Much of my work has been, and now continues to be, about kids. Kids in trouble, kids in crisis, kids in situations that are at best exceedingly difficult and at worst abhorrent. So I love meeting kids whose lives are going pretty much the way they want them to go. Lives where they get to eat well and play happily and, on the rare occasion, do whatever the hell they want to do.
Last weekend I was enjoying myself at the grand opening of our friend’s café here in Victoria, the Hub and Spoke. It’s a lively place that caters to those who crave massive amounts of high quality coffee and beer after racing around on bicycles. The day began with a broadcast of the Tour de France at 5:30 a.m. and my loyal husband arrived right on time. So did I—12:30 p.m., just in time for a BBQ, this super rockabilly band…
and a chance meeting with a dapper gentleman. I was ordering myself a cold bottle of locally made ginger ale (wild I tell, you, I’m gone hog wild out here) when I couldn’t help but notice the festival of wardrobe charm going on in the chair next to me. I was so compelled that I followed him outside.
I ask you, have you ever seen a sweeter sartorial situation? I’m a sucker for a man in union jack socks. I struck up a chat with his mother who told me that he chooses all his own clothes. I love that she lets him. In fact, she said the only input she has is to reign him in from time to time. She gave me permission to ask him for a photo and then he agreed to pose.
This outfit just screams “I gotta be me!” He’s a bon vivant in training and he’s blessed with parents who support his need to be a dandy. I suspect he takes ribbing at school, but I like to imagine that he walks through the halls leaving smiles and sighs in his wake. I didn’t get his name. I hope it’s Chester Wilmington the Third or Malcolm Mackelhenny of the Victoria Mackelhennys. I’m hoping to run into him from time to time and maybe, if I play my cards right, I can buy him an ice cream and he can take me shopping.