If magazines profiled men like magazines profile women.
Guy Manfellow is waiting for me at the bar of a stylishly obscure bar. It is quiet, perhaps only half the seats are taken, but every head in the stylishly obscure bar is turned just a little way towards Manfellow, every eye drawn to his long legs, carefully crossed at well turned ankles. It’s the legs you notice first.
Guy Manfellow’s legs are long and his ankles, if you could see them beneath the black dress socks poking out from beneath the cuffs of his perfectly pressed Ralph Lauren pants … well, those ankles are perfect.
Guy Manfellow smiles when I mention his perfect ankles.
‘’Everyone says that,’’ he smiles, and his smile is kind, if a little weary at fending off compliments all day. ‘’But I’m about more than my ankles.’’
Yes, yes he is. Guy Manfellow is a very important man who does things — important things involving other things. But none of those things are as important right now as the powerful thighs I see stretching the fabric of his pants like old redwoods wrapped in Indian cotton, or perhaps his calves, which are famously so geometrically perfect that evolutionary scientists and intelligent designers both cite them in arguments in favour of their position.
