(smackle. smuckle. smackle. smuckle. SMACKLE. SMUCKLE.)
I am walking along an empty avenue between Highgate Village and Hampstead Heath, and this is what I hear. It’s the sound of footsteps getting steadily closer. I know it’s a man, because the sound has a determined, competitive force. Except it’s not a stern clomp-clomp, but a ludicrous, sticky smackle-smuckle.
He is, of course, wearing Flip-Flops. It is heatwave weather in London.
Sumer is icumen in / Lhude sing flipflop
Well I say heatwave, but just as Mr Coward sang all those years ago, it only takes the merest hint of noonday sun to trigger an Englishman’s mad switch to full-on beachwear mode, even though the nearest beach is fifty miles away.
If said men were showing off their waxed feet and painted toenails, a la Quentin Crisp, I could understand it. But funnily enough, most of the gentlemen who have opted for this silly shoe are not exactly of the Crisp stripe.
My grumblings over the aesthetic qualities of these plastic foot-thongs aside, I can’t see how Flip-Flops are the most practical choice for getting on and off escalators on the Tube, hot weather or not. And the wearer can’t walk anywhere without going smackle and then smuckle. Which I think is a bit silly, at least for ostensibly manly men walking the streets of a metropolis.
But of course, it is me that is made to feel silly. I’m wandering around in my usual attire – today it’s my pinstriped navy blue suit and knotted silk scarf, because:
(a) it’s actually not as hot as people are implying. In fact, there’s something of a chilly breeze, and I need to wear a jacket.
(b) my own legs and feet are unsightly, and I feel it’s my duty to keep them covered up in hot weather. And the rest of the year too.
and (c) because I am me. I look better in a suit. I think all men look better in suits. Beautiful weather shouldn’t mean ugly clothes. Which would Michaelangelo’s David look better in: Flip-Flops and shorts, or a pinstriped suit and silk scarf?
But I realise I’m in the minority on this one. And guess what, I can’t walk a few yards from my home without strangers helpfully reminding me of this fact.
On Highgate Village High Street a couple pass me, both wearing Flip-Flops. The man hisses to the woman – but in a volume clearly intended for me to hear:
‘What the HELL is that bloke wearing?’
A few doors along, outside the Gatehouse pub, a sunburnt bald man in short sleeves clutching a pint shouts at me:
‘Oy mate, where’s the funeral?’
I’m in a pretty bad mood by now, and stop to address him.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I said, where’s the funeral?’
‘Funeral? What do you mean?’
‘Well, why are you dressed like that?’
‘Because it suits me.’
And I walk off, shaking my head in what I hope is that ‘stupid bloody question’ way. Except I quickly increase my stride, as it dawns on me that he might take my reply as an insult – and give chase.
Needless to add, I already regret this somewhat pathetic attempt to defend my sartorial choice. I should have either smiled sweetly and walked past, or better still, come up with a much better retort:
‘Oy mate, where’s the funeral?’
(triumphantly, arms aloft) ‘Ah, I am in mourning for my own life…’
