I’m not clubbable. Like Groucho Marx said, “I don’t want to belong to any club that would have me as a member.”
The only club lounge I’m interested in is the First Class one at the airport. Also like Groucho I have spent a day at the races. I’m sure you’ve seen photos of the Queen at Ascot. ‘Ladies’ Day’ in the royal enclosure is all about the hats. I was keen to check out the dress code in LA. What would be appropriate here in a guaranteed eighty degrees of heat? I wondered. I Googled The Turf Club and saw they had strict guidelines and made no concessions to the weather.
There were to be ‘no jeans, leggings, stretch pants, short sleeve or zipper sports coats, baseball caps or visors.’ Ladies (including children), were to wear a dress or suit, skirt or slacks with a matching jacket or tailored blazer. Gentlemen’s attire stipulated a jacket and slacks but ties were optional. Hello. I thought. If I’m going to be channeling my inner flight attendant, I want my man trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey. As there’d been no mention of leopard print or sequins, I had my outfit down.
That’s the thing isn’t it? Clubs are all about homogeny. On the rare occasions I’ve been to golf clubs I’ve been surprised to see so many men wearing the same pink monogrammed sweater, striped shirt, khaki pants and polo shirt. It’s like a game of ‘Where’s Waldo’ trying to pick someone out at the bar.
I do understand the urge to blend though. I was musing on these things as I packed my suitcase today for my trip to Europe and the Middle East. Next week in Paris it’ll be navy sweaters and a trench coat. In London I’m favoring the knee-high boots and sweater dresses. My greatest challenge on this jaunt will be Dubai. Never having been to the emirates before it presents a new challenge. I’m not fond of headscarves and I don’t own any Louis Vuitton. Ah! Well I have time to figure it out.
A bientôt my friends. See you on Instagram and Facebook. I’ll try to keep in touch by posting from the other side of the pond.