Manolo says, here is the Manolo’s latest column for the Express of the Washington Post.
In late March, I’ll be attending a wedding in Northern Virginia, at very upmarket horse farm (think dressage and fox hunting). Supposedly, all of Washington’s society will be there. What do you recommend I wear?
Manolo says, ayyyy! The Manolo’s friend is cavorting with the horsey set! With their hacking jackets, and riding crops, and miscellaneous bits of incomprehensible leather tack, all of it imbued with the deep scent of ripe horse flesh and unpleasant social snobbery.
Of the course, for the Manolo, the mere whiff of horse sends the Manolo, Proust-like, back to his gypsy childhood, and to bad memories of Beto and La Bruja, those disreputable horses who pulled the family caravan about the Spanish countryside.
Like congressmen, they were obstinate and stupid, given to bad tempers, unwilling to do hard work , and overly fond of rich fodder, and they forever cured the Manolo of considering horses glamorous, much as close contact with the congressmen cures the residents of Washington of their illusions.
Speaking of Washington, at the moment everyone is taking their cue from the new First Lady, and thus the Camelot-era-ish low pump has returned. Look, here is Candidate from Stuart Weitzman, the classic, kitten-heeled pump.