Wednesday, 16 September 2009
1920s Black Beaded Violets Silk Chiffon Flapper Chemise Over Dress XXL by hautecountryvintage on Ets
1920s Black Beaded Violets Silk Chiffon Flapper Chemise Over Dress XXL by hautecountryvintage on Ets
1920's Antique Vintage Metallic-Daisies Elegant Gold-Lame Lace Couture Rhinestone French Wedding Fla
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.
©1995
©1995
Monday, 14 September 2009
Rolf Armstrong, 20s glass hoops, and other ebay losses
It really can be quite hideous when one finds something to die for on eBay and gets pipped at the post or finds it just at the wrong time when funds are low before the paycheck has arrived, and subsequently one loses out on things so deliciously magnificent it causes one to despair in ways that are, unforgivably so, the depths of depression caused by materialistic want, and nothing more. Of course, I can survive without these - but, I ask you, do I HAVE to? Really? But they would make life so much better!
Everything you see here are original 1920s items. Unfortunately for me the seller of the Rolfe Armstrong pictures disabled the photo's after the auction, so I have only managed to salvage these small thumbnails. They were just too too divine, and I am a sadder lady today for not having won them!
But ho hum. I did manage to find a 1930s deco wardrobe at the weekend for pennies, so all is not completely lost!
Tuesday, 8 September 2009
Of Burgh Island, Part II
So; we get to the Burgh Island Hotel, and the Burgh Island Hotel is divine.
We were led, as I remember it, in a sort of strange calm gentle busy flurry, like late leaves being blown in by a sudden unexpected gust of wind through an open door in the fall, with the soft frantic bustle that just as quickly is at peace once set down by the wind. And so there we stood. If eyes could talk they would have been all a-stuttering in their broken gaze, distracted again and again the second they tried to focus on just one thing; another source of distraction clicking its invisible fingers out from the corner of our eyes to demand our
"Good afternoon" beamed the receptionist, and at last my eyes settled on the reception area. I nodded and smiled. "Would you like tea brought to you in the morning?" she asked. Smiling, and nodding, and saying 'yes please' before taking the large clear plastic keyfob with the name Noel Coward etched in it in frosted writing; two deco seagull styled "m's" hovering in one corner. There was movement; I turned to see a smartly dressed porter standing behind me motioning to my steamer trunk. "This all you have?" he asked. I was too much in awe of the building to repeat the small child reference. I nodded. And smiled. "Thought it was part of the hotel" the Porter exclaimed, and with that, he directed into the elevator with the trunk, whilst he turned to ascend the stairs.
In the silence and privacy of the elevator, I softly squealed in my instant and intense adoration for the place; the elevator stopped with a soft bump and the door was pulled open by the Porter. He gestured for me to go before him through a white door which led us into a softly lit hallway, at the end of which was a huge Art Deco unit with a marble clock on the top. I bit my bottom lip in furious excitement at the sight of it; and finally, a left turn brought us walking towards a full length mirror. The mint green door adjacent to it featured the framed sepia toned portrait of Noel Coward. So, here we were.
In a moment where I thought I would scream out loud, I managed to stifle any such extremity of emotional delirium and instead funnelled it into a small squeak as the door opened and the sight ahead of me was revealed for the first time. I walked through into the small hallway, past the granite bathroom, and into the lounge and dining area of the suite. Alone. At last.
The sea was a soft, muffled roar beyond the panoramic windows. A circular geometric rug sat amongst the purple art deco leather suite; blonde walnut side units – one of which a bottle of Bollinger sat awaiting it’s mass consumption - and a dining table with chairs featured glorious acorn shaped shades. I ran my fingers down the curtains; they were thick and heavy, the embroidery on them like Braille under my fingertips.
The bedroom boasted more blonde walnut in the shape of a 30s dressing table whereupon I instantly decided my Shalimar would sit. The rest of the room consisted of a complete art deco suit which would fulfil any deco lovers dream; but especially a girl’s; perfume, shoes, bags and make up storage were abundant, and all in such style!
So the bubbly was opened, and after all this excitement we decided to be decadent and order a Devon cream tea. It arrived with bells on; the scones were still warm from the oven. Champagne, tea, and a clotted cream tea all in sumptuous art deco surroundings once inhabited by Noel Coward are all very much things that you cannot, in my opinion, very much top.
And so it came to pass that before long we would start the delicious process of getting dressed for dinner, which is something that in this day and age hardly bears any comparison to it used to be (and should be) done.
The tuxedo was donned, and the dress - my 1920s lace dress, bought especially for the occasion, was set to make its debut at Burgh Island. After the last checks in the mirror had taken place, we departed the suite to join the other guests for cocktails and canapés in the Peacock Bar; the sun had appeared, the rain had stopped, and as we made out way down the stairs, the sunlight burst through the little panes of glass that make up the trademark long window of the tower of Burgh Island. Piano music trickled up to us, loudening with every step down we took, and into the Peacock bar we strolled; the ghosts of Josephine Baker, Noel Coward, Clara Bow and Agatha Christie all whispers of our previous neighboring guests, and who had once sat underneath that glorious domed rainbow of glass above us.
To be continued…
We were led, as I remember it, in a sort of strange calm gentle busy flurry, like late leaves being blown in by a sudden unexpected gust of wind through an open door in the fall, with the soft frantic bustle that just as quickly is at peace once set down by the wind. And so there we stood. If eyes could talk they would have been all a-stuttering in their broken gaze, distracted again and again the second they tried to focus on just one thing; another source of distraction clicking its invisible fingers out from the corner of our eyes to demand our
"Good afternoon" beamed the receptionist, and at last my eyes settled on the reception area. I nodded and smiled. "Would you like tea brought to you in the morning?" she asked. Smiling, and nodding, and saying 'yes please' before taking the large clear plastic keyfob with the name Noel Coward etched in it in frosted writing; two deco seagull styled "m's" hovering in one corner. There was movement; I turned to see a smartly dressed porter standing behind me motioning to my steamer trunk. "This all you have?" he asked. I was too much in awe of the building to repeat the small child reference. I nodded. And smiled. "Thought it was part of the hotel" the Porter exclaimed, and with that, he directed into the elevator with the trunk, whilst he turned to ascend the stairs.
In the silence and privacy of the elevator, I softly squealed in my instant and intense adoration for the place; the elevator stopped with a soft bump and the door was pulled open by the Porter. He gestured for me to go before him through a white door which led us into a softly lit hallway, at the end of which was a huge Art Deco unit with a marble clock on the top. I bit my bottom lip in furious excitement at the sight of it; and finally, a left turn brought us walking towards a full length mirror. The mint green door adjacent to it featured the framed sepia toned portrait of Noel Coward. So, here we were.
In a moment where I thought I would scream out loud, I managed to stifle any such extremity of emotional delirium and instead funnelled it into a small squeak as the door opened and the sight ahead of me was revealed for the first time. I walked through into the small hallway, past the granite bathroom, and into the lounge and dining area of the suite. Alone. At last.
The sea was a soft, muffled roar beyond the panoramic windows. A circular geometric rug sat amongst the purple art deco leather suite; blonde walnut side units – one of which a bottle of Bollinger sat awaiting it’s mass consumption - and a dining table with chairs featured glorious acorn shaped shades. I ran my fingers down the curtains; they were thick and heavy, the embroidery on them like Braille under my fingertips.
The bedroom boasted more blonde walnut in the shape of a 30s dressing table whereupon I instantly decided my Shalimar would sit. The rest of the room consisted of a complete art deco suit which would fulfil any deco lovers dream; but especially a girl’s; perfume, shoes, bags and make up storage were abundant, and all in such style!
So the bubbly was opened, and after all this excitement we decided to be decadent and order a Devon cream tea. It arrived with bells on; the scones were still warm from the oven. Champagne, tea, and a clotted cream tea all in sumptuous art deco surroundings once inhabited by Noel Coward are all very much things that you cannot, in my opinion, very much top.
And so it came to pass that before long we would start the delicious process of getting dressed for dinner, which is something that in this day and age hardly bears any comparison to it used to be (and should be) done.
The tuxedo was donned, and the dress - my 1920s lace dress, bought especially for the occasion, was set to make its debut at Burgh Island. After the last checks in the mirror had taken place, we departed the suite to join the other guests for cocktails and canapés in the Peacock Bar; the sun had appeared, the rain had stopped, and as we made out way down the stairs, the sunlight burst through the little panes of glass that make up the trademark long window of the tower of Burgh Island. Piano music trickled up to us, loudening with every step down we took, and into the Peacock bar we strolled; the ghosts of Josephine Baker, Noel Coward, Clara Bow and Agatha Christie all whispers of our previous neighboring guests, and who had once sat underneath that glorious domed rainbow of glass above us.
To be continued…
Wednesday, 19 August 2009
The Ghost of Him
If I had had a choice in the matter, I would never have fallen in love with a dead man. The truth is, I did not seek it, nor did I simply see an opportunity and knowingly dive right in. I was fourteen years old and before I could really decipher what love was, he had already flung it over me, like a huge net, which he has proceeded to tug me around in at his feet every day since for the last sixteen years. When I told a friend of mine of the tears shed over this unhappy get glorious, hopeless yet inspiring love affair, and all the things he’d said to me, and all the things he’d done, she said “Tell him to go away.” I told her I would rather cry like a baby every night and be in a permanent state of depression over him, now buried in a cemetery thousands of miles from me, rather than him stopping coming to see me.
I suppose it all sounds very strange. It is very strange. I have always known that. I have always known that most people, when they see his picture, do not break down and cry, or turn away when they see his old house because I don’t want them to stare at the hot salty tears that roll delicately down till I taste them on my lips; nor when they sleep do they hear the things he comes and tells me, or the things he does to me. And I can’t tell them, because they wouldn’t believe me. And even if they did, I cannot bring myself to share such intimate things. I don’t think he wants me to tell of it in any case. So I don’t.
I suppose I could really be sectioned if one were to look deep enough into it. Maybe I have gotten so used to him and the situation I find myself in with him now that I no longer realise how peculiar it is. Luckily I have managed to disguise crying in public over him by pretending it’s from laughter, or if outdoors, a sharp breeze; and even more luckily, it’s often in a dark enough room in the evening whereby no-one would be able to tell anyway. But there has been the odd occasion where not hell or high water could stop the tears; and I cannot explain myself when asked, and so I wonder if I will ever really be ble to be in the same room as someone who by chance mentions his name for fear of furrowed eyebrows that turn my eyes startled and afraid,with my hands to my lips to hide their downturning and trembling, and again those waters that come with the sound of his name. And I do not cry easily. I am made of harder stuff. But not when it comes to him.
I suppose what I am trying to say is that I miss him. I miss him every single day; and today is one of those days when the sun is beating down, and for some reason when the sun is so hot on a day like this, I miss him even more. Something, lost somewhere long ago in the mists of time, comes alive again in the sunshine, and I feel him with me, like smelling a familiar smell, or feeling that someone is following you, though you know you are alone.
But there is no solution, no cure, no remedy. The ghost of him walks; and so it will be, for I’d rather have that little echo of him than nothing left at all.
I suppose it all sounds very strange. It is very strange. I have always known that. I have always known that most people, when they see his picture, do not break down and cry, or turn away when they see his old house because I don’t want them to stare at the hot salty tears that roll delicately down till I taste them on my lips; nor when they sleep do they hear the things he comes and tells me, or the things he does to me. And I can’t tell them, because they wouldn’t believe me. And even if they did, I cannot bring myself to share such intimate things. I don’t think he wants me to tell of it in any case. So I don’t.
I suppose I could really be sectioned if one were to look deep enough into it. Maybe I have gotten so used to him and the situation I find myself in with him now that I no longer realise how peculiar it is. Luckily I have managed to disguise crying in public over him by pretending it’s from laughter, or if outdoors, a sharp breeze; and even more luckily, it’s often in a dark enough room in the evening whereby no-one would be able to tell anyway. But there has been the odd occasion where not hell or high water could stop the tears; and I cannot explain myself when asked, and so I wonder if I will ever really be ble to be in the same room as someone who by chance mentions his name for fear of furrowed eyebrows that turn my eyes startled and afraid,with my hands to my lips to hide their downturning and trembling, and again those waters that come with the sound of his name. And I do not cry easily. I am made of harder stuff. But not when it comes to him.
I suppose what I am trying to say is that I miss him. I miss him every single day; and today is one of those days when the sun is beating down, and for some reason when the sun is so hot on a day like this, I miss him even more. Something, lost somewhere long ago in the mists of time, comes alive again in the sunshine, and I feel him with me, like smelling a familiar smell, or feeling that someone is following you, though you know you are alone.
But there is no solution, no cure, no remedy. The ghost of him walks; and so it will be, for I’d rather have that little echo of him than nothing left at all.
Wednesday, 12 August 2009
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.
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.
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