When I grow old, I want to be one of those fabulous old woman London seems to breed. You don’t see them as they age, as they grow into their eccentricities. It’s almost as if they exist only in old age, waiting under a rock until they turn 75 and then emerge, fully formed, clad in Chanel and politically incorrect luxurious furs.
They always seem to be wearing massive sunglasses and walking with their knees slightly bent and their backs poker straight, somewhere between the awkward stumble of a baby giraffe and the gait of a runway model. They wear massive amounts of make up, have perfectly manicured nails and drawn on eyebrows that arch oh so high, as if to signify that behind those sunglasses they are in a state of permanent surprise.
I have seen a few lately that have stuck in my mind. On High Street Kensington at 11 o’clock in the morning I saw a tiny woman dressed in ankle length black fur, her white hair in a tight French roll, her face hidden two black Jackie O saucers. She walked slowly, with purpose, toward the red stand alone letter box next to the church and upon arriving at it, dipped a diamond encrusted hand into her quilted Chanel bag and retrieved a large white envelope. The address was written in elaborate curling calligraphy. I thought that the paper she used to write on probably cost more than my lunch that day. Dropping the letter into the box, she turned and made her way back along the road, into the maze of tree lined streets and opulent townhouses that define Kensington. As she walked away I noticed, on her feet, a pair of four inch black alligator skin boots.
On the bus, there was a statuesque woman carrying two Max Mara bags that would’ve crippled a lesser lady. She couldn't have been less that 80. She was rail thin but tall as an Amazonian, with long, rounded nails painted a pale gold and wore an outfit that consisted solely of shades of cream. As the journey went on and day quite quickly slipped away into the 4 o’clock nights of London winter, she removed her sunglasses and I noticed that she kept sneaking furtive glances at me from the corner of her perfectly made up eye. She was forming some decision about me in her mind, that much was clear, but I was unable to decipher if it was one I would find compliment in. As I stood to leave the bus, I made my way past her and saw her give me a small but distinct nod, as if she had come to the conclusion she found me acceptable. I self consciously touched my hair, fiddling with the loose top knot piled on top of my head. She caught my eye again and very quickly, closed her eyes and gave an imperceptible shake of her head, as if slapping my roving hand from my head. “Behave Eloise.” I dropped my hand. Apparently, if I want to grow up to shop at max mara and wear only cream, self conscious fidgeting must be left behind on the number 49 bus and not retrieved. Ever.
Going to Chiswick, I was sat next to an old woman who looked fit for a day of long walks in the Cotswolds. She was with who I can only deduce to be her granddaughter, who had clearly had enough of her company for one day. The granddaughter sat in stony silence, her arms folded across her chest, and fumed. The old woman, dressed in a knee length tweed skirt and a Barbour jacket, sat with her small shopping bag from a bespoke stationers and her handbag in her lap. She opened her purse and rifled though, pulling out a cream paper bag with old fashioned print on its crumpled front. She held the bag in one hand and with the other, wiggled her fingers over it, as if a top hat that a white rabbit was supposed to appear out of. She stretched out the opening of the bag and held it out to her granddaughter.
“Would you like a chocolate darling? I’ve got some rather good ones.”
Her voice was high and thin and clipped. It sounded like money and boarding schools for girls and long services in cold churches in the winter. The granddaughter, undeterred in her irritation, shook her head.
“Are you sure darling? They’re brandy truffles.”
The granddaughter shook her head again. Unruffled, the woman dipped a delicate hand into the bag and pulled out one dark truffle and popped it into her mouth. She gave a small shiver of satisfaction and closed the bag, dropping it back into her purse. Her granddaughter stood up and moved toward the door, where she stayed standing until she reached her station, a full two stops later.
They always seem to be wearing massive sunglasses and walking with their knees slightly bent and their backs poker straight, somewhere between the awkward stumble of a baby giraffe and the gait of a runway model. They wear massive amounts of make up, have perfectly manicured nails and drawn on eyebrows that arch oh so high, as if to signify that behind those sunglasses they are in a state of permanent surprise.
I have seen a few lately that have stuck in my mind. On High Street Kensington at 11 o’clock in the morning I saw a tiny woman dressed in ankle length black fur, her white hair in a tight French roll, her face hidden two black Jackie O saucers. She walked slowly, with purpose, toward the red stand alone letter box next to the church and upon arriving at it, dipped a diamond encrusted hand into her quilted Chanel bag and retrieved a large white envelope. The address was written in elaborate curling calligraphy. I thought that the paper she used to write on probably cost more than my lunch that day. Dropping the letter into the box, she turned and made her way back along the road, into the maze of tree lined streets and opulent townhouses that define Kensington. As she walked away I noticed, on her feet, a pair of four inch black alligator skin boots.
On the bus, there was a statuesque woman carrying two Max Mara bags that would’ve crippled a lesser lady. She couldn't have been less that 80. She was rail thin but tall as an Amazonian, with long, rounded nails painted a pale gold and wore an outfit that consisted solely of shades of cream. As the journey went on and day quite quickly slipped away into the 4 o’clock nights of London winter, she removed her sunglasses and I noticed that she kept sneaking furtive glances at me from the corner of her perfectly made up eye. She was forming some decision about me in her mind, that much was clear, but I was unable to decipher if it was one I would find compliment in. As I stood to leave the bus, I made my way past her and saw her give me a small but distinct nod, as if she had come to the conclusion she found me acceptable. I self consciously touched my hair, fiddling with the loose top knot piled on top of my head. She caught my eye again and very quickly, closed her eyes and gave an imperceptible shake of her head, as if slapping my roving hand from my head. “Behave Eloise.” I dropped my hand. Apparently, if I want to grow up to shop at max mara and wear only cream, self conscious fidgeting must be left behind on the number 49 bus and not retrieved. Ever.
Going to Chiswick, I was sat next to an old woman who looked fit for a day of long walks in the Cotswolds. She was with who I can only deduce to be her granddaughter, who had clearly had enough of her company for one day. The granddaughter sat in stony silence, her arms folded across her chest, and fumed. The old woman, dressed in a knee length tweed skirt and a Barbour jacket, sat with her small shopping bag from a bespoke stationers and her handbag in her lap. She opened her purse and rifled though, pulling out a cream paper bag with old fashioned print on its crumpled front. She held the bag in one hand and with the other, wiggled her fingers over it, as if a top hat that a white rabbit was supposed to appear out of. She stretched out the opening of the bag and held it out to her granddaughter.
“Would you like a chocolate darling? I’ve got some rather good ones.”
Her voice was high and thin and clipped. It sounded like money and boarding schools for girls and long services in cold churches in the winter. The granddaughter, undeterred in her irritation, shook her head.
“Are you sure darling? They’re brandy truffles.”
The granddaughter shook her head again. Unruffled, the woman dipped a delicate hand into the bag and pulled out one dark truffle and popped it into her mouth. She gave a small shiver of satisfaction and closed the bag, dropping it back into her purse. Her granddaughter stood up and moved toward the door, where she stayed standing until she reached her station, a full two stops later.
I love this.
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