Tolhouse Part 1
I’m in a linen blazer, mauve melange, with a crisp cerulean shirt and dark jeans. A silk square peeks from my breast pocket in blue paisley. My feet are riding in Oxford boots. But, as my wife and I are ushered into Tolhouse, I have the sense that I’m underdressed. From the entryway, there’s a view of the kitchen working busily; tonight, a member hosts a private party and we’re invited to walk around. Dapper men are wearing layers: sport coats in herringbone and plaid, woolen newsboys, fedoras, grey tweeds over ivory turtle necks. They move around, languid, drinks in hand, enjoying themselves at an event that is expressly “members only.” The women have style too, fitted into slip-dresses and backless jumpers. Light-colored slacks drape over long legs, gracefully, with calculated sway. Hair is carefully coifed. Gold hoops twinkle, bangles floating on delicate wrists. Manicured toes are exposed in stilettos, flat sandals, and platforms with ankle straps. It’s not just pretty people he
