the product of her class and times, and I bear her no ill will for her limited cooking skills.  I certainly appreciate that getting meals on the table for one's family, day in and day out, isn't necessarily everyone's idea of creative heaven.

But I have to say, Dear Reader, that I am most grateful we have upped our food game in the intervening years here in America.  I attribute that to the back-to-the-earth/locavore food movement explosion, the incredible advances made in food distribution, and the broad acceptance and availability today of food, spices, and cooking practices brought to these shores from distant lands and cultures that were but the subject of stories in National Geographic to most Americans when I was a child.

And I think this would have suited MD just fine.

Tell me, was (or is) your mother a good cook?  Do you cook differently from the way she did when you were growing up?

Serendipity, a Silhouette, and Rex Whistler

Isn't it funny how things work out, more often than not, Dear Reader?

Last weekend I stopped into White Whale Limited, an antiques shop in the nearby town to Darlington House.  White Whale is a favorite destination of ours, as it is run by a family of antiques dealers who have marvelous "eyes" for goods in a number of the areas we collect, and the shop's inventory turns regularly.  It is a rare visit to White Whale that I leave its door without having made a purchase.  My purpose in visiting it on this particular trip was to examine a cache of miniature paintings and silhouettes that one of the dealers acquired at the Keith and Chippy Irvine sale held at Stair Galleries a month ago.  I suspected that such pictures would be on display, as I had seen the dealer at the Irvine sale buying lot after lot of them.

I had refrained from bidding on the pictures myself, as they were being sold in groups of four to ten at a time.  That meant that if one wished to acquire a particular picture in a lot, one was required to acquire all of the others, too.  Fortunately the dealer, who specializes in such miniature pictures (among other things), bought the groups she acquired to sell individually.

Among the pictures on view last weekend was a charming silhouette of a young English Regency dandy, circa 1820, whose curled hair, high collar, neckerchief, and button-festooned jacket were appealingly highlighted in gold paint.  I was drawn to the little picture because the sitter—identified on the reverse as a certain "Richard Wilkinson"—was handsome, the decoration was unusually well done, and it was in its original, undisturbed, period papier-mâché frame.

I had seen and admired Mr. Wilkinson's silhouette at the Irvine sale, but had refrained from bidding on it for the reason outlined above.  I was pleased to find it again at White Whale, and more than happy to find that this time it was available on its own.

In addition to finding the silhouette pleasing, Dear Reader, it also reminded me of the illustrations of the English artist Rex Whistler (1905-1944).  The silhouette's painted decoration had his deft and light touch, and his whimsicality, too.  I am not suggesting that I believe my little Regency fellow was painted by Rex Whistler.  I am merely saying that I was reminded of his work when I examined it.  Also that of his contemporaries William McLaren, who illustrated Beverly Nichols' books, and Cecil Beaton, who illustrated his own and others' books (when he wasn't engaged in the other creative activities for which he is justifiably celebrated).

And that is but one of the reasons I came home to Darlington House with Mr.Wilkinson's likeness in hand, where it joins other silhouettes in our collection.  We have hung it on a wall below another small potrait of another dandy of the same period that I also came away with that day, and which shall be the subject of another posting of mine at some point.

The blogosphere and media are abuzz with anticipation of the imminent publication of a book on Rex Whistler, titled In Search of Rex Whistler, His Life & His Work, by Hugh and Mirabel Cecil.  I know that I look forward to adding a copy of it to my cherished library of books about, by, or illustrated by the artist and his circle, a collection I have been accumulating for nigh on thirty years.

For those of my readers who are interested to learn more about the all-too-short life of the sublimely talented and prolific Rex Whistler, I encourage you to visit the information-packed blogs of The Devoted Classicist and Little Augury, where he and his fellow Bright Young Things have oft been the subject of their marvelous and erudite inquisitions.

Photographs by Boy Fenwick

Brussels Sprouts

When Reggie was a little boy, he didn't care for Brussels sprouts or lima beans all that much.

At least he didn't think he ought to, since the ones he was familiar with as a lad came in frozen packages from the supermarket.

But Reggie has since learned that Brussels sprouts and lima beans are rather marvelous vegetables, now that he has become accustomed to eating them fresh from the earth.

This weekend saw the reappearance of Brussels sprouts at the farmers market in the nearby town to Darlington House.  We bought a stalk of them, where each sprout was no larger than the size of a quarter, if that.

Cooked in a searing hot wok with pancetta, the sprouts made a most marvelous accompaniment to leftover roast chicken and buttery browned fingerling potatoes.

I do so adore the bounty of the seasons, don't you, Dear Reader?

Photographs by Boy Fenwick and Reggie Darling

Reggie's Informal Undergraduate Ivy Style

Continuing the theme I explored in my post Reggie's Reflections on "Ivy Style", today's essay is one in which I feature images of knockabout clothing that I actually wore as an undergraduate at Yale, back in the 1970s.  Specifically, my crew letter sweater and my trusty white bucks, both of which are sufficiently talismanic for me that I have held on to them all these many years since.

While I am still able to wear the white bucks that my dear brother Frecky gave me for my twenty-first birthday, it has been rather a long time since I have been able to fit into my Yale letter sweater.  With the passage of time one's figure has become rather, um, portly, which is most unfortunate when it comes to one's ability to fit into one's college undergraduate clothing.  Not only is Reggie unable to squeeze himself into his letter sweater, Dear Reader, but the needlepoint belt that his then girlfriend, Victoria Vanderlyn, made for him during his sophomore year is, I am afraid, rather too small to clasp around Reggie's expanded middle-aged waist these days as well.

Ah well, at least Boy gets to wear them (and other articles of my clothing) from time to time . . .

The model for today's essay is George Peterson, the very affable and game husband of boy's assistant designer, the divine Nancie Peterson.  The charming and amusing Petersons spent the weekend with us at Darlington before the onslaught of Hurricane Sandy, and Boy took these photographs of George outfitted in my letter sweater and bucks as a stand-in for yours truly.  We dressed George to look as Reggie might have on an autumn weekend in New Haven back in the day, strolling around the Yale campus or on his way to a football game at the Yale Bowl.  The handsome George is also shown wearing a set of horn-rimmed spectacles similar to ones I wore as an undergraduate, and which I still wear to this day.

We have purposely posed our obliging model next to a sundial that stands on a garden walkway at Darlington, with the autumn trees and scattered leaves in the background.  Time and tide, as

they say . . .

Tell me, Dear Reader, are there articles of clothing in your closets or chests of drawers that you have fondly kept from your college days and that you cannot bear to part with—like Reggie—even though they may no longer fit you, or have fallen out of fashion?

Photographs by Boy Fenwick