Marshmallows: a wobbly bridge to childhood

One good thing about this horrible weather is that it gives a body the opportunity to rediscover the glory of the humble marshmallow. I cannot praise this sweet little number highly enough. Like a duvet that is gossamer-light and heavenly warm, you would think it had been designed specially to put people at their ease.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but there is no such thing as a designer marshmallow. It just doesn’t have the connotations of connoisseurship that, say, chocolate has. Show me a marshmallow snob and I’ll present you to the Queen of Sheba. There is no checking for percentages of cocoa solids, or any of that. You just go to your nearest sweet counter, select a bag of these brightly-coloured candies, and bring them home.

Marshmallows thrive in any temperature, with the minimum of packaging. No need for foil wrapping, or cantilevers of corrugated sheets, or gilt-edged insets bearing the legend of every pretentious confection in the box. Marshmallows come in two colours; basic white and baby pink, gloriously uncomplicated and infinitely infantile, creating a wobbly bridge of memory between you and that long-lost time; childhood.

Marshmallows are very much themselves, unlike those awful ‘jelly’ sweets, they never masquerade as space rockets or sports’ cars. Nope, marshmallows all come in that friendly, tactile shape, warm and comfortable to touch without creating that dreadful, brown drizzle that a too-long held piece of chocolate generates. You just bite into a marshmallow and immediately, you are wrapped in that afore-mentioned duvet of sweetness and light. I hope the cold weather lasts a while, yet.

Be cool, go pool.

No matter how hopelessly the old year ended, no matter how dreary the weather or how badly the excesses of Christmas have affected you, there is always a note of expectation and optimism at the beginning of a new year. You know the days can only grow brighter, longer and warmer. You eagerly begin writing in your crisp new diaries and organisers. You relish those shiny Christmas gifts and begin to wear, eat and use them.

It is no wonder so many people make ‘resolutions’ at this time; promising themselves new jobs, homes, lovers and bodies in the months ahead. So, they forge ahead on a regime of CV-writing, dieting and exercising. Being a fan of the swimming pool, I do not find the exercise bit difficult. Swimming is the joy of the modernist, especially since women were released from those ridiculous nineteenth-century bathing costumes. It is no coincidence that the nineteen-thirties saw a flurry of pool and lido-building.

What could be more modernistic than stripping down to the ultimate utilitarian garment and plunging into an environment where you can float, glide, trash, splash and cavort to your heart’s content? Not only is swimming enjoyable, it is actually good for you! I have no figures to quote here but while in action, you can actually feel the water toning your limbs, and hear blood pumping around your anatomy in response to the accelerated beating of your heart.

Swimming soothes aches and pains, calms mental anxieties and when done, enables you to focus your mental energy in a way that, earlier, seemed impossible. Which makes it an even greater shame that many fine pools have closed down in recent years. Indeed, a sizeable portion of the population is frustrated in its attempt to swim because of lack of access to suitable pools. In this health-and-fitness conscious era, this is nothing short of a national scandal. Let’s campaign for more public pools, now.

Uggly Work Afoot

Just recently, I posted a piece on the difficulties inherent in buying ladies’ night attire. I’ve just been through another retail trauma, this time involving the purchase of ladies’ walking shoes – note the word walking. Judging by what was on offer in the normally sane Shoon outlet, you would end up believing that manufacturers live in a fantasy world as regards footwear for women – and think that we do, too.

All I wanted was a pair of shoes that looked good, felt comfortable and that one can actually walk in. There are plenty of shoes out there that look good, that is, if you lead the Jolie/Kidman lifestyle, tripping from chauffeur-driven car to movie set, and then home again. Mock-croc patent and suede ankle fringes over impossibly spindly heels are useless on rough, urban terrain, bedevilled by the elements.

And there were plenty that were no doubt comfortable, looking for all the world like cut-down Uggs. But what if you don’t want to negotiate the world in fleece-lined, slipper-like booties that flap around your ankles like toothless gums? After a while searching, I thankfully grasped a streamlined, leather walking shoe, only to be told: Those, Madam, are for men.

Aaasaagh! It was all I could do not to knock over the display. I finally found my quarry, a pair of quasi-boots that fitted my original criteria – and me. Great, but why do women have so little choice in footwear alongside the vast array available to men? Short of making our own, what can we do?

The Mystery of the Flying Ducks

Like the Black Death, we know not where it came from, or to where it has gone. But we do know that it afflicted at least half the population of the western world during the 1950s, 1960s and 1970s. There was but one, definite symptom; the presence of a set of three, duck-shaped pieces of plaster or china - small, middle-sized and large - arranged in ascending order of size upon a living-room or entrance hall wall of the afflicted household.

Every household that I had access to had at least one set. Ours had two; a brightly-painted plaster, vaguely art deco-ish set in the hall, and a finer, more subtly crafted china set in the sitting room. Indeed, there were so many variations on the flying duck theme, you could judge the social standing and character of a household by the nuances of the set it had chosen.

What intrigued me, however, is why homeowners felt the need to bring this simulacrum of the wilderness into their dwellings? What atavistic longing did these pieces of glue and dust vicariously satisfy? At one level, it's quite apparent. We all long to stretch our wings, clipped by rents and mortgages, and fly into a metaphorical wilderness where we can fulfill our deepest desires and yearnings.

Transparent enough, but why ducks? Why identify with these commonplace animals, generally accepted as being rather stupid? Why not beautiful swans or mythical dragons? Maybe the craze died down when the population cottoned on to the true nature of the worship of these rather dubious household gods?

I can't remember at exactly what point on the calendar that our two sets of ducks were vanquished. But vanish they did, along with those of a myriad other households. No doubt they went, via cardboard box, into attics and second hand shops everywhere. And I'll bet many are out there still.