Sunday solemnity

It was an effort to get out of bed this morning. I kept tossing from side to side anticipating the impending duty of performance. It is His Lordship’s 70th birthday today.  Accordingly I felt a degree of revelry were not inappropriate. I had been awake for what felt like hours already. I kept mulling over in my mind the commission I had to put my feet on the floorboards before nine o’clock (by which time I figured I’d be able fully to address the celebratory exigencies of the day).  As it turned out, following my impenetrable dosing, it was closer to ten o’clock before I threw back the duvet and thus effectively declared myself among the living. Now, hours later, after having accomplished morning ablutions, enjoyed a BBQ sausage luncheon on the picnic table beside Almonte Butcher (with Ivy, Jericho and their dad), having reeled in my erstwhile physician from his personal medical remedy to join us momentarly at the trough, and finally having routinely gone to Stittsville to have the car washed (and afterwards while there to investigate the new Halo Car Wash including getting a free introductory car wash), I have as usual resorted to my mahogany desk in the ‘drawing room to seek the predictable stimulus of the upriver view beneath the stormy and ever-changing atmosphere.

The somewhat irregular topic of scrutiny today has been matters sartorial while-at-sea. Things like hats, silk scarves, long-sleeved shirts, trousers, blazer and casual shoes – mainly whatever would be appropriate for evening wear while preserving the appearance of “resort casual”. We’ve dismissed many of the particular items or tried on exacting clothes from our existing collection. The object is to cultivate a simple wardrobe of convenient clothes. This translates to a recipe of basic black, white and blue commodities.  As in most matters, ostentation is to be avoided. Our primary retail interest may arise on Hilton Head Island when we visit Phillips Shoes (Ecco Soft 7 Lace for example).

The last time I was on a seagoing vessel was probably about five years ago when we boarded a catarman from Fort Myers, FLA to Key West, FLA. The prescription of Key West alone was sufficient to dampen the relevancy of any issue of tailoring. The real killer however was the uproarious sea.  Had it not been for the Dramamine recommended by the hotel desk clerk, we too no doubt would have joined the majority of passengers devoted during the seagoing voyage to hanging over the side in mournful, nauseous purge. And if by chance you are about to suggest I have picked a poor example of seafaring, then I recall instead our invitation upon a 58′ yacht for a summertime outing on the St. Lawrence River whereupon we excused ourselves to the bow (primarily to escape the mounting engine noise at stern as we gathered speed) but where we bounced up and down with the waves while facing into the not insubstantial wind blast and competing noise.  In either of these maritime enterprises, the issue of clothing is the least enthralling. If tradition is of any value, I fully expect that the composition of my clothes cupboard is secondary interest at best. As always the more penetrating analysis is, “Does it fit?”