The Call Is Coming From Inside The Gentlewoman’s House


The Gentlewoman, I believe, is not so much a magazine as it is a disturbingly accurate portrayal of what I wish the inside of my brain looked like, and I sometimes wonder if their editors keep one of those string phones pressed up against the windows of its readers’ apartments, listening intently as we feverishly discuss the women we are currently obsessed with, and then, I imagine, calmly striding over to the centre of their minimalist yet chic office, pushing an orchid to the side, picking up an elegant rotary phone, and saying in a low, even voice, “Get me Robyn.

Should we start taking bets on who will be next? My picks: Mary Beard, Lupita Nyong’o, this woman I see at the coffee shop near my house who wears pants as though they were forged from the wings of angels and then molded to her body.