At the Austrian embassy in Naples, a German diplomatist asked the great beauty Madame de Ventadour if she had been in the Strada Nuova that morning. ‘What else have we to do with our mornings, we women?’ replied Madame de Ventadour. ‘Our life is a lounge from the cradle to the grave.’
How true. The observation comes in Bulwer Lytton’s novel Ernest Maltravers (1837). I was put in mind of lounging by remarks that Anne McElvoy made on the wireless about the use of video-conferencing and broadcasting allowing people to attend to their visible top half while wearing lounge pants below.
I wasn’t too sure what lounge pants were. I don’t wear them and my husband certainly doesn’t. He lounges quite a bit and used to be found in lounge bars, when such things existed, but he wears flannel trousers in the house, or even what invitations call a lounge suit.
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