But where Miller saw "golf pants" on a pair of loose baggy trousers paired with a burned out velvet-and-georgette blouse, the audience might have seen glorified sweats.
All promise much the same thing: a velvet rope to keep out the attitudinally unwashed, serendipitous interaction, quirky content and at least the illusion of egalitarian elbow-rubbing.
He could not make out the individual footfalls, the great velvet paws landing one in front of the other, only the over-all sound of it, a soft, travelling thump.