Fabulous Vintage Links

Absolutely stunning dresses:

http://www.revampvintage.com/index1.html

http://www.bluevelvetvintage.com/

http://www.20thcenturyfoxy.com/en/index/a1

And some other goodies I happened to pick up recently...

eBay has been very twenties generous recently. With these earrings, I'll certainly be ready for my close up...

For gorgeous 1920s earrings...

...visit Jewellery By Costume Drama here.

This lovely lady has been supplying me with stunning hand made twenties inspired jewellery for a while. And she sells so reasonably; it's easy to treat yourself!

These are a few of my recent purchases. I would recommend you visit her online store over at eBay for more designs - my collection is always growing. Fast friendly and fantastic service with earrings to die for - what more could you want? And they won't break the bank!

How to smell like the 20's

Today I smell of 1925.

This may potentially conjure up an image of a musty, moth eaten silk flapper dress from an old attic, or rusting old Ford; however, cast your mind to a boudoir with velvet cushions, the seduction of swirling smoke from heavy incense, the heady heat of the East. Gentlemen; imagine a Sheba. A smokey eyed, scarlet lipped temptress luring you lasciviously. Ladies; a Sheik. A smouldering, tall, strong, dark Valentino about to take you in his grip and make love to you passionately.

This is a scent of intrigue; deep, sensual, heady, romantic and mysterious. For the lady who wears it; think Theda Bara in a bottle, and this is Shalimar. It is the scent of vamps.

Shalimar by Guerlain was re-launched in 1925 after having initially been created in 1921. The bottle itself is beautifully ornate; a midnight blue stopper with Guerlain Paris scrawled in gold, sitting atop a crystal urn shaped bottle on a footer, with a gold label in the centre displaying it’s name decadently.

Apparently (so I have read in sources long forgotten) the perfume contains pheromones amongst the other dark velvet infusions; whether this is true or not, it was the first perfume to ever heavily use vanilla as its base note which Jacques Guerlain considered to be a powerful aphrodisiac, making it a perfume designed to intentionally inspire love and lust. So, when I say it is the perfume of vamps, it really is - it epitomizes the dark eyed, bee stung lipped, pale skinned beauty who peers out of a smoky screen and lures her lover into the darkness of her Eastern boudoir.

It is exactly this heady exotic Eastern world that inspired the perfume. The name Shalimar means ‘Abode, or Hall of Love’ in Sanskrit, and is taken from the Gardens of Shalimar in Lahore in what is now Pakistan, built by Shah Jahan in memory of his wife, the love story of whom also inspired this perfume.

The top notes in this scintillating scent are bergamot, hesperidies and lemon, with rose, jasmine, iris, patchouli and vetiver making up the middle notes. Vanilla, opoanax, musk, civet, leather, ambergris, sandalwood and incense all combine to give the velvety rich base notes which I adore.

Sadly, modern versions of the perfume have been altered so that the deeper, darker muskier notes which were so apparent in the original have now been overpowered by higher citrus notes to adapt to changing tastes in perfumes.

Earlier perfumes of the twentieth century most certainly follow a trend of the dark, intense musky fragrance as opposed to most perfumes of today; personally, I prefer the darker scents with this musky infusion as opposed to the lighter citrus notes that modern fragrances favour. The depth of Shalimar undoubtedly creates this warm, sensuality that modern scents just cannot match.

What can I say; the lady is a vamp. Shalimar is a perfume that exhibits all the elegance, velvety purrs and feline grace of the panther, with a gentle wink that reminds the admirer of the hidden claws and teeth.

All the goings on in February

It has been a while since I wrote.

On reflection, it occurred to me that the reason is partly down to lack of ideas for content, and by this I mean the relevant content in connection with a 1920s blog. Which is of course, what this is. I have always been one to have something to say, which pleases some and is a source of great annoyance to others (although none dare say so; and if they do, they say it with a twist of jest drizzled on top so as to sweeten with subtlety and avoid any bitterness), but my problem is that it is not always strictly in relation to the 1920s. If only it were. And so I face this problem, where in my opinion if I have a 1920s blog, then it should be filled with 1920s related things, and 1920s related things only. This would of course all be very achievable if I were in the decade itself. Sadly, and very bitterly, I may add, I find myself light years away from it, and surrounded by the recent echoes of the noughties and the new decade stretched out ahead of me, still filled with plastic celebrities and cheap perfumes stamped with their names; of supermarkets in a constant attempt to take over the world and fight each other to the death by way of advertising and marketing and cost-cutting, meaning that our dear local home grown independent grocers and butchers and bakers are all dying a death. And the list of course goes on to include all manner of politics, and society, and all the ills that pain me of this age. But that is for another time.

So you see, it becomes entirely distracting at times to write constantly about an age one does no longer live in.

So it came to me this morning that perhaps I should be less strict with my blog; and allow the content to be flexible and free so that it doesn't sit unattended for weeks and months at a time. I have come to the conclusion - one which is rather silly, being so completely obvious that I feel an idiot for stating the revelation here in writing as though it were some life-changing discovery - that I can, and will as a course of my own nature, write things here that will always undoubtedly contain an element of the twenties about it. No matter what it is. Whether I write about Cheryl Cole, or Lady Gaga, or Rudolph Valentino and Constance Talmadge - it will always be with an air of twenties-ism that is as ever-present and thoroughly instilled in me as the ways of an old Etonian will still always be an old Etonian, even if they decided to run away and join a circus, or some such unrealistic (I assume, but could be wrong) set of circumstances.

(If anyone knows of an old Etonian that did this, I have to say I will now be intrigued to know about the gentleman's fate).

So with that in mind I hope, very much so, to go forward discussing all manner of sorts here, past and present (and possibly future); but as ever, I will always be humbly your

Girl Gatsby

Part I: Of Burgh Island, Singapore Slings and dancing till midnight

The rain was so heavy and cumbersome that it slapped down on the windscreen like flat open palms. The wipers couldn't keep up; other cars weren't visible, nor were hedges, or road signs. So our journey down to Burgh Island hadn't been the sun-kist voyage I had first imagined, which explained my 'arrival' attire of dainty white summer gloves, a huge wide-brimmed black straw hat, silk sleeved thin woollen top, and cream three quarter-length trousers. "We'll have to carry the trunk across the beach to the island", grimaced the man in the trilby hat next to me, which elicited a small squeal from me as I down-turned my lips and narrowed my eyes at the attire-ruining weather outside of the car. When one goes to somewhere like Burgh Island, one cannot turn up looking anything but as immaculate as the perfect, smooth white lines of Art Deco that it itself portrays, and so the thought of being beaten black and blue by the unforgiving weather scuppered my dreams of arriving looking like I had stepped right out of an Agatha Christie novel.


Down windy little lanes we turned; through puddles that would come to one's waist should one have tried to walk through them; and through quaint little seaside hamlets that consisted of just a shop, an old fashioned garage, and a handful of white houses, we drove until we came across the golf club where we had been instructed to call the hotel from. Mobile 'phones at Burgh Island receive almost no reception, thank goodness, and so it was back to using the british telephone box to my delight. My own experience of mobile 'phones is that they invade those quiet moments that I in particular treasure; what I call as 'not being in'. Where once upon a time if our landline was called and there was no answer, the caller would assume that you were out, away from home, or not in a position to answer the 'phone whether that be in the shower, the bath, eating or cooking dinner, out in the garden, or generally indisposed of, and would perhaps try you again later or, if they were sensible enough, would have previously have arranged a time to talk. Which is how I like it. I prefer an old-fashioned, pre-arranged time to talk. It means that I can dedicate my time to the caller, having ensured that there will be no interruption, or loss of signal, and most importantly on a landline no 'hot-head' which is something I detest mobile 'phones for all the more - and it also means that a conversation I am having with someone else also isn't rudely interrupted by another person 'butting in'.

I don't want a call halfway through dinner, or in the middle of a conversation with my husband about how the day has been when he has stepped in from work; but should I dare not answer my mobile 'phone when it rings, I am left angry messages by frustrated callers who demand to know why I haven't picked up. In their opinion, mobile 'phones should be stuck to our ears and answered automatically no matter what, no matter where you are or who you are with. Technology has made us all, in this modern day, people who expect you to drop everything to take their call, urgent or not. Well, in my opinion, the situation has not changed from yesteryear where sometimes it is simply not convenient to talk whether I am standing at the Grand Canyon and happen have my mobile phone in my pocket or whether I am at the local supermarket. If I don't deem it convenient, I will not answer. And for this reason, I have nearly thrown my mobile away as an act of protest to having my peace disturbed every five minutes.

But I digress.

On receiving our call, the receptionist at Burgh Island informed us of the code we would need for the electric gate when we approached the car park, and told us she would have someone come over in the landrover to pick us up. I sighed; relieved at the revived prospect of me arriving less drenched, and more like the art deco glamour I had envisaged. We subsequently arrived at the gates of a prestige looking block of apartments, where we entered the code to allow us to enter, and parked where the reserved signs were for the hotel.

My old steam ship trunk was loaded into the back of the land rover with the question that would be asked another three times during our stay - "Is that all you've got?" - my response being yes, and how these steam ship tunks could easily fit a small child, so naturally would take sufficient items of belongings for one night.

The driver made polite and entertaining conversation; at least the other couple in the car conversed with him. I managed little words here and there - quite unlike me - but truth be told I was all agog with excitement almost to the point of feeling quite ill, so, lips pursed, eyes wide, I hmm-ed and laughed in appropriate places during the conversation.

The gates greeted us like a wide, white smile; teeth all bared in a broad welcome that made me realise right away I wouldn't ever want to leave. If I had thought so before coming here, it was permanently confirmed by the art deco gates swinging open, and there Burgh Island sat ahead of us, a white, gleaming pearl set against the still grey, steely sky.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/girlgatsby

By chance, this evening on my return from visiting a friend, I came across a copy of the Sunday Pictorial dated May 4th, 1924.

I was sorting through some of my many hundreds of spare leaves of paper with ideas of novels scribbled in frantic kohl pencil and eye-liner (most likely whilst travelling on a train and influenced by a potential character sitting opposite me); snippets of song lyrics barely legible - scrawled in spidery biro at an angle (the trademark of a midnight, mid-sleep flash of inspiration) and the unfinished lines of poems which awaited their completion (the curse of a spell of writers block).

I was sifting through these papers when I noticed the coffee coloured pages of an old newspaper. And what a delightful read it was. Before I knew it, I was engrossed. 2009 evaporated; its mist stealthily descending out of the open window into the night air, and instead, 1924 filled the room with the smell of my old gramophone rising from its opened lid mixed in with a little dash of Shalamar (the famous perfume being launched a year later in 1925; albeit a little early for the publication I was reading. But we shall ignore that here for the sake of nostalgia).

I was whisked happily, fondly, and oh-so-abundantly back into my own day and age. And here, for your delight and pleasure, are some of my favourites:

"Open Door to the Stage; The Actors' Association wants to make acting a closed profession. The abuses which it is desired to remove are, in no doubt, real abuses, but this is not the way of removing them. The stage cannot be put on a level with law and medicine. In those callings the unqualified charlatan could do infinite mischief before he was found out. An incompetent actor can do no particular harm, and we can protect ourselves from him by stopping away from his performances."

"Nuts And Wine: Gossip For The After-Dinner Hour."

"The suggestion that titles should be taxed has not been acted upon. From that quarter there will be no Sir-plus."

"A woman in America has shot her Landlady in order to get publicity for a book she has written. This is usually a certain way of getting oneself into the noose."

"I hear that a sixty year old brick layer has just gone in for writing poetry. Isn't he rather old to be starting work?"

And finally, an excerpt from Mary Pickford's article "Why I admire the British girl" which we can all take something from. I particularly took Ms Pickfords words to heart, and I rather liked the context in which she had written them. It is then , with the fervent optimism of which they inspired in your own girlgatsby this warm, summers eve, I present to you the words of Mary Pickford:

"Success, I think, is made up of three things - opportunity, ability, and what I might call 'stick-to-it-iveness', because it expresses more than the stately word perseverance.

Opportunity is rather different.

You can will stick-to-it-iveness. You can develop ability. But you must wait for opportunity. Only don't wait too long. It is like one of your London tube trains. It rushes into the station, and in a few seconds, it is gone. Only, unlike your tube trains, there is not a vital opportunity arriving to time-table every few minutes!

Remember that!

You wait for opportunity, but you must also seize it the instant it appears."

Thank you, Mary. One of those kick-up-the jacksie and 'remember to keep working hard at your goals' speeches.

So. On that note - from me to you - go, each and every one of us, and may we all throw our dreams to the skies and hope they find their wings to fly; and in the course of our lives keep eyes peeled and wide open for that opportunity, whatever it may be and whatever form it may come in; so that we might board that tube train to take us to our next destination in life.

Excerpt from The White Moth

When I was very little, so little I now only have soft, faded, misted memories of that time, like looking at them through a very old warped glass bottle – when I was little, I would sit on the floor in the silence that surrounded me whilst my mother read a newspaper, and tell her “I want to go home”. “You are home”, she would say. “Yes,” I replied, “but, I want to go home”.

Because a home is not just a house; it is not always material, it is not always bricks and mortar. Home is sometimes simply the place where you belong. It is the place your soul yearns for. It is the feeling of warm sunshine on your back whilst you sit on soft, freshly mown lawns with birds tweeting in the background and a soft breeze gently stroking your arm and forehead; soft, fluffy, feather light clouds above you drifting like dandelion seeds across the endless blue.

Home; it could be within a group of people, it could be on the other side of the planet in a place you have never lived before and so far removed from the place you were born – and yet you may find yourself feeling more at home than you ever did in your own home town. Because sometimes home is something only for the peace of the soul; not where your sofa and bed are, or where your mail gets delivered.

And it was that home I searched for, for years before, and for years afterwards. I moved to so many different towns, lived with so many different people, and every time I would never find myself satisfied, and so before long I would be packing my bags again. And I still search; although now, I know I will never go back, I will never find it. The home I seek is behind me; it is the town barely in view still from the window of the departed train, fading further from view with each turn of the wheel, each breath, each year. There is no way back, only the sentence of constant travel further away from it.

And then there is him. The times I have cried out loud for him and he does not come; and mysteriously, those times when I do not, my sleep is flooded with him. Do I know who he is? Or is he just a face to whom I attach the character of a person tailor-made to fit the home-sick spirit which stirs, like an unborn child, in my belly. We sit and we talk sometimes throughout those nights where he chooses to visit. Sometimes we don't talk; sometimes there is no need. And so then, on afternoons where I have little cause for anything else, sometimes I sit and remember little things. Like the way his lips would feel when he kissed my neck; the softness of them against my skin, and then, the feeling of his gentle breath causing that delicious sensation to start as a tingle that trickled down and across my shoulder blades like tiny electric currents, growing into an overwhelming shivering stroke down my spine and culminating in a deep intense aching for him that caused warmth and want in places that only a lover knows.

One day, when my hair is faded and my skin has turned to crumpled paper, and the reflection in the mirror day by day grows all the more unlike the faded photographs of me in some dusty album; there will come a time when I will be able to go home, and after the darkness, I will open my eyes again, and I will be standing on a bright platform, the sun warm on my back. And when the last train departs the station on the long journey back; when I start to catch sight of it, excitedly, in the distance, every turn of the wheel taking me back to where I belong; the breath will rise in me, my heart will swell.

And there on the empty platform at the end of the line, I will see the figure of a man. I will finally feel strong arms around me, and I will smell the old familiar warmth of his skin as I nuzzle into his neck, and I will taste the sweet warm tears that will roll down my cheeks and over my lips. At last, it will be final. I will not have to wake up in an empty room alone afterwards willing myself back to sleep in order to live some more of that precious pretence.

And the mourners will come, but there should be no tears. Let them fly banners and sing on that day; that wonderful day when finally, she has returned to the place she belonged.

Welcome home.

The Man I Can Charleston With...

There is a man - I'll tell you about him:

He's fairly tall, has great panache,
Slicked black hair, pencil moustache,
Neat and dapper, handsome, smart,
A gentleman after my own heart!

A side parting, yes - and moving on,
A smile that outshines the sun.
Brown eyes has he, with visions deep
And soft lips that are mine to keep.

My man wear boaters, blazers, ties
Wears Oxford Bags (he's so fashion-wise)
The occasional monacle for his weak left eye
And a pocket watch to keep track of time

And do you know - it's such a shame!
I have to play this lonely game,
But there's nobody I can blame
For my lack of gents to claim
To fit the description of my beau -I guess that I'll just never know
The man I can Charleston with.