Dangermouse rightly mocked my choice of Sunday reading—the SST‘s eponymous magazine—but I freely admit its near-mesmeric hold on me, as an index to the leisured preoccupations of the upper-middle class. Should one update one’s wardrobe every season or simply buy four-hundred dollar pants that will last one seven years? When to add and extra storey to one’s home, where in Europe or south-east Asia to take one’s vacation breaks, how much of which toxin to have injected into one’s brow or lips? Even Steve Braunias, whose column last week suggests he’s party to an impending birth, writes with apparent contentment. It’s enough to cast a rosy glow over the old misanthropic vigour with which he used to tear into the same group of readers in the Listener.
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