Let's get slip-shod

Slippers have made their way out of the bedroom and into the street, finds Simon Mills—although not without precedent or formalities

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MY father had a party-prep ritual. When there was a hard-card event to attend or black tie to wear, Dad would go to the bathroom first, shaving and showering and primping before attending to his freshly pressed shirt and tricky gold cufflinks. As my mother busied herself with Clairol hot roller curlers and industrial blasts of Elnett, her mink coat unsheathed from its dust cover, Dad would make his way downstairs in what I came to know as his 'pre-party pants' an ensemble that actually involved no trousers at all.

Dad's hair was brilliantined and his chin cleanly shaved (perhaps with a corner of loo roll mopping up the blood from a wayward Wilkinson Sword nick). His shirt would be buttoned up and his tie knotted small, tight and perfectly. Cufflinks in place, Omega watch on. Over the top of all this, a silk Tootal dressing gown, rakishly tied at the waist. With his suit pants still enjoying a hot crease in the electric Corby press, his legs would be bare but for a pair of black, calf length socks.

On his feet? The most immaculate pair of house slippers available to man. Church's. Tan leather heel and sole. Mandarin red oxblood uppers. Cut in from a Moroccan block. Buttery soft and worn-in just so, their back quarters high on his ankle, effecting the overall look a slightly effeminate, dainty and camp air, à la Noël Coward in Jamaica.

This was how Dad dressed to fix himself a secret pre-party sharpener—a Gordon's gin and tonic, ice and a slice—and he'd sit in front of the television, tumbler in hand, elegant slippers on, sans pants, waiting for his wife to descend, enjoying a bit of peace before the noisy socials began.