Today, golden sneakers have taken over from monk-strap brogues.
Back in the olden days, my younger self used to indulge in the stiff upper lip, olde worlde charms of Knightsbridge’s crusty kind of wealth. As a young, car obsessed German boy, the illustrious parts of London used to be some kind of automotive mecca: Bentleys and Royces galore, not to mention vintage exotica (at a time when old cars were considered just that in Germany). There was a certain nonchalance even to that aloof chap that parked his Ferrari 456 halfway across a zebra crossing, just because that happened to be right in front of the café where he intended to have his breakfast. Not to mention all those gentlemen in double-breasted pinstriped suits, who always seemed to embody some kind of aristocratic calm. Continue reading “Knightsbridge, 2016”
Driven To Write 