Lighten up!

Chuck out the chintz, they said, and so I did. I threw out all frills and florals, furbelows and fancies. If I did not have a use for it (cooking, cleaning, lounging, leaning, etc), out it went with the rest of the trash. Modernism eschews pattern and colour in favour of functional form and the muted tones and textures of fabrics like Hessian and undyed wool, natural wood and leather. Ah, by the aroma of tanning shall ye know the fellow sophisticates. And I was one of the initiates - until a wonderful light-shade in the Argos catalogue caught my eye, a dangly, jangly confection of cascading, crystalline beads and pendants. Mine is pale pink, and it is also available blue, clear and champagne. At £9.99, it won’t break the bank; it will send sparkles of light and joy scudding to all corners of your living space. To modern miserablists and miserable modernists, I say – time to lighten up!

They laughed as I howled at the moon...

Make no mistake; I can take anything that the vampire world has to offer. Bring on crucifixes and coffins, and juicy garlic necklaces adorning Ruritanian cottages. I thrill to rising mists in overgrown graveyards, bats a-flapping against church roofs, and wolves howling as a black-clad count lauds his cheel-dren of the naaaaa-ightt….aaaaaaah! What’s not to love and when I saw the jaw-dropping, heart-stopping, head-spinning, sense-dimming Vampire roller coaster wheeling across the mock-Transylvanian town at, er, Chessington World of Adventures, I was sold.
It began well; queuing in the atmospheric forest with snippets of bat lore posted along the way, cartloads of screaming rollers coasting overhead at intervals. I simply couldn’t wait to get up there and experience a gentle fantasy of flying bat-like over rooftops and about the trees. Presently, we entered a darkened tunnel and descended to a subterranean terminal bathed in red light, a grey-haired automaton drawing subsonic sounds from the mock-organ – cool, oh so cool… At last, Elder Niece and I attained our carriage. Secured in our seats by plastic cages, the ride began - and my gentle fantasies blew away in the giddying, nauseating and utterly terrifying experience that followed. As the ground yawned underneath and trees and rooftops veered ever closer, I lost it. I wept and howled, shut mine eyes and prepared to die. Once, I opened them, only to see a pine trunk moving ever closer.
It’s all over, I sobbed.
My life was about to end in an ignominious splat on the side of a tree in a hokum, amusement-park forest. I wept and howled and wept and howled again, and waited for the smash. Every moment turned to infinity, my only connection with the real world being the reassuring grip of Elder Niece on my hand, like a nurse bringing a psychiatric patient through a bad dream. Eventually the whirling stopped and the carriage came to a halt.
Are we alive? I whispered, as we arrived in the subterranean terminal. We climbed out of the shadows and into the sunlight, my jelly legs aided and abetted by the staircase railings and indeed, terra firma had never looked so beautiful. Sitting outside and recovering, the overhead hollering alerted me to a cartload of screaming rollers coasting overhead…oh, my gosh…I want to go up again....

BHS and the marvellous £10 maillot

I have in my possession a lilac swimsuit, purchased c. 2007, size 14, long body, scoop necked, high-cut leg – a real classic, you could say. It is the remaining one of a succession of suits, identical apart from their various colours, which I owned at the crest of a watery phase in my career. In my inward eye, I can see the late line-up in my wardrobe; fuchsia pink, bright blue, navy, black and exotic orange in addition to said lilac. I purchased all of them from BHS and, at £10 a pop, no better value existed for a water babe who had not yet earned the right to wear a suit marked speedo – and very appropriate merchandising for an erstwhile store owner who spends much of his time larking around on a luxury yacht. Certain of the suits were replaced a few times over; I got through three black suits and two pink ones, I think.
When I wanted a new suit, I simply went to the BHS swim shop with the product tag from off the previous suit, matched it and purchased accordingly. I can’t remember exactly when matters began to change, but change they did. I still have impressions of wandering confusedly around the swim shop, trying to match my product tag with luxury striped maillots and suits sprouting exotic blossoms – and all with at least a 50% price mark-up on the plain, classic suit. Was it a coincidence that my life’s circumstances began to change around the same time, leaving less time for going to the pool? It’s a moot point and one to ponder as I wander around the now ghostly BHS, customer voices echoing as the last bits and pieces leave the rails. My sadness at its demise is tinged with satisfaction at having supported the store in its heyday, and anger at the forces that have brought it down – and I’ll ever treasure my £10 lilac maillot.

Ecco Fara

Ecco Fara – no; it’s not the name of an exotic dessert or that of a Narcissus – defying nymph, but the make and model of a walking shoe for women. – and do they look good!
Made in black, shadow white, moon grey and petal pink, Fara has white laces and white soles while the stitching and perforations on the uppers add that indefinable Ecco touch. Ecco Fara has every hi-tech foot feature that you can imagine; ridged soles for perfect ground grip, raised insteps and interior heel padding for comfortable walking. The shoes are sleek and streamlined with no fobs, fancies or silly-frilly hanging bits designed to trip your light fantastic in every direction. What you get for your money – around £80 - is a pair of high-quality shoes to see you through urban treks, country walks and beachside picnics. To date, my EFs have not chafed, pinched, cramped, hobbled or crippled. So, ladies who value their plates of meat and want to lead an active summer, get on down to your nearest Ecco stockist and look for Fara..

Midsummer Magic with Fairy Dust

It is but a year since I discovered Fairy Dust nightwear – how appropriate for midsummer – a confection of gossamer-fine embroidered cotton, pin tucked and trimmed with satin ribbon and lace. My nightie is so magical, I feel out of this world when I wear it. Now that the globe has spun around again, inspiration has struck in this

Paean to Midsummer
All winter long for this we’ve waited
Now our appetites are sated
Trees are clad in summer dress
Grass is green and soft and fresh
Days are long and hot and bright
Meadow flowers are jewel bright
At length, the sun, she tires and sinks
The moon rises, the north star winks
Magical midsummer night is nigh
Let’s to the wood where fairies fly
Spirits of the earth and air
Fire and water linger there
Through the moonlight and the shade
Walk until you find a glade
With reeds and bush and pretty flower
It doth make a splendid bower
Lie down, be still and feign to sleep
And if into the grass you peep
With faithful mind and sincere eyes
The sight will fill you with surprise
Tiny, pretty, winged and sparkly
Mischievous and enchanting darkly
A fairy being you will behold
But be careful; truth be told
Cobweb, moth or mustard seed
To raise their ire, you do not need
As spells can bad as good may be
You’re advised contentedly
To watch the fairy ballet play
Till sunrise herald the break of day
The fairies vanish in the light
They sleep by day and dance by night
Tis’ opposite to man, I know
But that’s the way the sprite doth go
When fairies vanish you’ll feel sad
And wonder if a dream you had
Do not be down, do not fear
Though unseen, the sprites are near
And if to see again you must
Don your nightwear by Fairy Dust ®.

Racks and wrecks: why I am off my trolley with buses.

Will transport companies EVER put in place buses that are designed for passengers AND their shopping, luggage, buggies, children, wheelchairs and so on, to travel comfortably together - I do stress the comfortable bit. Recently, I endured a nightmare journey from Heathrow to the suburbs, on an airport designated bus. Quite simply, I was trying to look after my trolley suitcase, computer bag and handbag. Ravenous, I wanted to consume a sandwich while travelling in comfort. A not impossible feat, you would imagine, but the very few luggage spaces were already occupied when I got on the bus - at the airport, I stress - the craft being no different from a central London bus. I had no choice but to occupy a "normal" passenger seat while holding onto my computer bag and handbag with one hand, and clutching my roving-inclined trolley with the other. Every time the bus turned, lurched or even swayed slightly, I was obliged to become a human octopus, struggling to prevent my possessions from clobbering other passengers. Eventually, another "baggage" passenger disembarked and I was able to occupy his space, but not before I had become an enraged, sweating, humiliated wreck. The irony is - it does not have to be like this. When I lived in central Europe, even "town centre" buses were long, elegant transport cabins, with one or two seats abreast at one side, a wide aisle for walking up and down, and a floor-level rack along the other side. Suitcases leaved singly into this rack, while the smaller top rack was for lighter baggage. Sways, turns and lurches made no difference; the luggage stayed in place throughout the journey. When whatever passenger disembarked, he could simply retrieve his suitcase without disturbing that of anyone else. Best of all, the rack was bayed at intervals, leaving space for buggies, wheelchairs, walking aids, whatever. This seating arrangement enables the passenger to sit alongside his or her secured luggage or child or invalid companion, and allows him or her to eat, read, listen to music and actually enjoy the urban voyage. Of course, I am aware that in chilly, old Great Britain, any sucker unable or unwilling to pay £50 or so for a taxi deserves every discomfort and humiliation that the system can throw at him. If we have to haul luggage onto those boxy, rack-free "passenger" buses, all I ask is that designers leave enough room - in the downstairs deck, at least - between and underneath seats, for suitcases - please.

War on terra: why does the female foot maintain its battle-zone status?

First, congratulations to Nicola Thorp for her stance in wearing flat heels to work. Over the years, I have waxed much lyrical on the eternal tussle between fantasy and reality that is the female foot zone. With the coming of age of Birkenstock and Fit-flops, Ecco and Josef Siebel, I thought that comfort and rationality had finally triumphed. But in the past decade, the fictional Miranda Priestly waved a pair of stilettos under the nose of sensibly-dressed secretary Andie in The Devil Wears Prada (David Frankel, 2006) while only last year, actual movie stars stood firmly in jewelled flatties on the red carpet in Cannes, deaf to howls of media derision. This year, the spat between receptionist Nicola and her bosses has proved that this sartorial war on terra is alive and kicking. When will men/bosses/people in authority generally learn that high-heeled feminine shoes are not workaday items of dress? Stiletto heels do not lend themselves to eight-hour work shifts, book-ended by fraught, commuter commutes. They are for parties, first dates and award ceremonies – a trope that even the canny ladies of Cannes eschewed. Stiletto shoes fulfill a yearning, a daydream, an aspiration, being the sartorial equivalent of gothic vaults, gleaming skyscrapers and a soaring FTSE index. That is the fantasy; the reality is aching toes and ankles during active hours, with the long-term price of trudging into middle and old age with damaged knees and spinal cords, and corned, calloused and bunioned feet. Ladies, refuse to pay – today.