We know it’s not cool to dress like a master of the universe right now, and the lunchtime crowd at the Ivy on Tuesday were less Madoff than Man at C&A. Regulars have always been more fashionable than Fashion, considering themselves too serious and important to appear to pay attention to clothes, but the abundance of pastel jumpers suggests a trend reminiscent of Nineties black-nylon stealth wealth. Perhaps dressing like a contestant in a celebrity golf challenge indicates a cannily egalitarian sympathy with the miseries of middle management. Sartorial stress is creeping into other outposts of the Caring empire. At Annabels, that little corner of London society that is forever Fulham, chubby Sloanes still tumble like Labrador puppies across the bar, but a Heepish notice pinned prominently near the powder room pleads with members not to spoil “our lovely club’ by disporting in suede trousers and exposed undergarments. Yet how exactly ought one to dress for the end of the world?
No such anxiety pertains here in the Tarn-et-Garonne where, like most things, the credit crunch has come late.
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