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Historically, even though the word “sock” is at least as ancient in origin, what men typically wore was often referred to as tights, probably mainly when referring to the longer hose that were fashionable at times. The word was used to refer to the bottom, or “stump,” part of the body. By analogy, the term was used to refer to the one-piece covering of the lower trunk and limbs of the 15th century—essentially tights consisting of the upper stocks (later to be worn separately as knee breeches) and nether supplies (later to be worn independently as stockings).

Before the 1590s, stockings were made of woven cloth. The first knitting machines were for making stockings. The socks themselves were made of cotton, linen, wool or silk. Polished cotton, known as lisle, was standard, as were those made in Balbriggan.

Before the 1920s, women’s stockings, if worn, were worn for warmth. In the 1920s, as women’s dresses’ hemlines rose, they wore socks to cover their exposed legs. These stockings were sheer, first made of silk or rayon (then known as “artificial silk”), and after 1940 of nylon. The first pantyhose appeared in the 1940s and 1950s, when film and theatre productions featured stockings sewn to the briefs of actresses and dancers, as noted by actress-dancer Ann Miller, as seen in popular films such as Daddy Long Legs.

Today, socks are commonly made using knitted wool, silk, cotton or nylon. The introduction of pantyhose in 1959 provided a convenient alternative to stockings, leading to a dramatic decline in the use of socks. U.S. sales of stockings exceeded stockings for the first time and have remained this way ever since. BegIn87, sales of the hose with a suspender belt started to decline slightly due to the newly invented hold-ups, but it remained a popular sock.

So, if you have a fetish for stockings, look no further. All our fine young ladies will honour your wishes by wearing only the finest socks for your eyes.

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Today, I am going to an Auction. Well, it was an early start. My right-hand man, Franco, was in Mayfair with a cardboard carrier of Americano coffees and some croissants to go. As I had my hair in a towel and my stress head on, this was a very welcome sight! My door was wedged open with a shoe – not being auctioned off – and some burly and tasty young men were moving in and out of it. Sometimes, I almost said, “Oh, not that one,” but Franco shook his head wordlessly at me, and I had to let them go.

And then we were off to Oxford Circus! I could feel the adrenaline as we watched the crates and rails being unloaded by a team of highly organised young women. I have no idea where they came from, but they had something to do with James and his abundant knowledge of fundraiser organisers. They treated me like royalty, and I could almost taste the palpable aura of garment lust. “If you want it, you’ll have to bid on it, darling, Franco said to one young, sexy blonde pawing a limited edition Pucci silk jacket.

At ten o’clock, the doors were flung open to the public. The rows of seats were immediately filled, the edges of the warehouse flanked by assistants on the phone and other buyers. I recognised a few faces from my regular haunts (Kensington, Fulham and Chelsea) – a few gave me the thumbs up. My beautician was right at the front with her life savings to bid on one of my pink fur coats.

There was an expectant buzz, and then Franco introduced the cause, and then… me! I was waved to the front to say a few words, and my mouth went dry, but I managed it. And after deafening applause, it began…

Money, running into tens, hundreds and thousands, flew across that warehouse. A pair of strappy Jimmy Choo shoes from SS07 sold for £900 within the first ten minutes. Scraps of silk, lace, satin and feathers exchanged hands like hotcakes. A few Japanese girls were in the audience battling for Chanel and Chloe, whom I thought might get ugly at one point. Thankfully, James had the sense to hire me some security guards when he was dishing out the employment for the day.

And by 13.30, it was all over. The cash tin was counted, the cheques and credit card slips bundled, and after checking three times, the total for my designer goods at auction was….. £327,089! And no, I’m not kidding. Bear in mind that I have (had!)My collection features some affluent clients and a selection of retro, authentic pieces; it’s still quite impressive!

Enjoy St. Barnardo’s and SCOPE – two worthy causes.

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I love going to the races. Something is exciting about Royal Ascot and Ladies Day (I have tickets this year for 21st June!) in a wide-brimmed-hat-and-suede-shoes kind of way. Half the fun (apart from betting) is celebrity spotting and seeing who came the best and worst dressed. The tabloids can’t possibly love it half as much as I do.

Tomorrow, I am off to Epsom in Surrey for a private hospitality event. I’m being chauffeured there and back by Clive, my well-to-do horsey friend. Clive and his friends breed thoroughbred racehorses and race them publicly and privately for vast sums of money. Put it this way: I couldn’t put a “tenner on each way” in that circuit.

Clive and I met at Newmarket last August. I was sipping Pimms with a group of fellow 24-hour Companions. We weren’t drawing attention to ourselves in any way, but, as if by magic, the waiter came over and presented us with three bottles of champagne. As we followed his gaze across the room, we spotted a group of gentlemen (a direct ratio of them to us) laughing and joking together. One of them raised a glass to us, and we waved gaily back. Within ten minutes, we chatted away like old friends and went to dinner with them back in London at Wild Honey on St George’s Street.

Each of us was spoilt rotten, and Clive seemed to take a shine to me. Although we don’t spend a lot of time together, if he needs a dazzling brunette on his arm for an event, I get a call. In the interim, I learned a few horse-racing terms and tips that put me in good standing should anyone ever question me. It’s all about learning, you see?

With my well-educated client, I am sure to put on a few bets that will come up trumps for me, and Clive certainly knows that he has a certain chance with me.

So, if you needed a special girl in London to accompany you to the races, our ladies certainly know how to dress in their finest attire, which will never look out of place. They will turn heads with their beauty and sophistication, and perhaps even bring you some luck at the races.

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Most of our girls are available for international assignments, which is particularly convenient for our clients when they require a companion to travel abroad. One of these European cities is Madrid. Madrid is the beautiful capital of Spain and the largest city, with a population of just over 3 million people.

So why Madrid? Known for its political, economic, and cultural excellence, it is no wonder that tourists and other Spaniards flock there yearly to enjoy everything this city has to offer. Madrid is a culture lover’s paradise, from its world-renowned art museums to its beautiful architecture (especially the Catholic churches, a wonder to behold) and classical music.

Our London escorts love to be entertained in Madrid. These girls tell us that the nightlife is one of the city’s main attractions! You haven’t indeed visited Madrid if you haven’t experienced the clubs, jazz lounges, and live music venues. Dining out in Tapas bars, drinking at cocktail bars, or watching flamenco – there is something for all and something every night. Ask your escort if she’d like to dance or sit and tap her feet to the varied talents of Spanish musicians.

Although the weather in Madrid is much the same as in London (with much less rain!!), Don’t let that put you off a city break, remember. As long as you both wrap up warm, you should be able to enjoy the many hidden treasures of this historic and beautiful city. And if the cold gets too much, hop on a bus or train and go somewhere together you might not have thought of before. Remember, when you think you know Madrid, something may pop up and surprise you!

Booking a Spanish escort to accompany you abroad couldn’t be simpler. Either call or email us Monday through Sunday. Please note that our escorts require 24 hours’ notice to confirm an international booking, so plan accordingly.

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Women can be manipulative—even those who say they aren’t, have a more subtle approach to the art. As long as there is no element of demasculation, where is the harm? My mother used to say, “Ask, don’t get; don’t ask, don’t want.” I disagree.

I’ll be sure to set the scene for you…

This weekend, I spent the day at Westfield Shopping Centre, ten minutes from Paddington, with a rather delicious companion, surrounded by throngs of shoppers and designer stores. I managed to do a lot of my shopping, including some with Victor. I love shopping dates because I usually don’t get to spend a day queuing among other commoners, preferring to “add to cart” on Amazon.

So there we were, fingers entwined, our arms full of branded carrier bags. Victor had dragged me into practically every man’s clothes shop there (who says men aren’t fussy?), and I was longingly thinking of Kurt Geiger up on level one. I desperately wanted to slip my foot into the multi-coloured glitter stilettos that had been whispering lovingly to me from the website. As he tried on his fiftieth jumper, I mentally itemised my wardrobe to justify the £150, while subtracting the balance of my MasterCard from my credit limit.

Sensitive to others’ needs, I am adept at intervening before situations get out of control and Victor becomes frustrated. I wanted my shoes, and he wanted a change of scenery, so I suggested Pret a Manger, which was “coincidentally” on level one. Smelling the lure of coffee and fresh sandwiches, Victor offered me a smile as we ascended the escalator, and I mentally calculated that it would take 30 seconds to pass by my beautiful shoes once we were nourished.

A man with a full belly is a happy man – and a man open to bribery. Near the cafe was a huge Apple store with plenty of shiny laptops and iPads murmuring sweet nothings. Attention diverted from Fair Isle knitwear, Victor swung his hips through the door and took a lungful of Broadband. A London escort such as me must have patience as a virtue: the patience to accept her needs comes after those of her date. I watched Victor dribble over a MacBook Pro and counted down the minutes until I could lick the heel of that display shoe.

And then… a boom! Victor kissed my forehead and said, “Darling, you have been patient with me today. Let me buy a present for my beautiful girl. Shall we look at something for you?” I could have wept. “Oh, you don’t have to do that…” I said through my lashes. He made a pooh-pooh noise, and we fell into step… right past Kurt Geiger. And there they were… in the window, dazzling under the lights as I knew they would be… my shoes. Ten minutes later, I had a shiny gift bag dangling from my arm, and my date looked very pleased with himself as I let him “choose” a pair, though I can’t say product placement didn’t play a part.

Call me manipulative, then, if you want, but you can’t say that my gentleman friend wasn’t pleased to make me happy. The date had, as always, been about him and a trip to W12. I’m a big fan of West London, especially now that I know Kurt Geiger has a fantastic store there!