House Style by Lucia van der Post

► Mount StreetPrinters. The biscuit I am chomping as I type this is from Fortnum’s as is the tea in the cuppa I’m chasing it with. (Bone china: William Edwards of Stoke-on-Trent.) As soon as I’ve finished typing this, I’m off to take the dog for a walk. It’s a bitter afternoon so I’ll be putting on a pair of cashmere gloves from William Lockie, of Hawick in Scotland, alongside a worsted cashmere scarf from Begg & Co, founded in Paisley but now based in Ayr, and a woolly hat from the great Richard James. The raincoat I’ll be pulling on is from the excellent Private White VC, of Manchester. It’s made of cotton Ventile, the stuff developed to keep downed RAF pilots alive when crash landed into the North Sea. Which ought to be sufficient for a brisk stroll into Shepherd’s Bush. The hound will be wearing her Paul Smith leather collar and lead. Spoilt dog. Tonight, when I turn in, I’ll put on my Derek Rose jimjams, though not before filling my Hackett hot-water bottle. (You think I’m making this stuff up; I’m ashamed to say it’s all true.) All of which makes me sound completely mad and jingoistic, the Nigel Farage of the lifestyle pages. I’m not, really I’m not. I also love Italian kit, and I have lots of it. And I have plenty of French stuff, and some American gear too, sportswear mostly. But it is perfectly possible to dress oneself, and to accessorise – to coin an ugly phrase – in homegrown-only. Not only is it possible, it is desirable. When we Brits do something well, we do it better than anyone. A few years ago, at Esquire, the magazine I edit (that’s British Esquire, by the way, not the American edition) we published a special issue devoted to celebrating the best homegrown products. We had an Aston Martin, from Warwickshire; Catcheside cutlery, from Hereford; a Bremont watch, made in Oxfordshire; Corgi socks, from Ammanford, Carmarthenshire; a Dualit toaster, from West Sussex; a John Smedley polo shirt, from Derbyshire; a weekend jacket from Oliver Spencer, made in London; a Roberts bicycle, from Surrey; a Burberry trench; a Thomas Pink dress shirt; an umbrella from London Undercover; a suit from Thom Sweeney. On the cover? Croydon’s finest, Kate Moss. The message: all across the country skilled craftspeople are designing and fashioning and manufacturing some of the very finest products in the world. (And in Croydon the genes are stunning.) We also had beer from Suffolk, doughnuts from Bermondsey a terrier from Yorkshire, a motorcycle from Leicestershire, fish and chips from Hammersmith, and I could go on but you’re getting the picture, I think. There are other areas of course, where British products might not be one’s first choice. Or perhaps the choice is not offered. My TV is from South Korea. (I had to look that one up.) The laptop I’m typing this into was designed in California and assembled in China. (Though it was a Brit, Jony Ive, who did the designing.) The same goes for my phone and tablet. My fridge is German, as are my dishwasher, washing machine and tumble dryer. I don’t know about you but I find it hard to get excited about white goods. I appreciate what they do, but my emotional connection to my tumble dryer is remote, to say the least. It doesn’t speak to me, and I try not to talk to it, except on those occasions when it develops a fault, at which times I’m afraid I speak to it in the harshest possible terms. (You have to show these things who’s boss.) My clothes, on the other hand. My wallet. My pen. My notebook. These are my companions, my friends. I feel a kinship with them. They say something about me. They say I’m British.

Above, from the top

Private VC Bremont Begg & Co Ettinger

Opposite

1960 Aston Martin DB4. The classic Burbery tartan scarf and trench.

Below

Paul Smith dog collar.

Illustration ► Rory Dobner

The ‘L’ Word

by Justine Picardie

The meaning of luxury is evolving. Justine Picardie looks at its etymology, from lust and guilt to today’s need for stillness and contemplation.

Justine Picardie ► Justine Picardie is editorin-chief of Harper’s Bazaar and Town & Country. She was formerly a journalist for the Sunday Times, features director of Vogue, editor of The Observer magazine and a columnist for The Telegraph. She is the author of six books, including her critically acclaimed memoir If the Spirit Moves You, and her Sunday Times bestselling biography Coco Chanel: The Legend and the Life. ► What’s in a word?

I am writing this at the beginning of January, beneath the weight of a dark grey sky, but at my desk, the heady scent of unfurling petals of indoor narcissus is a welcome reminder of spring. These hopeful flowers seem to me to be the height of luxury on a winter’s day, as are the graceful white orchids that are growing in a plant pot alongside my computer, and the feel of a soft silken blouse against my skin. Scent, touch, human emotion… these are the true luxuries in a digital age. Similarly, as the pace of technology becomes ever more swift, our yearning for time to slow down appears overwhelming. It’s an odd state to find ourselves in: infuriated by everyday delays (whether caused by erratic broadband or unreliable transport), yet also longing for a less frenetic tempo of life.

Perhaps this ambivalence about what we yearn for – whether it is the time to do nothing, or the space in which to find ourselves – is rooted in the contradictions that are inherent in the meaning of luxury. We associate the word with wealth, comfort, sumptuous finery – but its original connotations were more to do with lechery and lust. Luxus, in Latin, denoted indulgence, excess and debauchery; hence Chaucer referred to “the foule lust of luxurie”, while for Shakespeare, it represented adultery. (“She knows the heat of a luxurious bed,” declares Claudio in Much Ado About Nothing. “Her blush is guiltiness, not modesty.”) Eventually, the word evolved from its original meaning, and by the last century, it had come to signify material riches. Yet this definition, in turn, was also questioned: by Coco Chanel, for example, who observed, “Some people think luxury is the opposite of poverty. It is not. It is the opposite of vulgarity.” Meanwhile, Cassandra Mortmain, the spirited heroine of I Capture the Castle – Dodie Smith’s wonderful coming-of-age novel set in the 1930s – finds herself wondering if luxury is altogether to be trusted. “I had never realised before that it is more than just having things; it makes the very air feel different. And I felt different, breathing that air… And though I cannot honestly say I would ever turn my back on any luxury I could come by, I do feel there is something a bit wrong in it. Perhaps that makes it all the more enjoyable.” Elsewhere in the book, however, she enjoys “the blissful luxury” of being in love; the “great luxury [of] letting myself cry”; and “contemplation… the only luxury that costs nothing…” All of which suggests, at the very least, that luxury is a shapeshifting concept; an emotion, as much as an object to caress; an idea that is as elusive as it is sought-after. But desire is at its heart – the desire to have and to hold; to escape, while also being cocooned; to love, and be loved. And as with true love, real luxury should be cherished for ever, in the knowledge that what we hold most dear may not be ours to possess.

House Style

Lucia van der Post House Style

by Lucia van der Post

British luxury has its roots firmly in the country.