I paid for sex in Beverly Hills.
Well, not exactly. I certainly paid— but not for sex. My purchase was even better than sex: bespoke shoes from G.J. Cleverley & Co. Ltd.
But the process was roughly similar (from what I understand). The harried phone calls confirming the appointment. The arrival at the hotel. The awkward inquiries at reception. The anxious knock at the room door, wondering who and what one would discover splayed out before one in the suite. And finally the sampling of the delights within.
I was well rewarded this time. The several dozen shoes arranged throughout the rooms presented a dazzling sight. The combination of Southern California sunlight and high-grade shoe leather was intoxicating. If smelling salts had been available, I probably would have taken them.
In the end I submitted two orders, including a pair of chisel-toed, punched-cap, elastic-sided slip-ons in black calf (for which the firm is known) and a pair of chisel-toed adelaide semi-brogues in virgin calf’s blood claret. Plus, I picked out a selection of Russia calf accessories to tide me over until the shoes are ready later this year.
I drove home as if in a dream. Ensconced within my antiquated Mercedes Benz motor car, I switched on the record player and put on one of my favourite Bowie LPs for the trip back to OC. Vinyl, in case you were wondering, sounds even better at 100mph than it does at 65mph.
If I had been going slow enough, you would have seen me drive by with a smile on my face and a friendly wave hello.