Whenever a word I’ve never used or even heard of keeps popping up, it gets my attention.
Bespoke, an adjective, pertaining to the matter of dress…a natty, well-heeled, personal style…custom-made, made to order to a particular specification.
To display…he lived on a high-end street which bespoke of money. Demonstrate, indicate, show and reflect…register, reveal, express and disclose.
Don’t synonyms just turn you the fuck on?
In the current book I’m reading, it said, “He wore Bespoke Suits, impeccably pressed with a crease down his pant leg that could carve a roast.” Wouldn’t that have gotten your attention?
There’s an actual place on West 29th Street in Manhattan called House of Bespoke. Would love to have a gander at that clientele.
My friend Ed always comes to mind being nattily attired on any given day, and his trouser folds are so crisp, they could scare a girl.
Not much of an ironer, it made me reassess my own creases I had to search to find. My mother came to mind who ironed every afternoon while watching The Guiding Light, her favorite soap opera. I can almost guarantee her creases could have carved a roast, a whole steer even, a talent not passed down to me. I will say, I’m fussy how things fit, so when you figure, bespoke means, a precise uniqueness in the way one looks, I certainly qualify, even in just a casual way.
The way her tights clung to her non-existent butt, bespoke care (and just a touch of Spandex) as she tooled down the avenue. Ho hum
What every girl needs besides gloss, mascara and her rent paid every month, is a good tailor.
You thought I was going to say a good iron.