First, of course, I would be abandoning half of our readers, or at least those amongst that half whom I would care to know, since I must admit I don’t much fancy gentlemen who give more than a passing thought to their brogues or flip-flops or Docs or whatever. Yes, I do believe that there are a number of Issues which should be the sole province of the Ladies.
Cosmetics, of course. Unless, that is, the gentleman in question prefers to don the entire costume. Oh, and every once in a while mascara is fine, as long as it’s navy.
And bed linens! There are few things in the universe more off-putting than hearing a man using the term “thread count.” Even ladies know enough to confine the words to the cloistered privacy of their own sculleries.
Unfortunately, I do have an amusing tale of a Boy and his Boots, but given the times and the parties involved, the telling of it might have somewhat unfortunate consequences. Suffice that once upon a time one of my very best friends received an urgent request for a replacement pair of his most fave, most hardy and well-known brand of very waterproof, very durable, um, boots. They were dispatched through the usual channels, along with the Beconase that had been earmarked for me [much to my chagrin, because my allergies are much worse than his].
A transaction ultimately regretted by all involved.
Which is the very best part of the story. So good, in fact, that we might even find it in an upcoming issue of Yo! Basta. Yes, our most glossy Tabloid of the Left is promising a bit of a renascence itself.
Or so promised our divinely authentic Editrice, who was reporting, a tad incoherently, from Somewhere in Cannes.