I would say a lot more on the subject had I not a deadline today.
***
Very well, I have written my article, so I can discourse further on the murderous and envious passions seething under the suit-jacketed bosoms of the Young Fogeys of Britain.
Actually, I don't think they were that murderous. The knife wasn't that big, and its owner waved it about only vaguely, as if in jest. Only rarely does anyone get knifed in the handsome drawing-rooms of Morningside. That's why Morningside property values are so high. Personally, I could not tell if the Continental Young Fogey's handsome wallet was machine-made, nor could I determine if his tormentor's wallet was indeed made of crocodile.
Earlier there had been some discussion of the bad reputation Young Fogeys have among American readers of my blog. As 90% of local Young Fogeys strive to get along with women, it was suggested that American Young Fogeys don't have the hang of Young Fogeydom. The essence of Young Fogeydom is not complaining that women won the vote, but demanding to know if another fellow's tweed jacket should be that long. Young Fogeys do not usually joust intellectually at parties; they prefer to show off their vintage accessories and mock the vintage accessories of others. Some will oblige the ladies by showing us their sock garters; other Young Fogeys think this is in terrible taste.
Young Fogey parties should feature either a piano or a gramophone. For example, when I arrived at this Morningside flat, a Youngish Fogey was already at the piano playing "There's a Danger in the Waltz" in great style.
Young Fogey parties should also feature, not to say "star", the correct alcoholic beverages. For example, I was offered a choice between a gin-and-tonic or a sherry within two minutes of my arrival.
There should be sofas, cats and, in winter, a roaring fire. As there is likely to be much consumption of tobacco, there ought to be a room to which ladies may retreat, if they prefer to breathe invisible, non-blue air. The food should be kept here, and yesterday it was. The 10% of local Young Fogeys who do not strive to get along with women remarked aloud when I had my third helping of chicken curry rice. (It was very delicious chicken curry rice.)
Young Fogey conversation can range from antique vestments found on Ebay to the psychological truth of the films of Roman Polański and yesterday did. In hindsight I would caution a married woman against explaining to a student the psychology of the adultery of a fictional married woman with a fictional student. Such philosophical discourses can sound bad, especially after a half a bottle of red wine when suddenly it is no longer clear if you are still talking about the film but about Life. Misunderstanding and shrieking may ensue.
Young Fogey 1: ...And it was a beautiful velvet....
Married Woman: ...Meanwhile she said he was just like her husband, so in a sense she was not being unfaithful to her husband but paying tribute to...
Young Fogey 2: Ho! Outrageous! How can you defend such behaviour?
Married Woman: I'm not saying it was good behaviour--!
Young Fogey 1: ...Really fine quality. Beautiful.
Hostess: Would anyone like another drink?
I seem to recall leaving this Young Fogey party at eleven, after being bitten by a bicycle pedal and personally I don't see why bicycle pedals need teeth. I left with a man in a kilt and an overly long tweed jacket, principally because I was married to him and he looked rather jolly. It was a cold windy night, but the clouds were thin and sailed across the sky at such speed that, once in the countryside, one could admire the stars.
***
Very well, I have written my article, so I can discourse further on the murderous and envious passions seething under the suit-jacketed bosoms of the Young Fogeys of Britain.
Actually, I don't think they were that murderous. The knife wasn't that big, and its owner waved it about only vaguely, as if in jest. Only rarely does anyone get knifed in the handsome drawing-rooms of Morningside. That's why Morningside property values are so high. Personally, I could not tell if the Continental Young Fogey's handsome wallet was machine-made, nor could I determine if his tormentor's wallet was indeed made of crocodile.
Earlier there had been some discussion of the bad reputation Young Fogeys have among American readers of my blog. As 90% of local Young Fogeys strive to get along with women, it was suggested that American Young Fogeys don't have the hang of Young Fogeydom. The essence of Young Fogeydom is not complaining that women won the vote, but demanding to know if another fellow's tweed jacket should be that long. Young Fogeys do not usually joust intellectually at parties; they prefer to show off their vintage accessories and mock the vintage accessories of others. Some will oblige the ladies by showing us their sock garters; other Young Fogeys think this is in terrible taste.
Young Fogey parties should feature either a piano or a gramophone. For example, when I arrived at this Morningside flat, a Youngish Fogey was already at the piano playing "There's a Danger in the Waltz" in great style.
Young Fogey parties should also feature, not to say "star", the correct alcoholic beverages. For example, I was offered a choice between a gin-and-tonic or a sherry within two minutes of my arrival.
There should be sofas, cats and, in winter, a roaring fire. As there is likely to be much consumption of tobacco, there ought to be a room to which ladies may retreat, if they prefer to breathe invisible, non-blue air. The food should be kept here, and yesterday it was. The 10% of local Young Fogeys who do not strive to get along with women remarked aloud when I had my third helping of chicken curry rice. (It was very delicious chicken curry rice.)
Young Fogey conversation can range from antique vestments found on Ebay to the psychological truth of the films of Roman Polański and yesterday did. In hindsight I would caution a married woman against explaining to a student the psychology of the adultery of a fictional married woman with a fictional student. Such philosophical discourses can sound bad, especially after a half a bottle of red wine when suddenly it is no longer clear if you are still talking about the film but about Life. Misunderstanding and shrieking may ensue.
Young Fogey 1: ...And it was a beautiful velvet....
Married Woman: ...Meanwhile she said he was just like her husband, so in a sense she was not being unfaithful to her husband but paying tribute to...
Young Fogey 2: Ho! Outrageous! How can you defend such behaviour?
Married Woman: I'm not saying it was good behaviour--!
Young Fogey 1: ...Really fine quality. Beautiful.
Hostess: Would anyone like another drink?
I seem to recall leaving this Young Fogey party at eleven, after being bitten by a bicycle pedal and personally I don't see why bicycle pedals need teeth. I left with a man in a kilt and an overly long tweed jacket, principally because I was married to him and he looked rather jolly. It was a cold windy night, but the clouds were thin and sailed across the sky at such speed that, once in the countryside, one could admire the stars.
4 comments:
oh my. Can't wait to hear this story!
I really have only one things to say to this post: LOL! That, and I love this wonderfully droll style of writing!
As nice as Young Fogeys sound, I don't find that personality type particularly attractive. I tend to prefer guys who put on jeans and a nice pullover in the morning, call it a day, and then debate with me over the ethics of warfare at dinner.
One of the lovely things about men is that there is such a variety!
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