Since taking up residence in the Cotswolds one of the things I’ve observed about the local species of Toff is that they do not engage in anything an Angeleno would recognize as cardio exercise. They drink and smoke in copious amounts and, like a Parisian woman, stay infuriatingly thin. No Toff would be caught dead in lycra or running shoes, their idea of sporting clothes extending only to jodhpurs or plus fours in a nice, understated tweed.
I know all this because as a frequent wearer of lycra and running shoes on weekends, sometimes even in the polite company of the wine bar where I might stop in to fuel up with a morning coffee before a jog, I appear to be the source of much mirth. Such was the case on Saturday morning when Boot (all male Toffs of a certain age have a schoolboy nickname that is totally inappropriate for their current age and standing) took time out from selecting half a case of wine to mock my apparel. I am fairly certain it is all in good fun as he finished his roasting with an invitation for drinks that evening. Husband and I accepted, with a promise to bathe and remove any trace of lycra or Asics before our arrival.