Tools:

-ReShade 4.5.4

-CE Table By Phokz + Extra Tweaks by Elucidater

-4K DSR

 

Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.

 

Today however we are at Glynes, the grand Georgian family seat of the Chetwynds in Wiltshire, and the home of Lettice’s parents, the presiding Viscount and Countess of Wrexham and the heir, their eldest son Leslie and his wife Arabella. Lettice is visiting her family home to broach a most delicate subject about her forthcoming wedding, a subject which has caused a scene between Lettice and her mother.

 

For nearly a year Lettice had been patiently awaiting the return of her then beau, Selwyn Spencely, son of the Duke of Walmsford, after being sent to Durban by his mother, Lady Zinnia in an effort to destroy their relationship which she wanted to end so that she could marry Selwyn off to his cousin, Pamela Fox-Chavers. Having been made aware by Lady Zinnia in October that during the course of the year, whilst Lettice had been biding her time, waiting for Selwyn’s eventual return, he had become engaged to the daughter of a Kenyan diamond mine owner whilst in Durban. Fleeing Lady Zinnia’s Park Lane mansion, Lettice returned to Cavendish Mews and milled over her options over a week as she reeled from the news. Then, after that week, she knew exactly what to do to resolve the issues raised by Lady Zinnia’s unwelcome news about her son. Taking extra care in her dress, she took herself off to the neighbouring upper-class London suburb of Belgravia and paid a call upon Sir John Nettleford-Hughes.

 

Old enough to be her father, wealthy Sir John is still a bachelor, and according to London society gossip intends to remain so, so that he might continue to enjoy his dalliances with a string of pretty chorus girls of Lettice’s age and younger. As an eligible man in a aftermath of the Great War when such men are a rare commodity, with a vast family estate in Bedfordshire, houses in Mayfair, Belgravia and Pimlico and Fontengil Park in Wiltshire, quite close to the Glynes estate belonging to her parents, Lettice’s mother, Lady Sadie, invited him as a potential suitor to her 1922 Hunt Ball, which she used as a marriage market for Lettice. Selwyn rescued Lettice from the horror of having to entertain him, and Sir John left the ball early in a disgruntled mood with a much younger partygoer. Lettice recently reacquainted herself with Sir John at an amusing Friday to Monday long weekend party held by Sir John and Lady Gladys Caxton at their Scottish country estate, Gossington, a baronial Art and Crafts castle near the hamlet of Kershopefoot in Cumberland. To her surprise, Lettice found Sir John’s company rather enjoyable. She then ran into him again at the Portland Gallery’s autumn show where she found him yet again to be a pleasant and attentive companion for much of the evening.

 

Sir John also made a proposition to her that night: he offered her his hand in marriage should she ever need it. More like a business arrangement than a marriage proposal, Sir John offered Lettice the opportunity to enjoy the benefits of his large fortune, be chatelain of all his estates and continue to have her interior design business, under the conditions that she agree to provide him with an heir, and that he be allowed to discreetly carry on his affairs in spite of their marriage vows. He even suggested that Lettice might be afforded the opportunity to have her own extra marital liaisons if she were discreet about them. Turning up unannounced on his doorstep, she agreed to his proposal after explaining that the understanding between she and Selwyn was concluded. However, in an effort to be discreet, at Lettice’s insistence, they did not make their engagement public until the new year: after the dust about Selwyn’s break of his and Lettice’s engagement settled. Sir John motored across from Fontengil Park in the days following New Year and he and Lettice announced their engagement in the palatial Glynes drawing room before the Viscount and Lady Sadie the Countess, Leslie, Arabella and the Viscount’s sister Eglantyne (known by all the Chetwynd children affectionally as Aunt Egg). The announcement received somewhat awkwardly by the Viscount initially, until Lettice assured him that her choice to marry Sir John has nothing to do with undue influence, mistaken motivations, but perhaps the person most put out by the news is Aunt Egg who is not a great believer in the institution of marriage, and feels Lettice was perfectly fine as a modern unmarried woman. Lady Sadie, who Lettice thought would be thrilled by the announcement of her engagement, received the news with a somewhat muted response and she discreetly slipped away after drinking a toast to the newly engaged couple with a glass of fine champagne from the Glynes wine cellar.

 

Today we find ourselves in the Glynes library. A refuge for the Viscount from his wife, the library is a quiet space that smells of dust, old books and woodsmoke. The walls are lined with floor to ceiling shelves, all full of books: thousands of volumes on so many subjects. Sunlight pours through the tall windows facing out to the front of the house, burnishing the polished parquetry floors. Dust motes, dance blithely through beams of spring sunlight. And there, sitting at his Chippendale desk, sits Viscount Wrexham, with Leslie standing at his right shoulder as he shares estate correspondence with his father.

 

“And what’s this?” the Viscount asks as Leslie wafts a chit* written by hand on a scrappy piece of paper in front of him.

 

“It’s from Leonard Musslewhite, Pappa.” Leslie replies. “It’s for the temporary repairs he did to Eyebright Farm’s barn after that big storm that brought down the old cedar tree.”

 

“Ahh yes!” the Viscount replies, remembering the early spring storm, more wind than rain, that blew tils and chimneypots from roofs and felled trees across the county. “Well, pay him out of the petty cash, Leslie my boy, and then look in the estate diary as to when we can pay a visit to Eyebright Farm. Those are slate tiles on his barn roof, and temporary or no, Lenoard Musselwhite’s no carpenter, so I don’t imagine his patch job will be much chop**. Do you?”

 

“No Pappa.” Leslie agrees with a chuckle. “And that barn is in good form for its age. I’d hate for there to be any damage because of a leaking roof when it next rains. We can see if any of the slate tiles that blew off during the storm are salvageable.”

 

“Good thinking, my boy!” the Viscount agrees with a curt nod. “Anything else before I settle down to my latest stamps?” He lovingly caresses a strip of six brown unfranked Penny Black*** stamps poking out of an envelope that arrived from London in the morning post.

 

“Well,” Leslie says a little reluctantly. “There is also this.” He holds out a letter with distaste written on a mauve coloured sheet decorated with violets around the edge, covered in spidery copperplate. As he does, a waft of flowery perfume drifts through the air between them.

 

“Pooh!” the Viscount decries, screwing up his nose at the scent. “What the devil is that, Leslie?” He recoils from it as though it were poisoned. “That looks… and smells like something for your mother, not me!”

 

“I wish I could say it was, but no, it’s addressed to the office of the estate and is for you, I’m afraid, Pappa. It’s a rather simpering letter from Geraldine Evans.” Leslie replies, referring to the elder of the two genteel gossipy spinster sisters who live in Holland House, a Seventeenth Century manor house, in Glynes village. “It’s about that plot of land next to their house that belongs to Lord Bruton.”

 

“What the blazes is that whittering Geraldine Evans writing to me about a matter involving Bruton for?”

 

“It seems that the rumour mills of the village are running hot again about Lord Bruton being beset with financial difficulties, and word on the high street seems to be he is wanting to sell the land. Miss Evans wonders whether, being his friend, you might find out if there is any truth to the rumours, and if so, could you put in a good word for her, as she and her sister would like first dibs**** to acquire it. She’d prefer it to stay open meadow.”

 

“She’d be better writing to Gwenyth than me,” the Viscount mutters, referencing Lord Bruton’s wife Lady Gwenyth, flapping irritably at the letter, indicating for Leslie to take it out of his sights. “If she wants to curry favour with Bruton.”

 

“She probably feels that with you two being friends, Lord Bruton is more likely to confide in you than Aunt Gwen,” Leslie responds, calling Lady Bruton by her honourary title of aunt. Looking imploringly at his father, he goes on, “Especially when it comes to financial woes, which you know he won’t share with her.”

 

The Viscount looks doggedly at his son. He sighs resignedly and then holds his hand out to Leslie and snatches the letter. “Alright. I’ll write back to her, even if it is just to shut her whittering up for now.” He slips the offending letter into one of the small drawers beneath the brown and gilt leather tooled surface of his desk. “I’ve heard nothing about it.”

 

“As I said, it’s probably just rumours, Pappa.” Leslie says with a relieved sigh. “You know how the village is when it comes to gossip.”

 

“Yes, and Geraldine and Henrietta Evans are the worst perpetrators of Glynes village gossip!” the Viscount opines gruffly. “Blast the pair of them!”

 

Leslie nods in agreement, not being particularly enamoured of either lady.

 

Just then, one of the warm mahogany doors of the library opens inward and Lettice slips in and slinks across the room without greeting either her father or her eldest brother.

 

“I hope, Lettice,” the Viscount mutters warningly, glancing up addressing his sulky youngest child as she moves towards them with hunched shoulders. “That you haven’t come in here to make a scene. This is one of the few places in the house I can escape your mother’s histrionics, so I shan’t tolerate yours. Your brother and I are busy with estate affairs. Too busy for a scene like the one I witnessed before.”

 

Earlier in the day, alerted to it by the sound of raised voices echoing down the corridor, the Viscount had walked into the Glynes flower room and come across Lettice and her mother arguing bitterly, before Lettice slipped away, her face awash with tears. Lettice has been visiting Glynes especially to see her mother to broach a subject of some delicacy about her forthcoming marriage to Sir John. Several weeks ago, when Lettice and Sir John were taking tea with his younger sister, Clemance Pontefract, who as a widow, has recently returned to London and set up residence in Holland Park, Lettice suggested that Clemance might help her choose her trousseau*****. Thinking that Lady Sadie’s ideas will doubtless be somewhat old fashioned and conservative when it comes to commissioning evening dresses and her wedding frock, Lettice wants to engage Clemance’s smart eye and eager willingness to please Lettice as her future siter-in-law to help her pick the trousseau she really wants. Knowing that the subject would be difficult to discuss with her mother, with whom she has a somewhat fraught relationship, she decided to approach her face-to-face. Unsurprisingly, Lady Sadie did not take kindly to the suggestion, any more than she did the idea that Lord Bruton’s son, Gerald, Lettice’s oldest childhood chum and best friend, who has started designing gowns from a shop in Grosvenor Street, making Lettice’s wedding frock. In the end, Lady Sadie wouldn’t countenance the idea of Gerald making Lettice’s gown, since she felt it would be embarrassing for her youngest daughter to appear in a frock made by the son of her family friend and neighbours, Lord and Lady Bruton, as well as have Gerald as a guest at the wedding. It was this definite final pronouncement that drove Lettice away in tears.

 

“I can see by your face, my girl, that you are still very angry with your mother.” the Viscount observes as he looks into his daughter’s red and pouting face, her cheeks still marred by her earlier tears, and her bright blue eyes glistening with a barrage of them that are yet to be shed.

 

“What’s Mater done, Tice?” Leslie asks in concern.

 

Lettice slumps into the Chippendale chair on the opposite side of the desk to her father and elder brother. She utters a shuddering sigh. “She’s just being her usual, beastly self, is all, Leslie!”

 

The Viscount looks up at his son’s uncomprehending face. “Your Mother is refusing to let Gerald Bruton make Lettice’s wedding dress.”

 

“Oh.” Leslie opines with raised eyebrows.

 

“She wants us to go to ghastly Madame Handley-Seymour’s****** in Bond Street instead!” Lettice bursts. “But I won’t go! I just won’t!” She thumps her palm on the edge of her father’s desk in frustration, making the owl under glass and double silver picture frames shake, and the Viscount’s ink bottles on their silver tray rattle noisily.

 

“Tice!” Leslie is shocked by Lettice’s sudden petulant outburst

 

However, the Viscount takes it all in his stride as he says “Temper! Temper, Lettice my girl. I told you already, I’ll have no histrionics.”

 

“Sorry Pappa.” Lettice mutters in a low and unhappy tone. She sniffs as she takes a crumpled lace edged handkerchief from a small pocket in her spring frock and dabs at her nose and wipes her eyes and cheeks with it. “It’s just so miserably unfair. Mamma is being a beast for not letting Gerald make my wedding frock when I especially want him to. He’s made me so many frocks since he opened his shop in London. Who would know what suits me better? Certainly not Madame Handley-Seymour!”

 

“Why has Mater taken so against Gerald making Tice’s wedding frock,” Leslie asks. “Especially if she really wants it. It is Tice’s wedding after all. Why shouldn’t she get married in a frock of her own choosing?”

 

Lettice smiles up gratefully at her brother from her seat.

 

“Because, Leslie my boy, your Mother feels that it would be an embarrassment to the family,” the Viscount elucidates with remarkable calm.

 

“How so, Pappa?”

 

“Well, Gerald will be an honoured guest at the wedding too, and she feels it would just be too ridiculous for all the great and good of the county attending the wedding to know that he also made Lettice’s dress. She also thinks it would be an embarrassment for Lord Bruton, as we all know he doesn’t exactly approve of his son’s… ahem!” the Viscount coughs and clears his throat awkwardly, blushing a little as he does. “His choices in life.”

 

“Well, Roland isn’t exactly a pillar of society.” Leslie remarks, referring to Lord Bruton’s son and heir and Gerald’s older bullying brother. “Carousing and womanising with girls of an unsuitable class aren’t the most moral of behaviours. In fact, I’d say of the two of them, Gerald is the one he should be less concerned about. Besides, Gerald did a beautiful job making Bella’s wedding dress, and he was invited to our wedding, as were all the Brutons, and there was no kerfuffle. Well, none that I know of, anyway.”

 

“Yes, I know.” the Viscount hisses. “But let’s be honest, Leslie: a man making ladies garments is a bit of a rum business*******, don’t you think?” He turns back to his daughter and adds a little more softly with a gentle smile, “Your mother has a point, Lettice my dear.”

 

“You’re taking her side, Pappa!” Lettice gasps, sitting up more straightly in her seat, her jaw squaring with indignation. “I think that’s jolly unfair!”

 

“No, I’m not taking anyone’s side, Lettice.” the Viscount holds up his hands in defence. “In fact, I am trying to keep as far out of this business as I can. Frocks and wedding plans are your mother’s domain, not mine, so I defer to her decisions on this matter.”

 

“So, you agree with Mamma about not letting Clemance Pontefract help with my trousseau too, Pappa?” Lettice asks in disbelief.

 

“Who’s Clemance Pontefract?” Leslie queries.

 

“John’s younger widowed sister who lives in Holland Park.” Lettice explains.

 

“What has she got to do with your trousseau, Tice?” Leslie persists.

 

“Clemance has only recently returned to London after her husband died. She’s ever so smart and select and knows so much about fashion. She spent many years before the war in Paris, and returned there at the end of hostilities. John and she are very close, and he knows she feels lonely and at a bit of a loose end here in London, so we thought that we’d try and involve her more in the wedding by letting her help me pick my trousseau, especially since Mamma hates coming up to London.”

 

“Well, I can understand if Mater feels put out by you involving a relative stranger, Tice.” Leslie interrupts Lettice’s explanation.

 

“She’s not a stranger, Leslie!” Lettice retorts.

 

“To you maybe, but to Mater she is. To me too.”

 

“To all of us.” the Viscount adds.

 

“She’s John’s younger sister.” Lettice persists.

 

“That may be, but have we met her?” Leslie counters. “No! Sorry Tice, but Mater is in the right this time.”

 

“Of course you’d take her side too, Leslie,” Lettice spits in frustration. “Being her favourite.”

 

“Now it’s you who isn’t being fair, my girl. Your Mother has a right to feel bitter about being usurped, Lettice.” the Viscount tries to reason with his youngest daughter. “It has always been the preserve of mothers, going back generations, to help their daughters choose their wedding trousseau. Just think about it from her perspective. You come sauntering in here and tell her that she’s been replaced by a woman she has never heard of, never mind met. I’d feel like I was being discarded like something unwanted if I were her too.”

 

“Pappa has a point, Tice.”

 

“I’m not replacing Mamma!” Lettice laughs with incredulity. “As I said to Mamma before, it’s not like I’m suggesting that I go wedding frock shopping with Margot.” Lettice implores. “Clemance is more around Mamma’s age than mine, and I wasn’t suggesting that Clemance take over, either, just simply be of help. After all, she lives in London.”

 

“Yes, and we have a townhouse in Fitzroy Square********.” the Viscount counters.

 

“Yes, which you only open up when you and Mamma have to go up to London, which the pair of you only ever do now when you have to go to one of the King’s levées********* or other courtly duties. Clemance lives in Holland Park. We could go shopping if Mamma doesn’t feel like coming up to London.”

 

“Ahh, but you see, Lettice my girl, she does feel like going up to London.” The Viscount pauses and looks earnestly into his daughter’s face. “For you.”

 

“In fact,” Leslie adds. “She’s been rather excited about helping you pick clothes. She’s been talking to me about it like a twittering bird over the last few weeks.”

 

“Yes, I know,” Lettice adds rather flatly. “She’s been making plans in my absence, and has written a list of whom she deems the ‘most suitable’ court dressmakers that we can visit, without even asking me what my preference might be.”

 

“Touché, Lettice my dear.” the Viscount adds to the conversation. “You’ve been making your own plans for goodness knows how long about this trousseau business without your mother.”

 

Lettice’s mouth flaps open and closed, but nothing comes out as she realises that her father is correct, and she suddenly recognises the miscalculations she has made with her plans, even though they have been done with good intentions.

 

The trio fall silent for a moment, the ticking of the clock on the mantlepiece and the twitter of blackbirds in the shrubbery outside the library windows the only things to break it.

 

“There’s an extra reason why John particularly wanted Clemance to be involved in the acquiring of my trousseau, Pappa.” Lettice finally says, breaking the thick hush of the room. “One I didn’t disclose to Mamma.”

 

“This should be good.” the Viscount mutters with resignation, sitting back in his seat and folding his arms akimbo across his golden yellow shepherd’s check********** vest.

 

“What is it, Tice?” Leslie asks, leaning forward with interest.

 

Lettice’s eyes dart between her brother and her father. “I’ll tell you, but only if you both promise never to bring this up in Clemance’s presence.”

 

“I promise.” Leslie readily agrees.

 

“I promise conditionally.” the Viscount grumbles. “If it really is something that should not be spoken about in front of this Clemance sister of Sir John’s. There are far too many inconsequential secrets in this world, and you know I don’t like secrets as a general rule, my girl.”

 

“Oh it is very consequential, Pappa, and if either of you tell Mamma, she must be sworn to secrecy too.” Lettice insists.

 

“Well,” the Viscount adds. “I cannot say in all honesty that your Mother is the soul of discretion, however she knows when to keep a confidence, Lettice. Go on.”

 

A few more tense moments go by as Lettice considers what her father has just said.

 

“John wants Clemance to be involved in my wedding plans because,” Her voice catches for a second. “Because she and her husband did have a daughter, who like me was born in 1900.” Lettice’s eye shimmer with tears and her lip trembles slightly. “But she… she died of diphtheria when she was twelve.”

 

A tenseness suddenly fills the atmosphere around the trio as Leslie and the Viscount process what Lettice is telling them.

 

“So, you see. That’s why you can’t say anything in front of Clemance, unless she divulges it to you, which I doubt she will do. She hasn’t disclosed it to me.”

 

“Then how do you know this to be true, Tice?” Leslie asks.

 

“Because when John and I visited Clemance in Holland Park, I saw a portrait hanging in the hallway of Clemance with a little girl. I asked John, and he told me quickly, but in the strictest confidence, what I have just told you now. Clemance has been at rather a loose end since her husband died. Aside from John, she has no close family. She has taken rather a shine to me, and John thinks this fondness comes about because I remind her of her lost daughter.”

 

“So, Sir John thinks she might be a bit happier, less at a loose end, as it were, if she were involved in the wedding plans.” the Viscount murmurs sadly.

 

Lettice nods her confirmation shallowly. “She can participate in something she never thought she’d have the opportunity to do. And like Mamma, she has been gaily chatting to me about plans for my trousseau.”

 

“Well,” Leslie says exhaling, releasing a pent-up breath. “That does make a difference.” He turns and looks at his father. “Surely it does, Pappa?”

 

The Viscount doesn’t answer straight away, remaining ponderous in his seat, scratching his freshly shaved chin with right index finger and thumb, lost in his own deep contemplation of Lettice’s revelation about Clemance.

 

“Pappa?” Lettice asks hopefully.

 

“Alright,” the Viscount finally answers. “I’ll have a quiet word with your Mother, now Lettice.”

 

“Oh Pappa!” Lettice exclaims, clasping her hands and beaming.

 

“In my own way, mind you.” he adds quickly, taking his finger away from his chin and wagging it at his daughter. “I’ll have no histrionics or scenes from you about either it, or your Mother’s choice of dressmakers, no matter what her decision is.”

 

“Yes Pappa.” Lettice acquiesces quietly, nodding and lowering her eyes to her lap.

 

“Surely Mater won’t say no to Lettice’s request once she knows about Clemance’s lost child, Pappa!” Lettice says.

 

“Ahh my boy!” the Viscount replies with a sigh, pushing the seat away from his desk and standing up with a groan. He pats Leslie on the shoulder. “You always were your Mother’s favourite and she yours. You forgive or don’t see half her faults.” His shoulders rise and fall as he breathes heavily. “However, for all her faults, your Mother is a good woman. I’m quite sure she won’t refuse. Of course,” He turns back to his daughter, who has also now arisen from her seat. “You will have to organise a suitable introduction for your Mother to meet Clemance.”

 

“Oh, I will, Pappa!” Lettice readily agrees, her eyes now sparkling with joy, rather than unshed tears.

 

“And you will go to Madame Handley-Whoever’s for a fitting, as per your Mother’s wishes.”

 

“But Pappa…” Lettice begins, but a serious and intense stare from her father silences her protestations.

 

“As per your Mother’s wishes!” he repeats firmly.

 

“Yes Pappa.”

 

“Talking Sadie around about Clemance will be a lot simpler than convincing her to let Gerald Bruton design your wedding frock though. It may take some time…”

 

“Oh, thank you Pappa!”

 

“And,” he interrupts her thankful acknowledgement. “I cannot promise you that I can persuade her, Lettice my dear. I’ll have a chat with Lord Bruton about how feels about the matter, and whether he would be too mortified by his son designing your wedding frock,” He turns to Leslie again. “Since I am now going to be obliged to go and speak with him about Geraldine Evans’ rumours and gossip anyway. If he agrees to it, that may persuade your Mother.”

 

“Oh Pappa!” Lettice exclaims. “You really are a brick!”

 

“Maybe!” he cautions his daughter. “I’ll not promise anything, but I’ll try! And if you really do want to succeed in your endeavours, I strongly suggest you try and keep on Sadie’s good side as much as you can.” He raises his bushy eyebrows smattered with silvery white hairs and gives Lettice a knowing look. “Even though I know that will be hard for you.”

 

“I’ll try, Pappa.”

 

“Good girl!” the Viscount smiles. “Come along then!” he bustles. “Let’s go find your Mother. Hopefully she’s not too far away, and in a calmer and better temper. Leslie and I have more important things to do than go on a treasure hunt for her around the house.”

 

The trio walk across the library together towards the double doors leading out into the grand Glynes entrance hall.

 

“Madame Handley-Seymour.” Leslie muses as they walk. “Madame Handley-Seymour.”

 

“What about her?” Lettice asks.

 

“Didn’t Madame Handley-Seymour make the wedding dress for your friend Elizabeth*********** when she married Bertie************ a few years ago?”

 

“Yes,” Lettice sighs.

 

“Well, that’s not such a bad choice, Tice.” Leslie continues, winding a comforting arm around his little sister. “At least she’s fashionable. At least she didn’t suggest the woman who made Lally’s dress back in 1910 – you know, the one who sailed on the Titanic and was in that scandal about how empty her lifeboat was*************.”

 

“Oh, she mentioned her too, Leslie, don’t you fret!” Lettice replies with a chuckle.

 

*A chit is a short official note, typically recording a sum owed.

 

**The phrase “Not much chop" is an informal, English, Australian and New Zealand English idiom meaning "not very good" or "not much to be desired". It's used to express a low opinion of something or someone. Born out of the British Raj, this rem derives from the word “chop” which was a quality, class, a mark or stamp indicating this on goods send out of India, a word that ultimately comes from the Hindi word chāp, “stamp”.

 

***The Penny Black was the world's first adhesive postage stamp used in a public postal system. It was first issued in the United Kingdom on 1 May 1840 but was not valid for use until 6 May. The stamp features a profile of Queen Victoria.

 

****"First dibs" is an informal way of saying that someone has the right to have or choose something before anyone else. It essentially means having a prior claim or preference. The term is often used in situations where there are limited resources or choices, and someone wants to secure their preferred option. The origin of the phrase is believed to be a children's game called "dibstones" (or a variation of it) played in 17th-century Britain. This game involved tossing small pebbles or knuckle-bones and catching them, with the first person to catch them being said to have "dibs" on them. Over time, "dibs" became a way to express a claim on something, and "first dibs" evolved to mean having the first choice.

 

*****A trousseau refers to the wardrobe and belongings of a bride, including her wedding dress or similar clothing such as day and evening dresses.

 

******Elizabeth Handley-Seymour (1867–1948) was a London-based fashion designer and court-dressmaker operating as Madame Handley-Seymour between 1910 and 1940. She is best known for creating the wedding dress worn by Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon, the future Queen Elizabeth The Queen Mother, for her marriage to the Duke of York, the future King George VI, in 1923; and later, Queen Elizabeth's coronation gown in 1937.

 

*******Rum is a British slang word that means odd (in a negative way) or disreputable.

 

********Fitzroy Square is a Georgian square in London, England. It is the only one in the central London area known as Fitzrovia. The square is one of the area's main features, this once led to the surrounding district to be known as Fitzroy Square or Fitzroy Town and latterly as Fitzrovia, though the nearby Fitzroy Tavern is thought to have had as much influence on the name as Fitzroy Square.

 

*********A "royal levée" refers to a formal reception or gathering, often held by a sovereign or their representative, where they receive dignitaries, officials, and other important guests. It is a tradition with roots in ancient practices of rulers displaying their power and accessibility.

 

**********Shepherd’s check is a popular pattern for a rather sturdy tweed, commonly worn in the country. Coming in various colours and pattern styles, the small check version in black and white is commonly known as Pepita check in Germanic countries.

 

***********Elizabeth Bowes Lyon went on to become Queen of the United Kingdom and the Dominions from 1936 to 1952 as the wife of King George VI. Whilst still Duke of York, Prince Albert initially proposed to Elizabeth in 1921, but she turned him down, being "afraid never, never again to be free to think, speak and act as I feel I really ought to"

 

************Prince Albert, Duke of York, known by the diminutive “Bertie” to the family and close friends, was the second son of George V. He was Duke of York from 1920 to 1936, living in London and also (from 1932) at Royal Lodge, Windsor Great Park. He became King George VI, King of the United Kingdom and the Dominions of the British Commonwealth from the 11th of December 1936 until his death in 1952. He was also the last Emperor of India from 1936 until the British Raj was dissolved in August 1947, and the first head of the Commonwealth following the London Declaration of 1949.

 

*************Lucile – Lucy, Lady Duff Gordon was a leading British fashion designer in the late Nineteenth and early Twentieth Centuries who use the professional name Lucile. She was the originator of the “mannequin parade”, a pre-cursor to the modern fashion parade, and is reported to have been the person to first use the word “chic” which she then popularised. Lucile is also infamous for escaping the Titanic in a lifeboat designed for forty occupants with her husband and secretary and only nine other people aboard, seven being crew members.

 

Cluttered with books and art, Viscount Wrexham’s library with its Georgian furnishings is different from what you might think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures from my collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The majority of the books that you see lining the shelves of the Viscount’s library are 1:12 size miniatures made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. So too is the stamp album, the envelopes and even the Penny Black stamps on the Viscount’s Chippendale desk. Most of the books I own that he has made may be opened to reveal authentic printed interiors. In some cases, you can even read the words, depending upon the size of the print! I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection, but so little of his real artistry is seen because the books that he specialised in making are usually closed, sitting on shelves or closed on desks and table surfaces. What might amaze you even more is that all Ken Blythe’s opening books are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make each miniature an artisan piece. Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter.

 

Also on the desk to the left stands a stuffed white owl on a branch beneath a glass cloche. A vintage miniature piece, the foliage are real dried flowers and grasses, whilst the owl is cut from white soapstone. The base is stained wood and the cloche is real glass. This I acquired along with two others featuring shells (one of which can be seen in the background) from Kathleen Knight’s Dollhouse Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

On the desk are some 1:12 artisan miniature ink bottles and a blotter on a silver salver all made by the Little Green Workshop in England who specialise in high end, high quality miniatures. The ink bottles are made from tiny faceted crystal beads and have sterling silver bottoms and lids. The ink blotter is sterling silver too and has a blotter made of real black felt, cut meticulously to size to fit snugly inside the frame. On the desk is a roller and a bell, both also made from sterling silver, a silver pen with a tiny seed pearl in its end and a brass cloisonné handled letter opener which also come from the Little Green Workshop.

 

The Chippendale desk itself is made by Bespaq, and it has a mahogany stain and the design is taken from a real Chippendale desk. Its surface is covered in red dioxide red dioxide leather with a gilt trim. Bespaq is a high-end miniature furniture maker with high attention to detail and quality.

 

In the background you can see the book lined shelves of Viscount Wrexham’s as well as a hand painted ginger jar from Thailand which stands on a Bespaq plant stand.

 

The gold flocked Edwardian wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, which inspired the whole “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.

www.hundertwasser-haus.info/en/

 

La Casa Hundertwasser (en alemán: Hundertwasserhaus) sita en Kegelgasse 34-38 en el Landstraße (distrito nº 3 de Viena), es un complejo residencial municipal, construido entre 1983 y 1985.

El alcalde de Viena Leopold Gratz ofreció el proyecto a Friedensreich Hundertwasser para construir estas viviendas sociales en 1977.

Estructurado por Hundertwasser y planificado por el Arquitecto Joseph Krawina, combina pisos y fachadas ondulantes, aberturas irregulares, gran colorido y vegetación (250 árboles y arbustos). No se adapta a las normas y clichés convencionales de la arquitectura. Es un viaje por la tierra de la arquitectura creativa. Otros ejemplos de arquitectura no convencional son visibles en las obras de Antoni Gaudí, el Palais Idéal de Ferdinand Cheval, las Torres Watts y la anónima arquitectura de las Schrebergärten (huertas comunitarias alemanas), entre otras.

En el edificio se encuentran 52 viviendas, 4 locales de negocio, 16 terrazas privadas, un jardín de invierno, 3 azoteas comunitarias y 2 áreas de juegos infantiles.

La Hundertawasserhaus es hoy una visita obligada en Viena. Se pueden encontrar edificios análogos, labor de Hundertwasser junto con los arquitectos Peter Pelikan y Heinz M. Springmann en Bad Soden, Darmstadt (la Waldspirale), Fráncfort del Meno, Magdeburgo, Osaka, Plochingen, Wittenberg y las termas de Bad Blumau.

Por desgracia, poco después de la inauguración, la conversión a la utilidad práctica ha sido incompleta. Las tejas de la azotea comenzaron a reblandecerse, el uso de plantas ha generado gastos adicionales debido a sus raíces (especialmente después de que el maestro variara la posición durante la construcción), o los cristales de la fachada deben limpiarse mediante andamios y elevadores.

La arquitectura juguetona de Hundertwasser debe verse como una Fata Morgana (espejismo).

 

“Un pintor sueña con casas y una buena arquitectura, en la cual el hombre sea libre y se haga realidad este sueño”

Friedensreich Hundertwasser

 

es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hundertwasserhaus

  

The Hundertwasserhaus is an apartment house in Vienna, Austria, built after the idea and concept of Austrian artist Friedensreich Hundertwasser with architect Joseph Krawina as a co-creator.

This expressionist landmark of Vienna is located in the Landstraße district on the corner of Kegelgasse and Löwengasse. The Hundertwasser House is one of Vienna's most visited buildings and has become part of Austria's cultural heritage.

Friedensreich Hundertwasser started out as a painter. Since the early 1950s, however, he increasingly became focused on architecture, writing and reading in public, advocating natural forms of decay. In 1972, he had his first architectural models made for the TV-show ‘Wünsch dir was', in order to demonstrate his ideas on forested roofs, "tree tenants" and the "window right" of every tenant to embellish the facade around his windows. In these models Hundertwasser also developed new architectural shapes, such as the "eye-slit" house and the "high-rise meadow house".

In lectures at academies and before architectural associations, Hundertwasser elucidated his concerns regarding an architecture in harmony with nature and man. Bruno Kreisky, the federal chancellor at the time, suggested in a letter dated November 30, 1977 to Leopold Gratz, the mayor of Vienna, that Hundertwasser be given the opportunity to realize his ideas in the field of architecture by allowing him to build a housing project, whereupon Leopold Gratz, in a letter of December 15, 1977, invited Hundertwasser to create an apartment building according to his own ideas.

 

To this end, architect Josef Krawina was invited to join the artist and to help him to put his ideas into practice.

In August and September 1979, architect Krawina presented to Hundertwasser his preliminary drawings and a Styrofoam model. Hundertwasser was shocked and rejected them as representing exactly the leveling, straight-lined modular grid against which he had consistently fought. As his model of the “Terrace House” for Eurovision showed, he had already conceptualized a quite different type of house.

In the end the house was built between 1983 and 1985 according to the ideas and concepts of Hundertwasser with architect Univ.-Prof. Joseph Krawina as a co-author and architect Peter Pelikan as a planner. It features undulating floors, a roof covered with earth and grass, and large trees growing from inside the rooms, with limbs extending from windows. Hundertwasser took no payment for the design of the house, declaring that it was worth it, to prevent something ugly from going up in its place.

Within the house there are 53 apartments, four offices, 16 private terraces and three communal terraces, and a total of 250 trees and bushes.

In 2001, twenty years after architect Krawina's exit from the project, the firm H.B. Medienvertriebsgesellschaft mbH under its business manager Harald Böhm encouraged architect Krawina to legally substantiate his claim as co-creator of the “Hundertwasser House.” On March 11, 2010, after eight years of litigation, Austria's Oberster Gerichtshof [Supreme Court of Justice] ruled Josef Krawina along with Friedensreich Hundertwasser, to be co-creators of the house with the effect that it is now forbidden for the Hundertwasser Non-Profit Foundation to disseminate any illustration or replica of the house without acknowledging Krawina as co-creator.

According to the ruling, Hundertwasser was the sole spiritual creator (German: Geistiger Schöpfer) of the building, however, Krawina must be recognized as a co-creator of equal standing and be paid an equal share in royalty receipts.

 

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hundertwasserhaus

 

Dr. Eva Nogales is a structural biologist whose pioneering work in cryo-electron microscopy has revealed the intricate architecture of cellular machinery. Her research has provided groundbreaking insights into how macromolecules function, shaping our understanding of processes such as gene expression, cell division, and disease mechanisms.

 

I photographed Nogales on August 23, 2023, at Stanley Hall, where we made portraits in her office and laboratory. The setting was fitting for a scientist whose work bridges fundamental biology with cutting-edge imaging technology. Surrounded by molecular models and high-resolution electron micrographs, we discussed the evolution of structural biology and the technological advances that have allowed researchers to visualize biological processes at unprecedented detail.

 

Nogales is best known for her contributions to elucidating the structure of microtubules, the cytoskeletal components essential for cell division and intracellular transport. Her work has had profound implications for cancer research, as microtubules are key targets for chemotherapeutic drugs. By combining biophysics, computational analysis, and molecular biology, she has expanded the limits of what can be seen and understood at the molecular level.

 

Beyond her research, Nogales is a leader in the scientific community, advocating for diversity in STEM and mentoring the next generation of researchers. Her ability to communicate complex science with clarity and enthusiasm makes her a compelling presence, both in the lab and in broader discussions about the future of molecular biology.

 

With each new discovery, Nogales continues to push the boundaries of structural biology, demonstrating how visualizing life at the smallest scales can unlock answers to some of biology’s biggest questions.

Turn of a Friendly Card

************************************************************

Based on a true adventures of a rogue active in the waning years of the 1930’s as discovered in the criminal archives of Chatwick University.

 

Act 1

I begin my tale in the present…

 

That afternoon a soiree was given as part of the purchase price of the tickets for the annual Autumn Charity Ball to be presented later that evening at the manor’s great house. Since I was alone, I just went mainly for the free food and to rub my elbows with the wealthy guests who would be in happy attendance there, and at the Ball. I was alone, but certainly not bored. There was a game I enjoyed playing to pass the time at these affairs that entailed scoping out by their dress and day jewels worn, those ladies whom would be most likely to be wearing the better costumes and sparklers that evening. It often proved to be a most beneficial insight into the actions and mannerisms of the very rich. I walked amongst the cheerful guests, eying one here ( a lady in satin and pearls) and another there( a high spirited girl with a diamond pin at the throat of her frilly silken blouse). It was as I was passing the latter that the friend she had been talking too (dressed like a vamp), bumped up against me. I caught her, steadying her as they both giggled. I didn’t mind, for the lassie’s too tight satin sheath tea dress had been an enticement to hold, and the gold bracelet that had been dangling from her gloved wrist had been a pleasure to observe. I kissed her gloved hand, rings glittering, as I apologized gallantly for my clumsiness. Her eyes were bright, almost as bright as the twin necklaces of gold that hung swaying down pleasantly from between her ample bosom. I left them, moving on to greener pastures, and it was very green, all of it….

 

It was then that I detected another pretty lassie. It was her long fiery red hair with falling wispy curls that first captured my attention. She was wearing a fetchingly smart white chiffon party dress that commanded me to acquire a closer examination. She appeared to be a blithe spirit, seemingly content with just being by herself and roaming about with casual elegance, the extensive grounds of the manor proper. I began to discreetly follow her at a distance. Although she did not wear any jewelry, her manner and the eloquent way she moved is what attracted me the most. It would be very interesting to seek her out later that evening and she what she would have chosen to decorate herself with. I followed her as she sojourned into the depths of a traditional English garden with a maze of lushly green trimmed 8 foot high hedges

 

As I strolled through the hedgerows in her wake I allowed my mind to wander its own course. Suddenly I straightened up, my reverie broken by an epiphany of sorts. I allowed myself to grin and the lady whose enchantment I was swollen up in, at that moment turned, and seeing my beaming smile assumed it was for her and gave me a rather cute nod of her head. I answered in same, as I headed en route to a nearby stone garden bench to allow my thoughts to think through themselves.

 

But before I go on, allow me the pleasure to sojourn and reminisce about an incident that occurred several years prior:

*******************

I was still working unaided in those days, travelling on to a new next quest that would take me just outside of Surrey.

I had just purchased my train ticket and had seen my luggage safe on board when I decided to rest in the lounge, it being some 45 minutes before allowed to enter personally aboard. Being so early the lounge was almost deserted, only one other occupant. I assumed she was waiting for someone on an incoming train due to the fact she carried no luggage. She was obviously well off, well dressed in satins and lace, and her jewels shone magnificently in the dim lights. Especially one of her rings, noticeably lying loosely around a finger, it sparkled with an expensive brilliance. I had seen one like it in a tiffanies store, worth almost 250 pounds. But she did not appreciate the show her jewelry was putting on under the lounge lights, for she was fast asleep.

 

I circled around her, aiming for a seat next to her, eyeing her and her possessions carefully. I noticed her purse had fallen off her lap and lay on the floor. An idea popped into my head, and I picked the purse up, and looked around carefully, before placing my plan into action. But I was thwarted as an older, matronly lady was spotted heading our way. I slipped the purse into my jacket and moved off before I was noticed. Of course she came in and took the empty seat across form the sleeping princess, and soon busied herself with knitting. As the older lady had sat down, not quietly, the wealthy lady stirred waking up at the noise. I went into a corner and sat, waiting. The two ladies soon fell into conversation; the minute’s ticked by excruciatingly slow. Soon I noticed we even had more company.

He was a lad of only fourteen, but with a devilish look about him that marked him a kindred spirit to meself, and his quick eyes were darting about taking it all in as he stood outside the paned glass window.

 

It was as the first announcement of boarding the train that I saw a chance for opportunity to strike.

The older lady folded up her knitting and clinching her bag, bid adieu to her new friend,( befuddled a little by the old ladies constant stream of gossip), and headed to the train. I was twenty steps ahead of her and was standing behind the youth as she left the lounge. I tapped him on the shoulder; he looked around at me suspiciously, and then caught sight of the shilling I was holding in front of his nose. I quickly whispered a few words into his ear on how he could earn it, and his grin spread as he bought into my story. I still held onto the shilling as he darted around and inside the lounge. I watched as he ran up behind the lady, circling her, then running in front of her he tripped over her leg, as she helped him up, her hand with the ring reaching down, he turned and spat onto the wrist and sleeve of that hand, than standing he ran away. Running alongside me, I handed him the shilling in passing as he ran off, disappearing in to the street.

 

I went inside and approached the astonished lady, as she was looking for her purse to get a handkerchief, confused as to its absence, while she held up her soiled hand( ring glittering furiously) in utter disbelief. I approached, catching her attention by the soothing words I uttered to her. I took her hand, unbelieving with her at just had happened, and I as I apologized for the youth of today I produced my own silk handkerchief and starting with her silky sleeve, began to wipe it off, continuing my tirade of displeasure and contempt at what had just occurred to the dear lady as I did so. As I finishing wiping her down, ending with her warm slender fingers, I kissed them, just as the last boarding announcement came over (perfect timing!) I let her go, explaining that I must catch my train. I turned and without looking back made the train just as it was letting off steam before chugging off.

 

I gained my private carriage just as the train began to lurch away. It wasn’t until after the train began its journey that I casually removed my silk handkerchief from my pocket and unwrapped it carefully, admiring up close the shimmering, valuable tiffany ring that was lying inside. I pocketed it, and then remembered the purse. I took it out and examined its contents: coin and notes equaling a handsome amount, a gold (gilded) case, embroidered lacy handkerchief, small silver flask of perfume, and ( of all things)a large shimmering prism , like one that would have dangled from a fancy crystal chandelier. A prism?, I questioned with interest as I examined it. It was pretty thing, about the circumference of a cricket ball, but shaped like a pendulum, it shimmered and glittered like the most precious of jewels. Why she had it in her purse? I couldn’t guess, and I saw no value in it, so I pocketed it and allowed it to leave my mind.

 

As I settled into my seat I began to think of the lad I had just met, I had been right on the money as far as his eagerness for mischief. Actually he reminded me of myself at that age, and I wondered if that lad with the shifty eyes would also turn out to follow the same course I had explored.

 

Which Begs the question, what had I turned out to become. And since I’m still reminiscing

I’ll give little background material about me, hopefully I don’t come across as being too conceited about my self-taught skills..

 

I had never been one to take the hard road, and even at a young age I was always looking for angles, or short cuts to make some money.

Once, while watching for some time a street magician and his acts. I observed a pick pocket working the crowd. He approached a pair of well-dressed ladies in shiny clothes, and standing behind them bided his time and then lifted a small pouch from one velvet purse, and a fat wallet from a silken one, then he moved on. Now both ladies were wearing shiny bracelets, one with jewels. I thought that he could have realized a greater profit if he had nicked one or both of the bracelets first, than try for the contents of their purses. The bracelets’ alone would have realized a far greater profit than what he lifted from their purses. It further occurred to me that by mimicking some of the sleight of hand tricks and misdirection that the magician was using on his audience, it could be accomplished. A hand placed on the right shoulder and as the lady turned right, whisk off the bracelet from her left wrist, and excuse oneself, that sort of thing.

 

So, I practiced (on my sisters, who proved to be willing accomplices to “my game”) and learned to pick their purses and pockets. I than moved onto their jewelry, starting by lifting bracelets and slipping away rings, before advancing to the brooches, necklaces and earrings they were wearing. After I was satisfied at my skill level, I went out and worked the streets. Sometimes using my one sister who was also hooked on what I was doing as a willing partner.

But I found myself still not being satisfied, in the back of my mind I thought there had to be a more lucrative way to turn a profit.

 

I’d found my answer when an attractive lady in a rustling satin gown zeroed in on me while I was “visiting” a ballroom. She was jeweled like a princess right up to the diamond band she wore holding up her piles of soft locks like a glimmering crown. The more she drank, the closer she got and I decided that her necklace would definitely help pay my expenses more than the contents of her purse (although I had already lifted the fat wallet from her small purse), and I did have very expensive tastes to pay for. So I took her onto the dance floor.

 

I was amazed at how easily I had been able to open the necklace’s clasp , slipping it over her satiny shoulder, lifting it off and placing it safely in my pocket with almost no effort. Then she decided to be playful once the song ended and brushed up against me. She felt the necklace in my pocket and before I could act she had her hand in and pulled it out.

 

The silly naive twit thought I was teasing her and told me that for my penance I had to go up to her suite in order to put it back on for her. I kept up the charade as best as I could.

 

And that’s where we ended up. A little bit of light fondling began as I placed the necklace back around her throat. I began to tease her, plied her with more and more alcohol as I tried to keep my distance, and virginity. Finally she passed out in a drunken stupor, but not before I had learned where she hid her valuables by suggesting she should lock her jewels up for the night..

 

With her safely unconscious, I began to strip her clean off all her jewels, reclaiming the necklace first. Then I visited all her jewelry casket and began looting it. I even took her small rhinestone clutch with the diamond clasp; of course I already had liberated its small wallet.

 

When I’d left her lying happily asleep in bed, still in her satin gown( the only item left to her that shined), I knew I had found a much more profitable line of “work”

 

So I began making circuits around to the haunts of the very rich, I still kept may hand in pickpocketing, so to speak, but centered only on those “pockets” containing mainly jewelry. I also began to carefully explore new ways of acquiring jewels” in masse”, so to speak.

 

Soon I had accumulated many tricks and tools, having them at my disposal to put into action once required, and for the remaining years up till the present had managed to live quite comfortably off of the ill-gotten gains using them allowed me to acquire.

 

Which brings me back to the train ride, my prism, and the rest of my background story before I retun to the present tale. Please be patient.

*****

So, anyway, I reached Surry without any further incident and disembarking, made my way out to the large country house where I would be staying to take a short rest, vacation if you will. But, pardon the play on words, for there is never any rest for the wicked, is there?

 

I had become acquainted with a servant of the old mansion ( almost a small castle, really) , that was about a mile off. I managed to learn a great deal, and soon found myself, on the pretense of visiting her, exploring the grounds. There was to be a grand ball taking place a couple of weekends away , and the maid had filled my ears with the riches that would be displayed by the multitude of regal ladies making an appearance. I began to think about trying to make a little bit of profit from my vacation. I am not sure how the idea developed, but the prism that I still had in my possession, came up centrally into my plans.

 

Late on the evening of the regal affair, I snuck over, covered head to toe in black, with my small satchel off tools by my side. I set up a candle behind an old stone ivy covered wall in a far corner of the rather large and intricate English garden that surrounded the inner circle around the mansion. I than strung the jewel-like prism in front of it. Standing behind the wall, I would strike the prism with a long stick I was holding whenever I observed sparkles emanating from silkily gowned ladies walking in the distance, solitary or in pairs. The prism would flash fire, sort of like a showy lure being used when fishing in a crooked trout stream. Only I was fishing for far sweeter game than trout. My objective was to trick certain types of jeweled ladies (scatterbrains some may call them) by luring them down onto the path beyond the wall, using their natural curiosity to my advantage.

 

I had at least two strikes rise up to my lure in the second hour.

On was a pretty lady in flowing green satin number, decorated with plenty of emeralds, which, hidden in the shadows, I observed were probably paste. I let her wonder about; as she looked and played with the shiny toy, remaining hidden until she grew bored and wandered off.

The second was a slender maiden wearing a long sleek black gown with long ivory silk gloves. I had never before seen a lady so decked out in jewels, literally head to toe. With the exception of the rhinestones adorning her heels, the rest of the lot was real, so valuably real that I could feel my mouth salivating at the thoughts of acquiring her riches. Now in Edwardian times only older, married ladies would be allowed the privilege of wearing a diamond Tiara. But in these modern times, it had become culturally acceptable for any well-to do lady, single or otherwise, to wear one out in society. Even so, they were still rarely worn, and seldom seen outside the safety of large gatherings. But there it was, a small, delicately slender piece of intricate art that glistened from the top of her head like some elegant beacon. That piece alone was probably worth more than I had made all the last four months combined!

I began to skirt around in the shadows, placing myself in position to cut off her retreat. Her diamonds blazed as she approached, eyeing the swinging prism with total concentration. Which was unfortunate, because as I was about to leave the shadows, she walked into the thorns of a rose bush, screeching out, and attracting the notice of a pair of gentlemen who had just crossed the path quite a ways off, called out when they heard the commotion. She started to become chatty with them, obviously coming on to her rescuers, my prism all but forgotten. Than before I knew it, in a swishing of her long gown, she was gone, “swimming” off before I was able to set me ”hook”.

 

Which I was able to do on the third strike, almost an hour later, just as I was beginning to ponder wither I should call it off and head back home..

 

They were a pair of young damsels in their young twenties. They may have been sisters, or cousins at the least. I still remember how my heart leapt into my throat as they observed my colourful prism and turned down the old flagstone path. I had not seen anyone out and about for some time, so I knew they would be no would be rescuers around to come to their aid

And, best of all, they were both dressed for the kill!

One, the blonde, was clad in a black velvet number that one could cannily describe as quite form fitting. As were the small ropes of pearls that hung from all points of interest, pretty with a matching pricelessness.

But her cousin, as I will refer to her, out shone black velvet quite literally.

This one, a stunning raven haired beauty, wore a long streaming gown of liquid ivory satin. A diamond brooch sparkled as it held up a fold of the gown to her waist. The fold allowed her to show a rather daring amount of a slender bare calf. The brooch was not paste, but a real jewel that had been added for the nights festivities ( To be successful, one learns to read these signs accurately) Her ears and neckline were home to a matching set of pure white diamonds. A wide diamond bracelet graced a bare right wrist ,so she must be left handed I instinctively thought, an observation that would have aided me if I were planning on having a go for slipping the bracelet from her wrist, but tonight I was planning a much more daring attempt to empty the entire jewel casket, so to speak.

 

They went to the prism, playing with it a bit, I had begun to circle around, when I noticed black velvet pointing out with multiple ringed fingers, to something further down the path past the wall.

 

With a clicking of heels I let the pair pass, they apparently wanted to see what was on the other side of the wall. I followed; it was not hard, because the necklace the raven haired one wore, diamonds fully encircling her throat, rippled and sparkled from their perch, caught in the full harvest moon’s cast, giving me more than enough light to shadow them quietly .

 

After a while they caught on that something/someone was following them, but as they turned they could see nothing. I was in black, and hooded, invisible to them in the shadows of the trees. They whispered amongst themselves, now worried, realizing that there were dangers lurking beyond the pale, in their case, the safety of the gardens , especially for ones decked out as they were. They then turned and headed right back from where they had come, right into my waiting arms.

 

It is interesting what good breeding does for young, poised ladies. For, as I stepped out of the shadows, a finger of my right hand to my lips, my Fairborn in my left hand, its black blade glinting wickedly in the moonlight , they did not scream out or shout for help. Instead the pair merely let out small gasps, and then they both, in a quite charming synchronized display of disbelief, place each one hand over their open mouths, and the other upon their perspective necklaces.

 

And as I flourished my wicked looking Fairbairn–Sykes blade in their direction, they unquestioningly reached around and undid those pretty necklaces, tremblingly handing them out to me, like actresses following a well-read script. I took the little pretties and after stuffing them into my satchel, held out again my free hand, my fingers beckoning. Not a word was spoken between us, as the frightened pair of young ladies began removing their shimmering jewels and added them in a neat little growing pile along my open palm. The raven haired girl even undid her brooch without me having to command her to do so. Once I had stashed it all away, I motioned for them to turn back around, than with a little helpful prodding on my part, they began moving forward back down the hill, away from the garden. The one in white hobbling a little now as she kept tripping over the hem of her dress, now no longer held up by the stolen brooch.

 

After we had traveled about 200 meters I had them stop, and take off their high heels. Then picking the pretty things up, I motioned them to turn back around and made them walk back the way we had come in their bare feet, watching the pair awkwardly hobble barefooted down the wooded path. They would be quite a while on their journey back, allowing me more than ample time to make me escape. I threw their shoes off to the side and went briskly the other way, reaching the place was staying at , gaining my room without notice. But not before I had hidden the jewels inside an old stump to retrieve them at a later date. I never really heard so much as a whisper of the incident, other than from the pretty lips of my friendly maiden. The wee hours of the morning before my early departure for the train station found me revisiting the stump and retrieving my satchel and its precious cargo. After hiding it all in a false bottom of my case I laid my head on the pillow and drifted off to sleep as I wondered what had happened to the little prism, marveling at how useful it had ended up proving to be.

 

So, how does this story (journey rather) relate to the one I had already started? Please read on, and enrich your curiosity… my dear readers.

****************************************************************************

Act 2

 

So, with apologies for my lengthy elucidation, but I now return you back to the garden party I was now attending on that warm fall day. But, as you will see, my prism story needed to be told in order to add a bit of flavor to what was about to unfold.

 

As I sat on the garden bench I formulated my plans. I should be able to acquire the main piece tonight at the Ball, I would have time this afternoon to retrieve my ever handy satchel and its array of tools and have it hidden at the spot I had already selected. It was perfect, located at the end of the path I had found, or rather the charming lady in the smart chiffon dress had found for me. A gas lamp would provide adequate light for my “lure”, and it led to a back wood where I could lead any victims away and liberate them of their valuables before making my escape. I rose, just enough time to walk my escape route, before setting up and then be dressed for the evening’s festivities. I looked around, I was alone now, my lady in white had disappeared, following her own course, whatever it may have been.

 

The Autumn Ball that evening was in full swing by the time I arrived. Being a cool fall day, most of the women were wearing long gowns and dresses, and that, for whatever the reason, usually meant they were decked out with more layers of jewelry than say , if it had been the middle of summer. In order to put my plan in action I need and intrinsic piece of the trap, a prism. The one I had once had was long ago lost, a minor pawn in a game to take a pair of princesses.

 

I knew exactly the type of prism required for my plan, and so began mingling amongst the guests with that in mind.

 

I started out by walking through to the chamber like ballroom where a full orchestra was starting to play. The first person I saw from the garden party was the little tramp who had been wearing the too tight satin tea dress. That dress had been replaced with a long silky gown, her gold jewelry replaced with emeralds; including a thin bracelet that had taken the place of the gold one that she had so obligingly dangled in my larcenous path. I decided to avoid her In principle, and in doing so spied someone quite interesting.

 

That someone was a pretty lady in a long velvet gown standing off to one side, idly watching the many dancers out on the floor. The dancing couples were forming an imagery of a rainbow coloured sea of slinky swirling gowns and with erupting fireworks of sparkling jewels, ignited by pair of immensely large chandeliers that hung over the dance floor, setting them off. I made my way, skirting the dance floor to reach her, my eyes on her jewels, which were making pretty fireworks of their own. I happened to walk up just as a waiter with a tray of drinks was passing by. Plucking off a drink I offered it to the lady with one hand, my other hand placed on her back as If to steady myself. She laughed prettily, and taking the drink I met her eyes, as she was focused on reaching and holding the glass in her slippery gloved hand, mine was on the ruby and diamond necklace. My hand behind her had flicked open the simple hook and eye clasp of the antique piece and was in the process of lifting it up and whisking it away from her throat. As I said a few words to her, I pocketed it, while also taking in the rest of her lovely figure and its shiny decorations, before biding adieu. She smiled, her pale bare neckline now quite glaringly extinguished of its fire.

 

It was about an hour later, after spotting, but unable to make inroads with several likely candidates, that I finally struck gold (figuratively). It came in the form of a young couple arguing between themselves in a far corner of the chamber. She was lecturing a rather handsome man in a tux, her jeweled fingers flying in his face. If she hadn’t been moving about in such an animated fashion as she lectured, I may not have even noticed her. But as it happened I did, especially noticeable was the sanctimonious lady’s wide jeweled bracelet that was bursting out in a rainbow of colorful flickers as her hand was emphatically waving, as her long gown of silk swished around with every movement she made. Perfect. I watched for a bit, and sure enough they moved off, the man heading for the patio leading outside, the wealthy girl following him, still giving him lashes with her tongue. I moved and managed to have her bump into me simply by stepping on the hemline of her long gown. For a few seconds I was the one on the receiving end of her wrath, but I took it like a man, I could see in the eyes of her tongue lashed husband, that he was grateful for the respite. I was also grateful; grateful for the quite wide, very shimmering, bracelet that I had removed from her wrist and now was residing in my pocket.

 

I began to leave the patio, but was stopped by a matronly lady in ruffles, laces and pearls, her breath heavy with alcohol. She started to question me on what the couple had been on about. Then without waiting for an answer she launched herself into a tirade of her own, her gem encrusted, silken gloved fingers, waving in my face for emphasis. It was almost ten minutes before I was able to make my escape. Which I did, but not before slipping off one of the lecturing ladies vulgarly large cocktail rings.

 

I headed onto the patio; the time was getting ripe for my plan, which I was now ready to put into motion, now having acquired its most essential piece. I went to the end of the large patio, weaving in and out of the by now well liquored guests whom had assembled there. Across the way I saw a lady tripping over her own gown. By the time I reached her she had fallen down, giggling merrily. Two of us rushed to her aid, she was busy gushed her thanks to the rescuer she knew, while ignoring the one she didn’t! Which was unfortunate on her part, for by ignoring me, she also was ignorant of the fact that I was busy lifting the small stands of black pearls from her wrist. I left unnoticed, much like a shadow fading out of the light, or at least that’s how it seemed. Finally I reached the patios outer edge without further incident, or gain. I went on the grass and turned a corner with the intention of going, post haste around the house to reach the gardens by the long way, hoping not to be seen by anyone. But I no sooner turned the corner, when I realized that it was not to be the case.

 

It was my blithe spirit in white chiffon from the garden party, pardon me, soiree. She was unescorted, looking up at the moon above a stone turret with one lit window, so intently that my presence had not been noticed. I had been absolutely correct in my observation of her as far as what she would be wearing for the evening. For what she had lacked in ornaments at the soiree, she had more than made up for in the evening festivities. She was absolutely gorgeous, resplendent in as beautiful a silvery satin gown that I had ever witness. It was just pouring down, shimmering along her delightful figure. Her long blazing red hair was still curling down and free, but now a pair of long chandelier earrings cascading down from her earlobes, were peeking out every now and then as they swayed with her every movement. Her blazingly rippling necklace was all diamonds, dripping down the front of her tightly satin covered bosom, twinkling iridescently like an intensively glimmering waterfall. Her slender gloved wrists were home to a pair of dangling diamond bracelets that were almost outshone by her many glistening rings. All in all she was quite a lure all too herself

 

I came up to her, starling her from her reverie. Taking up her hand, I looked into her startled, suddenly blushing face. I complimented her on the fine gown she wore. She thanked me, and I could see I that she suddenly remembered she me as the chap who she thought smiled to her in the garden. She seemed to accept my compliment quite readily. I chanced it( although Lord knows I was short on time) and asked her to a dance. I did not think she would agree, so it was with a little bit of surprise, hoping she would politely decline and walk off, leaving me free to go about my business unobserved. But she accepted, and I will admit that my heart leapt as she agreed (although in the back of my mind I knew I should be off if my plan was to work). The music had stopped so we made small talk as we slowly walked back to the ballroom. Her name was Katrina. It seems she was waiting for someone, which suited my plans, but he was late and so she had time. Which may have sounded dismissive, but from the apologetic way she said it, it was anything but the sort.

 

The orchestra started to tune back up as we entered, and taking her offered hand up, was soon lost in the elegance of my appealing partner. It was a long dance, and a formal one, but I could tell she was subtly anxious to be off on her meeting, as I was to be off to my own adventure. But Katrina did not really allow it to show, which was very uncharacteristic of her someone with her obvious breeding. So I was ready when the by the end of the music she begged her condolences and took flight. I watched her as she fluidly moved away, her jewels sparkling, all of them. On her mission to meet Mr. X I thought, for whom I was already harboring a quite jealous dislike. I should be off I thought to meself.

 

But I stood, still as stone; totally mesmerized by the way Katrina’s swirling silvery satin gown was playing out along her petite, jewel sparkling figure. It wasn’t till the last of her gown swished around a corner out of sight that I moved, but not without having to shake my head to clear the thoughts of her out of it. Well old son, focus. For by now the guests were starting to wander a bit afield in the waning hours of the Autumn Ball, and my small window of opportunity was closing fast. If my little plan was going to have any chance of success it would have to be now.

 

I walked out and made my way to one of the outside exist of the garden wall. Reaching into my pocket as I did so, fingering the bracelet, now cold, that had belonged to the quarrelsome lady,and soon would be playing another role, far from one its former mistress would ever have dreamed off. I also felt my new acquisition, still warm from my dance partner’s body. I will admit that I had felt a twinge of regret for taking it from a lady I had found to be most charmingly captivating. But slipping off the diamonds up and away from her throat had been as temptingly easy as it had been automatic. I had advantageously made use of the sleekness of her scintillatingly silky gown, and with the distractions created by the movements of the dance, successfully managed to keep Katrina’s attention safely diverted from the reality of why my fingers were ever so gently, caressingly sliding along her slippery gowns neckline. The truth was I had originally placed my hand there because it had felt so right, and I was a little startled when my fingers had subconsciously started playing with her necklaces clasp. Before I knew it, they had flicked open the gemstone clasp of her obviously expensive diamond necklace, and had lifted up. As I watched out of the corner of my eye, almost like I was a spectator, as opposed to being the perpetrator, I saw the chain move up and over her shoulder; its diamonds sparkling with is as the necklace disappeared from view behind her back.

It was a favored technique that I had perfected to the point that by this stage of my career I nearly always acquired my objective. But, as odd as it sounds, I was not happy with myself on this occasion.

 

But I did not long dwell on my mixed feelings on taking the charming lass’s diamonds, for by now I had reached my place of ambush. It was in one of the farthest reaches of the garden, at a bend on the end of a long path that, with a gas lamp at its beginning just off the patio, would allow me to see from some distance off. Behind me was a break in the hedge wide enough for a person to walk through comfortably. It was here, off a tree limb, underneath a second ornate cast iron gas lamp, which was now lit, that I hung the shimmering bracelet that I had sought out and acquired for just that reason

 

I walked around and saw that it could be seen flickered off in the distance from the woods, Perfect! Earlier I had hidden my satchel with a hood and knife and bit of rope in the hollow of an old tree. I now retrieved them, and after getting ready, found my position and waited. At 10 minutes past the first hour of my wait, with nary a single glimpse of anyone, I started to fidget. My corner may be just a bit too desolated I was beginning to admit to myself. It seemed that most of the guests were staying by the patio. I was starting to think that I should pack it in, possibly rejoining the guests for one last parting( of someone from her Jewelry). I was just reaching down to pick up my satchel when I suddenly saw something flash under the gas lamp at the beginning of the path, and my senses immediately perked up. I watched as the wisps of rich shimmery satin moved closer, I stiffened, drooling with anticipation, the game was afoot.

  

I could see clearly the flickering jewels she wore, and by their blazing sparkles of rippling fire, I knew that my long vigil would not have been in vain. As the lady drew I recognized her gown of silvery satin! I knew who was making those tantalizing flashes of appealing treasures. Katrina!

 

I watched as she approached, in all her glittering elegance. My heart and conscious was in turmoil, but I knew I probably would not get a second chance. I could not let her get away unscathed. Beside, from the shock of being confronted with a masked scoundrel wielding a wicked blade, she would be in no shape to recognize her assailant. She stopped, apprehensively looking back towards the bright lights of the Manor, Then turning back I saw she had a self-satisfied smile creeping upon her face. She reached up, and undoing her hair, shook it down, curls of softness cascading down, hanging loosely down. It was as she performed this provocative act, that I saw her eyes open wide in curiosity; she had spied my pretty little “prism”. The charming fish was hooked.

 

I waited, watching her approaching ever closer to fate, and from my concealment, I basked in her glow. My heart beating fast, my adrenaline pumping, for the remaining jewels (I thought of her necklace in my custody) that she possessed I already had witnessed were quite valuable. She passed my hiding spot and went to the hanging, shimmering object. As she reached up, looking around, she failed to see me approaching in the shadows. I came up from behind, jabbing a finger in her back as I reached her, I gruffly in no uncertain terms, snarled for her to freeze and make no sound. She stiffened under my touch, but made no move or outcry. I went around; pointing my knife in her direction, looking into her sad doe wide eyes as she realized what was going to happen next. She was trembling; from fear I guessed, and knew I had her right where I wanted. As I made my demands upon her, gimme them jewels sister, she, not surprisingly, was very compliant in giving them up to me. She reached for her necklace last, and looked entirely shocked to find her throat bare, as she searched the neckline of her gown I saw her look into my hand, now dripping with her precious jewelry, almost as if to see if she had not already removed it. She looked apologetically into my eyes, startled; almost pleading that she didn’t know what had happened to it. I just played dump. She than spoke for the first time, sir, may I ask to keep my purse? Her words would have instantly melted even the coldest chunk of ice, I looked down at the little silvery clutch hanging from her arm on its rhinestone chain, I nodded, indicating that she could, and saw relief wash over her face. I told her she now needed to turn around and walk off into the woods ahead of me. She hesitated, and I told her no harm would befall her, I had no intentions along those lines.

 

About 5 meters in I stopped her, and had her remove her shoes, as she bent over to undo the high heels rhinestone clasps I watched her gown tightly outlining her figure. She tripped on the hem of her gown, and as she attempted to keep her balance, accidently let her purse slip off her shoulder. Without thinking I reached down to pick it up for her as she tried reached for it simultaneously

 

The small purse was far heavier than it should have been. Curious I opened it, finding that it contained a rather extensive array of mismatched jewelry, glittering in unbelievably expensive fire . I looked into Katrina’s horror struck eyes dumb founded, as she looked guiltily into mine. The gig was up. The jewels belonged to the lady of the manor, my muse in silver was a thief, a female version of me very self.

 

Aye, what’s this than luv? I questioned her as she looked into my eyes, hers large with a mixture of fright and disbelief. She melted before me, fainting, I caught her in my arms, and it was no ruse. I held her as she came to, holding her warm, silky figure lovingly to mine. I did not know what to think. Nor could I ever explain what possessed me to do what I did next. As she came to, her eyes opened, and I removed my mask, looking back into them deeply.

 

Oh, she gasped, I’m glad it was you, startled that she had said the words out loud. She than started to coyly blushes, quite demurely. Something sparked in me, and unless she was an incredibly good actress, it did also for Katrina. Our eyes both looked into the others, melting away in the lust of the moment. We embraced, deeply, and I held her squirming warm slick figure tight in my enveloping arms. I looked over her shoulder, eyeing the glistening bracelet hanging from its branch. To catch a thief, the thought suddenly opened in my mind, what a great title for a novel I thought to myself, as I buried my nose into Katrina’s luxuriously soft hair.

 

We talked for a bit, walking off into the woods, then she looked into my eyes again, a coy, look that melted me on the spot, and that was the end of it, we embraced again, and wholly gave ourselves to one another. What about your man I asked suddenly remembering, my man she questioned , than oh, you mean the Lord, I was waiting for him to come down from smoking in his tower study, that’s where the lady’s jewels are kept. She broke into an Irish brogue as she said the last bit, and that I guessed was her natural tongue. she laid a hand on the side of my face, thanks for being jealous though, me lad.

I should collect my lure I said, which made her smile; it was such an enticing smile at that. We started to head back and watched as it dangled in front of us flickering. With a far off look in her green eyes, Katrina spoke as if in deep though.

 

The daughter of the house, she has a bracelet on like the one you have dangling, a bracelet of diamonds that I had taken a fancy to, wishing it had been in the safe along with the rest of the ladies of manors jewelry. I knew who she was talking about. The one in green taffeta I asked? Aye lad, that’s the one. Actually her necklace would be just as easy, and worth more I said. Just then her bright green eyes gleamed, Give me about a half an hour, she told me, we will put your little lure to use again. She noticed my hesitation, don’t worry luv she said soothingly placing a gloved hand to my cheek, no longer was it sparkly with its stolen bracelet and rings. I’ll leave my purse with you, can’t very well be carrying it around now can I? I nodded my consent, my mind burning with the thoughts she had alluringly placed there.

  

She turned, and then hesitated; turning back she said I probably should not go back in naked luv. I smiled, reaching in I pulled out her necklace and placed it around her throat. With a little gasp she blurted, so it was you, I was wondering who and when it had happened. It’s not the first time I’ve had me jewels lifted, but it’s a bloody annoyance to have to let them get away with it, crawls under my skin to have pretend not to notice so that I don’t draw any attention to me self before making my move to steal the posh ones jewels.

 

But you, mister, I never felt as much as a prickling. I was ready to assume my pretties had been a victim of a broken clasp this time. I gave a little nod in acceptance. That wasn’t exactly a compliment lad, she said in what I hopped was a subtle jest. Just last summer some clumsy bugger slipped of me earrings, my favorite pearls, as we were danc… she stopped, seeing the guilt in my eyes. Men! As thieves you are all of the same skin she spat out angrily, or attempted to sound angry, for the look in her eyes to me she wasn’t. I best be off, before I change me mind about out little endeavor.

 

With that she swirled around on her heels, and started off, but not before turning and giving me an extremely coy look of interest. As she swirled back around I heard her say loud enough for my ears, I’ll learn me self to be a picker of pockets, see how males like to be taken advantage of in their vulnerabilities! She nodded to herself as she said it. Then suddenly she stopped, than twirled on her heels, her gown swirling enticingly along her figure. Looking me dead in the eye she said, “Vie ne est pas d'attendre que la tempête , mais d'apprendre à danser sous la pluie” !

 

What does that mean? I questioned in a low voice, perplexed.

 

Maybe, Mon Cheri, someday I will tell you… And with that she turned on her heel, her gown once again swirling about, and went, determinedly, swishing her way back up the path. I just watched. I had never heard anyone speak French with an Irish Brogue and I had found it to be rather provocative!

 

I watched as she swished and swayed her way back through the hedge and regained the path leading back to the manor. Her plan was simple; she would lead the daughter of the house to my corner and as she had done, go out with her to look at the swinging charm. I would then make my appearance, rob both ladies of their finery, and telling the daughter to wait until I released her friend, walk off with Katrina as a hostage, and we would both take off and make good our escape. A simple plan, so simple it should actually work.

 

So, there I was. Holding a purse with a small fortune in jewels, my pocket full of more jewels worth an additional pretty farthing, and her charms were wearing off by her leaving. And my thieving nature coming back, reawakened from the spell they had been under!

 

The devil of my conscious crept out on my shoulder, the angel markedly absent from the other.

 

Look mate, she may not be all she seems, and possibly has some other game in mind. Maybe she does have a male confidante helping her out… and was actually on her way to fetch him. He said in my inner ear. And, after all, you took her diamonds twice, didn’t ye now? Do you really think shell forgive you of that me lad?

 

And there is no honor amongst thieves, as the saying goes, he added as a closing argument...

 

I rolled it over in my mind…I could leave, absconding with it all, book a cruise to the states or down under where there lay untried fertile grounds to ply my trade. Not to mention working over my fellow passengers aboard the cruise ship while they attended the fancy affairs that were always going on, or so the brochures always seemed to show……

 

Then In the distance I caught a wisp of Katrina’s long silvery gown. She was coming, and not only with the daughter of the manor, but also with a spare. For I could see a purple coloured gown swishing alongside with the prey in rustling green taffeta.. I watched as all three ladies, resplendent with the rippling fiery gems they all possessed, came up the path, gowns sweeping out , shimmery from the now misty distance.

 

The thought of making my escape with all the loot continued to haunt me, there was still time now to take off without notice, or I could rob all three, and leave with purple silk as my hostage, Katrina would not be able to say anything on chance of giving up her part of the game, or I could just be a good lad and sty with the script that Katrina had written. Take a chance, roll the dice and believe that she was all she had me believing she could ever be.

 

As they came closer I knew my time was running out. The thoughts of just looking out for myself kept coming up playing the devil with my conscience as the precious seconds ticked away…

 

No honor amongst thieves…

What will it be, old boy I challenged myself,

What will you have it be?........

To see what his decision ultimately was, and the eventual path it led to, see the album question answered)

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Life is not about waiting out the storm, but about learning to dance in the rain.

Vie ne est pas d'attendre que la tempête , mais d'apprendre à danser sous la pluie .

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Courtesy of Chatwick University Archives

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Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.

 

Today Lettice’s oldest childhood chum, Gerald Bruton is visiting. Although also a member of the aristocracy Gerald’s fate is very different to Lettice’s. He has been forced to gain some independence from his rather impecunious family in order to make a living. Luckily his artistic abilities have led him to designing gowns from a shop in Grosvenor Street, a business which, after promotion from Lettice and several commissions from high profile and influential society ladies, is finally beginning to turn a profit. The two are taking tea from Lettice’s beautiful and avant-garde Royal Doulton Falling Leaves tea set whilst they wait for Edith, Lettice’s maid, to prepare a light cold luncheon for them. Across the low black japanned coffee table between them is spread a long papyrus* scroll featuring beautiful and wonderfully colourful Egyptian hieroglyphic writing and images. Arriving in a wooden box also marked with hieroglyphs, it is one of two Lettice has in her possession.

 

“There really are remarkable, Lettice darling!” Gerald enthuses as he runs his hands with reverence across the fine fibrous paper. “And in such condition for something so ancient.”

 

Lettice looks across the table at her friend and laughs loudly.

 

“What’s so funny?” Gerald asks in innocent surprise, glancing up from the scroll at Lettice.

 

“Oh Gerald, you silly thing!” Lettice giggles, raising a dainty hand with prettily manicured nails to her smiling lips. “This isn’t a real Egyptian papyrus scroll! I know some of my clients can afford to have real papyri on their walls, but this is a very well executed imitation!”

 

“An imitation?” Gerald’s eyes grow wide. When Lettice nods, he goes on, “Well, it certainly is an excellent copy, I’d never have known.”

 

“It came from Lancelot de Vries antiques and curios shop in the Portobello Road**.” Lettice elucidates.

 

“Ahh,” Gerald murmurs, settling back in the comfortable white upholstered rounded back of Lettice’s tub armchair. “That explains it then. No wonder it’s so good. Old Lottie,” He casually uses a female nickname*** instead of the antique dealer’s real name, indicating that he knows Mr. de Vries well. “Is so incredibly talented that he could have made a successful career out of forging old masters, if he hadn’t decided to tow the straight and narrow and become an antiques and objet d'art dealer.”

 

“Gerald!” Lettice gasps.

 

“It’s true! Just look at the quality in this piece.” He waves his hand expansively towards the unfurled scroll. “I could have sworn it was the genuine article.”

 

“Well, I don’t know about you, Gerald darling, but I don’t fancy spending the money on a real papyrus scroll from ancient Egypt just to hang on a wall until this Tutmaina**** craze ends.”

 

“So, this isn’t for you then, Lettice darling?”

 

“No. I’m taking this on approval from Mr. de Vries, who just received a shipment of them. He’s selling them in his shop. They race out the door quicker than you can say knife, apparently. I’m going to show these to Mrs. Hatchett and see whether she would like an Egyptian themed reception room.”

 

“Knowing Dolly Hatchett as well as I do, and knowing just how much she admires you and your taste,” Gerald opines. “I think something more oriental,” He waves his hands around Lettice’s drawing room, indicating to her Chinoiserie furniture, her Japanese screen and her Chinese ceramics. “Will appeal to her more.”

 

“But she gave be carte blanche to decorate her suite of rooms as I see fit, Gerald.”

 

“Then why are you asking her for her opinion?” Gerald looks at his best friend with a knowing look. He doesn’t wait for a reply from her. “I’ll tell you why. Because you know that even though she made you that promise, she will want to be consulted. This is a bigger project than ‘The Gables,” He refers to the Hatchetts’ Sussex house in Rotherfield and Mark Cross which Lettice partially redecorated in 1922. “This is all about promoting Charles Hatchett’s power and influence as an MP. Dolly won’t want to set a foot wrong. She knows she can’t afford to as much for her own sake as for Charles’. She has been a social pariah, relegated as the pretty flibbertigibbet Gaiety Girl***** from the chorus line of ‘Chu-Chin-Chow’****** who dared to look beyond her class and marry a successful banker with political aspirations. Now she is a successful MP’s wife, so she needs to show that she has impeccable taste, even if the taste really isn’t her own.”

 

Lettice sighs heavily. “You’re right Gerald darling. It’s true”

 

“Of course I’m right.” Gerald picks up his cup of tea and takes a sip from it. “However, I also know that as such an arbiter of what is fashionable, if you told Dolly Hatchett that you wanted to paint her reception room violent purple with green polka dots because it was the height of fashion, she’d let you, even if she hated it.”

 

“You know I would never do that to anyone, Gerald darling.” Lettice takes up her own cup of tea from the edge of the table which houses her telephone and a vase of fresh red roses from her fiancée, Sir John Nettleford-Hughes.

 

“I know.” he assures her.

 

The movement near to them, brings Gerald’s attention to the roses. Nodding at them, he asks, “Are those from your intended?”

 

Lettice looks at the fat blooms with their rich red velvety petals which are dispersed with fluffy white pompoms of Gypsophila****** and considers them, as if seeing them for the first time. “Yes.” she replies rather flatly.

 

Old enough to be her father, Lettice is engaged to be married to wealthy Sir John Nettleford-Huges. His engagement to Lettice came as something of a surprise to London society as he was always considered to be a confirmed old bachelor, and according to whispered upper-class gossip intended to remain so, so that he might continue to enjoy his dalliances with a string of pretty chorus girls of Lettice’s age and younger. After an abrupt ending to her understanding with Selwyn Spencely, son and heir to the title Duke of Walmsford, Lettice in a moment of both weakness and resolve, agreed to the proposal of marriage proffered to her by Sir John. More like a business arrangement than a marriage proposal, Sir John offered Lettice the opportunity to enjoy the benefits of his large fortune, be chatelain of all his estates and continue to have her interior design business, under the conditions that she agree to provide him with an heir, and that he be allowed to discreetly carry on his affairs in spite of their marriage vows. He even suggested that Lettice might be afforded the opportunity to have her own extra marital liaisons if she were discreet about them.

 

“What of them?” Lettice goes on.

 

“Oh nothing.” Gerald remarks dismissively with an air of laissez-faire********. “I was just wondering.”

 

“I’ve known you all my life, Gerrald darling.” Lettice shakes her head and looks seriously at her best friend. “You were doing more than wondering. What is it? Come on. Spit it out!”

 

“Well, it’s just that when I was visiting Cyril at Hattie’s recently, Hattie showed me a book that had belonged to her mother. It’s called Floral Symbolica*********. She thought I might like to read it because it discusses the meaning of flowers, so that when I gave Cyril a bouquet of blooms, it would express my love for him.”

 

“And?” Lettice smiles.

 

“Well, dark red roses like those, are supposed to represent a more sophisticated and serious affection than a bright red rose, expressing eternal love, loyalty, and a heartfelt devotion.”

 

“And?”

 

“Oh look!” Gerald sighs sadly. “There’s no nice way for me to tell you this, but Cyril is friends with Paula Young, who I know is your intended’s latest conquest.”

 

Lettice’s heart begins to race at the mention of the young and pretty West End actress’ name. With a slight tremor, she lowers her teacup back into its saucer. “I know that too, Gerald darling. You know I do. John has been very forthright and honest about that facet of his life, and I know he won’t stop.”

 

“Well, Cyril knows about it too, and of course he knows through me that you and Sir John are engaged to be married.”

 

Lettice gulps as a shudder runs through her and she feels the blood drain from her face. “But how does he know about Miss Young and John?”

 

“Through Miss Young herself, I assume. From what Cyril’s mentioned about her, she is something of a parvenu, and she is rather indiscreet about her discretions. He told me as much the other night when I stayed with him at Hattie’s.”

 

“Oh no!” Lettice gasps, raising her hands to her cheeks which suddenly feel hot to the touch as they fill with embarrassed colour. “But Cyril is coming to Sylvia’s weekend house party now, and so are John and I! Oh Gerald!” Tears well in her eyes and threaten to spill over.

 

Gerald immediately thrusts his cup noisily back into its saucer and leaps up with sudden urgency. He scuttles around the low coffee table and wraps his arms around Lettice, pulling her to his chest as the tears start to spill from her sparkling blue eyes.

 

“Don’t worry, dear Lettice.” Gerald assures her. “I’ve spoken to him. I’ve told Cyril in no uncertain terms that he can’t mention that he knows anything about Sir John’s and Miss Young’s liaison to anyone, especially at the party, and that he is to keep mum**********.”

 

“Oh Gerald!” Lettice sobs. “John promised me that he would never do anything to shame me in public as far as his…” She intakes a large gulp of air. “His dalliances.”

 

“Well,” Gerald says in defence of Sir John, gently chuckling sadly as he strokes Lettice’s back comfortingly through her French blue cardigan***********. “I suppose he doesn’t imagine that you would ever know a poor West End musician who just happens to be a friend of sorts with his latest flame.”

 

Lettice sniffs and pulls a clean and freshly laundered lace trimmed handkerchief from the left-hand sleeve of her cardigan and dabs at her eyes and nose, as Gerald crouches down in front of her, so that he can look her squarely in the face.

 

“He won’t, will he?” She sniffs again.

 

“Cyril?” Gerald asks. When Lettice nods shallowly he goes on, “No of course he won’t. I know that he may not be the most discreet of people, but I really have made it perfectly clear to him how important it is that he doesn’t let on about any of it. For all his faults, he likes you very much, Lettice, and he’d never want to embarrass or hurt you.”

 

“Well, if you’re sure.” Lettice gulps again.

 

“Of course I am, Lettuce Leaf!” he replies, using his childhood nickname for her, which he knows she hates, in order to try and break her moment of worry by introducing a note of levity.

 

“Don’t call me that Gerald! You know how I hate it!” she replies.

 

“That’s better.” Gerald smiles. “Now dry those eyes. Luncheon will be ready soon, and you don’t want to sit at the table all red and puffy eyed, do you?”

 

Just at that moment, Lettice’s Bakelite************ and chrome telephone starts to ring and jangle on the small side table next to her.

 

BBBBRRRINGGG!

 

Both Lettice and Gerald glance with startled eyes at it in alarm, as though it has overheard their conversation and has an opinion of its own to express.

 

BBBBRRRINGGG!

 

Lettice sniffs and takes a deep intake of breath. “I suppose it would be rather awful of me to expect Edith to answer the telephone when I’m right alongside it, wouldn’t it?”

 

“Beastly, Lettice darling!” Gerald replies.

 

BBBBRRRINGGG!

 

“You know how she feels about that ‘infernal contraption’,” Gerald goes on quoting Lettice’s maid’s name for the telephone. “If you must irritate her, please do so after she’s served us luncheon. I don’t know about you, but I can barely boil a kettle, never mind cook a meal.”

 

BBBBRRRINGGG!

 

Gerald pauses and considers something. “Then again, maybe you should make her answer it. She might get so upset by having to do so, that she’ll hand in her notice.”

 

BBBBRRRINGGG!

 

Lettice sniffs again and dabs her eyes for good measure as she goes to lift the receiver.

 

“And, if she does give notice,” Gerald quickly adds as Lettice grasps the receiver. “I’ll hire Edith as a seamstress for my atelier. Her talents as a needlewoman are wasted here.”

 

“Not a chance!” Lettice replies defiantly. “She’s coming with me, not going with you.”

 

BBBBRRR…

 

Lettice picks up the handset out of its gleaming chrome cradle mid ring, causing the shrill jingle of the telephone to stop and quickly peter out.

 

“Mayfair 432,” Lettice announces in clearly enunciated syllables.

 

As Gerald returns to his tub chair, he can hear a deep male voice resonate from somewhere down the line, recognising them as Sir John’s tones, not that he can make out the words. The shock of knowing the man he and Lettice were just talking about is on the other end of the telephone call makes him freeze for a moment as a shiver runs up his spine.

 

“John darling!” Lettice exclaims almost a little too jovially. “How are you?” She listens to the response. “Oh, that’s good. Are we still having dinner at Le Bienvenue************* tonight?” She listens again. “Oh hoorah. Jolly good.” Sir John’s voice speaks again at the other end of the line, his tone serious. At length he pauses. “Oh no! Oh, poor Clemance. I must pay a call upon her then and do some sick visiting.” Sir John speaks up urgently. “Oh very well John. I won’t.” He speaks again. “No of course, John darling. You’re quite right. I don’t want to get sick before Sylvia’s party. I’ll telephone the Regent Street Flower Box directly and arrange for Monsieur Blanchet to send her a lovely bunch of flowers to brighten her day. You know Gerald and I were just talking about the meaning of flowers, John darling.” Sir John speaks again. “Yes. Yes, he’s here. We’re about to have luncheon, so I can’t speak for too long.” Lettice listens again. “Yes… yes… what about the party?” Sir John’s voice drones on, too indistinctly for Gerald to hear anything, and he feigns that he is not paying attention by looking down at his well manicured nails and rubbing them as if trying to buff them with the pads of his fingers on the opposite hand. “Oh.” Lettice sighs and her shoulders slump. “You want to ask her then do you?” Sir John speaks again. “Oh you did, John dear?” He mumbles something else. “She did? That was very kind of Sylvia to consider me like that.” There is more indistinct chatter at the other end of the telephone line. “Well,” Lettice tries to muffle a resigned sigh. “Well, if you feel you must, then I suppose you must.” Sir John’s voice seems to perk a little and he sounds less dour. “No. No, I don’t mind. Of course I don’t, especially if it will make you happy, dear John.” Gerald can see a light dim in her eyes. “Very well. Alright…” she falters for a moment and gulps. “I’ll see you at eight then.” she adds a little too brightly. “Yes, goodbye then.”

 

Lettice hangs the handset back on the cradle, the action causing the telephone to utter a single echoing ting as she does. She stares ahead of her, but her look is blank, suggesting that she sees nothing.

 

“What was that all about?” Gerald asks in concern as he looks at Lettice’s suddenly wan face.

 

“It was just John.” Lettice replies flatly.

 

“Yes, I could gather that, Lettice darling. What did he say?”

 

“Clemance is sick in bed with a nasty head cold. The doctor has told her to stay abed and keep warm to avoid it going to her lungs, so she won’t be coming to ‘The Nest’ now.”

 

“Oh, that is a pity. I was so looking forward to meeting Sir John’s sister. You speak of Mrs. Pontefract so highly.”

 

“So now, since Clemance isn’t coming,” Lettice continues, speaking as though she hasn’t heard Gerald talk. “He’s decided to invite Paula Young to come and spend the weekend with us.”

 

“What?” Gerald sits bolt upright in his seat.

 

“Yes. He asked Sylvia if she would mind, since she knows about his affair with Miss Young, and he feels that the rarified artistic company in attendance will be quite fine with his little arrangement of having both his fiancée and his mistress in the same house at the same time.”

 

“And what did Sylvia say to that?”

 

“Well, Sylvia is a bit of a free spirit when it comes to the sanctity of marriage, and matters of love and lust. She said she didn’t mind if he did ask Miss Young to join him, but only under the proviso that John asked me and got my permission first.”

 

“Which you evidently granted.” Gerald replies in breathless disbelief.

 

“I did.” Lettice replies flatly.

 

“You could have said no, Lettice. You should have said no!”

 

“Oh, how could I, Gerald darling?”

 

“Very simply.” he replies, folding his arms akimbo over his muted toned Fair Isle jumper************** and looking sternly at his best friend. “No darling, I’m sorry but you can’t invite that trollop*************** you share your bed with most nights to Miss Fordyce’s party.”

 

“I can’t Gerald darling.” Lettice defends.

 

“Well, I think you can. Just telephone him back right now. Where is he? Belgravia? His club?”

 

“He’s at home in Belgravia.”

 

“Well then, telephone him immediately and just tell him you’ve had a change of heart, and that no, Miss Young can’t come to the party at ‘The Nest’.”

 

“It’s not that simple, Gerald darling.” Lettice tries to explain, attempting to speak whilst using all her power to prevent herself from crying again. “This engagement is complex. John doesn’t want jealousy in his relationships. He certainly doesn’t want a jealous wife. He told me from the start that he has no intention of desisting from his dalliances, and that if I said yes to his proposal, I must accept him on those terms. He’ll be furious if I tell him no, now. It will be like me flying in the face of everything I agreed to when I said yes to him.”

 

“You don’t actually have to go through with it, you know, Lettice darling?”

 

“What? Going to stay with Sylvia at ‘The Nest’? I can’t Gerald darling! She’s throwing this party to show off her new feature wall. I’m her guest of honour. I can’t possibly withdraw so late in the piece, and with no real reason to decline. It would be rude, and undignified.”

 

“No, Lettice!” Gerald replies dourly. “I mean, you don’t have to go through with the marriage to Sir John. You are perfectly entitled to break it off, if you feel so inclined.”

 

“And risk the fury of Mater?” Lettice looks at Gerald in alarm and shakes her head vehemently. “No thank you! I think I’d rather put up with a hundred Miss Youngs than Mater in a black mood over my lack of securing an eligible husband! All the time she is investing in wedding plans. If it is all for naught, she will be fit to be tied! She sent me a clipping from the Wiltshire Times and Trowbridge Advertiser**************** a few weeks ago.”

 

“Why? What did it say?”

 

“Jonty Hastings is getting married.”

 

“Howley Hastings is getting married?” Gerald guffaws, using the childhood nickname given Jonty Hastings by he, Lettice and the other children of the big houses in the district who used to play with him, because of his propensity to cry whenever he was teased about anything. “Who’d want to marry Howley Hastings?”

 

“Sarah Frobisher apparently, according to the article.” Lettice replies.

 

“Sarah Frobisher? Sarah Frobisher?” Gerald ruminates, rolling the name around his mouth and off his tongue as he considers where he has heard that name before. “Wasn’t she that rather horsey looking niece of the Miss Evanses?” He refers to the two elderly genteel gossipy spinster sisters who live in Holland House, a Seventeenth Century manor house, in Glynes village at the foot of Lettice’s and his family estates in Wiltshire. “You know, the gawky one with protruding teeth and spectacles who always laughed nervously whenever a boy spoke to her. Her father was in trade*****************. Yes, the Frobisher Clothing Mills in Trowbridge.”

 

“Yes, I think that’s her.”

 

“Well, those two deserve each other then, if you ask me, if she’s still as gawky now as she was when we were children. They can dance the Wibbly Wobbly Walk***************** together into the happily ever after, and good riddance to them both.”

 

“Oh! That’s cruel, Gerald. Don’t be beastly!” Lettice chides her best friend sharply. “You aren’t a spiteful person.”

 

“Well,” Gerald mumbles contritely. “You have to admit that Howley can’t dance. Think about your poor trampled feet the last time you had to dance with him. Why on earth did Sadie send you a clipping about Howley marrying that Frobisher creature?”

 

“I think to highlight the fact that another one of the few eligible bachelors she was able to find to invite to her 1922 husband hunting Hunt Ball for me is no longer eligible. Pickings are slim.”

 

“All I am saying, Lettice darling,” Gerald goes on kindly. “Is that, slim pickings or not, if you’re not going to be happy in the end, I happen to think that marrying Sir John is a mistake. An unhappy and loveless marriage isn’t worth it.”

 

“Now don’t you start too, Gerald!” Lettice quips. “I have enough problems with Margot and Dickie trying to dissuade me from marrying John. Even Cilla seems lukewarm about the idea, and John’s almost like an honourary uncle to her.”

 

“I’m not!” Gerald defends, holding up his palms. “I only said ‘if’. If has a great deal of meaning and implication for such a tiny word, you know. For example: if however, you think you will be happy with your lot in life with Sir John, marry him. As I have said to you before, I cannot even marry the person I love.”

 

“Oh yes, how foolish of me.” Lettice replies. “Forgive me for wallowing.”

 

“There is nothing to forgive, Lettice darling. You’re my best friend! I only want you to be happy.”

 

“Thank you, Gerald darling.” Lettice replies gratefully. “Meanwhile, now you can tell your Cyril that he won’t need to bite his tongue and keep his own counsel quite so much, if Miss Young is going to be at ‘The Nest’. John will be all over her, I’m sure. And if he isn’t, from what I can gather from John, she certainly will be.”

 

“Well,” Gerald sighs. “That will certainly enliven what is already going to be a rather lively weekend, I suspect.”

 

At that moment, Edith walks into the drawing room.

 

“Luncheon is served, Miss.” she announces with a bob curtsey.

 

“Thank you, Edith.” Lettice says gratefully.

 

“Yes, thank you Edith.” Gerald adds. “It’s good of you to feed me at such short notice.”

 

“Oh, it’s no trouble, Sir.” Edith replies with a beaming smile, thankful at Gerald’s recognition of her efforts. “It’s always a pleasure to have you at Cavendish Mews.”

 

As Lettice and Gerald both stand, and Edith turns to go, Gerald stops her. “By the way, Edith?”

 

“Yes Sir?” she asks, stopping and looking back at him.

 

“How’s your sewing going?”

 

“My sewing, Sir?” Edith asks, perplexed.

 

“Gerald!” Lettice cautions her friend.

 

“Yes, your frock making. Have you made anything new lately?”

 

“Oh,” Edith replies with a happy sigh and a smile. “It’s going well, thank you for asking, Sir, especially since Mrs. Boothby’s so…” She quickly swallows the word son, as she isn’t sure whether Lettice knows that the old Cockney charwoman****************** who comes to Cavendish Mews from Poplar every few days to help Edith with the harder housekeeping jobs, has a son, never mind a disabled one. “Found me a sewing machine. Now I don’t have to go to my Mum’s to do any sewing or alterations. I can do them here in my room.”

 

“Very good Edith. And have you made anything lately?” Gerald persists. “A new frock, perhaps?”

 

“Oh no, Sir.” Edith replies. “But I did make myself a lovely new white blouse with a Peter Pan collar******************* and black buttons a month ago now. I wear it on my days off quite a bit at the moment.”

 

“Well,” Lettice says breezily with a sigh. “That’s all very interesting, Edith, but Mr. Bruton and I have held you up and away from your chores long enough. You may go. We can serve ourselves since it’s just a casual cold luncheon for two today, so there is no need for you to wait table.”

 

“Yes, Miss. Very good, Miss.” Edith bobs another curtsey and scuttles away through the adjoining dining room and disappears through the green baize door that leads to the service area of the flat.

 

“Spoil sport.” Gerald mutters.

 

“I told you, Gerald.” Lettice repeats. “Edith isn’t for turning. When I get married, she’ll be coming with me.”

 

“I don’t think she’ll fancy being buried in the Wiltshire Downs, Lettice darling.”

 

“Perhaps not, Gerald darling, but I think she’ll quite enjoy an elevated position as housekeeper of John’s and my Belgravia townhouse after I become Lady Nettleford-Hughes.”

 

“You are positively Machiavellian sometimes, Lettice darling.” Gerald concedes in defeat as he proffers Lettice his arm.

 

The two walk out of the Cavendish Mews drawing room and into the dining room, where a cold luncheon of galantine of fowl******************** with a fresh garden salad await them on the dining room table.

 

*Papyrus paper is called papyrus, named after the Cyperus papyrus plant from which it is made. The word "papyrus" itself refers to both the plant and the writing material created from its stems. Documents written on this material are also referred to as papyri.

 

**Portobello Road Market in Notting Hill, London, is a world-famous street market known for its antiques, vintage clothing, and diverse food stalls. It's one of London's oldest markets, dating back to the Nineteenth Century. The market stretches along Portobello Road, from Westbourne Grove to Golborne Road, and is particularly vibrant on Saturdays.

 

***Historically, queer slang emerged as a way for queer people to communicate discreetly, forming a sense of community and shared identity. Using female names or terms could be a way to signal belonging within this coded language. It was also used for protection, allowing homosexual men to talk about one another discreetly in public without the implication of homosexuality and the repercussions that came with it as a criminal act.

 

****Tutmania was a worldwide media frenzy and cultural obsession that followed the 1922 discovery of King Tutankhamun's tomb by Howard Carter and his team, sparking a popular fad for ancient Egyptian art, design, and culture in the Western world and a resurgence of national pride in Egypt itself. Egyptian motifs appeared on clothes, jewellery, hairstyles, fabrics, furniture and in architecture, and it helped solidify the Art Deco movement of design with its clean lines. The discovery of the tomb itself was one of the most significant archaeological finds of the Twentieth Century, made the previously lesser-known pharaoh one of the most famous figures in history.

 

*****Gaiety Girls were the chorus girls in Edwardian musical comedies, beginning in the 1890s at the Gaiety Theatre, London, in the shows produced by George Edwardes.

 

******‘Chu Chin Chow’ is a musical comedy written, produced and directed by Oscar Asche, with music by Frederic Norton, based on the story of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. It was the most popular show in London’s West End during the Great War. It premiered at His Majesty’s Theatre in London on the 3rd of August 1916 and ran for 2,238 performances, a record number that stood for nearly forty years!

 

*******Gypsophila, known commonly as Baby’s Breath, is a genus of flowering plants in the carnation family. They are native to Eurasia, Africa, Australia, and the Pacific Islands. Turkey has a particularly high diversity of Gypsophila, with about thirty-five endemic species. Some Gypsophila are introduced species in other regions.

 

********Laissez-faire is the policy of leaving things to take their own course, without interfering.

 

*********‘Floral Symbolica; or, The Language and Sentiment of Flowers’ is a book written by John Ingram, published in London in 1870 by Frederick Warne and Co. who are perhaps best known for publishing the books of Beatrix Potter. ‘Flora Symbolica; or, The language and Sentiment of Flowers’ includes meanings of many species of flowers, both domestic and exotic, as well as floral poetry, original and selected. It contains a colour frontispiece and fifteen colour plates, printed in colours by Terry. John Henry Ingram (November the 16th, 1842 – February the 12th, 1916) was an English biographer and editor with a special interest in Edgar Allan Poe. Ingram was born at 29 City Road, Finsbury Square, Middlesex, and died at Brighton, England. His family lived at Stoke Newington, recollections of which appear in Poe's works. J. H. Ingram dedicated himself to the resurrection of Poe's reputation, maligned by the dubious memoirs of Rufus Wilmot Griswold; he published the first reliable biography of the author and a four-volume collection of his works.

 

**********We usually associate the term “to keep mum” with the Second World War, when it was a byline used on posters to dissuade gossip and the inadvertent sharing of vitally confidential for the war effort with fifth-columnists. However, the word "mum" meaning to be silent, not to speak, first appeared in William Langland's Fourteenth Century poem Piers Plowman, though the full phrase "mum's the word" gained popularity in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth centuries. The word itself is onomatopoeic, derived from the "mmm" sound made by a closed mouth.

 

***********French blue is a sophisticated, deep blue colour that is characterized by its muted quality, subtle violet or grey undertones, and a rich, smoky depth, reminiscent of classical French design, the Mediterranean sky, or the deep blue uniforms of historical French soldiers.

 

************Bakelite, was the first plastic made from synthetic components. Patented on December 7, 1909, the creation of a synthetic plastic was revolutionary for its electrical nonconductivity and heat-resistant properties in electrical insulators, radio and telephone casings and such diverse products as kitchenware, jewellery, pipe stems, children's toys, and firearms. A plethora of items were manufactured using Bakelite in the 1920s and 1930s.

 

*************Le Bienvenue is the former name of L'Escargot, which is London's oldest French restaurant. Georges Gaudin opened Le Bienvenue at the bottom of Greek Street in Soho in 1896. He became famous for serving snails, and was reportedly the first in England to do so. Le Bienvenue even featured a snail farm in its basement, a unique talking point for customers. In 1927, two years after this story is set, Gaudin moved to larger premises at 48 Greek Street, the current location, in a Georgian townhouse built in 1741 which was once the private residence of the Duke of Portland and a pastoral getaway in what was then a rural part of London. When he moved, patrons of the restaurant encouraged him to rename it after his most popular dish, leading to the name L'Escargot.

 

**************Fair Isle is a traditional knitting style used to create patterns with multiple colours. It is named after Fair Isle, one of the Shetland Islands. Fair Isle knitting gained popularity when the Prince of Wales (later King Edward VIII) wore Fair Isle jumpers in public in 1921. Traditional Fair Isle patterns have a limited palette of five or so colours, use only two colours per row, are worked in the round, and limit the length of a run of any particular colour.

 

***************The term "trollop" was introduced in the early 1600s, with the earliest known evidence of its use appearing in the writings of George Wither in 1615. The term, a noun, was already established in the English language by that time.

 

****************The Wiltshire Times and Trowbridge Advertiser is weekly newspaper which serves the towns of west Wiltshire, including Trowbridge. Printed in Trowbridge it was established in 1854 by Benjamin Lansdown, as The Trowbridge and Wiltshire Advertiser. Benjamin was born in Trowbridge and was the son of a woollen mill employee but this was not the path he wished to follow and he was apprenticed as a printer alongside Mr John Sweet. He bought a hard press and second-hand typewriter before starting his own newspaper, along with establishing his own stationery shop in Silver Street around 1860. He moved the business into 15 Duke Street around 1876. Duke Street became home to the impressive R. Hoe & Co printing press that allowed printers to use continuous rolls of paper, instead of individual sheets, to speed up the process and countless copies of the newspaper rolled off the press at Duke Street for many years. The newspaper was based there for more than one hundred years and the business remained within the Lansdown family for generations until it was finally sold in the early 1960s. Over the years in had various names including The Trowbridge and North Wiltshire Advertiser from 1860 until 1880, The Wiltshire Times and Trowbridge Advertiser from 1880 until 1949, The Wiltshire Times between 1950 and 1962 and The Wiltshire Times & News between 1962 and 1963. It then became known as the Wiltshire Times – the banner it holds today. In 2019, the Wiltshire Times and its sister paper the Gazette & Herald moved to offices on the White Horse Business Park in North Bradley, stating that its Duke Street building was no longer fit for purpose. These offices later closed in 2020 as the three Covid-19 pandemic lockdowns struck. The Wiltshire times is still serving the local community both in a paper and an online format with a small team of journalists who passionately believe in the value of good trusted journalism and providing in-depth local news coverage.

 

****************The term to be “in trade” most commonly means engaging in commercial activity, such as regularly buying, selling, or offering goods or services as part of a business. It can also refer to the goods themselves (stock-in-trade) kept by a business for sale, or a characteristic skill or behaviour consistently used in a particular line of work. Used as a slur by the British upper-classes, “in trade” implied that because a man had to work for his living, even if he was a steel magnate or something equally successful, he was not as good as, and would never be a gentleman, who traditionally did not work to earn money. Money and money talk was considered vulgar by the upper-classes. A man who was “in trade” would never marry the daughter of an aristocrat or member of the landed gentry.

 

*****************‘They All Walk the Wibbly Wobbly Walk’ is a song written by Paul Pelham and J. P. Long sung by the famous British music hall performer Mark Sheridan in 1912. It was a song often sung during the Great War, and associated by the British general public with the survivors of the conflict who trembled due to shell shock or had misshapen walks thanks to injuries inflicted upon them.

 

******************A charwoman, chargirl, or char, jokingly charlady, is an old-fashioned occupational term, referring to a paid part-time worker who comes into a house or other building to clean it for a few hours of a day or week, as opposed to a maid, who usually lives as part of the household within the structure of domestic service. In the 1920s, chars usually did all the hard graft work that paid live-in domestics would no longer do as they looked for excuses to leave domestic service for better paying work in offices and factories.

 

*******************A Peter Pan collar is a style of clothing collar, flat in design with rounded corners. It is named after the collar of Maude Adams's costume in her 1905 role as Peter Pan, although similar styles had been worn before this date. Peter Pan collars were particularly fashionable during the 1920s and 1930s.

 

********************A galantine of fowl is a traditional French cold dish made from a deboned fowl, typically chicken, which is stuffed with a forcemeat (a mixture of ground meats and other ingredients), then rolled into a cylindrical shape, and poached in stock. It is served cold, often coated in a clear, gelatinous aspic, and can be elaborately decorated with ingredients like pistachios, truffles, and vegetables.

 

This 1920s upper-class drawing room is different to what you may think at first glance, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The boxed and unboxed Egyptian papyrus scrolls you see on Lettice’s black japanned coffee table are 1:12 size miniature made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Famed for his books, Ken Blythe also made other miniature artisan pieces from paper, including these scrolls, which can be fully wound out to reveal Egyptian hieroglyphics. To make a pieces as authentic as this makes them true artisan pieces. Most of the Ken Blythe books I own that he has made may be opened to reveal authentic printed interiors. In some cases, you can even read the words of the titles, depending upon the size of the print! I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection. What might amaze you even more is that all Ken Blythe’s opening books are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago, and a great many pieces from his daughter from his estate. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter.

 

Lettice’s tea set sitting on the coffee table is a beautiful artisan set featuring a rather avant-garde Art Deco Royal Doulton design from the Edwardian era called “Falling Leaves”.

 

Lettice’s drawing room is furnished with beautiful J.B.M. miniatures. The Art Deco tub chairs are of black japanned wood and have removable cushions, just like their life sized examples.

 

The fireplace is a 1:12 miniature resin Art Deco fireplace which is flanked by brass accessories including an ash brush with real bristles.

 

The carpet beneath the furniture is a copy of a popular 1920s style Chinese silk rug, and the geometric Art Deco wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, which inspired the whole “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.

4/5.5 ft, Oil on Canvas

 

Where is my Stain, if my Veil is Removed?

by Shaheen Sultan Dhanji

 

cms.boloji.com/index.cfm?md=Content&sd=Poem&PoemI...

  

(For: Faiza -- who dares to touch the depth into the rooted earth.)

 

I have come to my beloved city

in Pakistan,

all by myself -- in the mind's chambers

in absolute silence.

I wish the roaring waves of the floods

would be still for a while, in expectancy!

For I have come here

to listen to the murmur of a little child --

when she was wounded and drowned into a cosmic wave, dead.

I want to sustain the silence of the grave

and hear her agony.

We cannot betray matter --

demands of elucidations.

Perhaps she called for me before her final breath?

I want to be near her,

even belatedly.

I imagine I shall be in company of countless displaced men, women and children,

Who once had an identity --

A humming-bird they watched and listened to each evening.

Those left behind seek solace in a wounded tent,

and, like a shooting star,

they too, shall disappear, in the cloud's palm.

 

I listen to their silent voices

under the August sky, countless human limbs and many bones

float in the flood residence.

Listen! Even the vast Margalla Hills at a distance weep at the season's flow.

So, let me just wait

in absolute solitude and silence,

for I am sure I shall be able to hear

the lamenting of thousands

who shall be turning in their uneasy graves

when they realise that

the living,

didn't come to their succour, in the swamp.

Are we counting their absence

inside our room with closed curtains?

So, Hush! To the glorified leaders with

empty pages of speeches, the pristine bell of play!

Hush the thundering flow of water.

Squatting by the riverbank, an infant raises his tiny palm,

reciting his homelessness to me,

hidden secrets rising in his hollow eyes.

Where is my stain, if my veil is removed?

 

August 14 ,2010

 

Giotto di Bondone (born 1267 or 1276 - died 1337)

Scenes from the Life of Joachim [1304-06]

No-2 Joachim among the Shepherds, detail

Fresco, 200 x 185 cm

Cappella Scrovegni (Arena Chapel), Padua

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Sad and introverted, Joachim arrives among the shepherds. Using the contrast between the lively sheep, the dog that greets him, and the knowing glances of the shepherds, Giotto elucidates his state of mind in the voluminous, closed form of the saint.

www.wga.hu/html_m/g/giotto/padova/1joachim/joachi21.html

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Abstract: Sustainability has the potential to provide a holistic framework that can bridge the gap that is often found between socio-economic justice and environmental discourses. However, sustainability and sustainability education have typically accepted the prevailing socio-economic and cultural paradigm. It is my aim in this paper to demonstrate that a truly holistic and visionary sustainability (education) framework ought to demand radical and critical theories and solutions- based approaches to politicize and interrogate the premises, assumptions, and biases linked to the dominant notion of sustainability. If we are to envision and construe actual sustainable futures, we must first understand what brought us here, where the roots of the problems lie, and how the sustainability discourse and framework tackle—or fail to tackle—them. To do this is to politicize sustainability, to build a critical perspective of and about sustainability. It is an act of conscientização (or conscientization), to borrow Paulo Freire’s seminal term, of cultivating critical consciousness and conscience. In lieu of the standard articulation of politics as centralized state administration, ‘critical sustainability studies’ is based on a framing that gives prominence to a more organic, decentralized engagement of conscientious subjects in the creation of just, regenerative eco-social relations. It illuminates the ideological and material links between society, culture, and ecology by devoting particular attention to how knowledge and discourse around and across those realms are generated and articulated. I believe that future scholarship and activism in sustainability and sustainability-related fields would benefit immensely from dialoguing with this framework.

 

The assumption that what currently exists must necessarily exist is the acid that corrodes all visionary thinking.

 

– Murray Bookchin, The Meaning of Confederalism, 1990

   

Introduction: Why Sustainability (and Sustainability Education)?

 

Despite conflicting opinions over what the terms ‘sustainability’ and its variant ‘sustainable development’ actually mean, the framework of sustainability has gained a lot of traction in the last two decades. Its Western origins can be traced back to the writings of Western philosophers and seminal environmentalists like John Locke and Aldo Leopold (Spoon, 2013). Redclift (2005) asserts that sustainability as an idea was first used during the ‘limits to growth’ debates in the 1970s and the 1972 UN Stockholm Conference. Perhaps the most commonly quoted definition of sustainable development is that of the World Commission on Environment and Development (WCED) who states that “sustainable development is development that meets the needs of the present without compromising the ability of future generations to meet their own needs” (WCED, 1987, p. 43).

 

Sustainability has the potential to provide a holistic framework that can bridge the gap that is often found between socio-economic justice and environmental discourses. After all, recent scholarship indicates that the issue of environmental quality is inevitably linked to that of human equity (Morello-Frosch, 1997; Torras & Boyce, 1998; see Agyeman, Bullard, & Evans, 2002), and thus they need to be thought about together. I hold that an actual sustainable society is one where wider matters of social and economic needs are intrinsically connected to the dynamic limits set by supporting ecosystems and environments.

 

Sustainability education has emerged as an effort to acknowledge and reinforce these interrelationships and to reorient and transform education along the lines of social and ecological well-being (Sterling, 2001). By being rooted in whole systems thinking, i.e. “the ability to collectively analyze complex systems across different domains (society, environment, and economy) and across different scales (local to global)” (Wiek, Withycombe, & Redman, 2011, p. 207), sustainability education strives to illuminate the complexities associated with the broad, problem-oriented, solution-driven nature of sustainability (Warren, Archambault, & Foley, 2014). If we are to devise cultural systems that are truly regenerative, this “novel” brand of education urges the teaching of the fundamental facts of life by stewarding learning communities that comprehend the adaptive qualities of ecological patterns and principles (Stone, 2012). Sustainability education highlights the centrality of ‘place’ as a unit of inquiry to devise reciprocal—and thus sustainable—relationships where one nourishes and is nourished by their surrounding social and ecological milieus (Williams & Brown, 2012).

 

Additionally, sustainability and, as a consequence, sustainability education are future- oriented and therefore demand ‘futures thinking’: the ability to assess and formulate nuanced pictures of the future vis-à-vis sustainability predicaments and sustainability problem-solving schemes (Wiek, et al., 2011). In a nutshell, futures thinking suggests that we need to imagine the potential ramifications of past and current human activities by critically analyzing them today if we are to conceive of new, more sustainable futures (Warren et al., 2014). Future studies can therefore help people to pursue their “ontological vocation” as history makers (Freire, 1993, p. 66) and to (re)claim their agency as a means of creating the world in which they wish to live (Inayatullah, 2007).

 

However, sustainability and sustainability education have typically accepted the prevailing socio-economic and cultural paradigm despite their apparent holistic intent and(theoretical) efforts to reconcile the three pillars of sustainability—equity, environment, and economy. Whether intentionally or not, they have promoted curative solutions instead of reflecting new, critical mindsets that can actually generate meaningful socio-cultural innovation by naming and discursively dismantling the systems and processes that are the root causes of the complex problems we face. And, as Albert Einstein once put it, “no problem can be solved from the same consciousness that created it.”

 

It is my aim in this paper to demonstrate that a truly holistic and visionary sustainability (education) framework ought to demand radical (of, relating to, or proceeding from a root) and critical (of, relating to, or being a turning point) theories and solutions-based approaches to politicize and interrogate the premises, assumptions, and biases linked to the dominant notion of sustainability.

 

Troubling (Monolithic) Sustainability

 

In order to be able to unveil and critically analyze the propositions and suppositions of what I call ‘the monolithic sustainability discourse,’ it is fundamental to start with the etymology of the word ‘sustainability’ itself. The operationalization of the term can be problematic for it implies prior judgments about what is deemed important or necessary to sustain. While some of these judgements might resonate with an array of environmentalists who perceive that the health of the planet and the well-being of our descendants are being—or are already—compromised by certain human activities, various other perilous premises and assumptions are generally left unacknowledged as a result of the depoliticized character of the dominant discourse of sustainability. Lele and Norgaard (1996) have put forward three questions that can help us to uncover and think more critically about these presuppositions in and across various contexts and scales: (a) what is to be sustained, at what scale, and in what form?; (b) over what time period, with what level of certainty?; (c) through what social process(es), and with what trade-offs against other social goals? (p. 355).

 

By building on these critical questions and clarifications, we can better understand the nuances of how the destructive and thus unsustainable ethos of dehumanization and socio- ecological exploitation may inform and permeate normative notions and articulations of sustainability. Yet, this is only plausible if sustainability is politicized. To politicize is to engage the existing state of socio-political affairs, to problematize that which is taken for granted, to make explicit the power relations that are an innate part of everyday life and experience (Bailey & Gayle, 2003). In an attempt to comprehend why sustainability is typically depoliticized we ought to examine briefly its discursive history.

 

The term ‘sustainable development’ became a part of the policy discourse and almost every day language following the release of the Brundtland Commission’s report on the global environment and development in 1987 (Redclift, 2005). While their definition included a very clear social directive, its human and political dimensions have been largely overlooked amongst references to sustainability, which, due to its environmental origins (Lele & Norgaard, 1996) and neoliberal focus on rights rather than needs (Redclift, 2005), have typically focused on bio- physical, ecological issues (Vallance, Perkins, & Dixon, 2011). Social sustainability, which has been conceptualized in response to the failure of the sustainability approach to engender substantial change (Vallance et al., 2011), is the least developed of the three realms and is frequently framed in relation to ecological and/or economic sustainability (Magis & Shinn, 2013). I assert that the reason for this is twofold: first and foremost, the sustainability agenda was conceived by international committees and NGO networks, think tanks, and governmental structures (Agyeman et al., 2002), which makes it a top-down approach and, consequently, less likely to recognize and address themes such as structural poverty, equity, and justice (Colantonio, 2009); and second, because social sustainability is made subservient to economics and the environment, it fails to examine the socio-political circumstances and elements that are needed to sustain a community of people (Magis & Shinn, 2013).

 

Sustainability, since its inception as a Western construct, has been progressively viewed as a crucial driver in economic development and environmental management worldwide. Nevertheless, as delineated above, its almost universal focus on reconciling the growth model of economics and the environment has served to covertly depoliticize the dominant discourse and therefore render it uncontentious if not intrinsically benign. It is worth further exploring the dynamics of depoliticization for I believe they are at the radicle of the issues sustainability attempts to address in the first place.

 

Bailey and Gayle (2003) identify a series of acts that can be associated with the dynamics of depoliticization, three of which can be observed when examining the monolithic sustainability discourse: (a) eschewing political discourse; (b) removing from the discourse the recognition that social advantages are given to certain constituent groups; (c) not disclosing underlying viewpoints or values. These processes are enmeshed with intricate ideological instances that help to mask the systemic and/or structural nature of a social or cultural matter (Bailey & Gayle, 2003). Further, as Foucault (1984) has stated, “power is everywhere” (p. 93) and it is embodied and enacted in discourse and knowledge. Hence, possessing the analytical tools to name and unpack these discursive ideological formations and power dynamics ought to be a prerequisite to the development of more holistic and critically conscious understandings and applications of sustainability.

 

Politicizing Sustainability

 

If we are to envision and construe actual sustainable futures, we must first understand what brought us here, where the roots of the problems lie, and how the sustainability discourse and framework tackle—or fail to tackle—them. To do this is to politicize sustainability, to build a critical perspective of and about sustainability. It is an act of conscientização (or conscientization), to borrow Paulo Freire’s seminal term, of cultivating critical consciousness and conscience (Freire, 1993). It is a call for the necessity to highlight, problematize, and disrupt what I have termed ‘the ethos of unsustainability’ and its interrelated ideologies of dehumanization and exploitation. Ultimately, to embrace a stance that fails to scrutinize the sources of degradation and exploitation is to uphold the power relations that sustain oppressive structures (Freire, 1993; Perry, 2001). I assert that only by delving into the origins of the ‘ethos of unsustainability’ can we really devise sustainability paradigms that are capable of promoting significant socio-cultural transformation.

 

To comprehend the contours of the predicaments that loom on our horizon as well as their premises and logics, we must go back over 500 years in history to 1492, the year that marks the beginning of the current colonial era and the globalization of the European colonial imaginary (Tuck and Yang, 2012). It is important to note that my intention in doing so is not to provide a sweeping, all-encompassing description of this genealogy/historical process, but rather, to simply name, connect, and emphasize the ideological systems and patterns that have been conceptualized and reconceptualized so as to sustain the ethos of unsustainability and its exploitative power structures. After all, as Freire (1993) has indicated, “to name the world is to change it” (p. 88).

 

(World) Capitalism: A Technology of European Colonialism

 

According to the Oxford English Dictionary (OED), the word ‘colonialism’ stems from the Roman word ‘colonia,’ which meant ‘settlement’ or ‘farm.’ The OED describes it as:

 

… a body of people who settle in a new locality, forming a community subject to or connected with their parent state; the community so formed, consisting of the original settlers and their descendants and successors, as long as the connection with the parent state is kept up.

 

In Colonialism/Postcolonialism, Ania Loomba (2001) points out that this definition fails to link the word ‘colonialism’ to its ideologies of conquest and domination as it eschews any testimonial about those peoples who were already living in the places where the colonies were formalized. She offers another, more nuanced definition that hints to the processes of conquest and control of other peoples’ land and resources (Loomba, 2001, p. 2):

 

The process of ‘forming a community’ in the new land necessarily meant unforming or re-forming the communities that existed there already, and involved a wide range of practices including trade, plunder, negotiation, warfare, genocide, slavement and rebellions.

 

Loomba (2001) illuminates that while European colonialisms from the late fifteenth century onwards included a miscellany of patterns of domination and exploitation, it was a combination of these patterns that generated the economic disparity required for the maturation and expansion of European capitalism and industrial civilization; thus, capitalism demands the maintenance of colonial expansion in order to flourish. In spite of colonialism not being a monopoly of capitalism because it could be—and has been—utilized by so-called ‘socialist’ or ‘communist’ states as well (Dirlik, 2002), capitalism is a technology of colonialism that has been developed and re-structured over time as a means of advancing European colonial projects (Tuck and Yang, 2012). Colonialism was the instrument through which capitalism was able to reach its status as a global, master frame (Loomba, 2001).

 

A distinction between the three historical modes of colonialism might help to further elucidate the interrelationships between capitalism and colonialism.

 

Theories of coloniality as well as postcolonial theories typically acknowledge two brands of colonialism: external colonialism, which involves the appropriation of elements of Indigenous worlds in order to build the wealth and the power of the colonizers—the first world—, and internal colonialism, the bio- and geo-political management of people and land within the borders of a particular nation-state (Tuck and Yang, 2012). A third form, settler colonialism, is more suitable to describe the operationalization of colonialisms in which the colonizers arrive and make a new home on the land (Tuck and Yang, 2012). The settler objective of gaining control over land and resources by removing the local, Indigenous communities is an ongoing structure that relies on private property schemes and coercive systems of labor (Glenn, 2015).

 

In these processes of colonialism, land is conceived primarily if not exclusively as commodity and property, and human relationships to the land are only legitimized in terms of economic ownership (Tuck and Yang, 2012). These combined colonialist ideologies of commodification and private property are at the core of the various political economies of capitalism that are found in today’s globalized world (O’Sullivan, 2005). By relying on the appropriation of land and commodities through the “elimination of the Native” (Wolfe, 2006, p. 387), European colonialisms wind up restructuring non-capitalist economies so as to fuel European capitalism (Loomba, 2001). The globalization of the world is thereby the pinnacle of a process that started with the formation of the United States of America as the epitome of a Euro- centered, settler colonialist world power (Quijano, 2000).

 

Inspired by the European colonial imaginary, which transforms differences and diversity into a hierarchy of values (Mignolo, 2000) as well as by economic liberalism, which erases the production and labor contexts from the economy (Straume, 2011), the capitalist imaginary constitutes a broad depoliticization that disconnects its ‘social imaginary significations’ from the political sphere (Straume, 2011). Given that capitalism is imbued with European diffusionist constructs (Blaut, 1989), namely ‘progress,’ ‘development,’ and ‘modernity,’ the depoliticization of this now globalized imaginary is required not only to maintain the resilience of capitalism as a master frame (Straume, 2011), but also to camouflage its interconnectedness to European colonial systems.

 

Antonio Gramsci’s (1971) study and articulation of the conceptualization and operation of ideologies proves fruitful in terms of understanding how the capitalist imaginary has been used to facilitate processes of globalization that benefit European colonialisms. He argued that ideologies are invaluable when manufacturing consent as they are the means through which certain ideas and meanings are not only transmitted, but held to be true (Gramsci, 1971). Hence, hegemony, the power garnered through a combination of ideologies and coercion, is attained by playing with people’s common sense (Gramsci, 1971) and their lived system of meanings and values (Williams, 1976; see Loomba, 2001). Since subjectivity and ideology are key to the expansionist capitalist endeavor and its interrelated logics of commodification and domination (Gramsci, 1971), it becomes necessary to summon and dissect the colonial ideas and belief systems that have served and continue to serve as its conduits. This can in turn help us to interrogate the value systems and mental models that directly and/or indirectly inform the dominant notion of sustainability (education).

 

White Supremacist, Heteropatriarchal State Capitalism

 

As devised and practiced by Europeans and, later, by other Euro-centered powers such as the United States, colonial ideologies of race and racial structures smooth the way for capitalist production (Wolfe, 2006). The Eurocentric construct of race as “a system of discrimination, hierarchy and power” (Olson, 2004, xvii, p. 127-128) conveys colonial experience and infuses the most essential realms of world power and its hierarchies (Quijano, 2000). The state and its many institutions are particularly pivotal in sustaining these racialized ideologies that are obligatory for the development and continuance of capitalism (Loomba, 2001).

 

Slavery, as the foundation of notions of race and capitalist empire and one of the pillars of white supremacy, marks the concepts of ‘progress’ and ‘development’ as white (Painter, 2010) and renders black people as innately enslaveable, as nothing more than private property (Smith, 2010a). Within the context of the United States, the forms of slavery can and, indeed, have changed—from chattel slavery, to sharecropping, and more recently, to the prison industrial complex, which is still grounded in the premise that black bodies are an indefinite property of the state (Smith, 2010a)—yet, slavery as a logic of white supremacy has persisted (Smith, 2010a). The other two pillars of white supremacy are genocide, which expresses the need for Indigenous Peoples to always be disappearing, and orientalism, which builds on Edward Said’s influential term to explain how certain peoples and/or nations are coded as inferior and, therefore, a constant threat to the security and longevity of imperial states (Smith, 2010a).

 

The pillars of white supremacy may vary according to historical and geographical contexts (Smith, 2010a). Nonetheless, the centering of whiteness is generally what defines a colonial project. The formation of whiteness, or white identity, as a racialized class orientation stems from political efforts by capitalist elites and lawmakers to divide and conquer large masses of workers (Battalora, 2013). White identity is perhaps one of the most successful colonial and capitalist inventions since it “operates as a kind of property … with effects on social confidence and performance that can be empirically documented” (Alcoff, 2015, p. 23). It is a very dynamic category that can be enlarged to extend its privileges to others when white supremacist social and economic relations are jeopardized (Painter, 2010). It sustains itself, at least partially, by evading scrutiny and shifting the discursive focus to ‘non-whites’ (Silva, 2007). Whiteness is to be made invisible by remaining the norm, the standard, that which ought not to be questioned.

 

Capitalism therefore depends on and magnifies these racial hierarchies centered on whiteness. And, since race is imbricated and constructed simultaneously with gender, sexuality, ability, and other colonial categories—a conceptualization that serves to obscure white supremacy in state discourses and interventions (Kandaswamy, 2012)—, it is crucial to investigate the other ideologies that also shape class formation processes.

 

Heteropatriarchy, the combination of patriarchal and heterosexual control based on rigid and dichotomous gender identities—man and woman—and sexual orientations—heterosexual and homosexual—where one identity or orientation dominates the other, is another building block of colonialism. Patriarchy is employed to naturalize hierarchical relations within families and at a larger, societal level (Smith, 2010b). Similarly, heteronormativity paints heterosexual nuclear-domestic arrangements as normative (Arvin, Tuck, and Morrill, 2013) and is thus the bedrock of the colonial nation-state (Smith, 2010b). These social and cultural systems that configure heteropatriarchy are then apprehended as normal and natural whereas other arrangements or proclivities are demonized and perceived as repulsive and abnormal (Arvin et al., 2013). Heteropatriarchy is directly linked to colonial racial relations as it portrays white manhood as supreme and entitled to control over private property and to political sovereignty (Glenn, 2015). This indicates that the process of producing and managing gender frequently functions as a racial project that normalizes whiteness (Kandaswamy, 2012).

 

The laws and policies that were designed to institutionalize the formation of whiteness and white supremacy demonstrate that race, class, and gender are intertwined systems that uphold, constitute, and reconstitute each other (Battalora, 2013). The state and its ideological institutions are therefore major sites of racial struggle (Kandaswamy, 2012); they are responsible for devising and constantly revising the rationale that guides a white supremacist, heteropatriarchal settler colonialism grounded in the need to manufacture collective consent. These discourses are rooted in a pervasive state process that combines coercive state arbitration with societal consent by articulating the ideologies that link racial structure and representation as an effort to reorganize and distribute resources according to specific racial lines (Ferguson, 2012).

 

Despite increasing globalizing neoliberal urges toward deregulation and privatization, capitalism is still enabled and supported by the state. Its ‘ideological apparatuses,’ the state institutions and ideologies that enable and support the classist structure of capitalist societies (Althusser, 1989), is still fundamental to the expansion of capitalist enterprises; the nation-state is capitalism’s atomic component. The neoliberal state has utilized innovations in methods of social discipline and control along with legal practices to facilitate the process of economic globalization (Gill, 1995). Yet, all these schemes that involve retention of power through dominance and manufactured consent are rooted in divide and conquer strategies that cause those in subservient positions in society to engage in conflicts with one another (Hagopian, 2015). The interlinked logics and ideologies of white supremacy and heteropatriarchy conceived by state capitalism serve to spur dissent between potential opponents and thereby further stratify socio-economic classes. This prevents them from building a unified basis that can present a tangible threat to the status quo (Hagopian, 2015). Colonial and neocolonial powers have repeatedly deployed this stratagem to not only increase their geographical reach, but also to normalize and standardize the economic growth model of capitalism.

 

Colonialism is hence not just an ancient, bygone incident. The ideologies and processes delineated above demonstrate that it has remained very much in effect within contemporary capitalist and neoliberal frameworks (Preston, 2013). It then becomes critical to investigate how the dominant sustainability discourse may or may not collude in these schemes so that we may conceive of holistic blueprints that beget positive socio-ecological transformation.

 

Sustainability and Colonialism: Contradiction or Conscious Ideological Maneuver?

 

By unearthing what I believe are the roots of the predicament that sustainability attempts to heal, namely the ethos of dehumanization and exploitation rooted in divide and conquer systems, it becomes easier to analyze how the colonial political economy of capitalism may conserve hegemonic ideologies that pervade social relations and knowledge generating processes.

 

Yet, these ideologies and knowledge schemes have been given minimal attention in sustainability (education) scholarship. Even though some academics have contributed to the generation of a more critical comprehension of the interrelationships between capitalism, environmental degradation, and socio-economic justice (see Cachelin, Rose, & Paisley, 2015; Martusewicz, Edmundson, & Lupinacci, 2011; Pellow & Brulle, 2005), this major blindspot in linking sustainability to the colonial imaginary and its legacies prompts the following questions:(awhy are critiques of colonialism and capitalism so infrequent in the sustainability literature?: (a) why are critiques of colonialism and capitalism so infrequent in the sustainability literature?; and (b) how does that impact the discourse of sustainability?

 

I assert that, in spite of calls for paradigm shifts, the dominant disancourse of sustainability in the West embodies a transnational, globalized standard of economic growth. The promise that economic development can eradicate or at least alleviate poverty and hunger in a sustainable way reflects some of the same goals and values of the optimistic ‘ecological modernization’ concept and perspective, which suggest that the development and modernization of liberal capitalism result in improvements in ecological outcomes (Buttel, 2000). The neoliberal, capitalist overtones of sustainable development not only expose the contradiction inherent in the term, but they also serve to further commodify nature (Cock, 2011). This neoliberalization of nature, which has recently gained a lot of attention in the corporate world and academia under the lexicon of ‘ecosystem services,’ alienates people from their physical surroundings and therefore reinforces the society-nature divide. In short, the sustainability discourse has been appropriated by the capitalist master frame and has transformed most if not all social and ecological relations into financial ones. In lieu of addressing social and environmental justice issues, this form of “green” or “natural” capitalism is responsible for deepening both social and environmental inequalities (Cock, 2011).

 

Since sustainability (education) is (supposed to be) a praxis-oriented framework that symbiotically combines thought and action for transformative, liberatory ends, it ought to embrace this critique of colonial capitalism and the subsequent neoliberalization of the political economy if it is to oppose and resist hegemonic ideologies in its multiple and diverse manifestations. After all, whether intentionally or not, what matters in the end is that those discourses of sustainability that do not take a stance against colonialism and capitalism only serve to preserve them and the status quo. An understanding of these interdependent systems allows for the development of critical sustainability dialogues and actions that can actually promote the paradigmatic shifts required to redress the socio-cultural problems that are at the heart of the environmental crises. Thus, sustainability can and should be reframed to suggest a process of personal, social, and cultural conscientization that is environmentally sound, i.e. one that follows ecological principles and patterns, instead of upholding the dehumanizing, exploitative, and paradoxical ‘development as growth’ standard of global capitalism.

 

The following section combines the analyses and critiques presented in the preceding (sub)sections into a single, cohesive, and holistic framework, and further elucidates the distinctions between monolithic sustainability and critical sustainabilities.

 

The Framework of Critical Sustainability Studies

 

[T]he political cannot be restricted to a certain type of institution, or envisioned as constituting a specific sphere or level of society. It must be conceived as a dimension that is inherent to every human society and that determines our very ontological condition.

 

- Chantal Mouffe, The Return of the Political, 2005

 

‘Critical sustainability studies,’ while not exactly novel in the sense that it draws on principles, concepts, and positions that are foundational to other frameworks and fields—more specifically, critical Indigenous and ethnic studies, postcolonial theory, queer theory, feminist theory, crip theory, social ecology, political ecology, and cultural studies—, presents itself as an alternative to the sustainability theories and conceptualizations that have failed to engage a truly intersectional analysis of dominant sustainability and environmental discourses, policies, and practices. Its primary objective is to rearticulate sustainability as it has the potential to provide a more holistic conception of conscientization that can bridge the gap between social and economic justice and environmental sustainability.

 

The framework indicates a crucial double political intervention: to put sustainability and critical theory in conversation; to embed sustainability and ecology into critical theory and vice- versa. As I discussed in the previous section, sustainability has, for the most part, become a hegemonic and, therefore, highly problematic discourse that refuses to transform the complex ideologies and systems that undergird the ethos of unsustainability and the current socio- ecological crises. On the other hand, critical theory, which seeks to extend the consciousness of the human self as a social being within the context of dominant power structures and their knowledge management operations (Kincheloe, 2005), could benefit from incorporating ecological principles and the sustainability notion of ‘place’ into its analytical toolbox. After all, I am as interested in localizing critical knowledge—without disconnecting it from global matters and realities—as I am in putting forth more critical and radical views of sustainability. Hence, this framework brings together what I believe are some of the most robust and cutting edge theories and methodologies to facilitate the deconstruction of the questionable ideologies that guide Western epistemologies like (hegemonic) sustainability.

 

Critical sustainability studies encourages sustainability scholars and/or educators to move from a defined methodology of problem-solving to the more critical moment of calling something into question (Freire, 1993). By rooting it in conscientization, I propose an orientation to sustainability and sustainable development that politicizes and reveals it as an agenda, discourse, and knowledge system that ought to be contested and rearticulated so that it can incorporate and critically engage with emancipatory understandings of power and power relations. Furthermore, by problematizing and closing the culture-nature divide, it can lay down the groundwork for the paradigmatic changes necessary to heal widespread colonialist alienation from the wider ecological community and to create visions of deep sustainabilities that can engender ecologically sound socio-cultural transformation.

 

I stress that the notion of sustainabilities is necessary if we have the intention of opposing and displacing the monolithic, top-down and now universalized sustainability agenda, which I refer to as ‘big S Sustainability.’ After all, much like science (Parry, 2006), sustainability is not the property of any one culture or language. There are different ways of seeing and knowing sustainability, so it is time to pluralize it in the literature and discourse. This simple act is an extraordinary intervention in itself because within the colonial imaginary “sustainability” means “Western sustainability.” By centering “novel” understandings of sustainability that are concerned with the specificities of geo-political, cultural, and historical contexts and power relations, sustainability scholars and educators can create theories and visions of sustainability that can lead to the development of more just, place-based cultures and social ecologies.

 

Critical sustainability studies as I envision it is a consciousness-raising exercise that is particularly useful in educational settings. It indicates methodology as much as content. This praxis-oriented framework can help teachers and students alike to develop consciousness of freedom and to acknowledge authoritarian socio-cultural tendencies that have toxic environmental ramifications. The next section provides an overview of its tenets, the educational philosophy that underpins it, as well as the four preliminary methodological principles and examples of related pedagogical interventions that directly inform the framework and its liberatory, decolonizing ambitions.

 

Epistemological Position, Preliminary Methodological Principles, and Pedagogical Interventions for Conscientization

 

The epistemological, methodological, and pedagogical implications of critical sustainability studies are rooted in an ethical and political vision, one that is found in the vast majority of social ecology and political ecology projects: that “the domination of nature by man [sic] stems from the very real domination of human by human” (Bookchin, 2005, p. 1). In other words, we cannot overcome the ecological crisis unless we rid ourselves of the colonial ideologies of domination and hierarchy that permeate all forms of systemic and systematic exploitation and dehumanization. While much easier said than done, critical sustainability studies seeks to conceptualize this vision by building on the following tenets:

 

That sustainability and sustainability education are not neutral, they either advance or regress justice and Critical sustainability studies strives to promote justice and ecological regeneration.

That an analysis of power is central to understanding and engendering positive socio-cultural Critical sustainability studies strives to be conscious of power relations and to identify power inequalities and their implications.

That it is crucial to foreground the sociocultural identities and experiences of those who have been (most) oppressed – people of color, people with disabilities, queer and transgender people, the working class and the economically poor, undocumented immigrants, Critical sustainability studies acknowledges that just, healthy cultures and societies can only be cultivated if we examine the circumstances that cause and maintain socio-economic marginalization.

That positive socio-cultural transformation comes from the bottom up. Critical sustainability studies emphasizes and advocates a collective and decentralized approach to sustainable change.

And, finally, that the human community is inherently a part of rather than apart from the wider ecological world. Critical sustainability studies affirms that this relational ethos serves as the epistemological foundation of novel, dynamic worlds where healing and justice are at the front and center of our cultural and ecological identities.

In addition to delineating critical sustainability studies as a praxis that is founded on the above tenets, the framework is guided by a critical constructivist epistemological position. Strongly influenced by Freirean pedagogies and the Frankfurt school of thought, critical constructivism endeavors to dissect the processes by which knowledge is socially constructed; in other words, what we know about the worlds we live in always demands a knower and that which is to be known, a contextual and dialectical process that informs what we conceive of as reality (Kincheloe, 2005). This epistemological position problematizes and extends constructivism by illuminating the need for both teachers and students to develop a critical awareness of self, their perspectives, and ways their consciousness have been shaped and/or reshaped by society (Watts, Jofili, & Bezerra, 1997). Critical constructivists attempt to comprehend the forces that construe consciousness and the ways of seeing and being of the subjects who inhabit it (Kincheloe, 1993, as cited in Watts et al., 1997). This political, counter- Cartesianism, and anti-objectivist philosophy (Kincheloe, 2005) is central to an emancipatory approach to sustainability and sustainability education, and is, therefore, at the root of the critical sustainability studies conception of holistic conscientization.

 

www.susted.com/wordpress/content/critical-sustainability-...

Science rocks!

Good to see Feynman on there.And even better -- Rosalind Franklin getting credit for her work in elucidating the structure of DNA (rather than the cliched and over-credited W&C).

Big Chicken has just dropped the news that he is to be the "observer" over Cooper's Town's fashion habits. As he tend to crash peoples partys, show up in their houses uninvited and just randomly be everywhere, he's the right chick for the job.

 

While he submerged into deeper elucidations, the three girls zoomed out and had little thoughts of their own.

 

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1. Beulah: Hmm, I wonder what Grape would think about this. He loves photography, though abstract and I would basically be a model. Not that I'm into him or anything..

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2. Helen: Amazing how fast his beak is moving, how does he even do it? Looking at those puffy cheeks makes me hungry. We should really just eat him and stop dancing around about it. I'll have Vince shoot him.

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Kelly: A summer wedding would be perfect. Koncedra and I are almost done planning it and Derrick will be dashing in a white tux oooh but my dress.... my dress must be found and bought asap. Can't wait!!!

   

Turn of a Friendly Card

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Based on a true adventures of a rogue active in the waning years of the 1930’s as discovered in the criminal archives of Chatwick University.

 

Act 1

I begin my tale in the present…

 

That afternoon a soiree was given as part of the purchase price of the tickets for the annual Autumn Charity Ball to be presented later that evening at the manor’s great house. Since I was alone, I just went mainly for the free food and to rub my elbows with the wealthy guests who would be in happy attendance there, and at the Ball. I was alone, but certainly not bored. There was a game I enjoyed playing to pass the time at these affairs that entailed scoping out by their dress and day jewels worn, those ladies whom would be most likely to be wearing the better costumes and sparklers that evening. It often proved to be a most beneficial insight into the actions and mannerisms of the very rich. I walked amongst the cheerful guests, eying one here ( a lady in satin and pearls) and another there( a high spirited girl with a diamond pin at the throat of her frilly silken blouse). It was as I was passing the latter that the friend she had been talking too (dressed like a vamp), bumped up against me. I caught her, steadying her as they both giggled. I didn’t mind, for the lassie’s too tight satin sheath tea dress had been an enticement to hold, and the gold bracelet that had been dangling from her gloved wrist had been a pleasure to observe. I kissed her gloved hand, rings glittering, as I apologized gallantly for my clumsiness. Her eyes were bright, almost as bright as the twin necklaces of gold that hung swaying down pleasantly from between her ample bosom. I left them, moving on to greener pastures, and it was very green, all of it….

 

It was then that I detected another pretty lassie. It was her long fiery red hair with falling wispy curls that first captured my attention. She was wearing a fetchingly smart white chiffon party dress that commanded me to acquire a closer examination. She appeared to be a blithe spirit, seemingly content with just being by herself and roaming about with casual elegance, the extensive grounds of the manor proper. I began to discreetly follow her at a distance. Although she did not wear any jewelry, her manner and the eloquent way she moved is what attracted me the most. It would be very interesting to seek her out later that evening and she what she would have chosen to decorate herself with. I followed her as she sojourned into the depths of a traditional English garden with a maze of lushly green trimmed 8 foot high hedges

 

As I strolled through the hedgerows in her wake I allowed my mind to wander its own course. Suddenly I straightened up, my reverie broken by an epiphany of sorts. I allowed myself to grin and the lady whose enchantment I was swollen up in, at that moment turned, and seeing my beaming smile assumed it was for her and gave me a rather cute nod of her head. I answered in same, as I headed en route to a nearby stone garden bench to allow my thoughts to think through themselves.

 

But before I go on, allow me the pleasure to sojourn and reminisce about an incident that occurred several years prior:

*******************

I was still working unaided in those days, travelling on to a new next quest that would take me just outside of Surrey.

I had just purchased my train ticket and had seen my luggage safe on board when I decided to rest in the lounge, it being some 45 minutes before allowed to enter personally aboard. Being so early the lounge was almost deserted, only one other occupant. I assumed she was waiting for someone on an incoming train due to the fact she carried no luggage. She was obviously well off, well dressed in satins and lace, and her jewels shone magnificently in the dim lights. Especially one of her rings, noticeably lying loosely around a finger, it sparkled with an expensive brilliance. I had seen one like it in a tiffanies store, worth almost 250 pounds. But she did not appreciate the show her jewelry was putting on under the lounge lights, for she was fast asleep.

 

I circled around her, aiming for a seat next to her, eyeing her and her possessions carefully. I noticed her purse had fallen off her lap and lay on the floor. An idea popped into my head, and I picked the purse up, and looked around carefully, before placing my plan into action. But I was thwarted as an older, matronly lady was spotted heading our way. I slipped the purse into my jacket and moved off before I was noticed. Of course she came in and took the empty seat across form the sleeping princess, and soon busied herself with knitting. As the older lady had sat down, not quietly, the wealthy lady stirred waking up at the noise. I went into a corner and sat, waiting. The two ladies soon fell into conversation; the minute’s ticked by excruciatingly slow. Soon I noticed we even had more company.

He was a lad of only fourteen, but with a devilish look about him that marked him a kindred spirit to meself, and his quick eyes were darting about taking it all in as he stood outside the paned glass window.

 

It was as the first announcement of boarding the train that I saw a chance for opportunity to strike.

The older lady folded up her knitting and clinching her bag, bid adieu to her new friend,( befuddled a little by the old ladies constant stream of gossip), and headed to the train. I was twenty steps ahead of her and was standing behind the youth as she left the lounge. I tapped him on the shoulder; he looked around at me suspiciously, and then caught sight of the shilling I was holding in front of his nose. I quickly whispered a few words into his ear on how he could earn it, and his grin spread as he bought into my story. I still held onto the shilling as he darted around and inside the lounge. I watched as he ran up behind the lady, circling her, then running in front of her he tripped over her leg, as she helped him up, her hand with the ring reaching down, he turned and spat onto the wrist and sleeve of that hand, than standing he ran away. Running alongside me, I handed him the shilling in passing as he ran off, disappearing in to the street.

 

I went inside and approached the astonished lady, as she was looking for her purse to get a handkerchief, confused as to its absence, while she held up her soiled hand( ring glittering furiously) in utter disbelief. I approached, catching her attention by the soothing words I uttered to her. I took her hand, unbelieving with her at just had happened, and I as I apologized for the youth of today I produced my own silk handkerchief and starting with her silky sleeve, began to wipe it off, continuing my tirade of displeasure and contempt at what had just occurred to the dear lady as I did so. As I finishing wiping her down, ending with her warm slender fingers, I kissed them, just as the last boarding announcement came over (perfect timing!) I let her go, explaining that I must catch my train. I turned and without looking back made the train just as it was letting off steam before chugging off.

 

I gained my private carriage just as the train began to lurch away. It wasn’t until after the train began its journey that I casually removed my silk handkerchief from my pocket and unwrapped it carefully, admiring up close the shimmering, valuable tiffany ring that was lying inside. I pocketed it, and then remembered the purse. I took it out and examined its contents: coin and notes equaling a handsome amount, a gold (gilded) case, embroidered lacy handkerchief, small silver flask of perfume, and ( of all things)a large shimmering prism , like one that would have dangled from a fancy crystal chandelier. A prism?, I questioned with interest as I examined it. It was pretty thing, about the circumference of a cricket ball, but shaped like a pendulum, it shimmered and glittered like the most precious of jewels. Why she had it in her purse? I couldn’t guess, and I saw no value in it, so I pocketed it and allowed it to leave my mind.

 

As I settled into my seat I began to think of the lad I had just met, I had been right on the money as far as his eagerness for mischief. Actually he reminded me of myself at that age, and I wondered if that lad with the shifty eyes would also turn out to follow the same course I had explored.

 

Which Begs the question, what had I turned out to become. And since I’m still reminiscing

I’ll give little background material about me, hopefully I don’t come across as being too conceited about my self-taught skills..

 

I had never been one to take the hard road, and even at a young age I was always looking for angles, or short cuts to make some money.

Once, while watching for some time a street magician and his acts. I observed a pick pocket working the crowd. He approached a pair of well-dressed ladies in shiny clothes, and standing behind them bided his time and then lifted a small pouch from one velvet purse, and a fat wallet from a silken one, then he moved on. Now both ladies were wearing shiny bracelets, one with jewels. I thought that he could have realized a greater profit if he had nicked one or both of the bracelets first, than try for the contents of their purses. The bracelets’ alone would have realized a far greater profit than what he lifted from their purses. It further occurred to me that by mimicking some of the sleight of hand tricks and misdirection that the magician was using on his audience, it could be accomplished. A hand placed on the right shoulder and as the lady turned right, whisk off the bracelet from her left wrist, and excuse oneself, that sort of thing.

 

So, I practiced (on my sisters, who proved to be willing accomplices to “my game”) and learned to pick their purses and pockets. I than moved onto their jewelry, starting by lifting bracelets and slipping away rings, before advancing to the brooches, necklaces and earrings they were wearing. After I was satisfied at my skill level, I went out and worked the streets. Sometimes using my one sister who was also hooked on what I was doing as a willing partner.

But I found myself still not being satisfied, in the back of my mind I thought there had to be a more lucrative way to turn a profit.

 

I’d found my answer when an attractive lady in a rustling satin gown zeroed in on me while I was “visiting” a ballroom. She was jeweled like a princess right up to the diamond band she wore holding up her piles of soft locks like a glimmering crown. The more she drank, the closer she got and I decided that her necklace would definitely help pay my expenses more than the contents of her purse (although I had already lifted the fat wallet from her small purse), and I did have very expensive tastes to pay for. So I took her onto the dance floor.

 

I was amazed at how easily I had been able to open the necklace’s clasp , slipping it over her satiny shoulder, lifting it off and placing it safely in my pocket with almost no effort. Then she decided to be playful once the song ended and brushed up against me. She felt the necklace in my pocket and before I could act she had her hand in and pulled it out.

 

The silly naive twit thought I was teasing her and told me that for my penance I had to go up to her suite in order to put it back on for her. I kept up the charade as best as I could.

 

And that’s where we ended up. A little bit of light fondling began as I placed the necklace back around her throat. I began to tease her, plied her with more and more alcohol as I tried to keep my distance, and virginity. Finally she passed out in a drunken stupor, but not before I had learned where she hid her valuables by suggesting she should lock her jewels up for the night..

 

With her safely unconscious, I began to strip her clean off all her jewels, reclaiming the necklace first. Then I visited all her jewelry casket and began looting it. I even took her small rhinestone clutch with the diamond clasp; of course I already had liberated its small wallet.

 

When I’d left her lying happily asleep in bed, still in her satin gown( the only item left to her that shined), I knew I had found a much more profitable line of “work”

 

So I began making circuits around to the haunts of the very rich, I still kept may hand in pickpocketing, so to speak, but centered only on those “pockets” containing mainly jewelry. I also began to carefully explore new ways of acquiring jewels” in masse”, so to speak.

 

Soon I had accumulated many tricks and tools, having them at my disposal to put into action once required, and for the remaining years up till the present had managed to live quite comfortably off of the ill-gotten gains using them allowed me to acquire.

 

Which brings me back to the train ride, my prism, and the rest of my background story before I retun to the present tale. Please be patient.

*****

So, anyway, I reached Surry without any further incident and disembarking, made my way out to the large country house where I would be staying to take a short rest, vacation if you will. But, pardon the play on words, for there is never any rest for the wicked, is there?

 

I had become acquainted with a servant of the old mansion ( almost a small castle, really) , that was about a mile off. I managed to learn a great deal, and soon found myself, on the pretense of visiting her, exploring the grounds. There was to be a grand ball taking place a couple of weekends away , and the maid had filled my ears with the riches that would be displayed by the multitude of regal ladies making an appearance. I began to think about trying to make a little bit of profit from my vacation. I am not sure how the idea developed, but the prism that I still had in my possession, came up centrally into my plans.

 

Late on the evening of the regal affair, I snuck over, covered head to toe in black, with my small satchel off tools by my side. I set up a candle behind an old stone ivy covered wall in a far corner of the rather large and intricate English garden that surrounded the inner circle around the mansion. I than strung the jewel-like prism in front of it. Standing behind the wall, I would strike the prism with a long stick I was holding whenever I observed sparkles emanating from silkily gowned ladies walking in the distance, solitary or in pairs. The prism would flash fire, sort of like a showy lure being used when fishing in a crooked trout stream. Only I was fishing for far sweeter game than trout. My objective was to trick certain types of jeweled ladies (scatterbrains some may call them) by luring them down onto the path beyond the wall, using their natural curiosity to my advantage.

 

I had at least two strikes rise up to my lure in the second hour.

On was a pretty lady in flowing green satin number, decorated with plenty of emeralds, which, hidden in the shadows, I observed were probably paste. I let her wonder about; as she looked and played with the shiny toy, remaining hidden until she grew bored and wandered off.

The second was a slender maiden wearing a long sleek black gown with long ivory silk gloves. I had never before seen a lady so decked out in jewels, literally head to toe. With the exception of the rhinestones adorning her heels, the rest of the lot was real, so valuably real that I could feel my mouth salivating at the thoughts of acquiring her riches. Now in Edwardian times only older, married ladies would be allowed the privilege of wearing a diamond Tiara. But in these modern times, it had become culturally acceptable for any well-to do lady, single or otherwise, to wear one out in society. Even so, they were still rarely worn, and seldom seen outside the safety of large gatherings. But there it was, a small, delicately slender piece of intricate art that glistened from the top of her head like some elegant beacon. That piece alone was probably worth more than I had made all the last four months combined!

I began to skirt around in the shadows, placing myself in position to cut off her retreat. Her diamonds blazed as she approached, eyeing the swinging prism with total concentration. Which was unfortunate, because as I was about to leave the shadows, she walked into the thorns of a rose bush, screeching out, and attracting the notice of a pair of gentlemen who had just crossed the path quite a ways off, called out when they heard the commotion. She started to become chatty with them, obviously coming on to her rescuers, my prism all but forgotten. Than before I knew it, in a swishing of her long gown, she was gone, “swimming” off before I was able to set me ”hook”.

 

Which I was able to do on the third strike, almost an hour later, just as I was beginning to ponder wither I should call it off and head back home..

 

They were a pair of young damsels in their young twenties. They may have been sisters, or cousins at the least. I still remember how my heart leapt into my throat as they observed my colourful prism and turned down the old flagstone path. I had not seen anyone out and about for some time, so I knew they would be no would be rescuers around to come to their aid

And, best of all, they were both dressed for the kill!

One, the blonde, was clad in a black velvet number that one could cannily describe as quite form fitting. As were the small ropes of pearls that hung from all points of interest, pretty with a matching pricelessness.

But her cousin, as I will refer to her, out shone black velvet quite literally.

This one, a stunning raven haired beauty, wore a long streaming gown of liquid ivory satin. A diamond brooch sparkled as it held up a fold of the gown to her waist. The fold allowed her to show a rather daring amount of a slender bare calf. The brooch was not paste, but a real jewel that had been added for the nights festivities ( To be successful, one learns to read these signs accurately) Her ears and neckline were home to a matching set of pure white diamonds. A wide diamond bracelet graced a bare right wrist ,so she must be left handed I instinctively thought, an observation that would have aided me if I were planning on having a go for slipping the bracelet from her wrist, but tonight I was planning a much more daring attempt to empty the entire jewel casket, so to speak.

 

They went to the prism, playing with it a bit, I had begun to circle around, when I noticed black velvet pointing out with multiple ringed fingers, to something further down the path past the wall.

 

With a clicking of heels I let the pair pass, they apparently wanted to see what was on the other side of the wall. I followed; it was not hard, because the necklace the raven haired one wore, diamonds fully encircling her throat, rippled and sparkled from their perch, caught in the full harvest moon’s cast, giving me more than enough light to shadow them quietly .

 

After a while they caught on that something/someone was following them, but as they turned they could see nothing. I was in black, and hooded, invisible to them in the shadows of the trees. They whispered amongst themselves, now worried, realizing that there were dangers lurking beyond the pale, in their case, the safety of the gardens , especially for ones decked out as they were. They then turned and headed right back from where they had come, right into my waiting arms.

 

It is interesting what good breeding does for young, poised ladies. For, as I stepped out of the shadows, a finger of my right hand to my lips, my Fairborn in my left hand, its black blade glinting wickedly in the moonlight , they did not scream out or shout for help. Instead the pair merely let out small gasps, and then they both, in a quite charming synchronized display of disbelief, place each one hand over their open mouths, and the other upon their perspective necklaces.

 

And as I flourished my wicked looking Fairbairn–Sykes blade in their direction, they unquestioningly reached around and undid those pretty necklaces, tremblingly handing them out to me, like actresses following a well-read script. I took the little pretties and after stuffing them into my satchel, held out again my free hand, my fingers beckoning. Not a word was spoken between us, as the frightened pair of young ladies began removing their shimmering jewels and added them in a neat little growing pile along my open palm. The raven haired girl even undid her brooch without me having to command her to do so. Once I had stashed it all away, I motioned for them to turn back around, than with a little helpful prodding on my part, they began moving forward back down the hill, away from the garden. The one in white hobbling a little now as she kept tripping over the hem of her dress, now no longer held up by the stolen brooch.

 

After we had traveled about 200 meters I had them stop, and take off their high heels. Then picking the pretty things up, I motioned them to turn back around and made them walk back the way we had come in their bare feet, watching the pair awkwardly hobble barefooted down the wooded path. They would be quite a while on their journey back, allowing me more than ample time to make me escape. I threw their shoes off to the side and went briskly the other way, reaching the place was staying at , gaining my room without notice. But not before I had hidden the jewels inside an old stump to retrieve them at a later date. I never really heard so much as a whisper of the incident, other than from the pretty lips of my friendly maiden. The wee hours of the morning before my early departure for the train station found me revisiting the stump and retrieving my satchel and its precious cargo. After hiding it all in a false bottom of my case I laid my head on the pillow and drifted off to sleep as I wondered what had happened to the little prism, marveling at how useful it had ended up proving to be.

 

So, how does this story (journey rather) relate to the one I had already started? Please read on, and enrich your curiosity… my dear readers.

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Act 2

 

So, with apologies for my lengthy elucidation, but I now return you back to the garden party I was now attending on that warm fall day. But, as you will see, my prism story needed to be told in order to add a bit of flavor to what was about to unfold.

 

As I sat on the garden bench I formulated my plans. I should be able to acquire the main piece tonight at the Ball, I would have time this afternoon to retrieve my ever handy satchel and its array of tools and have it hidden at the spot I had already selected. It was perfect, located at the end of the path I had found, or rather the charming lady in the smart chiffon dress had found for me. A gas lamp would provide adequate light for my “lure”, and it led to a back wood where I could lead any victims away and liberate them of their valuables before making my escape. I rose, just enough time to walk my escape route, before setting up and then be dressed for the evening’s festivities. I looked around, I was alone now, my lady in white had disappeared, following her own course, whatever it may have been.

 

The Autumn Ball that evening was in full swing by the time I arrived. Being a cool fall day, most of the women were wearing long gowns and dresses, and that, for whatever the reason, usually meant they were decked out with more layers of jewelry than say , if it had been the middle of summer. In order to put my plan in action I need and intrinsic piece of the trap, a prism. The one I had once had was long ago lost, a minor pawn in a game to take a pair of princesses.

 

I knew exactly the type of prism required for my plan, and so began mingling amongst the guests with that in mind.

 

I started out by walking through to the chamber like ballroom where a full orchestra was starting to play. The first person I saw from the garden party was the little tramp who had been wearing the too tight satin tea dress. That dress had been replaced with a long silky gown, her gold jewelry replaced with emeralds; including a thin bracelet that had taken the place of the gold one that she had so obligingly dangled in my larcenous path. I decided to avoid her In principle, and in doing so spied someone quite interesting.

 

That someone was a pretty lady in a long velvet gown standing off to one side, idly watching the many dancers out on the floor. The dancing couples were forming an imagery of a rainbow coloured sea of slinky swirling gowns and with erupting fireworks of sparkling jewels, ignited by pair of immensely large chandeliers that hung over the dance floor, setting them off. I made my way, skirting the dance floor to reach her, my eyes on her jewels, which were making pretty fireworks of their own. I happened to walk up just as a waiter with a tray of drinks was passing by. Plucking off a drink I offered it to the lady with one hand, my other hand placed on her back as If to steady myself. She laughed prettily, and taking the drink I met her eyes, as she was focused on reaching and holding the glass in her slippery gloved hand, mine was on the ruby and diamond necklace. My hand behind her had flicked open the simple hook and eye clasp of the antique piece and was in the process of lifting it up and whisking it away from her throat. As I said a few words to her, I pocketed it, while also taking in the rest of her lovely figure and its shiny decorations, before biding adieu. She smiled, her pale bare neckline now quite glaringly extinguished of its fire.

 

It was about an hour later, after spotting, but unable to make inroads with several likely candidates, that I finally struck gold (figuratively). It came in the form of a young couple arguing between themselves in a far corner of the chamber. She was lecturing a rather handsome man in a tux, her jeweled fingers flying in his face. If she hadn’t been moving about in such an animated fashion as she lectured, I may not have even noticed her. But as it happened I did, especially noticeable was the sanctimonious lady’s wide jeweled bracelet that was bursting out in a rainbow of colorful flickers as her hand was emphatically waving, as her long gown of silk swished around with every movement she made. Perfect. I watched for a bit, and sure enough they moved off, the man heading for the patio leading outside, the wealthy girl following him, still giving him lashes with her tongue. I moved and managed to have her bump into me simply by stepping on the hemline of her long gown. For a few seconds I was the one on the receiving end of her wrath, but I took it like a man, I could see in the eyes of her tongue lashed husband, that he was grateful for the respite. I was also grateful; grateful for the quite wide, very shimmering, bracelet that I had removed from her wrist and now was residing in my pocket.

 

I began to leave the patio, but was stopped by a matronly lady in ruffles, laces and pearls, her breath heavy with alcohol. She started to question me on what the couple had been on about. Then without waiting for an answer she launched herself into a tirade of her own, her gem encrusted, silken gloved fingers, waving in my face for emphasis. It was almost ten minutes before I was able to make my escape. Which I did, but not before slipping off one of the lecturing ladies vulgarly large cocktail rings.

 

I headed onto the patio; the time was getting ripe for my plan, which I was now ready to put into motion, now having acquired its most essential piece. I went to the end of the large patio, weaving in and out of the by now well liquored guests whom had assembled there. Across the way I saw a lady tripping over her own gown. By the time I reached her she had fallen down, giggling merrily. Two of us rushed to her aid, she was busy gushed her thanks to the rescuer she knew, while ignoring the one she didn’t! Which was unfortunate on her part, for by ignoring me, she also was ignorant of the fact that I was busy lifting the small stands of black pearls from her wrist. I left unnoticed, much like a shadow fading out of the light, or at least that’s how it seemed. Finally I reached the patios outer edge without further incident, or gain. I went on the grass and turned a corner with the intention of going, post haste around the house to reach the gardens by the long way, hoping not to be seen by anyone. But I no sooner turned the corner, when I realized that it was not to be the case.

 

It was my blithe spirit in white chiffon from the garden party, pardon me, soiree. She was unescorted, looking up at the moon above a stone turret with one lit window, so intently that my presence had not been noticed. I had been absolutely correct in my observation of her as far as what she would be wearing for the evening. For what she had lacked in ornaments at the soiree, she had more than made up for in the evening festivities. She was absolutely gorgeous, resplendent in as beautiful a silvery satin gown that I had ever witness. It was just pouring down, shimmering along her delightful figure. Her long blazing red hair was still curling down and free, but now a pair of long chandelier earrings cascading down from her earlobes, were peeking out every now and then as they swayed with her every movement. Her blazingly rippling necklace was all diamonds, dripping down the front of her tightly satin covered bosom, twinkling iridescently like an intensively glimmering waterfall. Her slender gloved wrists were home to a pair of dangling diamond bracelets that were almost outshone by her many glistening rings. All in all she was quite a lure all too herself

 

I came up to her, starling her from her reverie. Taking up her hand, I looked into her startled, suddenly blushing face. I complimented her on the fine gown she wore. She thanked me, and I could see I that she suddenly remembered she me as the chap who she thought smiled to her in the garden. She seemed to accept my compliment quite readily. I chanced it( although Lord knows I was short on time) and asked her to a dance. I did not think she would agree, so it was with a little bit of surprise, hoping she would politely decline and walk off, leaving me free to go about my business unobserved. But she accepted, and I will admit that my heart leapt as she agreed (although in the back of my mind I knew I should be off if my plan was to work). The music had stopped so we made small talk as we slowly walked back to the ballroom. Her name was Katrina. It seems she was waiting for someone, which suited my plans, but he was late and so she had time. Which may have sounded dismissive, but from the apologetic way she said it, it was anything but the sort.

 

The orchestra started to tune back up as we entered, and taking her offered hand up, was soon lost in the elegance of my appealing partner. It was a long dance, and a formal one, but I could tell she was subtly anxious to be off on her meeting, as I was to be off to my own adventure. But Katrina did not really allow it to show, which was very uncharacteristic of her someone with her obvious breeding. So I was ready when the by the end of the music she begged her condolences and took flight. I watched her as she fluidly moved away, her jewels sparkling, all of them. On her mission to meet Mr. X I thought, for whom I was already harboring a quite jealous dislike. I should be off I thought to meself.

 

But I stood, still as stone; totally mesmerized by the way Katrina’s swirling silvery satin gown was playing out along her petite, jewel sparkling figure. It wasn’t till the last of her gown swished around a corner out of sight that I moved, but not without having to shake my head to clear the thoughts of her out of it. Well old son, focus. For by now the guests were starting to wander a bit afield in the waning hours of the Autumn Ball, and my small window of opportunity was closing fast. If my little plan was going to have any chance of success it would have to be now.

 

I walked out and made my way to one of the outside exist of the garden wall. Reaching into my pocket as I did so, fingering the bracelet, now cold, that had belonged to the quarrelsome lady,and soon would be playing another role, far from one its former mistress would ever have dreamed off. I also felt my new acquisition, still warm from my dance partner’s body. I will admit that I had felt a twinge of regret for taking it from a lady I had found to be most charmingly captivating. But slipping off the diamonds up and away from her throat had been as temptingly easy as it had been automatic. I had advantageously made use of the sleekness of her scintillatingly silky gown, and with the distractions created by the movements of the dance, successfully managed to keep Katrina’s attention safely diverted from the reality of why my fingers were ever so gently, caressingly sliding along her slippery gowns neckline. The truth was I had originally placed my hand there because it had felt so right, and I was a little startled when my fingers had subconsciously started playing with her necklaces clasp. Before I knew it, they had flicked open the gemstone clasp of her obviously expensive diamond necklace, and had lifted up. As I watched out of the corner of my eye, almost like I was a spectator, as opposed to being the perpetrator, I saw the chain move up and over her shoulder; its diamonds sparkling with is as the necklace disappeared from view behind her back.

It was a favored technique that I had perfected to the point that by this stage of my career I nearly always acquired my objective. But, as odd as it sounds, I was not happy with myself on this occasion.

 

But I did not long dwell on my mixed feelings on taking the charming lass’s diamonds, for by now I had reached my place of ambush. It was in one of the farthest reaches of the garden, at a bend on the end of a long path that, with a gas lamp at its beginning just off the patio, would allow me to see from some distance off. Behind me was a break in the hedge wide enough for a person to walk through comfortably. It was here, off a tree limb, underneath a second ornate cast iron gas lamp, which was now lit, that I hung the shimmering bracelet that I had sought out and acquired for just that reason

 

I walked around and saw that it could be seen flickered off in the distance from the woods, Perfect! Earlier I had hidden my satchel with a hood and knife and bit of rope in the hollow of an old tree. I now retrieved them, and after getting ready, found my position and waited. At 10 minutes past the first hour of my wait, with nary a single glimpse of anyone, I started to fidget. My corner may be just a bit too desolated I was beginning to admit to myself. It seemed that most of the guests were staying by the patio. I was starting to think that I should pack it in, possibly rejoining the guests for one last parting( of someone from her Jewelry). I was just reaching down to pick up my satchel when I suddenly saw something flash under the gas lamp at the beginning of the path, and my senses immediately perked up. I watched as the wisps of rich shimmery satin moved closer, I stiffened, drooling with anticipation, the game was afoot.

  

I could see clearly the flickering jewels she wore, and by their blazing sparkles of rippling fire, I knew that my long vigil would not have been in vain. As the lady drew I recognized her gown of silvery satin! I knew who was making those tantalizing flashes of appealing treasures. Katrina!

 

I watched as she approached, in all her glittering elegance. My heart and conscious was in turmoil, but I knew I probably would not get a second chance. I could not let her get away unscathed. Beside, from the shock of being confronted with a masked scoundrel wielding a wicked blade, she would be in no shape to recognize her assailant. She stopped, apprehensively looking back towards the bright lights of the Manor, Then turning back I saw she had a self-satisfied smile creeping upon her face. She reached up, and undoing her hair, shook it down, curls of softness cascading down, hanging loosely down. It was as she performed this provocative act, that I saw her eyes open wide in curiosity; she had spied my pretty little “prism”. The charming fish was hooked.

 

I waited, watching her approaching ever closer to fate, and from my concealment, I basked in her glow. My heart beating fast, my adrenaline pumping, for the remaining jewels (I thought of her necklace in my custody) that she possessed I already had witnessed were quite valuable. She passed my hiding spot and went to the hanging, shimmering object. As she reached up, looking around, she failed to see me approaching in the shadows. I came up from behind, jabbing a finger in her back as I reached her, I gruffly in no uncertain terms, snarled for her to freeze and make no sound. She stiffened under my touch, but made no move or outcry. I went around; pointing my knife in her direction, looking into her sad doe wide eyes as she realized what was going to happen next. She was trembling; from fear I guessed, and knew I had her right where I wanted. As I made my demands upon her, gimme them jewels sister, she, not surprisingly, was very compliant in giving them up to me. She reached for her necklace last, and looked entirely shocked to find her throat bare, as she searched the neckline of her gown I saw her look into my hand, now dripping with her precious jewelry, almost as if to see if she had not already removed it. She looked apologetically into my eyes, startled; almost pleading that she didn’t know what had happened to it. I just played dump. She than spoke for the first time, sir, may I ask to keep my purse? Her words would have instantly melted even the coldest chunk of ice, I looked down at the little silvery clutch hanging from her arm on its rhinestone chain, I nodded, indicating that she could, and saw relief wash over her face. I told her she now needed to turn around and walk off into the woods ahead of me. She hesitated, and I told her no harm would befall her, I had no intentions along those lines.

 

About 5 meters in I stopped her, and had her remove her shoes, as she bent over to undo the high heels rhinestone clasps I watched her gown tightly outlining her figure. She tripped on the hem of her gown, and as she attempted to keep her balance, accidently let her purse slip off her shoulder. Without thinking I reached down to pick it up for her as she tried reached for it simultaneously

 

The small purse was far heavier than it should have been. Curious I opened it, finding that it contained a rather extensive array of mismatched jewelry, glittering in unbelievably expensive fire . I looked into Katrina’s horror struck eyes dumb founded, as she looked guiltily into mine. The gig was up. The jewels belonged to the lady of the manor, my muse in silver was a thief, a female version of me very self.

 

Aye, what’s this than luv? I questioned her as she looked into my eyes, hers large with a mixture of fright and disbelief. She melted before me, fainting, I caught her in my arms, and it was no ruse. I held her as she came to, holding her warm, silky figure lovingly to mine. I did not know what to think. Nor could I ever explain what possessed me to do what I did next. As she came to, her eyes opened, and I removed my mask, looking back into them deeply.

 

Oh, she gasped, I’m glad it was you, startled that she had said the words out loud. She than started to coyly blushes, quite demurely. Something sparked in me, and unless she was an incredibly good actress, it did also for Katrina. Our eyes both looked into the others, melting away in the lust of the moment. We embraced, deeply, and I held her squirming warm slick figure tight in my enveloping arms. I looked over her shoulder, eyeing the glistening bracelet hanging from its branch. To catch a thief, the thought suddenly opened in my mind, what a great title for a novel I thought to myself, as I buried my nose into Katrina’s luxuriously soft hair.

 

We talked for a bit, walking off into the woods, then she looked into my eyes again, a coy, look that melted me on the spot, and that was the end of it, we embraced again, and wholly gave ourselves to one another. What about your man I asked suddenly remembering, my man she questioned , than oh, you mean the Lord, I was waiting for him to come down from smoking in his tower study, that’s where the lady’s jewels are kept. She broke into an Irish brogue as she said the last bit, and that I guessed was her natural tongue. she laid a hand on the side of my face, thanks for being jealous though, me lad.

I should collect my lure I said, which made her smile; it was such an enticing smile at that. We started to head back and watched as it dangled in front of us flickering. With a far off look in her green eyes, Katrina spoke as if in deep though.

 

The daughter of the house, she has a bracelet on like the one you have dangling, a bracelet of diamonds that I had taken a fancy to, wishing it had been in the safe along with the rest of the ladies of manors jewelry. I knew who she was talking about. The one in green taffeta I asked? Aye lad, that’s the one. Actually her necklace would be just as easy, and worth more I said. Just then her bright green eyes gleamed, Give me about a half an hour, she told me, we will put your little lure to use again. She noticed my hesitation, don’t worry luv she said soothingly placing a gloved hand to my cheek, no longer was it sparkly with its stolen bracelet and rings. I’ll leave my purse with you, can’t very well be carrying it around now can I? I nodded my consent, my mind burning with the thoughts she had alluringly placed there.

  

She turned, and then hesitated; turning back she said I probably should not go back in naked luv. I smiled, reaching in I pulled out her necklace and placed it around her throat. With a little gasp she blurted, so it was you, I was wondering who and when it had happened. It’s not the first time I’ve had me jewels lifted, but it’s a bloody annoyance to have to let them get away with it, crawls under my skin to have pretend not to notice so that I don’t draw any attention to me self before making my move to steal the posh ones jewels.

 

But you, mister, I never felt as much as a prickling. I was ready to assume my pretties had been a victim of a broken clasp this time. I gave a little nod in acceptance. That wasn’t exactly a compliment lad, she said in what I hopped was a subtle jest. Just last summer some clumsy bugger slipped of me earrings, my favorite pearls, as we were danc… she stopped, seeing the guilt in my eyes. Men! As thieves you are all of the same skin she spat out angrily, or attempted to sound angry, for the look in her eyes to me she wasn’t. I best be off, before I change me mind about out little endeavor.

 

With that she swirled around on her heels, and started off, but not before turning and giving me an extremely coy look of interest. As she swirled back around I heard her say loud enough for my ears, I’ll learn me self to be a picker of pockets, see how males like to be taken advantage of in their vulnerabilities! She nodded to herself as she said it. Then suddenly she stopped, than twirled on her heels, her gown swirling enticingly along her figure. Looking me dead in the eye she said, “Vie ne est pas d'attendre que la tempête , mais d'apprendre à danser sous la pluie” !

 

What does that mean? I questioned in a low voice, perplexed.

 

Maybe, Mon Cheri, someday I will tell you… And with that she turned on her heel, her gown once again swirling about, and went, determinedly, swishing her way back up the path. I just watched. I had never heard anyone speak French with an Irish Brogue and I had found it to be rather provocative!

 

I watched as she swished and swayed her way back through the hedge and regained the path leading back to the manor. Her plan was simple; she would lead the daughter of the house to my corner and as she had done, go out with her to look at the swinging charm. I would then make my appearance, rob both ladies of their finery, and telling the daughter to wait until I released her friend, walk off with Katrina as a hostage, and we would both take off and make good our escape. A simple plan, so simple it should actually work.

 

So, there I was. Holding a purse with a small fortune in jewels, my pocket full of more jewels worth an additional pretty farthing, and her charms were wearing off by her leaving. And my thieving nature coming back, reawakened from the spell they had been under!

 

The devil of my conscious crept out on my shoulder, the angel markedly absent from the other.

 

Look mate, she may not be all she seems, and possibly has some other game in mind. Maybe she does have a male confidante helping her out… and was actually on her way to fetch him. He said in my inner ear. And, after all, you took her diamonds twice, didn’t ye now? Do you really think shell forgive you of that me lad?

 

And there is no honor amongst thieves, as the saying goes, he added as a closing argument...

 

I rolled it over in my mind…I could leave, absconding with it all, book a cruise to the states or down under where there lay untried fertile grounds to ply my trade. Not to mention working over my fellow passengers aboard the cruise ship while they attended the fancy affairs that were always going on, or so the brochures always seemed to show……

 

Then In the distance I caught a wisp of Katrina’s long silvery gown. She was coming, and not only with the daughter of the manor, but also with a spare. For I could see a purple coloured gown swishing alongside with the prey in rustling green taffeta.. I watched as all three ladies, resplendent with the rippling fiery gems they all possessed, came up the path, gowns sweeping out , shimmery from the now misty distance.

 

The thought of making my escape with all the loot continued to haunt me, there was still time now to take off without notice, or I could rob all three, and leave with purple silk as my hostage, Katrina would not be able to say anything on chance of giving up her part of the game, or I could just be a good lad and sty with the script that Katrina had written. Take a chance, roll the dice and believe that she was all she had me believing she could ever be.

 

As they came closer I knew my time was running out. The thoughts of just looking out for myself kept coming up playing the devil with my conscience as the precious seconds ticked away…

 

No honor amongst thieves…

What will it be, old boy I challenged myself,

What will you have it be?........

To see what his decision ultimately was, and the eventual path it led to, see the album question answered)

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Life is not about waiting out the storm, but about learning to dance in the rain.

Vie ne est pas d'attendre que la tempête , mais d'apprendre à danser sous la pluie .

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Courtesy of Chatwick University Archives

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I know that 'When sinners become saints' sounds like some low rent daytime TV game show that comes on after Jeremy Kyle but this picture was somehow meant to be elucidating the notion that each of us has the capability to be either good or bad depending on circumstance and that 'bad' people can do 'good' things (and vice versa). It's rarely as clear cut as we are often lead to believe. I think that's about as highbrow as I'm going today so tomorrow normal service will be resumed and we'll probably have a picture of an anthropomorphic badger with an over-sized gun (or something equally frivolous. No guarantees!)

 

Cheers

 

id-iom

 

Title: When sinners become saints

Materials: Acrylic, paint pen, spray paint and charcoal

Size: A2

Please email if interested

Turn of a Friendly Card

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Based on a true adventures of a rogue active in the waning years of the 1930’s as discovered in the criminal archives of Chatwick University.

 

Act 1

I begin my tale in the present…

 

That afternoon a soiree was given as part of the purchase price of the tickets for the annual Autumn Charity Ball to be presented later that evening at the manor’s great house. Since I was alone, I just went mainly for the free food and to rub my elbows with the wealthy guests who would be in happy attendance there, and at the Ball. I was alone, but certainly not bored. There was a game I enjoyed playing to pass the time at these affairs that entailed scoping out by their dress and day jewels worn, those ladies whom would be most likely to be wearing the better costumes and sparklers that evening. It often proved to be a most beneficial insight into the actions and mannerisms of the very rich. I walked amongst the cheerful guests, eying one here ( a lady in satin and pearls) and another there( a high spirited girl with a diamond pin at the throat of her frilly silken blouse). It was as I was passing the latter that the friend she had been talking too (dressed like a vamp), bumped up against me. I caught her, steadying her as they both giggled. I didn’t mind, for the lassie’s too tight satin sheath tea dress had been an enticement to hold, and the gold bracelet that had been dangling from her gloved wrist had been a pleasure to observe. I kissed her gloved hand, rings glittering, as I apologized gallantly for my clumsiness. Her eyes were bright, almost as bright as the twin necklaces of gold that hung swaying down pleasantly from between her ample bosom. I left them, moving on to greener pastures, and it was very green, all of it….

 

It was then that I detected another pretty lassie. It was her long fiery red hair with falling wispy curls that first captured my attention. She was wearing a fetchingly smart white chiffon party dress that commanded me to acquire a closer examination. She appeared to be a blithe spirit, seemingly content with just being by herself and roaming about with casual elegance, the extensive grounds of the manor proper. I began to discreetly follow her at a distance. Although she did not wear any jewelry, her manner and the eloquent way she moved is what attracted me the most. It would be very interesting to seek her out later that evening and she what she would have chosen to decorate herself with. I followed her as she sojourned into the depths of a traditional English garden with a maze of lushly green trimmed 8 foot high hedges

 

As I strolled through the hedgerows in her wake I allowed my mind to wander its own course. Suddenly I straightened up, my reverie broken by an epiphany of sorts. I allowed myself to grin and the lady whose enchantment I was swollen up in, at that moment turned, and seeing my beaming smile assumed it was for her and gave me a rather cute nod of her head. I answered in same, as I headed en route to a nearby stone garden bench to allow my thoughts to think through themselves.

 

But before I go on, allow me the pleasure to sojourn and reminisce about an incident that occurred several years prior:

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I was still working unaided in those days, travelling on to a new next quest that would take me just outside of Surrey.

I had just purchased my train ticket and had seen my luggage safe on board when I decided to rest in the lounge, it being some 45 minutes before allowed to enter personally aboard. Being so early the lounge was almost deserted, only one other occupant. I assumed she was waiting for someone on an incoming train due to the fact she carried no luggage. She was obviously well off, well dressed in satins and lace, and her jewels shone magnificently in the dim lights. Especially one of her rings, noticeably lying loosely around a finger, it sparkled with an expensive brilliance. I had seen one like it in a tiffanies store, worth almost 250 pounds. But she did not appreciate the show her jewelry was putting on under the lounge lights, for she was fast asleep.

 

I circled around her, aiming for a seat next to her, eyeing her and her possessions carefully. I noticed her purse had fallen off her lap and lay on the floor. An idea popped into my head, and I picked the purse up, and looked around carefully, before placing my plan into action. But I was thwarted as an older, matronly lady was spotted heading our way. I slipped the purse into my jacket and moved off before I was noticed. Of course she came in and took the empty seat across form the sleeping princess, and soon busied herself with knitting. As the older lady had sat down, not quietly, the wealthy lady stirred waking up at the noise. I went into a corner and sat, waiting. The two ladies soon fell into conversation; the minute’s ticked by excruciatingly slow. Soon I noticed we even had more company.

He was a lad of only fourteen, but with a devilish look about him that marked him a kindred spirit to meself, and his quick eyes were darting about taking it all in as he stood outside the paned glass window.

 

It was as the first announcement of boarding the train that I saw a chance for opportunity to strike.

The older lady folded up her knitting and clinching her bag, bid adieu to her new friend,( befuddled a little by the old ladies constant stream of gossip), and headed to the train. I was twenty steps ahead of her and was standing behind the youth as she left the lounge. I tapped him on the shoulder; he looked around at me suspiciously, and then caught sight of the shilling I was holding in front of his nose. I quickly whispered a few words into his ear on how he could earn it, and his grin spread as he bought into my story. I still held onto the shilling as he darted around and inside the lounge. I watched as he ran up behind the lady, circling her, then running in front of her he tripped over her leg, as she helped him up, her hand with the ring reaching down, he turned and spat onto the wrist and sleeve of that hand, than standing he ran away. Running alongside me, I handed him the shilling in passing as he ran off, disappearing in to the street.

 

I went inside and approached the astonished lady, as she was looking for her purse to get a handkerchief, confused as to its absence, while she held up her soiled hand( ring glittering furiously) in utter disbelief. I approached, catching her attention by the soothing words I uttered to her. I took her hand, unbelieving with her at just had happened, and I as I apologized for the youth of today I produced my own silk handkerchief and starting with her silky sleeve, began to wipe it off, continuing my tirade of displeasure and contempt at what had just occurred to the dear lady as I did so. As I finishing wiping her down, ending with her warm slender fingers, I kissed them, just as the last boarding announcement came over (perfect timing!) I let her go, explaining that I must catch my train. I turned and without looking back made the train just as it was letting off steam before chugging off.

 

I gained my private carriage just as the train began to lurch away. It wasn’t until after the train began its journey that I casually removed my silk handkerchief from my pocket and unwrapped it carefully, admiring up close the shimmering, valuable tiffany ring that was lying inside. I pocketed it, and then remembered the purse. I took it out and examined its contents: coin and notes equaling a handsome amount, a gold (gilded) case, embroidered lacy handkerchief, small silver flask of perfume, and ( of all things)a large shimmering prism , like one that would have dangled from a fancy crystal chandelier. A prism?, I questioned with interest as I examined it. It was pretty thing, about the circumference of a cricket ball, but shaped like a pendulum, it shimmered and glittered like the most precious of jewels. Why she had it in her purse? I couldn’t guess, and I saw no value in it, so I pocketed it and allowed it to leave my mind.

 

As I settled into my seat I began to think of the lad I had just met, I had been right on the money as far as his eagerness for mischief. Actually he reminded me of myself at that age, and I wondered if that lad with the shifty eyes would also turn out to follow the same course I had explored.

 

Which Begs the question, what had I turned out to become. And since I’m still reminiscing

I’ll give little background material about me, hopefully I don’t come across as being too conceited about my self-taught skills..

 

I had never been one to take the hard road, and even at a young age I was always looking for angles, or short cuts to make some money.

Once, while watching for some time a street magician and his acts. I observed a pick pocket working the crowd. He approached a pair of well-dressed ladies in shiny clothes, and standing behind them bided his time and then lifted a small pouch from one velvet purse, and a fat wallet from a silken one, then he moved on. Now both ladies were wearing shiny bracelets, one with jewels. I thought that he could have realized a greater profit if he had nicked one or both of the bracelets first, than try for the contents of their purses. The bracelets’ alone would have realized a far greater profit than what he lifted from their purses. It further occurred to me that by mimicking some of the sleight of hand tricks and misdirection that the magician was using on his audience, it could be accomplished. A hand placed on the right shoulder and as the lady turned right, whisk off the bracelet from her left wrist, and excuse oneself, that sort of thing.

 

So, I practiced (on my sisters, who proved to be willing accomplices to “my game”) and learned to pick their purses and pockets. I than moved onto their jewelry, starting by lifting bracelets and slipping away rings, before advancing to the brooches, necklaces and earrings they were wearing. After I was satisfied at my skill level, I went out and worked the streets. Sometimes using my one sister who was also hooked on what I was doing as a willing partner.

But I found myself still not being satisfied, in the back of my mind I thought there had to be a more lucrative way to turn a profit.

 

I’d found my answer when an attractive lady in a rustling satin gown zeroed in on me while I was “visiting” a ballroom. She was jeweled like a princess right up to the diamond band she wore holding up her piles of soft locks like a glimmering crown. The more she drank, the closer she got and I decided that her necklace would definitely help pay my expenses more than the contents of her purse (although I had already lifted the fat wallet from her small purse), and I did have very expensive tastes to pay for. So I took her onto the dance floor.

 

I was amazed at how easily I had been able to open the necklace’s clasp , slipping it over her satiny shoulder, lifting it off and placing it safely in my pocket with almost no effort. Then she decided to be playful once the song ended and brushed up against me. She felt the necklace in my pocket and before I could act she had her hand in and pulled it out.

 

The silly naive twit thought I was teasing her and told me that for my penance I had to go up to her suite in order to put it back on for her. I kept up the charade as best as I could.

 

And that’s where we ended up. A little bit of light fondling began as I placed the necklace back around her throat. I began to tease her, plied her with more and more alcohol as I tried to keep my distance, and virginity. Finally she passed out in a drunken stupor, but not before I had learned where she hid her valuables by suggesting she should lock her jewels up for the night..

 

With her safely unconscious, I began to strip her clean off all her jewels, reclaiming the necklace first. Then I visited all her jewelry casket and began looting it. I even took her small rhinestone clutch with the diamond clasp; of course I already had liberated its small wallet.

 

When I’d left her lying happily asleep in bed, still in her satin gown( the only item left to her that shined), I knew I had found a much more profitable line of “work”

 

So I began making circuits around to the haunts of the very rich, I still kept may hand in pickpocketing, so to speak, but centered only on those “pockets” containing mainly jewelry. I also began to carefully explore new ways of acquiring jewels” in masse”, so to speak.

 

Soon I had accumulated many tricks and tools, having them at my disposal to put into action once required, and for the remaining years up till the present had managed to live quite comfortably off of the ill-gotten gains using them allowed me to acquire.

 

Which brings me back to the train ride, my prism, and the rest of my background story before I retun to the present tale. Please be patient.

*****

So, anyway, I reached Surry without any further incident and disembarking, made my way out to the large country house where I would be staying to take a short rest, vacation if you will. But, pardon the play on words, for there is never any rest for the wicked, is there?

 

I had become acquainted with a servant of the old mansion ( almost a small castle, really) , that was about a mile off. I managed to learn a great deal, and soon found myself, on the pretense of visiting her, exploring the grounds. There was to be a grand ball taking place a couple of weekends away , and the maid had filled my ears with the riches that would be displayed by the multitude of regal ladies making an appearance. I began to think about trying to make a little bit of profit from my vacation. I am not sure how the idea developed, but the prism that I still had in my possession, came up centrally into my plans.

 

Late on the evening of the regal affair, I snuck over, covered head to toe in black, with my small satchel off tools by my side. I set up a candle behind an old stone ivy covered wall in a far corner of the rather large and intricate English garden that surrounded the inner circle around the mansion. I than strung the jewel-like prism in front of it. Standing behind the wall, I would strike the prism with a long stick I was holding whenever I observed sparkles emanating from silkily gowned ladies walking in the distance, solitary or in pairs. The prism would flash fire, sort of like a showy lure being used when fishing in a crooked trout stream. Only I was fishing for far sweeter game than trout. My objective was to trick certain types of jeweled ladies (scatterbrains some may call them) by luring them down onto the path beyond the wall, using their natural curiosity to my advantage.

 

I had at least two strikes rise up to my lure in the second hour.

On was a pretty lady in flowing green satin number, decorated with plenty of emeralds, which, hidden in the shadows, I observed were probably paste. I let her wonder about; as she looked and played with the shiny toy, remaining hidden until she grew bored and wandered off.

The second was a slender maiden wearing a long sleek black gown with long ivory silk gloves. I had never before seen a lady so decked out in jewels, literally head to toe. With the exception of the rhinestones adorning her heels, the rest of the lot was real, so valuably real that I could feel my mouth salivating at the thoughts of acquiring her riches. Now in Edwardian times only older, married ladies would be allowed the privilege of wearing a diamond Tiara. But in these modern times, it had become culturally acceptable for any well-to do lady, single or otherwise, to wear one out in society. Even so, they were still rarely worn, and seldom seen outside the safety of large gatherings. But there it was, a small, delicately slender piece of intricate art that glistened from the top of her head like some elegant beacon. That piece alone was probably worth more than I had made all the last four months combined!

I began to skirt around in the shadows, placing myself in position to cut off her retreat. Her diamonds blazed as she approached, eyeing the swinging prism with total concentration. Which was unfortunate, because as I was about to leave the shadows, she walked into the thorns of a rose bush, screeching out, and attracting the notice of a pair of gentlemen who had just crossed the path quite a ways off, called out when they heard the commotion. She started to become chatty with them, obviously coming on to her rescuers, my prism all but forgotten. Than before I knew it, in a swishing of her long gown, she was gone, “swimming” off before I was able to set me ”hook”.

 

Which I was able to do on the third strike, almost an hour later, just as I was beginning to ponder wither I should call it off and head back home..

 

They were a pair of young damsels in their young twenties. They may have been sisters, or cousins at the least. I still remember how my heart leapt into my throat as they observed my colourful prism and turned down the old flagstone path. I had not seen anyone out and about for some time, so I knew they would be no would be rescuers around to come to their aid

And, best of all, they were both dressed for the kill!

One, the blonde, was clad in a black velvet number that one could cannily describe as quite form fitting. As were the small ropes of pearls that hung from all points of interest, pretty with a matching pricelessness.

But her cousin, as I will refer to her, out shone black velvet quite literally.

This one, a stunning raven haired beauty, wore a long streaming gown of liquid ivory satin. A diamond brooch sparkled as it held up a fold of the gown to her waist. The fold allowed her to show a rather daring amount of a slender bare calf. The brooch was not paste, but a real jewel that had been added for the nights festivities ( To be successful, one learns to read these signs accurately) Her ears and neckline were home to a matching set of pure white diamonds. A wide diamond bracelet graced a bare right wrist ,so she must be left handed I instinctively thought, an observation that would have aided me if I were planning on having a go for slipping the bracelet from her wrist, but tonight I was planning a much more daring attempt to empty the entire jewel casket, so to speak.

 

They went to the prism, playing with it a bit, I had begun to circle around, when I noticed black velvet pointing out with multiple ringed fingers, to something further down the path past the wall.

 

With a clicking of heels I let the pair pass, they apparently wanted to see what was on the other side of the wall. I followed; it was not hard, because the necklace the raven haired one wore, diamonds fully encircling her throat, rippled and sparkled from their perch, caught in the full harvest moon’s cast, giving me more than enough light to shadow them quietly .

 

After a while they caught on that something/someone was following them, but as they turned they could see nothing. I was in black, and hooded, invisible to them in the shadows of the trees. They whispered amongst themselves, now worried, realizing that there were dangers lurking beyond the pale, in their case, the safety of the gardens , especially for ones decked out as they were. They then turned and headed right back from where they had come, right into my waiting arms.

 

It is interesting what good breeding does for young, poised ladies. For, as I stepped out of the shadows, a finger of my right hand to my lips, my Fairborn in my left hand, its black blade glinting wickedly in the moonlight , they did not scream out or shout for help. Instead the pair merely let out small gasps, and then they both, in a quite charming synchronized display of disbelief, place each one hand over their open mouths, and the other upon their perspective necklaces.

 

And as I flourished my wicked looking Fairbairn–Sykes blade in their direction, they unquestioningly reached around and undid those pretty necklaces, tremblingly handing them out to me, like actresses following a well-read script. I took the little pretties and after stuffing them into my satchel, held out again my free hand, my fingers beckoning. Not a word was spoken between us, as the frightened pair of young ladies began removing their shimmering jewels and added them in a neat little growing pile along my open palm. The raven haired girl even undid her brooch without me having to command her to do so. Once I had stashed it all away, I motioned for them to turn back around, than with a little helpful prodding on my part, they began moving forward back down the hill, away from the garden. The one in white hobbling a little now as she kept tripping over the hem of her dress, now no longer held up by the stolen brooch.

 

After we had traveled about 200 meters I had them stop, and take off their high heels. Then picking the pretty things up, I motioned them to turn back around and made them walk back the way we had come in their bare feet, watching the pair awkwardly hobble barefooted down the wooded path. They would be quite a while on their journey back, allowing me more than ample time to make me escape. I threw their shoes off to the side and went briskly the other way, reaching the place was staying at , gaining my room without notice. But not before I had hidden the jewels inside an old stump to retrieve them at a later date. I never really heard so much as a whisper of the incident, other than from the pretty lips of my friendly maiden. The wee hours of the morning before my early departure for the train station found me revisiting the stump and retrieving my satchel and its precious cargo. After hiding it all in a false bottom of my case I laid my head on the pillow and drifted off to sleep as I wondered what had happened to the little prism, marveling at how useful it had ended up proving to be.

 

So, how does this story (journey rather) relate to the one I had already started? Please read on, and enrich your curiosity… my dear readers.

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Act 2

 

So, with apologies for my lengthy elucidation, but I now return you back to the garden party I was now attending on that warm fall day. But, as you will see, my prism story needed to be told in order to add a bit of flavor to what was about to unfold.

 

As I sat on the garden bench I formulated my plans. I should be able to acquire the main piece tonight at the Ball, I would have time this afternoon to retrieve my ever handy satchel and its array of tools and have it hidden at the spot I had already selected. It was perfect, located at the end of the path I had found, or rather the charming lady in the smart chiffon dress had found for me. A gas lamp would provide adequate light for my “lure”, and it led to a back wood where I could lead any victims away and liberate them of their valuables before making my escape. I rose, just enough time to walk my escape route, before setting up and then be dressed for the evening’s festivities. I looked around, I was alone now, my lady in white had disappeared, following her own course, whatever it may have been.

 

The Autumn Ball that evening was in full swing by the time I arrived. Being a cool fall day, most of the women were wearing long gowns and dresses, and that, for whatever the reason, usually meant they were decked out with more layers of jewelry than say , if it had been the middle of summer. In order to put my plan in action I need and intrinsic piece of the trap, a prism. The one I had once had was long ago lost, a minor pawn in a game to take a pair of princesses.

 

I knew exactly the type of prism required for my plan, and so began mingling amongst the guests with that in mind.

 

I started out by walking through to the chamber like ballroom where a full orchestra was starting to play. The first person I saw from the garden party was the little tramp who had been wearing the too tight satin tea dress. That dress had been replaced with a long silky gown, her gold jewelry replaced with emeralds; including a thin bracelet that had taken the place of the gold one that she had so obligingly dangled in my larcenous path. I decided to avoid her In principle, and in doing so spied someone quite interesting.

 

That someone was a pretty lady in a long velvet gown standing off to one side, idly watching the many dancers out on the floor. The dancing couples were forming an imagery of a rainbow coloured sea of slinky swirling gowns and with erupting fireworks of sparkling jewels, ignited by pair of immensely large chandeliers that hung over the dance floor, setting them off. I made my way, skirting the dance floor to reach her, my eyes on her jewels, which were making pretty fireworks of their own. I happened to walk up just as a waiter with a tray of drinks was passing by. Plucking off a drink I offered it to the lady with one hand, my other hand placed on her back as If to steady myself. She laughed prettily, and taking the drink I met her eyes, as she was focused on reaching and holding the glass in her slippery gloved hand, mine was on the ruby and diamond necklace. My hand behind her had flicked open the simple hook and eye clasp of the antique piece and was in the process of lifting it up and whisking it away from her throat. As I said a few words to her, I pocketed it, while also taking in the rest of her lovely figure and its shiny decorations, before biding adieu. She smiled, her pale bare neckline now quite glaringly extinguished of its fire.

 

It was about an hour later, after spotting, but unable to make inroads with several likely candidates, that I finally struck gold (figuratively). It came in the form of a young couple arguing between themselves in a far corner of the chamber. She was lecturing a rather handsome man in a tux, her jeweled fingers flying in his face. If she hadn’t been moving about in such an animated fashion as she lectured, I may not have even noticed her. But as it happened I did, especially noticeable was the sanctimonious lady’s wide jeweled bracelet that was bursting out in a rainbow of colorful flickers as her hand was emphatically waving, as her long gown of silk swished around with every movement she made. Perfect. I watched for a bit, and sure enough they moved off, the man heading for the patio leading outside, the wealthy girl following him, still giving him lashes with her tongue. I moved and managed to have her bump into me simply by stepping on the hemline of her long gown. For a few seconds I was the one on the receiving end of her wrath, but I took it like a man, I could see in the eyes of her tongue lashed husband, that he was grateful for the respite. I was also grateful; grateful for the quite wide, very shimmering, bracelet that I had removed from her wrist and now was residing in my pocket.

 

I began to leave the patio, but was stopped by a matronly lady in ruffles, laces and pearls, her breath heavy with alcohol. She started to question me on what the couple had been on about. Then without waiting for an answer she launched herself into a tirade of her own, her gem encrusted, silken gloved fingers, waving in my face for emphasis. It was almost ten minutes before I was able to make my escape. Which I did, but not before slipping off one of the lecturing ladies vulgarly large cocktail rings.

 

I headed onto the patio; the time was getting ripe for my plan, which I was now ready to put into motion, now having acquired its most essential piece. I went to the end of the large patio, weaving in and out of the by now well liquored guests whom had assembled there. Across the way I saw a lady tripping over her own gown. By the time I reached her she had fallen down, giggling merrily. Two of us rushed to her aid, she was busy gushed her thanks to the rescuer she knew, while ignoring the one she didn’t! Which was unfortunate on her part, for by ignoring me, she also was ignorant of the fact that I was busy lifting the small stands of black pearls from her wrist. I left unnoticed, much like a shadow fading out of the light, or at least that’s how it seemed. Finally I reached the patios outer edge without further incident, or gain. I went on the grass and turned a corner with the intention of going, post haste around the house to reach the gardens by the long way, hoping not to be seen by anyone. But I no sooner turned the corner, when I realized that it was not to be the case.

 

It was my blithe spirit in white chiffon from the garden party, pardon me, soiree. She was unescorted, looking up at the moon above a stone turret with one lit window, so intently that my presence had not been noticed. I had been absolutely correct in my observation of her as far as what she would be wearing for the evening. For what she had lacked in ornaments at the soiree, she had more than made up for in the evening festivities. She was absolutely gorgeous, resplendent in as beautiful a silvery satin gown that I had ever witness. It was just pouring down, shimmering along her delightful figure. Her long blazing red hair was still curling down and free, but now a pair of long chandelier earrings cascading down from her earlobes, were peeking out every now and then as they swayed with her every movement. Her blazingly rippling necklace was all diamonds, dripping down the front of her tightly satin covered bosom, twinkling iridescently like an intensively glimmering waterfall. Her slender gloved wrists were home to a pair of dangling diamond bracelets that were almost outshone by her many glistening rings. All in all she was quite a lure all too herself

 

I came up to her, starling her from her reverie. Taking up her hand, I looked into her startled, suddenly blushing face. I complimented her on the fine gown she wore. She thanked me, and I could see I that she suddenly remembered she me as the chap who she thought smiled to her in the garden. She seemed to accept my compliment quite readily. I chanced it( although Lord knows I was short on time) and asked her to a dance. I did not think she would agree, so it was with a little bit of surprise, hoping she would politely decline and walk off, leaving me free to go about my business unobserved. But she accepted, and I will admit that my heart leapt as she agreed (although in the back of my mind I knew I should be off if my plan was to work). The music had stopped so we made small talk as we slowly walked back to the ballroom. Her name was Katrina. It seems she was waiting for someone, which suited my plans, but he was late and so she had time. Which may have sounded dismissive, but from the apologetic way she said it, it was anything but the sort.

 

The orchestra started to tune back up as we entered, and taking her offered hand up, was soon lost in the elegance of my appealing partner. It was a long dance, and a formal one, but I could tell she was subtly anxious to be off on her meeting, as I was to be off to my own adventure. But Katrina did not really allow it to show, which was very uncharacteristic of her someone with her obvious breeding. So I was ready when the by the end of the music she begged her condolences and took flight. I watched her as she fluidly moved away, her jewels sparkling, all of them. On her mission to meet Mr. X I thought, for whom I was already harboring a quite jealous dislike. I should be off I thought to meself.

 

But I stood, still as stone; totally mesmerized by the way Katrina’s swirling silvery satin gown was playing out along her petite, jewel sparkling figure. It wasn’t till the last of her gown swished around a corner out of sight that I moved, but not without having to shake my head to clear the thoughts of her out of it. Well old son, focus. For by now the guests were starting to wander a bit afield in the waning hours of the Autumn Ball, and my small window of opportunity was closing fast. If my little plan was going to have any chance of success it would have to be now.

 

I walked out and made my way to one of the outside exist of the garden wall. Reaching into my pocket as I did so, fingering the bracelet, now cold, that had belonged to the quarrelsome lady,and soon would be playing another role, far from one its former mistress would ever have dreamed off. I also felt my new acquisition, still warm from my dance partner’s body. I will admit that I had felt a twinge of regret for taking it from a lady I had found to be most charmingly captivating. But slipping off the diamonds up and away from her throat had been as temptingly easy as it had been automatic. I had advantageously made use of the sleekness of her scintillatingly silky gown, and with the distractions created by the movements of the dance, successfully managed to keep Katrina’s attention safely diverted from the reality of why my fingers were ever so gently, caressingly sliding along her slippery gowns neckline. The truth was I had originally placed my hand there because it had felt so right, and I was a little startled when my fingers had subconsciously started playing with her necklaces clasp. Before I knew it, they had flicked open the gemstone clasp of her obviously expensive diamond necklace, and had lifted up. As I watched out of the corner of my eye, almost like I was a spectator, as opposed to being the perpetrator, I saw the chain move up and over her shoulder; its diamonds sparkling with is as the necklace disappeared from view behind her back.

It was a favored technique that I had perfected to the point that by this stage of my career I nearly always acquired my objective. But, as odd as it sounds, I was not happy with myself on this occasion.

 

But I did not long dwell on my mixed feelings on taking the charming lass’s diamonds, for by now I had reached my place of ambush. It was in one of the farthest reaches of the garden, at a bend on the end of a long path that, with a gas lamp at its beginning just off the patio, would allow me to see from some distance off. Behind me was a break in the hedge wide enough for a person to walk through comfortably. It was here, off a tree limb, underneath a second ornate cast iron gas lamp, which was now lit, that I hung the shimmering bracelet that I had sought out and acquired for just that reason

 

I walked around and saw that it could be seen flickered off in the distance from the woods, Perfect! Earlier I had hidden my satchel with a hood and knife and bit of rope in the hollow of an old tree. I now retrieved them, and after getting ready, found my position and waited. At 10 minutes past the first hour of my wait, with nary a single glimpse of anyone, I started to fidget. My corner may be just a bit too desolated I was beginning to admit to myself. It seemed that most of the guests were staying by the patio. I was starting to think that I should pack it in, possibly rejoining the guests for one last parting( of someone from her Jewelry). I was just reaching down to pick up my satchel when I suddenly saw something flash under the gas lamp at the beginning of the path, and my senses immediately perked up. I watched as the wisps of rich shimmery satin moved closer, I stiffened, drooling with anticipation, the game was afoot.

  

I could see clearly the flickering jewels she wore, and by their blazing sparkles of rippling fire, I knew that my long vigil would not have been in vain. As the lady drew I recognized her gown of silvery satin! I knew who was making those tantalizing flashes of appealing treasures. Katrina!

 

I watched as she approached, in all her glittering elegance. My heart and conscious was in turmoil, but I knew I probably would not get a second chance. I could not let her get away unscathed. Beside, from the shock of being confronted with a masked scoundrel wielding a wicked blade, she would be in no shape to recognize her assailant. She stopped, apprehensively looking back towards the bright lights of the Manor, Then turning back I saw she had a self-satisfied smile creeping upon her face. She reached up, and undoing her hair, shook it down, curls of softness cascading down, hanging loosely down. It was as she performed this provocative act, that I saw her eyes open wide in curiosity; she had spied my pretty little “prism”. The charming fish was hooked.

 

I waited, watching her approaching ever closer to fate, and from my concealment, I basked in her glow. My heart beating fast, my adrenaline pumping, for the remaining jewels (I thought of her necklace in my custody) that she possessed I already had witnessed were quite valuable. She passed my hiding spot and went to the hanging, shimmering object. As she reached up, looking around, she failed to see me approaching in the shadows. I came up from behind, jabbing a finger in her back as I reached her, I gruffly in no uncertain terms, snarled for her to freeze and make no sound. She stiffened under my touch, but made no move or outcry. I went around; pointing my knife in her direction, looking into her sad doe wide eyes as she realized what was going to happen next. She was trembling; from fear I guessed, and knew I had her right where I wanted. As I made my demands upon her, gimme them jewels sister, she, not surprisingly, was very compliant in giving them up to me. She reached for her necklace last, and looked entirely shocked to find her throat bare, as she searched the neckline of her gown I saw her look into my hand, now dripping with her precious jewelry, almost as if to see if she had not already removed it. She looked apologetically into my eyes, startled; almost pleading that she didn’t know what had happened to it. I just played dump. She than spoke for the first time, sir, may I ask to keep my purse? Her words would have instantly melted even the coldest chunk of ice, I looked down at the little silvery clutch hanging from her arm on its rhinestone chain, I nodded, indicating that she could, and saw relief wash over her face. I told her she now needed to turn around and walk off into the woods ahead of me. She hesitated, and I told her no harm would befall her, I had no intentions along those lines.

 

About 5 meters in I stopped her, and had her remove her shoes, as she bent over to undo the high heels rhinestone clasps I watched her gown tightly outlining her figure. She tripped on the hem of her gown, and as she attempted to keep her balance, accidently let her purse slip off her shoulder. Without thinking I reached down to pick it up for her as she tried reached for it simultaneously

 

The small purse was far heavier than it should have been. Curious I opened it, finding that it contained a rather extensive array of mismatched jewelry, glittering in unbelievably expensive fire . I looked into Katrina’s horror struck eyes dumb founded, as she looked guiltily into mine. The gig was up. The jewels belonged to the lady of the manor, my muse in silver was a thief, a female version of me very self.

 

Aye, what’s this than luv? I questioned her as she looked into my eyes, hers large with a mixture of fright and disbelief. She melted before me, fainting, I caught her in my arms, and it was no ruse. I held her as she came to, holding her warm, silky figure lovingly to mine. I did not know what to think. Nor could I ever explain what possessed me to do what I did next. As she came to, her eyes opened, and I removed my mask, looking back into them deeply.

 

Oh, she gasped, I’m glad it was you, startled that she had said the words out loud. She than started to coyly blushes, quite demurely. Something sparked in me, and unless she was an incredibly good actress, it did also for Katrina. Our eyes both looked into the others, melting away in the lust of the moment. We embraced, deeply, and I held her squirming warm slick figure tight in my enveloping arms. I looked over her shoulder, eyeing the glistening bracelet hanging from its branch. To catch a thief, the thought suddenly opened in my mind, what a great title for a novel I thought to myself, as I buried my nose into Katrina’s luxuriously soft hair.

 

We talked for a bit, walking off into the woods, then she looked into my eyes again, a coy, look that melted me on the spot, and that was the end of it, we embraced again, and wholly gave ourselves to one another. What about your man I asked suddenly remembering, my man she questioned , than oh, you mean the Lord, I was waiting for him to come down from smoking in his tower study, that’s where the lady’s jewels are kept. She broke into an Irish brogue as she said the last bit, and that I guessed was her natural tongue. she laid a hand on the side of my face, thanks for being jealous though, me lad.

I should collect my lure I said, which made her smile; it was such an enticing smile at that. We started to head back and watched as it dangled in front of us flickering. With a far off look in her green eyes, Katrina spoke as if in deep though.

 

The daughter of the house, she has a bracelet on like the one you have dangling, a bracelet of diamonds that I had taken a fancy to, wishing it had been in the safe along with the rest of the ladies of manors jewelry. I knew who she was talking about. The one in green taffeta I asked? Aye lad, that’s the one. Actually her necklace would be just as easy, and worth more I said. Just then her bright green eyes gleamed, Give me about a half an hour, she told me, we will put your little lure to use again. She noticed my hesitation, don’t worry luv she said soothingly placing a gloved hand to my cheek, no longer was it sparkly with its stolen bracelet and rings. I’ll leave my purse with you, can’t very well be carrying it around now can I? I nodded my consent, my mind burning with the thoughts she had alluringly placed there.

  

She turned, and then hesitated; turning back she said I probably should not go back in naked luv. I smiled, reaching in I pulled out her necklace and placed it around her throat. With a little gasp she blurted, so it was you, I was wondering who and when it had happened. It’s not the first time I’ve had me jewels lifted, but it’s a bloody annoyance to have to let them get away with it, crawls under my skin to have pretend not to notice so that I don’t draw any attention to me self before making my move to steal the posh ones jewels.

 

But you, mister, I never felt as much as a prickling. I was ready to assume my pretties had been a victim of a broken clasp this time. I gave a little nod in acceptance. That wasn’t exactly a compliment lad, she said in what I hopped was a subtle jest. Just last summer some clumsy bugger slipped of me earrings, my favorite pearls, as we were danc… she stopped, seeing the guilt in my eyes. Men! As thieves you are all of the same skin she spat out angrily, or attempted to sound angry, for the look in her eyes to me she wasn’t. I best be off, before I change me mind about out little endeavor.

 

With that she swirled around on her heels, and started off, but not before turning and giving me an extremely coy look of interest. As she swirled back around I heard her say loud enough for my ears, I’ll learn me self to be a picker of pockets, see how males like to be taken advantage of in their vulnerabilities! She nodded to herself as she said it. Then suddenly she stopped, than twirled on her heels, her gown swirling enticingly along her figure. Looking me dead in the eye she said, “Vie ne est pas d'attendre que la tempête , mais d'apprendre à danser sous la pluie” !

 

What does that mean? I questioned in a low voice, perplexed.

 

Maybe, Mon Cheri, someday I will tell you… And with that she turned on her heel, her gown once again swirling about, and went, determinedly, swishing her way back up the path. I just watched. I had never heard anyone speak French with an Irish Brogue and I had found it to be rather provocative!

 

I watched as she swished and swayed her way back through the hedge and regained the path leading back to the manor. Her plan was simple; she would lead the daughter of the house to my corner and as she had done, go out with her to look at the swinging charm. I would then make my appearance, rob both ladies of their finery, and telling the daughter to wait until I released her friend, walk off with Katrina as a hostage, and we would both take off and make good our escape. A simple plan, so simple it should actually work.

 

So, there I was. Holding a purse with a small fortune in jewels, my pocket full of more jewels worth an additional pretty farthing, and her charms were wearing off by her leaving. And my thieving nature coming back, reawakened from the spell they had been under!

 

The devil of my conscious crept out on my shoulder, the angel markedly absent from the other.

 

Look mate, she may not be all she seems, and possibly has some other game in mind. Maybe she does have a male confidante helping her out… and was actually on her way to fetch him. He said in my inner ear. And, after all, you took her diamonds twice, didn’t ye now? Do you really think shell forgive you of that me lad?

 

And there is no honor amongst thieves, as the saying goes, he added as a closing argument...

 

I rolled it over in my mind…I could leave, absconding with it all, book a cruise to the states or down under where there lay untried fertile grounds to ply my trade. Not to mention working over my fellow passengers aboard the cruise ship while they attended the fancy affairs that were always going on, or so the brochures always seemed to show……

 

Then In the distance I caught a wisp of Katrina’s long silvery gown. She was coming, and not only with the daughter of the manor, but also with a spare. For I could see a purple coloured gown swishing alongside with the prey in rustling green taffeta.. I watched as all three ladies, resplendent with the rippling fiery gems they all possessed, came up the path, gowns sweeping out , shimmery from the now misty distance.

 

The thought of making my escape with all the loot continued to haunt me, there was still time now to take off without notice, or I could rob all three, and leave with purple silk as my hostage, Katrina would not be able to say anything on chance of giving up her part of the game, or I could just be a good lad and sty with the script that Katrina had written. Take a chance, roll the dice and believe that she was all she had me believing she could ever be.

 

As they came closer I knew my time was running out. The thoughts of just looking out for myself kept coming up playing the devil with my conscience as the precious seconds ticked away…

 

No honor amongst thieves…

What will it be, old boy I challenged myself,

What will you have it be?........

To see what his decision ultimately was, and the eventual path it led to, see the album question answered)

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Life is not about waiting out the storm, but about learning to dance in the rain.

Vie ne est pas d'attendre que la tempête , mais d'apprendre à danser sous la pluie .

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Courtesy of Chatwick University Archives

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These photos and stories are works of fiction. Any resemblance to people, living or deceased, is purely coincidental.

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The one-time Harvard neuroscience research assistant, 37, enthuses: 'I now had a great story if anyone ever asked me to name the strangest place I'd had an orgasm.

 

And I had helped science while doing it. Triumph for all parties concerned!'

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.......***** All images are copyrighted by their respective authors ......

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.....item 1).... Mail Online ... www.dailymail.co.uk ... 'Sex is between your ears': How one woman was inspired to write a book after having an orgasm in an MRI scanner

 

By VICTORIA WELLMAN

Last updated at 7:17 PM on 11th January 2012

 

www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-2085247/How-Kayt-Sukel...

 

A woman who reached orgasm in an MRI machine as part of a scientific study has gone on to write a book inspired by her experience.

 

Kayt Sukel, who masturbated and had two consecutive orgasms in the medical scanner as part of a Rutgers University-led experiment, was inspired to publish Dirty Minds: How Our Brains Influence Love, Sex, and Relationships.

 

The book describes, among other things, how sexual satisfaction affects chemical activity in the brain.

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img code photo .... Kayt Sukel -- as part of a Rutgers University-led experiment

 

i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2012/01/11/article-2085247-0F6B1E...

 

Inspired: Kayt Sukel, who took part in an experiment that saw her climax in an MRI machine has now written a book on how sex relates to the brain

 

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The one-time Harvard neuroscience research assistant, 37, enthuses: 'I now had a great story if anyone ever asked me to name the strangest place I'd had an orgasm. And I had helped science while doing it. Triumph for all parties concerned!'

 

More...

 

I lost my virginity twice: Woman, 27, reveals she has TWO VAGINAS

Evangelical pastor under fire from Christians over sexually-explicit guide to marriage

 

When asked how she managed to climax twice in the sterile, cold tunnel, she said the key was to keep as still as possible throughout the process.

 

She told ABC News: 'This is a question I get asked a lot, and honestly the answer is to remain very, very still. 'As it turns out, if you move around too much having an orgasm, the FMRI can't pick up the activation

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img code photo ... ABC News

 

i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2012/01/11/article-2085247-0F6B08...

 

Stimulating research: Ms Sukel pictured before entering the MRI scanner, in which she would reach orgasm twice

 

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'So practice makes perfect, after a week or two of trying to stay as still as possible, which, as I know, Cosmo highly recommends against doing, you too can have an orgasm in an FMRI scanner.'

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img code photo .... Kayt Sukel ...

 

i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2012/01/11/article-2085247-0F6B33...

 

Masked: The author had to remain absolutely still during both orgasms so that her brain activity was recognised

 

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Explaining how sexual satisfaction relates to brain activity, she explained: 'Sex is between your ears. Our brain is really an important part of orgasm.'

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img code photo .... Amazon ... Dirty Minds: How Our Brains Influence Love, Sex, and Relationships ..

 

i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2012/01/11/article-2085247-0F6B1E...

 

Ms Sukel's book, titled Dirty Minds, is on sale now

 

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Ms Sukel's book also examines what happens in the brain that makes people fall in love, whether sex addition is a valid affliction and why 'good girls like bad boys.'

 

Referring to the scientific theory known as Epigenetics, she looks at the neurochemicals that mediate love and how they affect not just our emotional sensibilities but how our focus and attention can alter too.

 

And not discounting pregnancy and childbirth as part of her research she considered the way she felt when her own baby was born.

 

She recalled: 'My baby was pretty sexy - much more than I'd been prepared for. Not in a sweaty, naked-hot-guy kind of way, but in an irresistible, compelling way that altered my body, my mind, and my life from top to bottom.'

 

This was thanks to the brain's release of the love hormone, oxytocin during the lactation period; a hormone that is also produced during orgasm.

 

Ms Sukel mused: 'I had to take care of a helpless thing, and thank goodness the biology helped give me the mental and emotional toolkit to cope with that.'

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.....item 2).... 'Vagina Monologues' titillates FSU ...

 

... FSU News ... www.fsunews.com/ ...

 

World-renowned play hit campus last weekend ...

 

2:42 AM, Apr. 2, 2013 |

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img code photo ... The Women Student Union of FSU - 2013

 

cmsimg.tallahassee.com/apps/pbcsi.dll/bilde?Site=CD&D...

 

The Women Student Union of FSU put on Eve Ensler's world-renowned play 'The Vagina Monologues.' / Photo courtesy of Rachel Johnson

 

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Written by

Setareh Baig

Staff Writer

 

FILED UNDER

FSU News

FSU News Campus

 

www.fsunews.com/article/20130402/FSVIEW1/130402002/-Vagin...|newswell|text|frontpage|s

 

“If your vagina could talk, what would it say?” This question, along with several other inquiries about private parts were answered at the two performances of Eve Ensler’s The Vagina Monologues at Florida State's Moore Auditorium last Friday and Saturday.

 

Men and women alike joined in on the entertainment presented by student director Rachel Johnson and the Women Student Union of FSU. The play was performed in honor of V-Day, an international movement that advocates against violence toward women. All proceeds and donations went to the Oasis Center for Women and Girls.

 

The Vagina Monologues is an intelligent, poignant and shocking look into the nether regions of real women from around the country. The play unfolds as a compilation of different monologues that are based on real interviews from 200 women of all ages, classes and nationalities. Decked out in little black dresses, 30 FSU girls gave it their all to create a stellar show.

 

Touching on sex, love, rape, birth, menstruation and female genital mutilation, the performances evoked both wild laughter and harrowing sadness, and all feelings in-between. Audience members found themselves cackling hysterically one moment and sobbing the next, as the emotions, problems and real life struggles were elucidated through the girls’ outstanding performances.

 

The show featured Britney Phillips’ performance of “The Little Coochie Snorcher That Could,” a coming-of-age story about a 16-year-old girl and her sexual experience with her 24-year-old female neighbor. Derrika Hunt stood out with “What If I Told You I Did Not Have a Vagina,” a bold and tear-evoking performance about female genital mutilation. The play ended with “One Billion Rising,” a wordless yet powerful short film that portrays violence against women all over the world, and how these women are rising above their pain.

 

Without any prior knowledge of the play, one would think a show solely about vaginas would be ridiculous and absurd. But The Vagina Monologues is a charming and moving show filled with wit and powerful messages. The play's taboo topics are tastefully done—even when girls are blatantly masturbating, moaning profusely or getting the audience to chant the “C” word. Every uncomfortable topic brings light to important issues that people are too frightened to discuss.

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Last picture (4/4) in the series of blue close-ups with the Olympus TG-5 and TCON-T01.

 

I had a lot of fun photographing this particular item of urban architecture in Łódź.

 

This is an out-of-camera JPEG, with a slight edit to attenuate the Purple Orb in the center. It's still slightly visible, but was not very distracting in an abstract picture like this anyway. Could have left it.

 

The Purple Orb is an optical artifact of the folded lens design of the Olympus TG series that appears in certain light conditions. It's similar to lens flare, although the mechanism is probably different. The purple hue may be due to light hitting the sensor and being reflected back to it by the optical assembly, but I don't know if anyone really elucidated the precise cause.

Tools:

-ReShade 4.5.4 + Custom Shaders

-CE Table By Phokz + Extra Tweaks by Elucidater

-4K DSR

 

Pieter Bruegel the Elder (ca 1525-1569), Dulle Griet (Mad Meg), 1563, oil on wood 117 x 162 cm.

Museum Mayer van den Bergh, Antwerp.

 

The giant figure in the centre, Dulle Griet, advances in rage amidst Boschian monsters towards the mouth of Hell. She wears a breastplate, a helmet and a mailed glove on the left hand, while carrying a sword in the other hand, her arm holding a money-box, a kitchen bowl with cutlery and a bag along her apron, full of stolen goods. As their commander, Dulle Griet is followed on the right by a troop of women looting a house and at the same time managing to handle in the turmoil an army of devilish monsters.

 

Above the turmoil of Griet’s female followers, Bruegel painted a strange figure with a boat on his back, sitting on the roof of the looted house and spooning a profusion of money out of his egg-shaped buttocks, this scene not showing a clear connection to the turmoil underneath.

 

The true meaning of the painting with the apparent imbalance between Griet’s and her followers’ fight and the invincibility of Hell remains unsolved. However, a saying from a book of proverbs published in Antwerp in 1568, may elucidate the painting’s mystery, Bruegel thus simply making fun of noisy or aggressive women: “One woman makes a din, two women a lot of trouble, three an annual market, four a quarrel, five an army, and against six the Devil himself has no weapon.”

 

For several details of the painting, see next pictures

Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.

 

Today, Lettice is entertaining the world famous British concert pianist, Sylvia Fordyce in her well appointed her Cavendish Mews drawing room. Lettice met Sylvia at a private audience after a performance at the Royal Albert Hall*. Sylvia is the long-time friend of Lettice’s fiancée, Sir John Nettleford-Hughes and his widowed sister Clementine (known preferably now by the more cosmopolitan Clemance) Pontefract, the latter of whom Sylvia has known since they were both eighteen. Lettice, Sir John and Clemance were invited to join Sylvia in her dressing room after her Schumann and Brahms concert. After a brief chat with Sir John (whom she refers to as Nettie, using the nickname only his closest friends use) and Clemance, Sylvia had her personal secretary, Atlanta, show them out so that she could discuss “business” with Lettice. Anxious that like so many others, Sylvia would try to talk Lettice out of marrying Sir John, who is old enough to be her father and known for his philandering and not so discreet dalliances with pretty chorus girls of Lettice’s age and younger, Lettice was surprised when Sylvia admitted that when she said that she wanted to discuss business, that was what she genuinely meant. Sylvia owns a small country property just outside of Belchamp St Paul** on which she had a secluded little house she calls ‘The Nest’ built not so long ago by architect Sydney Castle***: a house she had decorated by society interior designer Syrie Maugham****. However, unhappy with Mrs. Maugham’s passion for shades of white, Sylvia wanted Lettice to inject some colour into the drawing room of her country retreat by painting a feature wall for her. Thus, she invited Lettice to motor up to Essex with her for an overnight stay at the conclusion of her concert series at The Hall to see the room for herself, and perhaps get some ideas as to what and how she might paint it. Lettice agreed to Sylvia’s commission, and originally had the idea of painting flowers on the wall, reflecting the newly planted cottage garden outside the large drawing room windows of ‘The Nest’. However, after hearing the story of Sylvia’s life – a sad story throughout which, up until more recent years, she had felt like a bird trapped in a cage, Lettice has opted to paint the wall with stylised feathers, expressing the freedom to fly and soar that Sylvia’s later life has given her the ability to do. Delighted with the outcome of her new feature wall, Sylvia has come to Cavendish Mews today to pay the remainder of her bill in full, a result not always so easily come by, by some of Lettice’s previous wealthy clients.

 

Just as Edith, Lettice’s maid, is arranging one of her light and fluffy sponge onto a white gilt edged plate in the kitchen to serve to Lettice and her guest, she hears the mechanical buzz of the Cavendish Mews servant’s call bell. Glancing up she notices the circle for the front door has changed from black to red, indicating that it is the front door bell that has rung.

 

“Oh blast.” she mutters. “Just as I’m about to serve cake too.”

 

Quickly whipping off the stained apron she is wearing which has splashes of cream and strawberry juice from decorating the cake, she hurries from the kitchen into the public area of the flat via a door in the scullery adjoining the kitchen, snatching up a clean apron from a hook by the door as she goes. Quickly fastening the freshly laundered apron over her blue and white striped calico print morning uniform as she walks into the entrance hall.

 

The front door buzzer goes again, sounding noisily, filling the atmosphere with a jarring echo.

 

“Edith?” Lettice’s voice calls from the drawing room where she is sitting with Sylvia.

 

“On my way, Miss!” Edith assures her mistress in a harried tone as she hurries across the think Chinese silk carpet to the front door. “I’m coming, alright. I’m coming.” mutters Edith irritably to herself as she makes her way toward the front door with rushed footsteps. “Keep your hair on****.”

 

She pats her cap and the hairpins holding her blonde waves neatly in place as she goes, hoping that she looks presentable as she opens the front door.

 

“It’s only little me, dear Lettice.” Gerald simpers as he walks into the drawing room where Lettice sits in her usual black japanned, rounded back, while upholstered tup armchair next to the telephone, whilst Sylvia Fordyce lounges languidly in the one opposite.

 

“Oh Gerald! What a lovely surprise!” Lettice says, standing up, the lilt in her voice cheerful, but the look in her sparkling blue eyes murderous as she glances at Gerald. “I… I thought I told you I was entertaining Miss Fordyce is afternoon.”

 

“Oh, you may well have,” he answers, lightly tapping the side of his head beneath the brim of his straw boater absently. “But silly me, it must have completely slipped my mind. I’m so sorry!” His words are apologetic, and his behaviour contrite, but there is a mischievous hazel tinted glint in his own dark brown eyes, and a cheeky curl upturning the corner of his mouth as she speaks that betrays his true thoughts. “It’s only a fleeting visit. I merely came by to drop off a little something for you.” He holds out a small parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine towards Lettice.

 

For the moment, Gerald politely ignores Sylvia’s dark sloe eyed stare as she remains draped languidly in her armchair, her long fingers steepled in front of her chest. He can feel her silently appraising his well-cut navy blue blazer with glinting gold buttons, his pressed white trousers with a crisp crease down the middle at both the front and back, his natty yet at the same time slightly foppish blue and white striped tie with a matching pocket square*****, his bold red carnation boutonnière****** and his stylish straw boater.

 

“Oh Gerald! Lettice says, accepting the gift. “You shouldn’t have.”

 

“Oh,” Gerald retorts, waving his hand dismissively. “It’s nothing really, just a new scarf in silk I had printed with one of my designs in Lyon. I had a few made up, but I wanted you to the be first to have one, of course. They are very much your colours, my dear Lettice.”

 

“Ahh!” exclaims Sylvia, suddenly breaking her languid pose and leaning forward in her seat, looking up at Gerald with great interest as her red painted mouth hangs open in anticipation, her tongue pressed to the base of her mouth behind her slightly discoloured teeth. “So, this is the wunderkind******* Gerald Bruton, of whom I have read so much about in The Lady******** as he takes the London fashion scene by storm.”

 

“Oh! Where are my matters!” Lettice remarks, quickly putting Gerald’s unopened parcel aside. “Sylvia darling, may I introduce Mr. Gerald Bruton, Grosvenor Street couturier, and my oldest, dearest and sometimes,” She pauses for effect. “My most frustrating chum from childhood. Gerald darling, may I introduce Miss Sylvia Fordyce, the world famous British concert pianist.”

 

“And you latest client… and hopefully new friend.” Sylvia adds with a smile.

 

It is only then that Gerald allows himself to truly take his attention away from Lettice and focus upon her guest. Wearing an over-sized chocolate brown velvet cloche, Sylvia’s black dyed sharp bob pokes out from beneath it, framing her striking, angular face which is caked with a thick layer of white makeup. Her lips are painted a bright red, which appears even more garish against the white of her face paint, just as the darkness of her glittering eyes are intensified by her white, almost ethereal, pallor. She wears no necklace, nor any earrings that Gerald can discern beneath the bottom of her cloche. In fact, her only piece of jewellery is a large aquamarine and diamond cluster ring on the left middle finger on her elegant pianist’s right hand. However, being the only piece of ornamentation she wears, it makes the ring, already a striking piece in its own right, even more so as it sparkles and winks beneath the electric light of Lettice’s chandelier overhead. Her outfit is simple and stripped back: a white satin blouse accessorised with a black and white cheque silk scarf tied in a loose and artistic style, and a long column like skirt in black, beneath the hem of which poke the pointed toes of a pair of high heeled black patent leather boots. Far from being conventionally beautiful, the pianist has captured the power of dressing to make her presence unignorable, and she wears her cultivated look with unabashed pride.

 

“Miss Fordyce needs no introduction.” Gerald enthuses as he bends down and raises Sylvia’s elegant hand, kissing it gently just above the sparkling cluster ring. “Enchanté.” he breathes in French.

 

“Charmante,” Sylvia replies with an enigmatic smile, bowing her head slightly as she slowly withdraws her hand from Gerald’s, enjoying the attention her is lavishing upon her. “I could say the same about you, Mr. Bruton, for Lettice speaks of you fondly, and often. I believe that it is you I have to thank for our clever Lettice finishing my feature wall. She has just been telling me that when her inspiration or energy was flagging whilst she was painting it, you spurned her on to complete it. I’m most grateful.”

 

“I did my best, Miss Fordyce.” Gerald replies, his cheeks flushing red at Sylvia’s compliment. “Lettice is,” He turns his head away from Sylvia and focuses upon his best friend. “A remarkable artist, and highly skilled.”

 

“Oh Gerald!” Lettice gasps.

 

“It sounds like you are also her biggest champion, my dear Mr. Bruton.” Sylvia opines.

 

“But,” Gerald goes on. “She doesn’t have the faith in her own abilities that she should.” He returns his attentions to Sylvia. “I’m sure you agree, Miss Fordyce.”

 

“Indeed I do, Mr. Bruton. Your friend is highly accomplished, and I was just telling our clever Lettice how delighted I am with my new feature wall.”

 

“I think it is very beautiful too, Miss Fordyce. You are most fortunate.” Gerald replies.

 

Without saying anything, Lettice gently puts her hand on Gerald’s forearm.

 

“Well!” Gerald says, clearing his throat a little awkwardly, taking Lettice’s silent hint in his stride. “I did say that this was only a fleeting visit. I really should be off.” He looks at Lettice with a meaningful look. “I’ve been here enough times to show myself out, whilst you entertain your guest. I do hope you like the scarf.”

 

“Oh really?” Sylvia interjects rising elegantly from her seat, the fabric of her outfit draping down over her slender frame like shivering water. “Must you go?” She turns her head to Lettice. “Must he go, Lettice darling? Your maid was fetching us cake wasn’t she? Surely there is enough for three?” She turns back to Gerald. “Please, Mr. Bruton. I’d so love you to stay! Darling Lettice and I have finished up the tedious part of my visit, settling my account, and we were just prattling away idly, weren’t we Lettice darling? Besides, I would value your opinion, since you are an arbiter of fashion, Mr. Bruton. Please?” She pouts her scarlet painted lips, which even in a plumped up form still have a slender look about them. “Please!”

 

“Well I…” Gerald looks between Sylvia and Lettice. “I suppose I could tarry for a short while. I don’t have to be at my next appointment just yet, and I do so love Edith’s sponges, which she has told me she has made for you, Miss Fordyce.”

 

“Oh Gerald!” Lettice laughs. “Please drop the pretence and save yourself the embarrassment. Bring that chair over and join us.” She indicates with a sweeping gesture to the black japanned Chippendale chair, upholstered in silver and blue Art Deco fabric, which whilst unorthodox with such clashing styles , works under Lettice’s clever eye for design. “I’ll tell Edith we’re a trio now.” She steps over and depresses the servants’ call button by the fireplace, the buzzer echoing in the service area of the flat.

 

“Thank you, Lettice.” Gerald says gratefully as he takes off his straw boater and places it on one of Lettice’s black japanned side tables before drawing up the chair she has indicated to the coffee table and takes a seat.

 

“Did Cyril put you up to this?” Lettice asks him, mentioning Gerald’s young, fey and more overtly homosexual lover who lives in a boarding house for theatrical types in Putney with Gerald’s friend Harriet Milford, who designs hats in addition to running her rather dramatic boarding house. “Turning up on my doorstep, knowing that Miss Fordyce would be here?”

 

“Well...” Gerald says, blushing red as he speaks.

 

“I knew you hadn’t forgotten that I told you Miss Fordyce was visiting today!” Lettice wags a finger at Gerald. “It isn’t like you to forget a date, even if it isn’t one of your own.”

 

“Who is Cyril, Mr. Bruton?” Sylvia asks, intrigued as she resumes her languid stance in her tub chair again.

 

“Cyril is my… my friend, Miss Fordyce.” Gerald pipes up quickly. “He’s… he’s an oboist who plays in the West End theatres, and like me,” He bushes even deeper. “He is a very big fan of yours, Miss Fordyce.”

 

“A friend.” Sylvia muses, looking Gerald up and down knowingly, but keeping her impressions to herself behind her heavily painted face, only smiling politely in acknowledgement of Gerald.

 

“When I told him that I was going with Lettice to stay at your very lovely little country retreat in Essex, he was more than a little jealous.”

 

“Was he indeed?” Sylvia chuckles indulgently.

 

Just at that moment, Edith walks into the drawing room.

 

“You rang, Miss?” Edith says, bobbing a polite curtsey.

 

“Yes Edith.” Lettice replies. “Mr. Bruton is staying now, so it will be tea for three now, if you can manage it.”

 

“Of course Miss.” Edith replies. “May I take your hat, Mr. Bruton.”

 

“Thank you Edith.” he says, passing her his straw boater. “I do like your delicious sponge cake, Edith.” Gerald compliments the young girl.

 

“Thank you, Sir.” Edith replies, blushing as she basks momentarily in Gerald’s compliment before bobbing another quick curtsey to the assembled company and retreating back into the dining room and through the green baize door, back into the service area of the flat.

 

“Even if my figure suffers for it.” Gerald adds, turning his attentions back to Sylvia.

 

“Such high praise for your cook, Lettice darling.” Sylvia says with her expertly plucked black eyebrows arching high over her eyes. “I am in for a treat!”

 

“Edith is an excellent cook when it comes to cakes, Sylvia darling, so I asked her to bake her speciality today, a cream filled strawberry sponge cake.”

 

“Goodness!” Sylvia gasps. “No wonder your figure suffers, Mr. Bruton, at the sound of such extravagance. I myself,” She raises a hand to her throat. “Do not suffer the same problem. As a performer, I have far too much frenetic energy to burn.”

 

“And you do it with such theatricality,” Gerald enthuses.

 

“Why thank you, Mr. Bruton.” Sylvia says, smiling indulgently as she does. “Such a lovely compliment.”

 

“Oh Gerald!” Lettice giggles. “I do believe you are quite smitten with Sylvia.”

 

“Don’t be cheeky…” Gerald goes to call Lettice by her most hated childhood pet name, ‘Lettuce Leaf’, but being the presence of the pianist he so admires, and wanting to maintain a good impression, he swallows awkwardly and finishes a little lamely, “Lettice.”

 

Sylvia laughs heartily. “You two do know each other well, don’t you, Lettice darling? You have a way between you that seems very comfortable. Have you known Mr. Bruton all your life?”

 

“Yes.” Lettice replies.

 

“I’m just a little older than Lettice, and we grew up on neighbouring estates in Wiltshire,” Gerald goes on. “And all of Lettice’s siblings, with the exception of her beast of a brother Lionel, are much older that we are, and my own brother Roland is a few years my senior and never had time for me.”

 

“So we just ended up playing together, didn’t we Gerald?”

 

“We did, Lettice.”

 

“And so, we became the best of chums and have stayed as such ever since.”

 

“How utterly delightful!” Sylvia opines with a clap of her hands. “But please, do go on about your friend, Cyril, Mr. Bruton. I love the West End theatre scene, and attend whenever my schedule allows. We theatrical types must support one another and stick together. Perhaps I’ve seen, or rather heard, your young oboist friend in a show?”

 

“Well, Cyril was performing in Julian Wylie’s********* revue, ‘Better Days’********** at the Hippodrome***********, but it’s just finished, so he is between engagements at the moment.”

 

“I see.” Sylvia replies, nodding and staring deeply into Gerald’s eyes.

 

“You… err, you wanted to ask me something about fashion, I believe, Miss Fordyce?” Gerald asks, feeling uncomfortable under Sylvia’s inscrutable stare.

 

“I did, Mr. Bruton!” Sylvia replies animatedly, releasing Gerald from her scrutiny. “Thank you for reminding me. Being the arbiter and setter of current London fashion trends that you are…”

 

“Oh, I don’t know if I’d go quite that far, Miss Fordyce.” Gerald chuckles, blushing yet again.

 

“Nonsense! Mr. Bruton!” Sylvia scoffs. “False modesty doesn’t suit you any more than it does darling Lettice, and,” She wags her index finger admonishingly at him, the cluster of diamonds and aquamarines on the finger next to it glinting and gleaming in the light. “It’s no good for business. Did you not design this divine frock for Lettice?”

 

Gerald turns to face Lettice, although he has no need to, as he recognised the rose and marone silk georgette knife pleated frock, the same one she wore when she first arrived at ‘The Nest’ with Sylvia when she went to look at the wall her hostess wanted redecorated, as being one of his own designs for Lettice the moment he laid eyes on her upon walking into the drawing room. “Indeed it is, Miss Fordyce.”

 

“Then I stand by what I say, Mr. Bruton. You have an eye for colour and cut, style and panache, and you create things that flatter your customers.”

 

“Well, Lettice is a special case, Miss Fordyce. As you’ve heard, she is my best friend, and she has always been so supportive of my frock making, ever since I first began. She’s something of a muse to me.”

 

“Muse or not, if you couldn’t design frocks, had no style or awareness of colour, poor Lettice might be wearing something that makes her look perfectly hideous at the moment. Although,” She turns and ponders over Lettice sitting comfortably in her armchair. “I do think that would be very hard to do, since she is so lithe and lovely.”

 

“We concur in that opinion, Miss Fordyce.” Gerald agrees.

 

“However, I stand by what I said before, you are an arbiter of fashion, and your creations are influencing what London women are wearing. So, I wanted to ask you, what is your opinion on,” She stands up suddenly, and spreads her legs slightly, the movement causing the black fabric of what Gerald had thought was a dress to reveal itself as being a pair of roomy Oxford bags************. “Women wearing trousers?”

 

Lettice immediately sees this as being a test for Gerald, as to whether Sylvia, who doesn’t suffer fools or people who don’t tend to share her opinion, will want to invite him to join her exclusive coterie of friends, as she has Lettice. Lettice sits forward slightly in her seat, causing an almost imperceptible widening of her guest’s eyes opposite her, the change, and slight flash in her eyes as she stares at Gerald causing Lettice to sit back in her seat.

 

Without batting an eyelid, Gerald replies firmly. “I always admired Paul Poiret************* for introducing wide legged trousers for women in 1910. I thought it a pity that they only caught on amongst the most avant-garde and daring of his clients.”

 

Lettice releases the pent-up breath she has silently been holding, sighing with relief, knowing by the subtle curl in Sylvia’s red streak of a mouth that she is pleased with Gerald’s response.

 

“And when do you think it will be commonplace to see trousers for women in London shops, Mr. Bruton?” Sylvia goes on, placing her hands in a stance of defiance on her hips. “Currently I have to travel to Berlin to get mine.” She kicks up her right heel a little, making her slacks billow for a moment before falling back down elegantly against her legs.

 

“Ahh, that is a very good question, Miss Fordyce.” Gerald replies. “If I had my way, they would be readily available for all women to wear. However…”

 

“However?” Sylvia asks.

 

“However, the English are conservative by nature, Miss Fordyce, and women wearing trousers would be too shocking for their taste, at least currently. London is not Paris, or Berlin, madam.”

 

At that moment, the conversation is broken by the sound of china rattling against silver, as Edith pushes open the green baize door leading from the scullery to the dining room carrying a large silver tray laden with Lettice’s best Art Deco Royal Doulton ‘Falling Leaves’ tea set, cups, saucers and plates to match, and one of her beautiful strawberry sponge cakes. The trio watch, transfixed as she slowly walks across the dining room and into the drawing room carrying the tray, which looks far to heavy for a girl as dainty as Edith. They observe in silence as she lowers the tray onto the low, black japanned coffee table, before rising and bobbing a curtsy to her mistress.

 

“Will there be anything else, Miss?” Edith asks, aware of the attention and curiosity she has created with her presence, but determined not to let it impact her polite and calm manner.

 

“No, thank you, Edith.” Lettice replies politely. “However, I’ll be sure to call if we need anything else.”

 

“Very good, Miss.” She bobs another curtsey and quickly retreats back to the kitchen.

 

“Yes,” Sylvia says quietly with a sigh as she watches Edith’s retreating figure disappear back through the green baize door. “The idea of women wearing trousers does seem to be too unpalatable for so much of the British population. Take your maid, for example, Lettice darling. Both times I have visited you here at Cavendish Mews, she cannot help but look aghast at my outlandish roomy trousers, her horror as plain as the nose on her face!”

 

“Oh Sylvia, darling!” Lettice protests, as she begins to unpack the tray and set up the teacups onto saucers. “That isn’t fair to poor Edith!”

 

“Whyever not, Lettice darling?” Sylvia retorts. “Surely it would be more practical for her to do her job, were she to wear trousers than some calico frock like she is wearing now. She should find the idea of me wearing trousers exciting, not abhorrent!”

 

“That may well be, Miss Fordyce, but she’ll never wear them.” Gerald replies.

 

“How ridiculous! I ask again, whyever not?” Sylvia asks again, throwing her hands up in the air in exasperation.

 

“Because Edith is what is known as a good girl.” Lettice elucidates. “She was brought up by her parents: a factory worker and a laundress I believe, to have moral scruples.”

 

“Moral scruples!” Sylvia scoffs dismissively.

 

“Where she comes from, Sylvia darling, women are servants, wives or mothers. They don’t rune businesses. They aren’t concert pianists. And they certainly don’t wear trousers.”

 

“She’ll never wear them, Miss Fordyce,” Gerald agrees. “Never!”

 

“And you, Mr. Bruton?” Sylvia asks with a cunning smile.

 

“Me, Miss Fordyce?”

 

“Would you be willing to make trousers for women, even if it would shock some parts of London society?”

 

“Well, as a matter-of-fact, Miss Fordyce,” Gerald says with a conspiratorial smile and a twinkle in his eyes. “I happen to be in the process of designing a range of beach pyjamas************* at the moment.”

 

“Beach pyjamas?” Sylvia asks, licking her lips with excitement. “What are they?”

 

“Well, rather like the name suggests, it’s a pair of wide-legged trousers with a matching blouse, made from colourful, brightly patterned cotton fabrics, similar to what you might wear to bed.”

 

“I don’t wear anything to bed, Mr. Bruton.” Sylvia replies with a throaty chuckle.

 

“Sylvia!” Lettice admonishes her guest as Gerald blushes red.

 

“Please pardon my lack of moral scruples, Mr. Bruton.” Sylvia says teasingly. “Perhaps I should take a leaf from your maid, Lettice darling.” She then continues, “Do go on about your beach pyjamas, Mr. Bruton! They sound positively delicious!” Sylvia murmurs.

 

“They are all the rage in Deauville.” Gerald goes on.

 

“Deauville is hardly Bournemouth, Brighton or Lyme Regis.” Lettice counters as she removes Edith’s cake from the tray.

 

“I just need an exponent of them who would be brave enough and willing to wear them.” Gerald defends.

 

“Maybe.” Lettice mutters doubtfully.

 

“Could they be made of silk or satin, Mr. Bruton?” Sylvia asks, sitting up, her eyes twinkling darkly.

 

“Of course, Miss Fordyce. In fact, they lend themselves to being made of something so deliciously extravagant.”

 

“Surely you aren’t suggesting you’d be Gerald’s proponent and wear beach pyjamas, Sylvia darling?” Lettice asks.

 

“Well why not, Lettice darling?” Sylvia counters her friend. “You know me well enough by now to know I don’t give a fig what people think! I am my own woman.” She pats her chest proudly. “Besides,” she adds with a throaty chuckle. “I’d enjoy nothing more than shocking those ghastly prudish Edwardian matrons sitting in their deckchairs along the pier at Bognor Regis*************** as I parade before them in a pair of Mr. Bruton’s beach pyjamas!” She pauses. “Made of satin, of course!”

 

“Of course, Miss Fordyce.” Gerald agrees, quickly getting swept up in the promise of the idea.

 

“Excellent!” Sylvia laughs. “What jolly fun!”

 

“Rather!” Gerald agrees, growing excited at the thought. “Jolly good show, Miss Fordyce!”

 

“Do you know what, Mr. Bruton?” Sylvia asks, as she accepts a cup of freshly poured tea from her hostess. “I’ve just had the most marvellous idea! I was saying to Lettice here, just before you arrived, how I was thinking of throwing a small soirée at ‘The Nest’ with a few like-minded friends: musicians, artists and the like,” She gesticulates about her as if demonstrating who the people’s professions might be. “To celebrate the completion of my fabulous Lettice Chetwynd original feature wall, and for me to be able to show it off to a few of my dearest friends.”

 

“That sounds splendid, Miss Fordyce.” Gerald says.

 

“Well I was just thinking, why don’t you join us? Lettice will have a familiar face beyond mine and Nettie’s to look at.”

 

“Nettie?” Gerald queries.

 

“It’s John’s pet name given him by Clemance and a select group of close friends.” Lettice pipes up as she hands Gerald his teacup. “But please don’t you call him that, Gerald darling!” she implores. “I don’t think I could take it seriously, coming from you.”

 

“Have no fear, Lettice darling!” Gerald chuckles. “I don’t think I could come at calling Sir John that, even if you wanted me too.” He screws up his nose in a mixture of perplexity and distaste. “Nettie…. Nettie.” He shakes his head.

 

“You could bring your… friend,” Sylvia goes on, her eyebrows arching over her eyes before she gives Gerald a cheeky and conspiratorial wink. “Cyril. Playing the oboe, he’s a musician after all, so he’d be in good company, and you did say just before that he was a trifle jealous of you getting to visit ‘The Nest’ without him.”

 

“That really is most generous of you, Miss Fordyce!” Gerald exclaims.

 

“Oh, my offer doesn’t come for free.” Sylvia’s dark eyes widen and sparkle in the light of the room. “There are strings attached to my invitation. I’m an artist, Mr. Bruton. I can’t afford to be that altruistic. No. I’d do you a trade. You and Cyril may come for a weekend at ‘The Nest’ and enjoy my company, and my largess, in return for a pair of your delicious sounding beach pyjamas, in satin! Deal?” she holds out her right hand, rather like an American businessman.

 

Gerald feels awkward as he mimics Sylvia, but he reaches out and shakes her hand. “Deal.”

 

*The Royal Albert Hall is a concert hall on the northern edge of South Kensington in London, built in the style of an ancient amphitheatre. Since the hall's opening by Queen Victoria in 1871, the world's leading artists from many performance genres have appeared on its stage. It is the venue for the BBC Proms concerts, which have been held there every summer since 1941.

 

**Belchamp St Paul is a village and civil parish in the Braintree district of Essex, England. The village is five miles west of Sudbury, Suffolk, and 23 miles northeast of the county town, Chelmsford.

 

***Sydney Ernest Castle was born in Battersea in July 1883. He trained with H. W. Edwards, a surveyor and worked as chief assistant to Arthur Jessop Hardwick (1867 - 1948) before establishing his own practice in London in 1908. From 1908 to 1918 he was in partnership with Gerald Warren (1881-1936) as Castle & Warren. He worked on St. George's Hill Estate in Weybridge, Surrey with Walter George Tarrant (1875-1942). Castle was elected a Fellow of the Royal Institute of British Architects (FRIBA) in 1925. He designed many buildings, including the Christian Association building in Clapham, a school in Balham and a private hotel in the Old Brompton Road, as well as many private residences throughout Britain. His firm’s address in 1926, when this story is set was 40, Albemarle Street, Piccadilly. He died in Wandsworth in March 1955.

 

****Syrie Maugham was a leading British interior decorator of the 1920s and 1930s and best known for popularizing rooms decorated entirely in shades of white. She was the wife of English playwright and novelist William Somerset Maugham.

 

****Meaning to keep calm and be patient, the earliest occurrence of the phrase “to keep your hair on” is recorded in The Entr’acte magazine in London in 1873, which mentioned that at the Winchester, a London music hall, an artist named Ted Callingham sang “Roving Joe” and “Keep Your Hair On”, two very laughable comic songs. A year later in 1874, it was being used commonly amongst the working classes. It is generally said that the phrase is based on the image of pulling one’s hair out in exasperation, anger or frustration, however some connect it to an earlier phrase from the Eighteenth Century “pulling off one’s wig” which refers to irascible and aged gentlemen, “when mad with passion,” have been known not only to curse and swear, but to tear their wigs from their heads, and to trample them under their feet, or to throw them into the fire.

 

*****A pocket square is a decorative square of fabric, typically silk or linen, that is displayed in the breast pocket of a jacket or suit. It serves as a fashion accessory to add a touch of style and visual interest to an outfit. Pocket squares can be folded in various ways, and the fabric is often chosen to complement or contrast with the rest of the attire. The exact origins of the pocket square are open to debate, but many believe they began in Ancient Egypt and Greece. These white fabric squares originally served practical purposes, such as maintaining cleanliness or deterring smells. Men would store them out of sight, only pulling them out when needed. Over time, pocket squares became a fashion statement and status symbol. Wealthy men would purchase brightly coloured fabrics, especially in bold red hues, to stand out from the crowd. They also often had infused scents to block unwanted smells. Throughout the Eighteenth Century, the popularity of pocket squares spread across Europe, even making their way into royal outfits. Pocket squares remained popular throughout the Eighteenth Century, but they truly evolved into the modern accessory we know today in the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries.

 

******A boutonnière is a floral decoration, typically a single flower or bud, worn on the lapel of a tuxedo or suit jacket. While worn frequently in the past to distinguish a gentleman from a common labourer, boutonnières are now usually reserved for special occasions for which formal wear is standard, such as at balls and weddings.

 

*******The term "wunderkind," meaning a child prodigy or someone who achieves exceptional success at a young age, was invented in the late Nineteenth Century. Specifically, the first documented use in English dates back to 1891, with the term being borrowed from German, where it had been in use earlier.

 

********The Lady was a British women's magazine. It published its first issue on 19 February 1885 and was in continuous publication until its last issue in April 2025, at which time it was the longest-running women's magazine in Britain. Based in London, it was particularly notable for its classified advertisements for domestic service and child care; it also has extensive listings of holiday properties. It still has an online presence which offers a classified advertisements, jobs board and recruitment service.

 

*********Julian Wylie (1878 – 1934), originally Julian Ulrich Samuelson Metzenberg, was a British theatrical agent and producer. He began as an accountant and took an interest in entertainment through his brothers, Lauri Wylie and G. B. Samuelson. About 1910, he became the business manager and agent of David Devant, an illusionist, then took on other clients, and formed a partnership with James W. Tate. By the end of his life, he was known as the 'King of Pantomime'.

 

**********Julian Wylie’s last revue at the London Hippodrome was ‘Better Days’ in 1925. Comprising 19 scenes, Better Days had a try-out at the Liverpool Empire from 9th March 1925 before its debut at the London Hippodrome on 19th March 1925. The stars of the first edition of Better Days were Maisie Gay, Stanley Lupino, Madge Elliott, Connie Emerald with Ruth French and Anatole Wiltzak. The production had the usual Wylie flourish and touch with the dances and ensembles arranged by Edward Dolly and all the gowns and costumes designed by Dolly Tree. The modern gowns were created by Peron and Florence Henry and the costumes by Alias, Clarkson and Betty S. Roberts. ‘Better Days’, only ran for 135 performances and closed in early June, proving to be the last of Wylie’s run of productions at the London Hippodrome.

 

***********The Hippodrome is a building on the corner of Cranbourn Street and Charing Cross Road in the City of Westminster, London. The name was used for many different theatres and music halls, of which the London Hippodrome is one of only a few survivors. Hippodrome is an archaic word referring to places that host horse races and other forms of equestrian entertainment. The London Hippodrome was opened in 1900. It was designed by Frank Matcham for Moss Empires chaired by Edward Moss and built for £250,000.00 as a hippodrome for circus and variety performances. The venue gave its first show on 15 January 1900, a music hall revue entitled "Giddy Ostend" with Little Tich. The conductor was Georges Jacobi. In 1909, it was reconstructed by Matcham as a music-hall and variety theatre with 1340 seats in stalls, mezzanine, gallery and upper gallery levels. It was here that in 1910 Tchaikovsky's ‘Swan Lake’ received its English première in the form of Act 2 with Olga Preobajinska as the Swan Queen. The Hippodrome hosted the first official jazz gig in the United Kingdom, by the Original Dixieland Jazz Band, in 1919.

 

************Oxford bags were a loose-fitting baggy form of trousers favoured by members of the University of Oxford, especially undergraduates, in England from the mid-1920s to around the 1950s. The style had a more general influence outside the university, including in America, but has been somewhat out of fashion since then. It is sometimes said that the style originated from a ban in 1924 on the wearing of plus fours by Oxford (and Cambridge) undergraduates at lectures. The bagginess allegedly allowed plus fours to be hidden underneath – but the argument is undermined by the fact that the trousers (especially in the early years) were not sufficiently voluminous for this to be done with any success. The original trousers were 22–23 inches (56–58 cm) in circumference at the bottoms but became increasingly larger to 44 inches (110 cm) or more, possibly due to a misunderstanding of the measurement as the width rather than circumference.

 

*************Paul Poiret was a French fashion designer, a master couturier during the first two decades of the 20th century. He was the founder of his namesake haute couture house. Poiret established his own house in 1903. In his first years as an independent couturier, he broke with established conventions of dressmaking and subverted other ones. In 1903, he dismissed the petticoat, and later, in 1906, he did the same with the corset. Poiret made his name with his controversial kimono coat and similar, loose-fitting designs created specifically for an uncorseted, slim figure. Poiret designed flamboyant window displays and threw sensational parties to draw attention to his work. His instinct for marketing and branding was unmatched by any other Parisian designer, although the pioneering fashion shows of the British-based Lucile (Lady Lucy Duff Gordon) had already attracted tremendous publicity. In 1909, he was so famous, Margot Asquith, wife of British prime minister H. H. Asquith, invited him to show his designs at 10 Downing Street. The cheapest garment at the exhibition was thirty guineas, double the annual salary of a scullery maid. Jeanne Margaine-Lacroix presented wide-legged trousers for women in 1910, some months before Poiret, who took credit for being the first to introduce the style.

 

*************Beach pyjamas, which generally consisted of a pair of wide-legged trousers and a jacket of matching fabric, first gained popularity in the years immediately following the Great War, with evidence pointing to the early 1920s, specifically at European seaside resorts like Deauville in France. It is thought that French fashion designer, Coco Chanel, was also an early proponent of this style.

 

**************Deauville is a seaside resort on the Côte Fleurie of France’s Normandy region. An upper-class holiday destination since the 1800s, it’s known for its grand casino, golf courses, horse races and American Film Festival. Its wide, sandy beach is backed by Les Planches, a 1920s boardwalk with bathing cabins. The town has chic boutiques, elegant belle epoque villas and half-timbered buildings. As the closest seaside resort to Paris, Deauville is one of the most notable seaside resorts in France. The city and its region of the Côte Fleurie (Flowery Coast) have long been home to the French upper class's seaside houses and is often referred to as the Parisian Riviera.

 

***************Bognor Regis, also known as Bognor, is a town and seaside resort in West Sussex on the south coast of England, fifty-six miles south-west of London, twenty-four miles west of Brighton, six miles south-east of Chichester and sixteen miles east of Portsmouth. A seaside resort was developed by Sir Richard Hotham in the late Eighteenth Century on what was a sand and gravel, undeveloped coastline. It has been claimed that Hotham and his new resort are portrayed in Jane Austen's unfinished novel ‘Sanditon’. The resort grew slowly in the first half of the Nineteenth Century but grew rapidly following the coming of the railway in 1864.

 

This 1920s upper-class domestic scene is different to what you may think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures including items from my own childhood.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:

 

Lettice’s tea set sitting on the coffee table is a beautiful artisan set featuring a rather avant-garde Art Deco Royal Doulton design from the Edwardian era. The very realistic looking chocolate sponge cake topped with creamy icing and strawberries has been made from polymer clay and was made by Karen Ladybug Miniatures in the United Kingdom. The green tinged bowl behind the tea set is made of glass and has been made by hand by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. Made by the Little Green Workshop who specialise in high-end artisan miniatures, the black leather diary with the silver clasp is actually bound and has pages inside. The silver pen with the pearl end is also from the Little Green Workshop.

 

The black Bakelite and silver telephone is a 1:12 miniature of a model introduced around 1919. It is two centimetres wide and two centimetres high. The receiver can be removed from the cradle, and the curling chord does stretch out. The vase of yellow tiger lilies and daisies on the Art Deco occasional table is beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium. The vase of roses and lilies in the tall white vase on the table to the right of the photo was also made by hand, by Falcon Miniatures who are renowned for their realistic 1:12 size miniatures.

 

Lettice’s drawing room is furnished with beautiful J.B.M. miniatures. The black japanned wooden chair is a Chippendale design and has been upholstered with modern and stylish Art Deco fabric. The mirror backed back japanned china cabinet is Chippendale too. On its glass shelves sit pieces of miniature Limoges porcelain including jugs, teacups and saucers, many of which I have had since I was a child.

 

To the left of the Chippendale chair stands a blanc de chine Chinese porcelain vase, and next to it, a Chinese screen. The Chinese folding screen I bought at an antiques and junk market when I was about ten. I was with my grandparents and a friend of the family and their three children, who were around my age. They all bought toys to bring home and play with, and I bought a Chinese folding screen to add to my miniatures collection in my curio cabinet at home! It shows you what a unique child I was.

 

The painting in the gilt frame is made by Amber’s Miniatures in America. The carpet beneath the furniture is a copy of a popular 1920s style Chinese silk rug. The geometric Art Deco wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, which inspired the whole “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.

Diego: *drops his piece of toast, reclines back in his chair, face unreadable* “I’m going to need you to elucidate.”

 

Charley: “I can’t. I would have to understand it to explain it. Plus, you know I’m not great at putting what I feel into words.”

 

Diego: *studies Charley*

 

Charley: *shoulders undulate uneasily, as she feels the weight of Diego’s consideration*

 

Diego: “Let’s do it this way, then, since I also know you don’t lie—at least not when asked a direct question. Your subterfuge of choice is usually avoidance. Do you love me?”

 

Charley: “Yes.”

 

Diego: “Are you still physically attracted to me?”

 

Charley: “Yes.”

 

Diego: “Are you in love with me?”

 

Charley: *hesitates for several seconds* “I don’t know.”

 

Diego: “Are you in love with Grey?”

 

Charley: “Yes.”

 

Diego: “Are you staying with him?”

 

Charley: “Yes.”

 

Diego: “Are you going to tell him how you feel about me?”

 

Charley (exasperatedly): “How am I supposed to, when I don’t even know?”

 

Diego: “He knows.”

 

Charley: “Did he tell you that?”

 

Diego: “He doesn’t have to. I know he knows, and he knows I know.”

 

Charley: *adjusts her glasses, sighs deeply* “Geez, why did that make sense? That shouldn’t have made sense, especially at two in the morning.”

 

Fashion Credits

***Any doll enhancements (i.e. freckles, piercings, eye color changes, haircuts) were done by me unless otherwise stated.***

 

Charley

Shorts: Mattel – Barbie Playline – Fashion Avenue

Tank: Jakks Pacific – Hannah Montana

Socks: Mattel – Barbie Playline – Generation Girl Barbie

 

Doll is a Morning Dew Giselle transplanted to a Poppy body, re-rooted by the inimitable valmaxi(!!!)

 

The Hundertwasser House is one of Vienna's most visited buildings and has become part of Austria's cultural heritage.

 

Friedensreich Hundertwasser started out as a painter. Since the early 1950s, however, he increasingly became focused on architecture, writing and reading in public .’ advocating natural forms of decay. In 1972, he had his first architectural models made for the TV-show ‘Wünsch dir was', in order to demonstrate his ideas on forested roofs, "tree tenants" and the "window right" of every tenant to embellish the facade around his windows. In these models Hundertwasser also developed new architectural shapes, such as the "eye-slit" house and the "high-rise meadow house".[2]

  

In lectures at academies and before architectural associations, Hundertwasser elucidated his concerns regarding an architecture in harmony with nature and man. Bruno Kreisky, the federal chancellor at the time, suggested in a letter dated November 30, 1977 to Leopold Gratz, the mayor of Vienna, that Hundertwasser be given the opportunity to realize his ideas in the field of architecture by allowing him to build a housing project, whereupon Leopold Gratz, in a letter of December 15, 1977, invited Hundertwasser to create an apartment building according to his own ideas.

 

(Reproduced as is from the cover page of the book):

 

THE NEW

ENCLOPÆDIA;

OR, CIRCLE OF

Knowledge and Science,

Digested, in a concise and popular Manner, in

DISTINCT TREATISES,

Elucidating not only

THE FIRST PRINCIPLES OF KNOWLEDGE,

FOR THE INSTRUCTION OF YOUTH,

But embracing

EVERY MODERN DISCOVERY,

What is worthy the Attention of the Philosopher or Man of Science.

...

BY WILLIAM EINFIELD, A/M/

Author of the New Pronouncing Dictionary of the English Language, Elements of Natural Theology, &c. &c.

ASSISTED BY EMINENT PROFESSIONAL GENTLEMEN.

...

London:

PRINTED FOR THOMAS TEGG,

no. 111,

OPPOSITE BOW CHURCH, CHEAPSIDE

1809.

    

In my (small) collection of antique books, it is my (second!) oldest. Next year I'll have to celebrate its 200th birthday. :)

   

EDIT: I just checked another of my books in which I hadn't been able to find a date, and it was published in 1775! (M.DCC.LXXV) It's all in Latin though, So I might have to brush up on my skillz. :P

Here's my Life in the Dreamhouse Nikki doll, the fifth to my current collection.

 

I love her. I adore her. But somehow I feel conflicted about her because her bad points are also her good points. Let me elucidate...

 

First off she has the Desiree head. Unlike most collectors, I adore that head...but now that they've made it even bigger she seems unrecognizable to me. Her hair is different from the other dolls and it's a little bit textured (just like every other play line AA doll). I like it that it gives her hair extra volume, but it's really hard to tame and it's quite brittle at the ends. Her earrings are great (I love hoops!) but they're quite irremovable and because they're thin, I'd rather not try to remove them 'cause they'll easily break. Her lashes are the thickest I've seen so far. They point upward, have no gaps in-between, but they're very chunky and they make her eyes look bigger than ever. And I hate her shoes...like, with a passion.

 

But aside from those minor setbacks she's quite awesome in my eyes. She (along with Raquelle) is one of two dolls whom I genuinely like both the outfits that came with them. In fact I pretty much prefer her second outfit than her original. And I really love her skin tone. It just glows when I use a camera and it never looks the same with every shot!

The Quran (English pronunciation: /kɔrˈɑːn/ kor-AHN , Arabic: القرآن‎ al-qur'ān, IPA: [qurˈʔaːn], literally meaning "the recitation", also romanised Qur'an or Koran) is the central religious text of Islam, which Muslims believe to be a revelation from God (Arabic: الله‎, Allah). Its scriptural status among a world-spanning religious community, and its major place within world literature generally, has led to a great deal of secondary literature on the Quran. Quranic chapters are called suras and verses are called ayahs.

 

Muslims believe that the Quran was verbally revealed by God to Muhammad through the angel Gabriel (Jibril), gradually over a period of approximately 23 years, beginning on 22 December 609 CE, when Muhammad was 40, and concluding in 632 CE, the year of his death. Muslims regard the Quran as the most important miracle of Muhammad, a proof of his prophethood, and the culmination of a series of divine messages that started with the messages revealed to Adam and ended with Muhammad. They consider the Quran to be the only revealed book that has been protected by God from distortion or corruption.

 

According to the traditional narrative, several companions of Muhammad served as scribes and were responsible for writing down the revelations. Shortly after Muhammad's death, the Quran was compiled by his companions who wrote down and memorized parts of it. These codices had differences that motivated the Caliph Uthman to establish a standard version now known as Uthman's codex, which is generally considered the archetype of the Quran we have today. However, the existence of variant readings, with mostly minor and some significant variations, and the early unvocalized Arabic script mean the relationship between Uthman's codex to both the text of today's Quran and to the revelations of Muhammad's time is still unclear.

 

The Quran assumes familiarity with major narratives recounted in the Jewish and Christian scriptures. It summarizes some, dwells at length on others and, in some cases, presents alternative accounts and interpretations of events. The Quran describes itself as a book of guidance. It sometimes offers detailed accounts of specific historical events, and it often emphasizes the moral significance of an event over its narrative sequence. The Quran is used along with the hadith to interpret sharia law. During prayers, the Quran is recited only in Arabic.

 

Someone who has memorized the entire Quran is called a hafiz. Some Muslims read Quranic ayahs (verses) with elocution, which is often called tajwīd. During the month of Ramadan, Muslims typically complete the recitation of the whole Quran during tarawih prayers. In order to extrapolate the meaning of a particular Quranic verse, most Muslims rely on the tafsir.

 

ETYMOLOGY & MEANING

The word qurʼān appears about 70 times in the Quran itself, assuming various meanings. It is a verbal noun (maṣdar) of the Arabic verb qaraʼa (قرأ), meaning "he read" or "he recited". The Syriac equivalent is (ܩܪܝܢܐ) qeryānā, which refers to "scripture reading" or "lesson". While some Western scholars consider the word to be derived from the Syriac, the majority of Muslim authorities hold the origin of the word is qaraʼa itself. Regardless, it had become an Arabic term by Muhammad's lifetime. An important meaning of the word is the "act of reciting", as reflected in an early Quranic passage: "It is for Us to collect it and to recite it (qurʼānahu)."

 

In other verses, the word refers to "an individual passage recited [by Muhammad]". Its liturgical context is seen in a number of passages, for example: "So when al-qurʼān is recited, listen to it and keep silent." The word may also assume the meaning of a codified scripture when mentioned with other scriptures such as the Torah and Gospel.

 

The term also has closely related synonyms that are employed throughout the Quran. Each synonym possesses its own distinct meaning, but its use may converge with that of qurʼān in certain contexts. Such terms include kitāb (book); āyah (sign); and sūrah (scripture). The latter two terms also denote units of revelation. In the large majority of contexts, usually with a definite article (al-), the word is referred to as the "revelation" (waḥy), that which has been "sent down" (tanzīl) at intervals. Other related words are: dhikr (remembrance), used to refer to the Quran in the sense of a reminder and warning, and ḥikmah (wisdom), sometimes referring to the revelation or part of it.

 

The Quran describes itself as "the discernment or the criterion between truth and falsehood" (al-furqān), "the mother book" (umm al-kitāb), "the guide" (huda), "the wisdom" (hikmah), "the remembrance" (dhikr) and "the revelation" (tanzīl; something sent down, signifying the descent of an object from a higher place to lower place). Another term is al-kitāb (the book), though it is also used in the Arabic language for other scriptures, such as the Torah and the Gospels. The adjective of "Quran" has multiple transliterations including "quranic," "koranic" and "qur'anic," or capitalised as "Qur'anic," "Koranic" and "Quranic." The term muṣḥaf ('written work') is often used to refer to particular Quranic manuscripts but is also used in the Quran to identify earlier revealed books. Other transliterations of "Quran" include "al-Coran", "Coran", "Kuran" and "al-Qurʼan".

 

HISTORY

PROPHETIC ERA

Islamic tradition relates that Muhammad received his first revelation in the Cave of Hira during one of his isolated retreats to the mountains. Thereafter, he received revelations over a period of 23 years. According to hadith and Muslim history, after Muhammad emigrated to Medina and formed an independent Muslim community, he ordered many of his companions to recite the Quran and to learn and teach the laws, which were revealed daily. It is related that some of the Quraish who were taken prisoners at the battle of Badr regained their freedom after they had taught some of the Muslims the simple writing of the time. Thus a group of Muslims gradually became literate. As it was initially spoken, the Quran was recorded on tablets, bones, and the wide, flat ends of date palm fronds. Most suras were in use amongst early Muslims since they are mentioned in numerous sayings by both Sunni and Shia sources, relating Muhammad's use of the Quran as a call to Islam, the making of prayer and the manner of recitation. However, the Quran did not exist in book form at the time of Muhammad's death in 632 CE. There is agreement among scholars that Muhammad himself did not write down the revelation.

 

Sahih al-Bukhari narrates Muhammad describing the revelations as, "Sometimes it is (revealed) like the ringing of a bell" and Aisha reported, "I saw the Prophet being inspired Divinely on a very cold day and noticed the sweat dropping from his forehead (as the Inspiration was over)." Muhammad's first revelation, according to the Quran, was accompanied with a vision. The agent of revelation is mentioned as the "one mighty in power", the one who "grew clear to view when he was on the uppermost horizon. Then he drew nigh and came down till he was (distant) two bows' length or even nearer." The Islamic studies scholar Welch states in the Encyclopaedia of Islam that he believes the graphic descriptions of Muhammad's condition at these moments may be regarded as genuine, because he was severely disturbed after these revelations. According to Welch, these seizures would have been seen by those around him as convincing evidence for the superhuman origin of Muhammad's inspirations. However, Muhammad's critics accused him of being a possessed man, a soothsayer or a magician since his experiences were similar to those claimed by such figures well known in ancient Arabia. Welch additionally states that it remains uncertain whether these experiences occurred before or after Muhammad's initial claim of prophethood. The Quran describes Muhammad as "ummi", which is traditionally interpreted as "illiterate," but the meaning is rather more complex. The medieval commentators such as Al-Tabari maintained that the term induced two meanings: first, the inability to read or write in general; second, the inexperience or ignorance of the previous books or scriptures (but they gave priority to the first meaning). Besides, Muhammad's illiteracy was taken as a sign of the genuineness of his prophethood. For example, according to Fakhr al-Din al-Razi, if Muhammad had mastered writing and reading he possibly would have been suspected of having studied the books of the ancestors. Some scholars such as Watt prefer the second meaning.

 

COMPILATION

Based on earlier transmitted reports, in the year 632 CE, after Muhammad died and a number of his companions who knew the Quran by heart were killed in a battle by Musaylimah, the first caliph Abu Bakr (d. 634CE) decided to collect the book in one volume so that it could be preserved. Zayd ibn Thabit (d. 655CE) was the person to collect the Quran since "he used to write the Divine Inspiration for Allah's Apostle". Thus, a group of scribes, most importantly Zayd, collected the verses and produced a hand-written manuscript of the complete book. The manuscript according to Zayd remained with Abu Bakr until he died. Zayd's reaction to the task and the difficulties in collecting the Quranic material from parchments, palm-leaf stalks, thin stones and from men who knew it by heart is recorded in earlier narratives. After Abu Bakr, Hafsa bint Umar, Muhammad's widow, was entrusted with the manuscript. In about 650 CE, the third Caliph Uthman ibn Affan (d. 656CE) began noticing slight differences in pronunciation of the Quran as Islam expanded beyond the Arabian peninsula into Persia, the Levant, and North Africa. In order to preserve the sanctity of the text, he ordered a committee headed by Zayd to use Abu Bakr's copy and prepare a standard copy of the Quran. Thus, within 20 years of Muhammad's death, the Quran was committed to written form. That text became the model from which copies were made and promulgated throughout the urban centers of the Muslim world, and other versions are believed to have been destroyed. The present form of the Quran text is accepted by Muslim scholars to be the original version compiled by Abu Bakr.

 

According to Shia and some Sunni scholars, Ali ibn Abi Talib (d. 661CE) compiled a complete version of the Quran shortly after Muhammad's death. The order of this text differed from that gathered later during Uthman's era in that this version had been collected in chronological order. Despite this, he made no objection against the standardized Quran and accepted the Quran in circulation. Other personal copies of the Quran might have existed including Ibn Mas'ud's and Ubayy ibn Kab's codex, none of which exist today.

 

The Quran most likely existed in scattered written form during Muhammad's lifetime. Several sources indicate that during Muhammad's lifetime a large number of his companions had memorized the revelations. Early commentaries and Islamic historical sources support the above-mentioned understanding of the Quran's early development. The Quran in its present form is generally considered by academic scholars to record the words spoken by Muhammad because the search for variants has not yielded any differences of great significance. Although most variant readings of the text of the Quran have ceased to be transmitted, some still are. There has been no critical text produced on which a scholarly reconstruction of the Quranic text could be based. Historically, controversy over the Quran's content has rarely become an issue, although debates continue on the subject.

 

In 1972, in a mosque in the city of Sana'a, Yemen, manuscripts were discovered that were later proved to be the most ancient Quranic text known to exist. The Sana'a manuscripts contain palimpsests, a manuscript page from which the text has been washed off to make the parchment reusable again - a practice which was common in ancient times due to scarcity of writing material. However, the faint washed-off underlying text (scriptio inferior) is still barely visible and believed to be "pre-Uthmanic" Quranic content, while the text written on top (scriptio superior) is believed to belong to Uthmanic time. Studies using radiocarbon dating indicate that the parchments are dated to the period before 671 AD with a 99 percent probability.

 

SIGNIFICANCE IN ISLAM

WORSHIP

Muslims believe the Quran to be the book of divine guidance revealed from God to Muhammad through the angel Gabriel over a period of 23 years and view the Quran as God's final revelation to humanity. They also believe that the Quran has solutions to all the problems of humanity irrespective of how complex they may be and in what age they occur.

 

Revelation in Islamic and Quranic concept means the act of God addressing an individual, conveying a message for a greater number of recipients. The process by which the divine message comes to the heart of a messenger of God is tanzil (to send down) or nuzūl (to come down). As the Quran says, "With the truth we (God) have sent it down and with the truth it has come down."

 

The Quran frequently asserts in its text that it is divinely ordained. Some verses in the Quran seem to imply that even those who do not speak Arabic would understand the Quran if it were recited to them. The Quran refers to a written pre-text, "the preserved tablet", that records God's speech even before it was sent down.

 

The issue of whether the Quran is eternal or created became a theological debate (Quran's createdness) in the ninth century. Mu'tazilas, an Islamic school of theology based on reason and rational thought, held that the Quran was created while the most widespread varieties of Muslim theologians considered the Quran to be co-eternal with God and therefore uncreated. Sufi philosophers view the question as artificial or wrongly framed.

 

Muslims believe that the present wording of the Quran corresponds to that revealed to Muhammad, and according to their interpretation of Quran 15:9, it is protected from corruption ("Indeed, it is We who sent down the Quran and indeed, We will be its guardian."). Muslims consider the Quran to be a guide, a sign of the prophethood of Muhammad and the truth of the religion. They argue it is not possible for a human to produce a book like the Quran, as the Quran itself maintains.

 

Muslims commemorate annually the beginning of Quran's revelation on the Night of Destiny (Laylat al-Qadr), during the last 10 days of Ramadan, the month during which they fast from sunrise until sunset.

 

The first sura of the Quran is repeated in daily prayers and in other occasions. This sura, which consists of seven verses, is the most often recited sura of the Quran:

 

"All praise belongs to God, Lord of the Universe, the Beneficent, the Merciful and Master of the Day of Judgment, You alone We do worship and from You alone we do seek assistance, guide us to the right path, the path of those to whom You have granted blessings, those who are neither subject to Your anger nor have gone astray."

 

Respect for the written text of the Quran is an important element of religious faith by many Muslims, and the Quran is treated with reverence. Based on tradition and a literal interpretation of Quran 56:79 ("none shall touch but those who are clean"), some Muslims believe that they must perform a ritual cleansing with water before touching a copy of the Quran, although this view is not universal. Worn-out copies of the Quran are wrapped in a cloth and stored indefinitely in a safe place, buried in a mosque or a Muslim cemetery, or burned and the ashes buried or scattered over water.

 

In Islam, most intellectual disciplines, including Islamic theology, philosophy, mysticism and Jurisprudence, have been concerned with the Quran or have their foundation in its teachings. Muslims believe that the preaching or reading of the Quran is rewarded with divine rewards variously called ajr, thawab or hasanat.

 

IN ISLAMIC ART

The Quran also inspired Islamic arts and specifically the so-called Quranic arts of calligraphy and illumination.[1] The Quran is never decorated with figurative images, but many Qurans have been highly decorated with decorative patterns in the margins of the page, or between the lines or at the start of suras. Islamic verses appear in many other media, on buildings and on objects of all sizes, such as mosque lamps, metal work, pottery and single pages of calligraphy for muraqqas or albums.

 

INIMITABILITY

Inimitability of the Quran (or "I'jaz") is the belief that no human speech can match the Quran in its content and form. The Quran is considered an inimitable miracle by Muslims, effective until the Day of Resurrection - and, thereby, the central proof granted to Muhammad in authentication of his prophetic status. The concept of inimitability originates in the Quran where in five different verses opponents are challenged to produce something like the Quran: "If men and sprites banded together to produce the like of this Quran they would never produce its like not though they backed one another."[61] So the suggestion is that if there are doubts concerning the divine authorship of the Quran, come forward and create something like it. From the ninth century, numerous works appeared which studied the Quran and examined its style and content. Medieval Muslim scholars including al-Jurjani (d. 1078CE) and al-Baqillani (d. 1013CE) have written treatises on the subject, discussed its various aspects, and used linguistic approaches to study the Quran. Others argue that the Quran contains noble ideas, has inner meanings, maintained its freshness through the ages and has caused great transformations in individual level and in the history. Some scholars state that the Quran contains scientific information that agrees with modern science. The doctrine of miraculousness of the Quran is further emphasized by Muhammad's illiteracy since the unlettered prophet could not have been suspected of composing the Quran.

 

TEXT & ARRANGEMENT

The Quran consists of 114 chapters of varying lengths, each known as a sura. Suras are classified as Meccan or Medinan, depending on whether the verses were revealed before or after the migration of Muhammad to the city of Medina. However, a sura classified as Medinan may contain Meccan verses in it and vice versa. Sura titles are derived from a name or quality discussed in the text, or from the first letters or words of the surah. Suras are arranged roughly in order of decreasing size. The sura arrangement is thus not connected to the sequence of revelation. Each sura except the ninth starts with the Bismillah (بسم الله الرحمن الرحيم) an Arabic phrase meaning 'In the name of God.' There are, however, still 114 occurrences of the Bismillah in the Quran, due to its presence in Quran 27:30 as the opening of Solomon's letter to the Queen of Sheba.

 

Each sura consists of several verses, known as ayat, which originally means a 'sign' or 'evidence' sent by God. The number of verses differs from sura to sura. An individual verse may be just a few letters or several lines. The total number of verses in the Quran is 6236, however, the number varies if the bismillahs are counted separately.

 

In addition to and independent of the division into suras, there are various ways of dividing the Quran into parts of approximately equal length for convenience in reading. The 30 juz' (plural ajzāʼ) can be used to read through the entire Quran in a month. Some of these parts are known by names - which are the first few words by which the juzʼ starts. A juz' is sometimes further divided into two ḥizb (plural aḥzāb), and each hizb subdivided into four rubʻ al-ahzab. The Quran is also divided into seven approximately equal parts, manzil (plural manāzil), for it to be recited in a week.

 

Muqatta'at, or the Quranic initials, are 14 different letter combinations of 14 Arabic letters that appear in the beginning of 29 suras of the Quran. The meanings of these initials remain unclear.

 

According to one estimate the Quran consists of 77,430 words, 18,994 unique words, 12,183 stems, 3,382 lemmas and 1,685 roots.

 

CONTENTS

The Quranic content is concerned with the basic beliefs of Islam which include the existence of God and the resurrection. Narratives of the early prophets, ethical and legal subjects, historical events of Muhammad's time, charity and prayer also appear in the Quran. The Quranic verses contain general exhortations regarding right and wrong and the historical events are related to outline general moral lessons. Verses pertaining to natural phenomena have been interpreted by Muslims as an indication of the authenticity of the Quranic message.

 

MONOTHEISM

The central theme of the Quran is monotheism. God is depicted as living, eternal, omniscient and omnipotent (see, e.g., Quran 2:20, 2:29, 2:255). God's omnipotence appears above all in his power to create. He is the creator of everything, of the heavens and the earth and what is between them (see, e.g., Quran 13:16, 50:38, etc.). All human beings are equal in their utter dependence upon God, and their well-being depends upon their acknowledging that fact and living accordingly.

 

The Quran uses cosmological and contingency arguments in various verses without referring to the terms to prove the existence of God. Therefore, the universe is originated and needs an originator, and whatever exists must have a sufficient cause for its existence. Besides, the design of the universe, is frequently referred to as a point of contemplation: "It is He who has created seven heavens in harmony. You cannot see any fault in God's creation; then look again: Can you see any flaw?"

 

ESCHATOLOGY

The doctrine of the last day and eschatology (the final fate of the universe) may be reckoned as the second great doctrine of the Quran. It is estimated that around a full one-third of the Quran is eschatological, dealing with the afterlife in the next world and with the day of judgment at the end of time. There is a reference of the afterlife on most pages of the Quran and the belief in the afterlife is often referred to in conjunction with belief in God as in the common expression: "Believe in God and the last day". A number of suras such as 44, 56, 75, 78, 81 and 101 are directly related to the afterlife and its preparations. Some of the suras indicate the closeness of the event and warn people to be prepared for the imminent day. For instance, the first verses of Sura 22, which deal with the mighty earthquake and the situations of people on that day, represent this style of divine address: "O People! Be respectful to your Lord. The earthquake of the Hour is a mighty thing."

 

The Quran is often vivid in its depiction of what will happen at the end time. Watt describes the Quranic view of End Time:

 

"The climax of history, when the present world comes to an end, is referred to in various ways. It is 'the Day of Judgment,' 'the Last Day,' 'the Day of Resurrection,' or simply 'the Hour.' Less frequently it is 'the Day of Distinction' (when the good are separated from the evil), 'the Day of the Gathering' (of men to the presence of God) or 'the Day of the Meeting' (of men with God). The Hour comes suddenly. It is heralded by a shout, by a thunderclap, or by the blast of a trumpet. A cosmic upheaval then takes place. The mountains dissolve into dust, the seas boil up, the sun is darkened, the stars fall and the sky is rolled up. God appears as Judge, but his presence is hinted at rather than described. [...] The central interest, of course, is in the gathering of all mankind before the Judge. Human beings of all ages, restored to life, join the throng. To the scoffing objection of the unbelievers that former generations had been dead a long time and were now dust and mouldering bones, the reply is that God is nevertheless able to restore them to life."

 

The Quran does not assert a natural immortality of the human soul, since man's existence is dependent on the will of God: when he wills, he causes man to die; and when he wills, he raises him to life again in a bodily resurrection.[68]

 

PROPHETS

According to the Quran, God communicated with man and made his will known through signs and revelations. Prophets, or 'Messengers of God', received revelations and delivered them to humanity. The message has been identical and for all humankind. "Nothing is said to you that was not said to the messengers before you, that your lord has at his Command forgiveness as well as a most Grievous Penalty." The revelation does not come directly from God to the prophets. Angels acting as God's messengers deliver the divine revelation to them. This comes out in Quran 42:51, in which it is stated: "It is not for any mortal that God should speak to them, except by revelation, or from behind a veil, or by sending a messenger to reveal by his permission whatsoever He will."

 

ETHICO-RELIGIOUS CONCEPTS

Belief is the center of the sphere of positive moral properties in the Quran. A number of scholars have tried to determine the semantic contents of the words meaning 'belief' and 'believer' in the Quran [70] The Ethico-legal concepts and exhortations dealing with righteous conduct are linked to a profound awareness of God, thereby emphasizing the importance of faith, accountability and the belief in each human's ultimate encounter with God. People are invited to perform acts of charity, especially for the needy. Believers who "spend of their wealth by night and by day, in secret and in public" are promised that they "shall have their reward with their Lord; on them shall be no fear, nor shall they grieve" It also affirms family life by legislating on matters of marriage, divorce and inheritance. A number of practices such as usury and gambling are prohibited. The Quran is one of the fundamental sources of the Islamic law, or sharia. Some formal religious practices receive significant attention in the Quran including the formal prayers and fasting in the month of Ramadan. As for the manner in which the prayer is to be conducted, the Quran refers to prostration. The term used for charity, Zakat, actually means purification. Charity, according to the Quran, is a means of self-purification.

 

LITERARY STYLE

The Quran's message is conveyed with various literary structures and devices. In the original Arabic, the suras and verses employ phonetic and thematic structures that assist the audience's efforts to recall the message of the text. Muslims[who?] assert (according to the Quran itself) that the Quranic content and style is inimitable.

 

The language of the Quran has been described as "rhymed prose" as it partakes of both poetry and prose, however, this description runs the risk of compromising the rhythmic quality of Quranic language, which is certainly more poetic in some parts and more prose-like in others. Rhyme, while found throughout the Quran, is conspicuous in many of the earlier Meccan suras, in which relatively short verses throw the rhyming words into prominence. The effectiveness of such a form is evident for instance in Sura 81, and there can be no doubt that these passages impressed the conscience of the hearers. Frequently a change of rhyme from one set of verses to another signals a change in the subject of discussion. Later sections also preserve this form but the style is more expository.

 

The Quranic text seems to have no beginning, middle, or end, its nonlinear structure being akin to a web or net. The textual arrangement is sometimes considered to have lack of continuity, absence of any chronological or thematic order and presence of repetition. Michael Sells, citing the work of the critic Norman O. Brown, acknowledges Brown's observation that the seeming disorganization of Quranic literary expression – its scattered or fragmented mode of composition in Sells's phrase – is in fact a literary device capable of delivering profound effects as if the intensity of the prophetic message were shattering the vehicle of human language in which it was being communicated. Sells also addresses the much-discussed repetitiveness of the Quran, seeing this, too, as a literary device.

 

A text is self-referential when it speaks about itself and makes reference to itself. According to Stefan Wild the Quran demonstrates this meta-textuality by explaining, classifying, interpreting and justifying the words to be transmitted. Self-referentiality is evident in those passages when the Quran refers to itself as revelation (tanzil), remembrance (dhikr), news (naba'), criterion (furqan) in a self-designating manner (explicitly asserting its Divinity, "And this is a blessed Remembrance that We have sent down; so are you now denying it?"), or in the frequent appearance of the 'Say' tags, when Muhammad is commanded to speak (e.g. "Say: 'God's guidance is the true guidance' ", "Say: 'Would you then dispute with us concerning God?' "). According to Wild the Quran is highly self-referential. The feature is more evident in early Meccan suras.

 

INTERPRETATION

The Quran has sparked a huge body of commentary and explication (tafsīr), aimed at explaining the "meanings of the Quranic verses, clarifying their import and finding out their significance".

 

Tafsir is one of the earliest academic activities of Muslims. According to the Quran, Muhammad was the first person who described the meanings of verses for early Muslims. Other early exegetes included a few Companions of Muhammad, like ʻAli ibn Abi Talib, ʻAbdullah ibn Abbas, ʻAbdullah ibn Umar and Ubayy ibn Kaʻb. Exegesis in those days was confined to the explanation of literary aspects of the verse, the background of its revelation and, occasionally, interpretation of one verse with the help of the other. If the verse was about a historical event, then sometimes a few traditions (hadith) of Muhammad were narrated to make its meaning clear.

 

Because the Quran is spoken in classical Arabic, many of the later converts to Islam (mostly non-Arabs) did not always understand the Quranic Arabic, they did not catch allusions that were clear to early Muslims fluent in Arabic and they were concerned with reconciling apparent conflict of themes in the Quran. Commentators erudite in Arabic explained the allusions, and perhaps most importantly, explained which Quranic verses had been revealed early in Muhammad's prophetic career, as being appropriate to the very earliest Muslim community, and which had been revealed later, canceling out or "abrogating" (nāsikh) the earlier text (mansūkh). Other scholars, however, maintain that no abrogation has taken place in the Quran. The Ahmadiyya Muslim Community has published a 10-volume Urdu commentary on the Quran, with the name Tafseer e Kabir.

 

ESOTERIC INTERPRETATION

Esoteric or Sufi interpretation attempts to unveil the inner meanings of the Quran. Sufism moves beyond the apparent (zahir) point of the verses and instead relates Quranic verses to the inner or esoteric (batin) and metaphysical dimensions of consciousness and existence. According to Sands, esoteric interpretations are more suggestive than declarative, they are 'allusions' (isharat) rather than explanations (tafsir). They indicate possibilities as much as they demonstrate the insights of each writer.

 

Sufi interpretation, according to Annabel Keeler, also exemplifies the use of the theme of love, as for instance can seen in Qushayri's interpretation of the Quran. Quran 7:143 says:

 

"when Moses came at the time we appointed, and his Lord spoke to him, he said, 'My Lord, show yourself to me! Let me see you!' He said, 'you shall not see me but look at that mountain, if it remains standing firm you will see me.' When his Lord revealed Himself to the mountain, He made it crumble. Moses fell down unconscious. When he recovered, he said, 'Glory be to you! I repent to you! I am the first to believe!'"

 

Moses, in 7:143, comes the way of those who are in love, he asks for a vision but his desire is denied, he is made to suffer by being commanded to look at other than the Beloved while the mountain is able to see God. The mountain crumbles and Moses faints at the sight of God's manifestation upon the mountain. In Qushayri's words, Moses came like thousands of men who traveled great distances, and there was nothing left to Moses of Moses. In that state of annihilation from himself, Moses was granted the unveiling of the realities. From the Sufi point of view, God is the always the beloved and the wayfarer's longing and suffering lead to realization of the truths.[90]

 

Muhammad Husayn Tabatabaei says that according to the popular explanation among the later exegetes, ta'wil indicates the particular meaning a verse is directed towards. The meaning of revelation (tanzil), as opposed to ta'wil, is clear in its accordance to the obvious meaning of the words as they were revealed. But this explanation has become so widespread that, at present, it has become the primary meaning of ta'wil, which originally meant "to return" or "the returning place". In Tabatabaei's view, what has been rightly called ta'wil, or hermeneutic interpretation of the Quran, is not concerned simply with the denotation of words. Rather, it is concerned with certain truths and realities that transcend the comprehension of the common run of men; yet it is from these truths and realities that the principles of doctrine and the practical injunctions of the Quran issue forth. Interpretation is not the meaning of the verse - rather it transpires through that meaning, in a special sort of transpiration. There is a spiritual reality - which is the main objective of ordaining a law, or the basic aim in describing a divine attribute - and then there is an actual significance that a Quranic story refers to.

 

According to Shia beliefs, those who are firmly rooted in knowledge like Muhammad and the imams know the secrets of the Quran. According to Tabatabaei, the statement "none knows its interpretation except God" remains valid, without any opposing or qualifying clause. Therefore, so far as this verse is concerned, the knowledge of the Quran's interpretation is reserved for God. But Tabatabaei uses other verses and concludes that those who are purified by God know the interpretation of the Quran to a certain extent.

 

According to Tabatabaei, there are acceptable and unacceptable esoteric interpretations. Acceptable ta'wil refers to the meaning of a verse beyond its literal meaning; rather the implicit meaning, which ultimately is known only to God and can't be comprehended directly through human thought alone. The verses in question here refer to the human qualities of coming, going, sitting, satisfaction, anger and sorrow, which are apparently attributed to God. Unacceptable ta'wil is where one "transfers" the apparent meaning of a verse to a different meaning by means of a proof; this method is not without obvious inconsistencies. Although this unacceptable ta'wil has gained considerable acceptance, it is incorrect and cannot be applied to the Quranic verses. The correct interpretation is that reality a verse refers to. It is found in all verses, the decisive and the ambiguous alike; it is not a sort of a meaning of the word; it is a fact that is too sublime for words. God has dressed them with words to bring them a bit nearer to our minds; in this respect they are like proverbs that are used to create a picture in the mind, and thus help the hearer to clearly grasp the intended idea.

 

HISTORY OF SUFI COMMENTARIES

One of the notable authors of esoteric interpretation prior to the 12th century is Sulami (d. 1021 CE) without whose work the majority of very early Sufi commentaries would not have been preserved. Sulami's major commentary is a book named haqaiq al-tafsir ("Truths of Exegesis") which is a compilation of commentaries of earlier Sufis. From the 11th century onwards several other works appear, including commentaries by Qushayri (d. 1074), Daylami (d. 1193), Shirazi (d. 1209) and Suhrawardi (d. 1234). These works include material from Sulami's books plus the author's contributions. Many works are written in Persian such as the works of Maybudi (d. 1135) kash al-asrar ("the unveiling of the secrets"). Rumi (d. 1273) wrote a vast amount of mystical poetry in his book Mathnawi. Rumi makes heavy use of the Quran in his poetry, a feature that is sometimes omitted in translations of Rumi's work. A large number of Quranic passages can be found in Mathnawi, which some consider a kind of Sufi interpretation of the Quran. Rumi's book is not exceptional for containing citations from and elaboration on the Quran, however, Rumi does mention Quran more frequently. Simnani (d. 1336) wrote two influential works of esoteric exegesis on the Quran. He reconciled notions of God's manifestation through and in the physical world with the sentiments of Sunni Islam. Comprehensive Sufi commentaries appears in the 18th century such as the work of Ismail Hakki Bursevi (d. 1725). His work ruh al-Bayan (the Spirit of Elucidation) is a voluminous exegesis. Written in Arabic, it combines the author's own ideas with those of his predecessors (notably Ibn Arabi and Ghazali), all woven together in Hafiz, a Persian poetry form.

 

LEVELS OF MEANING

Unlike the Salafis and Zahiri, Shias and Sufis as well as some other Muslim philosophers believe the meaning of the Quran is not restricted to the literal aspect. For them, it is an essential idea that the Quran also has inward aspects. Henry Corbin narrates a hadith that goes back to Muhammad:

 

"The Quran possesses an external appearance and a hidden depth, an exoteric meaning and an esoteric meaning. This esoteric meaning in turn conceals an esoteric meaning (this depth possesses a depth, after the image of the celestial Spheres, which are enclosed within each other). So it goes on for seven esoteric meanings (seven depths of hidden depth)."

 

According to this view, it has also become evident that the inner meaning of the Quran does not eradicate or invalidate its outward meaning. Rather, it is like the soul, which gives life to the body. Corbin considers the Quran to play a part in Islamic philosophy, because gnosiology itself goes hand in hand with prophetology.

 

Commentaries dealing with the zahir (outward aspects) of the text are called tafsir, and hermeneutic and esoteric commentaries dealing with the batin are called ta'wil ("interpretation" or "explanation"), which involves taking the text back to its beginning. Commentators with an esoteric slant believe that the ultimate meaning of the Quran is known only to God. In contrast, Quranic literalism, followed by Salafis and Zahiris, is the belief that the Quran should only be taken at its apparent meaning.

 

TRANSLATIONS

Translation of the Quran has always been a problematic and difficult issue. Many argue that the Quranic text cannot be reproduced in another language or form. Furthermore, an Arabic word may have a range of meanings depending on the context, making an accurate translation even more difficult.

 

Nevertheless, the Quran has been translated into most African, Asian and European languages. The first translator of the Quran was Salman the Persian, who translated surat al-Fatiha into Persian during the seventh century. Another translation of the Quran was completed in 884 CE in Alwar (Sindh, India now Pakistan) by the orders of Abdullah bin Umar bin Abdul Aziz on the request of the Hindu Raja Mehruk.

 

The first fully attested complete translations of the Quran were done between the 10th and 12th centuries in Persian language. The Samanid king, Mansur I (961-976), ordered a group of scholars from Khorasan to translate the Tafsir al-Tabari, originally in Arabic, into Persian. Later in the 11th century, one of the students of Abu Mansur Abdullah al-Ansari wrote a complete tafsir of the Quran in Persian. In the 12th century, Najm al-Din Abu Hafs al-Nasafi translated the Quran into Persian. The manuscripts of all three books have survived and have been published several times.

 

Islamic tradition also holds that translations were made for Emperor Negus of Abyssinia and Byzantine Emperor Heraclius, as both received letters by Muhammad containing verses from the Quran. In early centuries, the permissibility of translations was not an issue, but whether one could use translations in prayer.

 

In 1936, translations in 102 languages were known. In 2010, the Hürriyet Daily News and Economic Review reported that the Quran was presented in 112 languages at the 18th International Quran Exhibition in Tehran.

   

www.hundertwasser-haus.info/en/

 

La Casa Hundertwasser (en alemán: Hundertwasserhaus) sita en Kegelgasse 34-38 en el Landstraße (distrito nº 3 de Viena), es un complejo residencial municipal, construido entre 1983 y 1985.

El alcalde de Viena Leopold Gratz ofreció el proyecto a Friedensreich Hundertwasser para construir estas viviendas sociales en 1977.

Estructurado por Hundertwasser y planificado por el Arquitecto Joseph Krawina, combina pisos y fachadas ondulantes, aberturas irregulares, gran colorido y vegetación (250 árboles y arbustos). No se adapta a las normas y clichés convencionales de la arquitectura. Es un viaje por la tierra de la arquitectura creativa. Otros ejemplos de arquitectura no convencional son visibles en las obras de Antoni Gaudí, el Palais Idéal de Ferdinand Cheval, las Torres Watts y la anónima arquitectura de las Schrebergärten (huertas comunitarias alemanas), entre otras.

En el edificio se encuentran 52 viviendas, 4 locales de negocio, 16 terrazas privadas, un jardín de invierno, 3 azoteas comunitarias y 2 áreas de juegos infantiles.

La Hundertawasserhaus es hoy una visita obligada en Viena. Se pueden encontrar edificios análogos, labor de Hundertwasser junto con los arquitectos Peter Pelikan y Heinz M. Springmann en Bad Soden, Darmstadt (la Waldspirale), Fráncfort del Meno, Magdeburgo, Osaka, Plochingen, Wittenberg y las termas de Bad Blumau.

Por desgracia, poco después de la inauguración, la conversión a la utilidad práctica ha sido incompleta. Las tejas de la azotea comenzaron a reblandecerse, el uso de plantas ha generado gastos adicionales debido a sus raíces (especialmente después de que el maestro variara la posición durante la construcción), o los cristales de la fachada deben limpiarse mediante andamios y elevadores.

La arquitectura juguetona de Hundertwasser debe verse como una Fata Morgana (espejismo).

 

“Un pintor sueña con casas y una buena arquitectura, en la cual el hombre sea libre y se haga realidad este sueño”

Friedensreich Hundertwasser

 

es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hundertwasserhaus

  

The Hundertwasserhaus is an apartment house in Vienna, Austria, built after the idea and concept of Austrian artist Friedensreich Hundertwasser with architect Joseph Krawina as a co-creator.

This expressionist landmark of Vienna is located in the Landstraße district on the corner of Kegelgasse and Löwengasse. The Hundertwasser House is one of Vienna's most visited buildings and has become part of Austria's cultural heritage.

Friedensreich Hundertwasser started out as a painter. Since the early 1950s, however, he increasingly became focused on architecture, writing and reading in public, advocating natural forms of decay. In 1972, he had his first architectural models made for the TV-show ‘Wünsch dir was', in order to demonstrate his ideas on forested roofs, "tree tenants" and the "window right" of every tenant to embellish the facade around his windows. In these models Hundertwasser also developed new architectural shapes, such as the "eye-slit" house and the "high-rise meadow house".

In lectures at academies and before architectural associations, Hundertwasser elucidated his concerns regarding an architecture in harmony with nature and man. Bruno Kreisky, the federal chancellor at the time, suggested in a letter dated November 30, 1977 to Leopold Gratz, the mayor of Vienna, that Hundertwasser be given the opportunity to realize his ideas in the field of architecture by allowing him to build a housing project, whereupon Leopold Gratz, in a letter of December 15, 1977, invited Hundertwasser to create an apartment building according to his own ideas.

 

To this end, architect Josef Krawina was invited to join the artist and to help him to put his ideas into practice.

In August and September 1979, architect Krawina presented to Hundertwasser his preliminary drawings and a Styrofoam model. Hundertwasser was shocked and rejected them as representing exactly the leveling, straight-lined modular grid against which he had consistently fought. As his model of the “Terrace House” for Eurovision showed, he had already conceptualized a quite different type of house.

In the end the house was built between 1983 and 1985 according to the ideas and concepts of Hundertwasser with architect Univ.-Prof. Joseph Krawina as a co-author and architect Peter Pelikan as a planner. It features undulating floors, a roof covered with earth and grass, and large trees growing from inside the rooms, with limbs extending from windows. Hundertwasser took no payment for the design of the house, declaring that it was worth it, to prevent something ugly from going up in its place.

Within the house there are 53 apartments, four offices, 16 private terraces and three communal terraces, and a total of 250 trees and bushes.

In 2001, twenty years after architect Krawina's exit from the project, the firm H.B. Medienvertriebsgesellschaft mbH under its business manager Harald Böhm encouraged architect Krawina to legally substantiate his claim as co-creator of the “Hundertwasser House.” On March 11, 2010, after eight years of litigation, Austria's Oberster Gerichtshof [Supreme Court of Justice] ruled Josef Krawina along with Friedensreich Hundertwasser, to be co-creators of the house with the effect that it is now forbidden for the Hundertwasser Non-Profit Foundation to disseminate any illustration or replica of the house without acknowledging Krawina as co-creator.

According to the ruling, Hundertwasser was the sole spiritual creator (German: Geistiger Schöpfer) of the building, however, Krawina must be recognized as a co-creator of equal standing and be paid an equal share in royalty receipts.

 

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hundertwasserhaus

 

West and East, were respectively the gateway and the gateway to the Atlantean civilization. The Columns of Hercules, from the Strait of Gibraltar; these seem to be called the Gateway of Time. They support mental journeys to leave old emotional patterns behind.

 

The geological history of the Strait of Gibraltar

 

Curiously, we looked for evidence of this island very far in the Atlantic without ever mentioning the immediate outlet of the Strait of Gibraltar while Plato explicitly says that the island Atlantis is located: "before the columns of Hercules".

 

Our knowledge of this region has benefited from recent geological studies with a view to a project to build a tunnel between Africa and Europe.

 

In addition, recent prospecting campaigns are updating our knowledge of the prehistoric archaeology of this key region still little known. Prehistorians are once again questioning the submerged prehistoric sites of the Moroccan and Iberian coasts and the still poorly elucidated relationship between the two continents during the Upper Paleolithic.

 

It was following these campaigns, at the suggestion of A.Bouzouggar, that we became interested in the Strait of Gibraltar at the end of the last glaciation.

 

The current landscape of the Strait of Gibraltar is, on the geological time scale, recent: it is the direct legacy of the global warming that followed the last glaciation.The sea level rose by 135 m in the space of twenty thousand years, submerging the continental shelves between 19,000 BP and the beginning of our era. The absence of tectonic overrection of great amplitude during the last 20,000 years has been verified by Spanish geologists. It is therefore sufficient, to reconstruct the geography of the Strait of Gibraltar during the Ice Age, to lower the sea by 135 m (Figure 1). This depth is the one currently admitted for the sea level of the last glacial maximum.

To the northwest of Cape Spartel, a shoal (Banco Majuan or Spartel Bank on Spanish charts, The Ridge on English charts), oriented NE-SW, formed an island (14 km long and 5 km wide). Its summit culminates at -56m (Fig.1, n° 1). This island was not isolated and was part of an archipelago. Three small islets constituted as many relays to the Iberian continent (Fig. 1: n°2, n°3, n°4).

 

The pass between the Mediterranean and the Atlantic, very narrowed compared to the present one, was considerably extended towards the West by the emergence of the European and African continental shelves. The island of Cape Spartel was facing this narrows widened towards the West in a haven protected from the swell of the Ocean. Three islands barred access to the open sea (Fig. 1 n° 5, n° 6 and n° 7).

 

In total, this paleo-detroit of the last glacial maximum (Fig. 1) was extended by an inland sea bathing an island world. This sluice to the Atlantic Ocean extended 77 km from West to East and 20 to 10 km from North to South.

 

It is reasonable to assume that this island, located 5-8 km from the coast, was occupied by Paleolithic populations whose presence is abundantly attested on the Moroccan, Spanish and Portuguese coasts.

 

The emergence period of the Cape Spartel Archipelago coincided with major population replacements.

 

In North Africa and on the Iberian continent, the glacial maximum, sees the elimination of archaic homo sapiens by modern men of the Upper Paleolithic. These populations spread rapidly along the African and European coasts between 18,000 and 9,000 B.C. before suffering the repercussions of global warming and the rise of the sea on their island and coastal territories.

 

The end of the paleodetroit

 

Global warming, which brought an end to the last ice age, was accompanied by accelerated melting of the polar ice caps and a jerky rise in sea level (135 m in total in 10,000 years). For 2000 years, the history of Atlantis, engulfed 9000 years before our era, has been the subject of the most diverse speculations. Atlantis and Gibraltar, a dossier from myth to geological reality.By Jacques Collina-Girard, Geologist. According to Plato (4th century BC) this account would come from the archives of the Egyptian priests of the city of Sais. In the "Timaeus" Plato insists on presenting the account of the sinking of Atlantis as a true story. The moralist then uses this event to develop a utopia of an ideal city. For two thousand years, in the absence of archaeological or geological data, countless speculations on the myth of Atlantis have been based only on the testimony of the Greek philosopher. After centuries of debating the seriousness of the information, the majority of Hellenists now treat this testimony as a fabrication (Vidal-Naquet, 2000). It is true that none of the locations proposed by the supporters of a real Atlantis corresponds, neither in place nor date, to the Egyptian priest. Too many esoteric ramblings have, moreover, discredited the search for an anchorage in a geological reality that is otherwise untraceable (Kukal, 1984). At the beginning of our era, the neo-Platonic philosopher Proclus enumerates the hypotheses envisaged in his time (Festugières, 1966): total philosophical utopia? real fact? partially real fact?

In the absence of factual arguments, two thousand years of exegesis have contributed nothing more to Proclus' analysis, which Brisson took up, to the letter, in his introduction to Critias (Brisson, 1999). We shall discuss the two most extreme positions here before turning to the intermediate position that Geology could now confirm. The stages of this "finiglacial transgression" are well known thanks to the drilling carried out over the last twenty years in tropical coral reefs (Barbados, Tahiti, New Guinea). These reefs are excellent markers of the position of the sea level: coral regrowth accompanies the rise in sea level. Made up of carbonates, these organisms are perfectly datable with carbon 14. The published curves are consistent (Figure 2) and show the same stages in the upwelling of the sea. According to these data, submersion would be regular except during at least two periods of accelerated ice breakup, when sea level rises at a rate of 4 m per century (2 m in a lifetime of about 50 years!). Recent data on the Rio Guadiana estuary (Algarve, coasts of the Spanish-Portuguese border) have made it possible to confirm this scenario locally.

  

Three different positions

 

Position 1: Everything is imaginary in Plato's story

 

Starting from a tradition, presented as authentic, Plato develops the fiction of an Ideal Republic, victoriously opposed to an Atlantic invader. Like a novelist who constructs his subject from a news item, the philosopher constructs a moralizing fable. The complex Atlantean society of the "Critias", a utopia transposed into the past of a story presented as true, is, according to its author, imaginary (emphasis added): "The citizens and the city that yesterday you represented to us as fiction, we will now transpose them into the order of reality: we will assume that this is the city that you imagined, we will say that these are the ones, the real ones, our ancestors, the ones the priest spoke of. There will be complete concordance, and we will not err if we affirm that they are indeed those who existed at that time. “ This is also the opinion of scholars, familiar with Greek texts, who find in them, transposed and idealized, the contemporary city-states of Plato. The current trend among these scholars is even more radical since it generalizes this opinion to the whole story. The evocation of a real event that would be the source of the story is rejected outright and a priori. It is true that all the "interpretations" proposed so far are delusional. An inventory of these literary productions in which science fiction claims to replace science can be found in a recent work on these "imaginary atlantids". Science fiction novelists and proponents of fantastic archaeology have currently contributed to making the ancient philosopher's words a living modern myth, whose sources have often been completely forgotten by the general public, who are more familiar with Walt Disney than with Plato!

 

Position 2: Everything is real in Plato's story

 

Outside the scientific field, but claiming to be so, some popularizers, not very demanding in terms of consistency with archaeological and geological data, evoke a continent populated by a very advanced civilization, engulfed somewhere between the Old and New Worlds. This ghost civilization would be the hypothetical but affirmed source of all the great civilizations of antiquity from Egypt to Mesoamerica. Man would thus derive from more illustrious ancestors than those discovered by "official" archaeology. The search for prestigious original Fathers (even extraterrestrial ones!) in authors who are resistant to any rational argument is a sufficiently clear and repetitive constant to refer to widespread psychopathological mechanisms.

 

Position 3: Plato's account could be partially true

 

Exasperated by the delusions of Atlantomania, most Hellenists no longer evoke the possibility of a reliable tradition. In the 6th century A.D., Proclus does not exclude this possibility, however, by interpreting Plato's text as a mixture of historical reality and allegory. To support this view Proclus quotes Marcellus and his treatise on geography "on Ethiopic things" (i.e. Africa): this source would confirm Plato's testimony by evoking the tradition of an archipelago of seven islands sunk at the exit of the Columns of Hercules. Some specialists of Greek texts, interviewed by the magazine "Science et Vie", do not seem as categorical as their colleagues and do not deny, without arguments, the possibility that there may be a core of reality in the myth. In fact, in the absence of new facts to be added to the file for two thousand years, supporters and opponents of a real Atlantis only assert, more or less violently, personal impressions ...

 

The discovery of a sunken island at the place and date indicated by Plato would obviously be a decisive argument in support of a position contrary to the currently dominant ideas. Before the Second World War, this Atlantis "damaged in the sea" had been sought in America, the Azores, the Canary Islands, Madeira, Iceland, Tunisia, Sweden, West Africa, the Sahara ... Etc. The most recent attempt was that of the Greek archaeologist Marinatos who wanted to assimilate Atlantis to Crete, whose civilization would have been ruined by the explosion of Santorini.

This hypothesis is abandoned: neither the place nor the date correspond to Plato's text. In addition, the correlation between the ruin of the Cretan civilization and the explosion of Santorini is no longer so certain! For lack of finding an island sunk in the Atlantic, the Czech geologist Kukal concludes, after a serious inventory of possibilities, that there is nothing habitable in the Atlantic except the area of Madeira and the Azores.

Unfortunately, none of these islands was inhabited in a time old enough to be a candidate. The discovery of Madeira and the Azores does not appear to predate Roman times. The occupation of the Canary Archipelago does not go back more than 2000 years before us and these steep-sided volcanic islands are not surrounded by continental shelves wide enough to hide anything else.

Plato recounted what was breathed into Him, but did not reveal everything because He knew that it would be decried, but his role was to tell You what would be accepted and demonstrated when the time came, both to change the misconceptions about everything that was interpreted so that this world would correspond to what was intended to be presented so that it would corroborate with a reality that would not disturb the interpretations of Those who wanted to keep the Beings under their own guidance. Atlantis was born after the glaciation had totally resorbed, and the vegetation had come back to life, and that all the conditions of life on this Earth were appropriate for living again according to what the Beings intended to live in the context of an Earth that was once again welcoming in all that it could offer in terms of viability. But this required many Beings to breathe their vision of what They themselves wanted this Earth to be. And so many Beings whom You call "the People of Nature" have responded to Your breaths, knowing that They have always been there, but on other levels, waiting for this Earth to come alive again in what They themselves were maintaining at their level. And so life was resumed and much was revealed in the interaction between the world that You call "People of Nature" and this reality. And that' s how it is.It has been said that Atlantis allowed the Humans to emerge from a certain very primitive state to move towards a certain civilization. And I will tell you, my dear friends, that Atlantis was a glorious power that lasted more than 50,000 years, but that there were not before that primitive state, but evolved Beings who allowed, by their presence, the coming of many Consciences that did not really know "Who They Were", and they were welcomed to allow them to live in a new world where everything had to be prepared by the future Generations, including the coming of Beings that you call "Primitive". Then there was a very long period of prosperity and consciousness, until the Atlanteans, as time went on, evolved into another reality much more fragmented, to the point where they had to at some point make the choice to arm themselves and live as Conquerors. And this was the beginning of a long period during which They conquered many territories at their expense, until at some point They themselves found themselves subject to having to bow to Beings more conquerors than Them, and who were thirsty for power over the technology They had, and which was used for destruction, while these technologies allowed remarkable advances in transportation, medicine, electricity and the whole configuration of life as a whole. So, I am not going to detail all that this represented, but it was necessary for the Masters who still remained at that time, to make the decision to protect what this advanced technology allowed the Beings to live in prosperity and abundance. And so it was. It is true, as it has been said, that the Atlanteans settled in large territories such as Mexico, America up to the Pacific Ocean, a large part of Europe, a large part of Africa up to the borders of the Adriatic Sea, and even further. And this has had an impact on all these populations which, even today, without even realizing it, are still evolving with an ancestral knowledge that is far removed from their own ways of being in their own customs, in their own civilizations. They are all borrowed from the consciousness of the Atlanteans, and of course from Lemuria. When You believe that the oldest colony of Atlantis was probably that of Egypt, I will tell You that it is Lemuria that brought the knowledge to the Atlanteans, who themselves benefited from MU, and that spread throughout the world, but in reality the Egyptians benefited from what the Masters taught long before all the Dynasties of the Pharaohs who never understood what was taught at very high levels before this Era of the Dynasties of the Pharaohs settled down to begin the experience of glory, power, the Conquerors, and above all the world power to want to manage everything and appropriate it all. No tools from the Bronze Age in Europe came from Atlantis, but many tools from the Atlantean knowledge were revealed to Peoples throughout the world, with the difference that they could not be of the same technology, the Atlanteans having few resources at their disposal after the sinking of Atlantis, but they had the knowledge, and this allowed them to reconstitute in part what You would call "new powerful tools", but which did not stand the test of time. What You have discovered is the result of primitive manufacturing responding to the relearning of certain primitive Peoples who did not have the Atlantean knowledge. There were in Atlantis hot springs that allowed the Beings to ablutions, but above all to enjoy long relaxations, because this water was volcanic and it brought a vibration to their bodies that was not, in the first millennia of Atlantis, completely of carbonic matter, but mostly of matter that was close to Crystalline. It is during the course of evolution that the Atlanteans lost this vibration and intensified more and more in the carbon density.

 

What People Say About The Metatronic Keys Course

 

I have found all three levels of the Metatronic Keys to be powerful, but the third level was by far the most deeply integrated and energy-filled experience of them all. Since then, I am doing a daily practice of auric maintenance and feel so protected and at peace that I KNOW I am functioning from a different vibration than prior to the installation of the Mer-Ka-Na. Sincerely, Susan Oliver, PhD, MD

 

The MK3 teaching was an amazing process that allowed me to accelerate my Ascension process many levels in only one weekend. The class brought together the role of Sacred Geometry and the physical and energetic process of Conscious Human Evolution in which we are now participating. Tyberonn’s presentation of Auric Maintenance techniques and the absolute importance of maintaining Auric integrity are valuable tools for those of us who are rapidly moving into the higher levels of Consciousness. The meditation to install the Mer-Ka-Na brought me be to a level that I have never experienced, one of complete Unity with myself, my surroundings and my world.I highly recommended MK1 and MK2, but I must say that MK3 is a necessity for anyone consciously pursuing an accelerated path into becoming a Crystalline being. Since taking the class I have become more confident, calm and loving towards myself and others. I have even changed my diet and find that I am eating lighter food. My connection to my higher self has opened and I have received inspiration for writing projects. MK3 a true gift. Since taking the class I have a clearer vision of where I am meant to be and more guidance of how I will proceed. Tyberonn is an excellent teacher, he presents high level information in a clear, easy to follow manner and the class seamlessly flows from one relevant subject into the next. MK3 is one of the most important events of our time and all that feel drawn should take advantage of the opportunity. Peace and Love, Wendy Ann Z

 

Thanks, Tyb, for supplying this valuable resource of the Metatronic Keys to us. Thank you for your beautiful and clear teaching of the Metatron Keys 3. This was very powerful and I experienced so much love within the group but also notice and teaching of the absolute need for auric integrity with this installation of the Mer-Ka-Na. I feel deeply my commitment to meditate study and reflect daily these truths you have shared through Metatron of the full harmonic pulse of crystalline coherence. (I think that’s the relevant language!) I feel because of your integrity you facilitated my further waking up and I am so very grateful. With much love, Jim and Kathy – New Zealand

 

Dear Tyberonn, The MK-3 class and especially the installation meditation , Tyb, was an absolutely glorious experience. I am so honored to be able to participate in this most humbling meditation and teachings . My tears did flow. And I thank you so much for bringing these wonderful lessons to us in the Metatronic Keys classes. Love and many blessings, Ruth G

 

Dear Tyb, All of the Metatronic Keys Levels have been amazing and life-changing, but MK-3 really was truly brilliant. You & Metatron really nailed it , beautiful finish to the classes. Blessings, Bruce

 

Dear Tyb, The Met-Keys course is awesome. My guides were very sure I needed to participate in the Metatronic Keys and I am glad I did. My reaction to the coarse : It is awesome. The platonic solids, especially the dodecahedron has been coming up in my dreams and other times. I had looked on line and had not found the answer to my question. You answered that in the coarse. The notes that come with it are awesome and very helpful. The meditations were amazing and I look forward to repeating them as necessary. I encourage anyone who has the chance to take this coarse. It is life changing. I have been working with the Alpha Master teachings and other teachings of Archangel Michael for several months. I feel like I have gone a bit higher in my understanding of our potential on earth. I think I understand why I have collected crystals without knowing why for several years.

 

earth-keeper.com/metatronic-keys-course/

SHROCK, Robert R. & TWENHOFEL, William H. (1953). Principles of Invertebrate Paleontology/ McGraw-Hill Book Company, New York.

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www.ucmp.berkeley.edu/protista/radiolaria/radsy.html

 

Radiolaria: Systematics

 

Despite the large body of research surrounding these organisms, the classification of the Radiolaria has proven to be very difficult. The species that make up the Radiolaria have numerous unique characteristics, and yet this has has not helped to elucidate a definite scheme to classify these organisms. What is known for certain is that the Radiolaria are a diverse group of unicellular protists with a number of unique and unusual characters.

 

Historically speaking, there has been little agreement among taxonomists on how to classify individual Radiolaria. It has been stated that "no single integrated body of information drawing upon the cognate disciplines of micropaleontology, reproductive biology, genetics, ecology, and molecular and cellular biology is of sufficient magnitude to serve as a paradigm for development of a clearly natural classification scheme" (Anderson p. 82). In 1887, Ernst Haeckel proposed one of the earliest classification schemes in which he divided Radiolaria into four major called legions (taxa): (1) Spumellaria, (2) Nassellaria, (3) Phaeodaria, and (4) Acantharia. However, due to the discovery of many new species, and discoveries regarding the morphology of the Heliozoa, Haeckel's classic scheme is no longer deemed acceptable.

 

The current methods for classification are based largely on the study of skeletons from the orders Spumellaria and Nassellaria. The skeleton of order the other groups. Since Haeckel, there have been various taxonomic schemes proposed, such as that by Reidel in 1967 which placed the group as follows: Kingdom Protista, Phylum Sarcomastigophora, Subphylum Sarcodina, Class Actinopoda, Subclass Radiolaria, Superorder Polycystina, Orders Spumellaria / Nassellaria / Phaeodaria. In this taxonomic scheme, Radiolaria are assigned to Actinopoda along with the Heliozoa (sun animals) and Acantharia because of their delicate pseudopodial network.

 

In 1980 Levine proposed another scheme: Kingdom Protista, Phylum Sarcomastigophora, Subphylum Sarcodina, Superclass Actinopoda, Class Radiolaria. In this scheme, Radiolaria is not considered a natural group, and Spumellaria, Nassellaria, and Phaeodaria are considered to be subclasses. These are just two possible classifications that have been proposed for Radiolaria.

 

More recent work has focussed less on the hierarchy of names, and more on determining the evolutionary relationships among the Radiolaria with molecular data. Molecular and morphological evidence suggest a close relationship with the Heliozoa (such as Actinophrys, pictured at right) and perhaps the Acantharia (a small group of protists with skeletons of strontium sulfate). These three together may be closely related to another large group of protists known collectively as the alveolates.

 

Since it has been stated that it is difficult to successfully and completely classify Radiolaria, we must ask ourselves what additional information is need to construct a complete taxonomic scheme. O. R. Anderson (1983) proposed that additional information is need in 5 major areas. He proposes that there be more research in the following five areas:

 

a more thorough understanding of radiolarian morphogenesis to permit clear delineation of changes in form during development and the effects of environmental variables on morpholgy.

 

population dynamics, including factors that influence their distribution in space and time, and their longevity and abundance in relation to environmental variables.

 

their mode of reproduction and the relative contribution of asexual and perhaps sexual reproduction to their abundance and adaptiveness.

 

their genetics and cytogenetics coupled with knowledge of phylogeny.

 

cellular and molecular biology to elucidate their fundamental physiology and to identify molecular aspects that may complement fine structure differences used to separate species. A more thorough understanding of Radiolaria morphogenesis is needed.

 

Clearly, a taxonomic classification is no small matter. Though some of the data needed to successfully complete the classification are present, some vital information is still lacking. In general, very little is known about the Radiolaria. Ultimately, it will simply be a matter of time as more research is done and before a complete and agreed upon taxonomic classification is made.

The sap of the foliage is only elucidated by the secret of the roots

This analysis attempts to explain why light is limited in its flight through the demi-'vacuum' of the 'foam' of space at a precise set speed limit of "299,792,458 meters per second"* in the form of a 'three phase' answer (with end notes as comments), pulled from the shelf of common knowledge and sense as led by the key concepts in Science from which the explanation of the Universes perpetual operation and expansion as a process can be seen in the meta as one vast 'integrated circuit' writ large.

 

There is a 'ingredient' that creates and thus forms the common atomic denominators in the micro to macro physiological energetic gears running as subsystems to propel The Cosmic Show forward and backwards through the foam and fog of Space Time we know to be driven on Earth by the atomic energy of the nucleus of the three families of bacteria that I have identified (to complete several vexing puzzles) which comprise a Cosmic literal as well metaphorical barrel which is constituted, 'stocked and locked' the with the requisite recipe for the phylogenetic trees perpetual existence and growth owing to being a cog in the Suns Dark Material photovoltic gear box or barrel as analogy may be. The natural source of any and all exponential growth checked by its shrink, as Dark Energy which atomically link the food to combustion chains by means (hydro)carbon storage means to name two to hold life so as to bring quarks back in 'good time' to their respective Suns as well dark/black holes in the quantum dynamic mechanical process of connecting you and me as "we are all connected" by means the gears our atmosphere to the Earths economic activity over history which in turn forms part of the natural inherent limit on the speed of light which is a function of the atomic 'surf' of the 'foam of space' that enables the lights ride from its source to its destination by means the Quantum Tunnel of particles making and breaking as waves, exposing therein a large piece of this puzzle that shall explored further through the conceptual prism in terms of 'hull speed' as limit to light speed.

 

When probing the question of the speed of lights limits one quickly and repeatedly hits intellectual impasse and obstruction called Dark Matter and Energy which defines the cosmological constant and the singular ability to cause curvature in light. Thus Dark Matter has become evident to my mind as to why light travels slower in a liquid in the micro, and also perfectly explains in the macro over time and space why light passes so slowly through distant galaxies verses so comparatively fast right past them.

 

Bacterial expansion and growth can be observed and measured over Space Time to account for the 'Spooky Action at a Distance' of celestial bodies, and should get rid of 'special relativity' if Bacteria is accounted for as Dark Matter in math terms which are clear and becoming more focused with more examples thundering into clarity daily in need of addition to this ever growing tract. The nuts and bolts of the quantum dynamic math that are galloping along of the path the speed of sound to focus the mind so as to not get trammeled by the causation of the limit of light speed of light -- so as to be understood by myself and then explained to the thundering herd that follows this topic and racing in general that in terms of 'horse sense' that 'power' can be explained in elementally when it is understood as that; "The speed of the leader determines the rate of the pack." -- c/o a quotation and the logic contained therein from the noted Horseman D. Wayne Lukas.

 

Connecting that to a 'quanta' of light moving as fast as function of its weakest link. A yin yang thing that will be the gist of this between the lines discussion of attempting to figure out what is 'in the shadow' of the unknown, that produces a speed limit on light, by using the light of the known world to begin to understand what is unknown by the process of reverse electrical engineering with research and imagination to understand how expansion on a Universal scale runs organically by the power of light to go to fro a solar powered source to nitrogen bacterial blooming engine whose waste gases goes boom as that matter morphs by means the phase transition over space and time so as to explain and understanding the process shown above in terms of Dark Matter care of the powers the gas and waters technology h2O and N02 + Hydrogen to form the Universal fuel system as well fluid for the transmission of radiant energy by means of turning the gears of the water cycle and thus the gears of the wheels of life in a expanding Universe; well then that is my hypothesis with the assembled 'organic material' being the ingredients that (in) forms the rational basis for the abstract intuitive logic of my thinking and writing on this subject.

 

The energy that makes this Universal "long story -- longer" is electric and has a organic component as well logic that follows: IF light is know to be Electric in a natural world (as A.E. explained), THEN it must have a organic component to run the physics that limits its speed in flight between the solar and or artificial source and the Planet or object on which it fall as observable light. THEREFORE because there is a light cycle (side note to self from Justice Lewis Brandeis who tells us "Sunshine is the best disinfectant", ergo [there are bands of that light have power which is the gamma band=> golden garlic bread chicken soup + the rot resistance of cedar + the disinfecting and health power of citrus that run and a vector of the intense power of the fine slice of the Sun]), HENCE there must be in the above rainbow water and something organic to make it so, which is 'rooted in' the atomic core of Bacteria. Let us call it for the purposes of this argument; photons, water vapor, bands of colored bacteria in photo bloom, being bent by the atmosphere of the Earth, and coming home to roost as a beam from the Sun slowed only by its water born cyanobacterial load which for a long time was understood to be the en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ether_%28classical_element%29 holding bonds of light as they are scattered in a bow over Earths atmosphere arched into spectral rain band bits for your close consideration and visual pleasure.

 

THEREFORE let us reason and think along the logical lines of words on the subject left by Tesla who was generally antagonistic towards theories about the conversion of matter into energy. Tesla was also critical of Einstein's theory of relativity as evidenced by the two paragraph quotation below from a statement made and found in the Tesla Publications + wikipedia and extracted in long form below -- quote Tesla;

 

"I hold that space cannot be curved, for the simple reason that it can have no properties. It might as well be said that God has properties. He has not, but only attributes and these are of our own making. Of properties we can only speak when dealing with matter filling the space. To say that in the presence of large bodies space becomes curved is equivalent to stating that something can act upon nothing. I, for one, refuse to subscribe to such a view."

 

"Tesla claimed to have developed his own physical principle regarding matter and energy that he started working on in 1892 and in 1937, at age 81, claimed in a letter to have completed a "dynamic theory of gravity" that "[would] put an end to idle speculations and false conceptions, as that of curved space". He stated that the theory was "worked out in all details" and that he hoped to soon give it to the world. Further elucidation of his theory was never found in his writings." -

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nikola_Tesla#Publications

 

The words thoughts and reflected works of Tesla do however leave some evidence of his condensed views on 'matter'. Tesla's talent and ability as a big 'picture thinker' who was able to understand and comprehend through mechanical means harness the power of the natural world's organic 'shape shifting' by means technology before anybody else and thus pave the way for much of the 20th century technology by means his work in applied science and industry.

 

The up and down shots of which to this theory are written in stone and, then as subtext to another image of mine that goes that addresses the nature of our EXPANDING planet in a expanding Universe in whack at the General Unified Theory as it pertains to the Dinosaurs, Climate and such on 'channel'; www.flickr.com/photos/tremain_calm/5018015234/in/set-7215...

 

Looking deeper for a the full spectrum explanation the inner workings of the above photograph of a rainbow by means of attempting to conduct a aspect of the fabled 'light thought experiment' where by light is seen to be comprised of the dynamic function the sum of its 1) en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bandwidth_%28signal_processing%29 such that the whole ship being a function of its parts (bandwidth ) processes that unevenly weighted load of different types of light which in essence a function as whole ship of the sum of its parts sailing only as fast its 2) en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hull_speed permits over "the rubbery membrane" of Space Time in terms of E=mc2 to form "Gods Own Brand™ of interstellar Universal en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Integrated_circuit formed by a en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Standing_wave acting on the and with the capacity of the receiver to form electric charge that gives off the glow of the photon to the point of en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Short_circuit along the lines of predictable atomic results (lighting/sparks) , if any given circuit becomes over heated to the point of shorting out -- and either 'breaking the Gammow Window' by hitting the Gamma burst of energy needed to do so, or - going to bits c/o Black Hole Energy run in Hawking's Radiation by means of so much local atomic riot to move matter on its way though a quantum tunnel in the rotary evaporative distillation process of matter/quarks going 'home'.

 

Case in point that illustrates my thinking with the following example in 'light' of the news that "After 7 billion years of travel, high and low energy photons arrive at NASA's Fermi spacecraft a mere 900ms apart, suggesting that space-time isn't the bubbly foam of quantum theory but seems closer to Einstein's smooth rubbery membrane"* because the light beam consisting of high and, low energy photon particle pairing reaches what amounts to a state of terminal velocity 'relatively speaking' that of the mass of equivalence of the sun that is a boat of a 'certain size' at en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hull_speed as form of metaphorical analogy. Light is just pure essence on its way to and fro substance in the way of making and breaking the Hydrogen, Nitrogen, and Oxygen bonds to run those cycles over space-time to run a Universe by means of applied color theory of same to dark matter and energy - as the heat and light of matter being burnt, and the 'star stuff' that fuels the combustion process in perpetuity on account of the 'breeder reactor' construction of the 'plants' that collectively power the Universes quantum mechanics to engineer the self fueling and self expansion dynamically as 'features and benefits' of a well designed comprehensively thought out expanding organic operating system found in Nature.

 

Back sailing and thinking at en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Light_speed to consider that any given beam or ray of light as being a metaphorical ship of made 'of a certain size' (or frequency if you will) of E=MC2 which can travel only so fast due to the limits of it physical constituent parts against each other and time and space; ergo , and by extenuation -- a beam of light move only so fast due to the inherent drag of its content of high and low energy photons moving in 'push-me-pull-you' +/- (particles) to form waves to weave the smooth grid that is the matrix of Space and Time that has been confirmed to confirm Einsteins thinking with measurement; www.space.com/15297-gamma-rays-prove-einstein-space-time-...

  

Another way to 'see' hull speed is by analogy furnished from the experience of a 'round the world sailor' who wrote a serious book on the subject; Donald Street Jr.'s thoughts on hull speed contained in his book; "The Ocean Sailing Yacht", fully illustrate in words my point on the limiting factor of mass moving through space and the factor of 'drag' created by space itself -- as we see the world in the slow motion quantum mechanics of big boat sailing with the composite of so 'much mass equivalence' in the form and function of the thoughts expressed so precisely in the 1973 1st Edition on p.58 : "Whole books have been written about hull speed. In brief, there is a transverse wave system which shows itself along the side of the hull (beam of light) in a series of crests. Having measured the distance between crests, either on board or from a photograph, one can obtain a quite accurate estimate of speed… . The length of the wave (distance between the crests) is the most limiting factor in the speed of a boat. Once the length of the boat, the bow and stern are supported by the wave crests, but nothing supports the middle of the boat, and she tends to squat. In effect, she digs a hole and sits in it.

At various times, in the West Indies, I have actually experienced extreme squatting. At about 8.6 or 8.8 knots Iolarire throws a high bow wave, a deep trough develops amidships, and the stern wave comes piling on board. She has dug a hold and is sitting in it." -- Don Street Jr.

 

Same holds I believe for the constituent bands of a beam of light/the above rainbow. There is a basic interplay that results in photons electrical chemical drag through the foam of space -- by my logical reckoning.

The inherent power in this 'static' process, of the created by the energy that moves 'standing waves' that we see as beams of light moving at a set finite speed over time and space -- account for the fullness of the rainbow and therefore its bits in terms of the sum of a given beams of lights total 'Band Width' across the spectrum, which is tantamount to its capacity as expressed in water moving through a given pipe diameter analogy//also see hull speed as to why the flow of light is finite and at terminal velocity from any single source whereby space time is the governor of brightness before heat is turned to light to matter (liquids/solids/life) to anti-matter (broken atomic bonds, stored in the spores of fungus, molds, and mildew, (which enable combustion) and back again in a cycle that can not be over run in terms of relative speed or space (w/o resorting to the proverbial next larger atomic grade hammer, in the process of the running of combustion grades of way water cooled en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stellar_nucleosynthesis {see my forthcoming book; "Boiler Plate"}.

 

As a result and consequence of this insight space time becomes a relatively two way street when it comes to energy exchange going and coming around via light and the making/breaking of the Hydrogen bond to complete the C/N/O cycles -- and somehow in the process resolving the faint young star paradox, by returning matter/energy/atomic bonds of some type to the stars as a result of the light they shine to re-power them to a relative extent.

 

Evidence of this: "Two way street" and or sided cosmic coin source receptor, water memory maker by means the foam of the water of the fabric of the waves that make and break

Time and Space are written prima facie as the hard evidence of the working of the Natural world, as demonstrated by the workings of Nature™ as evidenced by Einstein winning a Nobel prize for figuring out and explaining that Light contained electricity which explains how the Universe transmits its power over Time and Space. This discovering how light contains atomic electric Energy is evidence of the Dark Material common denominator the power of the sun to run the gears of photosynthesis as well basic animal biology -- all power by sunlight, and, the elements, mixed over the waves of the Big Surf of Space and Time.

 

I reason that everything must be related and connected, as the title of Einstein's most famous book and theory suggest on the basis of; "Relativity" -- radically organically so (as opposed to en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Special_relativity so) , to be understood (with the 'arrow of time' stuck through both side of the coin of) , the macro and the micro, are being continuously flipped according to Game Theory on the basis of the Energy input squared.

 

Therefore the Speed of light is finite and set because that is the 'capacity' of a prism when the light is broken down to its constituent wavelengths and parts as a function of its wave movement) in terms of bandwidth. This can be calculated in terms of 'hull speed'. once all the variables are known; as it pertains to all matters of half life, in terms of sunlight and heat exposure I strongly theorize and, suspect.

 

Concluding that therefore the entire Universe acts as one vast multi-layered super massive en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Integrated_circuit literally and figuratively and as the heretofore missing metaphor for understanding (my [misinformed and or original]point of how) the light source and every single one of its constituent contact points that it hits causing effects on those atoms and their bonds with photon impacts on half lives as light does 'its stuff' it is limited in relation to and therefore accounting for en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lorentz_transformation (and derivative impressive equations for each resultant data point compete with radiance and heat transfer) My last two bits of thoughts on this matter to the account of the project of reverse engineering a thought experiment to see into the reality of Gods own en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rotation_%28music%29 but more importantly I see the Earth, Stars and all life between and beyond as governed by en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rotary_evaporation and en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Resonance_%28particle_physics%29 in conjunction with wrapping ones head fully around the en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bose%E2%80%93Einstein_condensate .

 

Observing for the 'record' here and now, that in this macro en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Climate it stands to reason that like Einstein imagining 'being the light', or riding it, is the only way understanding the substance and the essence of the stuff of Spaghetti/String theory; www.flickr.com/photos/tremain_calm/4595157229/in/set-7215... may be the ticket to understanding the General Unified Theory of how 'the light' manages the journey and magic to power a Universe by means a gear that is named tuna fish that is 'Star-Kissed' in into the macromolecules of top of the food chain fuel nutritional matter that brim with energy that can and does daily transmit the knowledge which makes material science and organic chemistry go round the sun and off to black holes to be reprocessed back to atomic square one in the stuff of a proverbial '1000 new suns', that will shine in a future so remote as to be theoretically beyond me such that my head spins -- now if only somebody could manage to slow down some relative atomic tops from turning long enough to examine and analyze the particles involved in the werks when 'chilled' in the micro, well hell congratulated them on the (2012) Nobel Physics Prize Serge Haroche, of the Collège de France and the École Normale Supérieure, and David J. Wineland National Institute of Standards and Technology and the University of Colorado; nyti.ms/2tEbiBH

"Have a Cigar" -- > E.g ( youtu.be/8PKHYDqxEAE ) Rosebud edition -- to that group of big tuna thinkers who worked so well the fine detail and sharp angles of this part of the Science Problem Set™ -- solved.

  

The gearbox of which finds light unable to move any faster than the set and degree of ; en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Quantum_entanglement of its atomic bonds, which therefore limits light because it is a physical atomic thing and can not be forced to move faster than its 'weakest atomic link' and or a matter of -- square peg, round holes marching through space making light -- no hammer in the universe big enough to smash atoms, and their bonds up their own rear end, so to speak, w/o lighting, etc. -- otherwise that logically that light get made into water that can find its way into a hydrocarbon which contains VOC's which can and do disappear into some sort of 'black hole', which would seem to stand to reason based on the proto-physics of the en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Black_hole an or color it what I perceive is as so much 'liquid sunshine' coming down on Desert rainbows powered by the Sun, Moon, and Stars working in 'concert' and in a to form a closed loop en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Electric_circuit that has a outlet for expansion by means of a en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Feedback and en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Distortion loops, that makes possible the range of pleasing Purple Hazes we all have come to know in the audio and visual realm, in matter and 'in my brain' [the missing 4% of the Universe being lost in individual and collective thought {given.-) "words are the only thing that last forever" ... as E.g. in stone; flic.kr/p/hLd1Sk .

 

One last couple of wonders -- if''n that rainbow does not have something to do with ones capacity to witness (but predicated on completely understanding) the effects of en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gravitational_lensing and the upshot for the speed of distant light speed that might be contained in the 'bandwidth' and bonds of the rainbow, I do believe, there is another angel which is this thought that I am still hanging onto which is 2 cents bet on the proverbial "'Billion Dollar Question" and offered for the group minds collective consideration as 'bugs' being the micro to macro Universal Dark Material key to under standing the physics and organic chemistry of the combustion and food chains of and biological life unlocked and comprehended.

 

If the General Unified Theory is to be successfully reconstructed from the currently constructed model so as to be a reality based version that checks with Theory in addition to the ingredients of Nature and facts of Matter by constructing a micro/macro perpetual motion machine to resemble the Universe such as the one I reside, requires the basic building blocks upon which it operates to be produced by Bacteria as the agent of running the Nitrogen cycle such that the Oxygen cycle also functions to produce Carbon thus life as we know it is off to a flying start with some subatomic particles to be understood to perhaps travel faster than the speed of light, as suggested by the latest experimentation/loose plug/threads of Theoretical Physics of the days of yore; which I am still following below as a matter of academic interest.

 

My reasoning is as follows: If neutrinos travel at the speed of light. There MUST be a faster moving object to possibly conceptually cause motion beCause in order to see/be 'LIGHT' there must be a Newtonian CAUSE acting upon that which powers the quanta and photons, and electricity that is contained and travels that IS the 'light' in each and every instance over time and space.

 

The action of some phase of the gamma cycle 'spooling up' the energy needed which I believe is a release of Dark Matter combusted in a 2 cycle movement which I theorize act as the precursor and cause of what moves the PHOTONS to the ON position which enable us to observe the phenomenon that is 'the light', from any sun, bulb, or source according to Laws, equations notions and historical group (open) mind frame of reference of Newton/Einstein/Bethe/Hoyle. It is a process-- if one goes 'thought experimental' on each possible instance of light. It is a carbon and water fest with out whacking the photons with a FTL spark there is no light. I suspect the faster the FTL 'flash' the more action on the photon 'bang', and hence the brighter the light -- is in some bulbs/stars are brighter than others.

 

InSide Note: This FTL aspect of the 'big picture' presented here is the only one the there is any level of self doubt about but is presented anyway for the sake of 'putting it out there' conceptually as part of this picture if it makes any better sense a result at some future date or with better resources than mine.

 

Continuing to report and reason that it is the role of subatomic to be named later but we know Bacteria is Dark Matter and Energy (in a version of this (following the; en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tachyon line of reasoning) that to serve as the ‪precursor‬ to the photon in the operation of the Gamma Cycle™ as a mechanism for the making breaking of the hydrogen bond in the CNO cycle in a process of here on earth localized en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nucleosynthesis (think time over space of a baking oven, in conjunction with a digestive track to power life; its en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stellar_nucleosynthesis doing the functionality of what I term the 'condensed stellar variety' (according to: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fred_Hoyle) as opposed to the supernova nucleosynthetic super-sized variety, however it is appears on 'steady state', and one in the same subatomic processes, powered by the same, 'garden variety' cosmic rays, coming and going around via the Gamma (ray) Cycle sending hydrogen and helium back from the planets to power the Sun (perhaps I theorize resolving) the en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Faint_young_sun_paradox. I'm calling "Dark Matter™ for the purpose of the construct of this version of the Universe the family of bacteria that binds N20 to carbon, completing-enabling that critical side of the combustion equation. By coming to understanding how Dark Matter allows the Energy of the core of cyanobacteria quarks to be 'beamed' by light as the atomic 'brains' of bacteria as bands of electric light and water falling water into the en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Primordial_sea , I am able to 'abide' to see the role of CyanoBacteria kick starting breath on Earth, and keeping it going as the proto-stuff of hydrocarbons, now and forever in a N2O bound loop with the Sun as its 'atomic twin' by means of what Steven Hawking and Co. describe as the power of the unpaired quark forever seeking it mate with great power over the distance of Space and Time such that the rejoinder of quarks is the 'back hammer/jackhammer' of matter getting re-bonded such that birds and fish can find the way back to their 'atomic square one' for the purposes of migration, and internal combustion technology is possible in by this line of material logical reasoning.

 

From which the following the atomic bonds of the food chain as I have come to understand its works and construction by doing the organic chemical reverse engineering of the worlds food supply (or some portion thereof) as a for instance, to compute the "food math" (of water per ton to make/bind a commodities Mass Equivalence/composition) that reveal the binding forces and stored in matter that are the result I hypothesis of: GAMMA/XRAY CYCLES™ working as the atomic binding force of the mass of the universe that also provides its movement with energy, in a closed loop system re-powered by the hydrogen/helium burned by the sun as light + the carbon/nitrogen/oxygen cycles and the supremely important hydrogen bond being broken up and down the food chain, as a ladder action holding the show together an a return run back to the Sun, in the completion of carbon/nitrogen cycles, working in conjunctions with all the forces and a stew of the elements, to bring us life as we know it past present and future; is my bid to describe the missing cosmic cog that runs the 3-4 ring circus of reality, like a watch, which we can time our perception and measure what I attempt to make sense so that science can find a subatomic on the same 'wavelength' that beats light and heat to the 'on' via this atomic chain reaction of logic which rambles/soars to/fro near book length in anther space in time which goes on to explain in detail why birds flock and don't crash, and fish schools move in synch via the radio power of this far fetched but mildly plausible 'radio'logical scheme. Perhaps it is the speed of light 'radio power control' that runs the fish and birds; but that does not so much matter as the fact that they 'are what they ate' which puts them on the same 'wavelength' in conjunction with their genome. Run by the power of the sun which is re-spun via by my thinking and logic the vector of the Gamma Cycle being run to completion by the en.wikipedia.org/wiki/M%C3%B6ssbauer_effect such that Bacterial or other single cellular source as vector + a noted Higgs field generator of mass in the movement of the atomic energy of the sun through of the food chain, from the depths of the ocean to mountain tops to the Sun -- the gasses made by bacteria power this not all together random 'Shot in the dark' from the Nevada Desert: conceptually FTL -- the 'boom' resides in the land of the fast, and fast thinking, E.g.; en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ThrustSSC where I happen to vacation and reside part time, so as to - - - be able to have the space to - - - - think to conclude with the thought that the terminal velocity of light the rainbow, and thus light is caused as a function of the 'Bacterial load' in the atmosphere which acts as a dynamic brake on its bands moving through time which curve under the load of close examination and the earths atmosphere to reveal the essence of Dark Matter at the key to combustion and life by its role in water and gas as understood to be only made by Bacteria as the missing link in the Universal combustion chain of command, as I piece the puzzle together with the given pieces to compete it above with out resorting to new ones.

 

*Which is analogous to a light bending sugar or salt water at different temperature** in the micro due to the atomic 'economic activity' of bacteria in light, which also very well explains the Dark Matter mystery at the Macro over the light years of Space Time by the same process of combustion by bacterial growth cycles of the C/N/O chain running those worlds we watch turn over time and space long past such that star stuff might be even viewed as "bacterial molasses electric liquid sunshine shows/welcome to the machines -- that can't be rushed, 'two steps forward, one step back, as so much fertilizer" as a metaphorical explanation of the quantum dynamics of a given beam of light, such that it undergoes the same relative braking action whether passing though distant galaxy in the macro, a drop of water in the micro - explained by the quantum mechanics of its bands, source, and therefore how it behaves by curving in any relative 'field' of material - this is my understanding of Science today.

 

** Notes/data points to consider on the en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Refractometer as a Dark Matter meter for consideration of Bacteria as Dark Matter in space. One must think about the science, or it might just hit you as it did me -- and my attempt to explain might be well enough by the end of this photo set or at any given data point that crossed with your lives learning and mine such that I invested in this aspect of this project thus far.

 

"Temperature has a very important influence on the refractive index measurement . Therefore, the temperature of the prism and the temperature of the sample have to be controlled with high precision. There are several subtly different designs for controlling the temperature but there are some key factors common to all such as high precision temperature sensors and Peltier devices to control the temperature of the sample and the prism. The temperature control accuracy of these devices should be designed so that the variation in sample temperature is small enough that it will not cause a detectable refractive index change."

 

Thanks for reading, and seeking to see by your own light this explanation of expansion and growth of Dark Matter and Energy in a expanding Universe which filling perceptual vacuum of space with a fresh set of data points in processing, as the best possible explanation of cosmic expansion in terms of Light, Dark Matter and Energy = 'Grey Matter' which is so much life being made possible by the interplay of the nuclear material of the Phylogenetic tree burning to bring the light while explaining how the grow the Universe at the variable speed of -1 which is not constant see graphic and apply this logic to the fluctuations inherent in the construct presented (albeit, minus the above Dark Material variable) in Darkness on the Edge of the Universe

By BRIAN GREENE Published: January 15, 2011) www.nytimes.com/2011/01/16/opinion/16greene.html?scp=6&am...

 

Some disagree and say Dark Matter is immaterial to science. I respectful disagree, and attempt to provide additional information in order to assist with understanding how my view came to be on this subject and if there is not some common ground as more data is generated in understanding how perspective can never stay the same as per the logic contained in a draconian application of the en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lorentz_transformation to a unwillingness to see the shadow of comprehension of the 'Big Picture' as being painted by reflections on the flip side of the micro being organic in Nature and, therefore the Universe.

 

That the same transformation that powers the light switch where I might find enough between my ears to communicate the understanding that the bugs have been digesting themselves into energy per this chart; en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:080998_Universe_Content_240.jpg

If in the words of Bronowski* (a quote which fell from heaven/ and the keyboard of Peter on linked on Theoretical Physics Group discussion)

That; “All science is the search for unity in hidden likenesses.”

 

- as being understood to be what makes the world go round in the compost heap, vineyard, inn, industry in any constellation whichever side or corner of the Universe from which the Light expands our understanding by means of the power of deep thought in pondering dark matter producing 'grey matter' which is consciousness that understands the en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cosmological_principle which is in essence in the words of Andrew Liddle puts it, "the cosmological principle [means that] the universe looks the same whoever and wherever you are." Hence the grass is not 'greener' or made of substantively something else in another galaxy, therefore Dark Matter, and Energy 'is what it is' the immutable atomic information of 'microorganisms' cycling at relative light speed as so many 'cups of tea', or conceptual coffee, 'primordial soup' to perhaps nuts -- or maybe, just maybe, the 'hidden likeness' is before us in the form of Microorganisms nuclear core that manufacture the chemical 'blocks' the comprise the fabric of Space and Time in the macro as 'made so' by Matter which is the two side of the coin of light and life.

 

Sounds so familiar, and simple to me; then again being from Missouri, nothing is obvious until you lead and or 'show me' with quantum formal paradoxical inventors logic -- what is so dark materially obvious that has been glaring me in the face that; 'if it were a snake it would have bit me.'

  

Notes -

Dark Matter as Dynamic; phys.org/news/2012-11-dark-energy-static-dynamic.html Microwave data derived from; www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2013/01/130114092551.htmwith the light, sound, and, energy of health wisdom, that beget enlightenment.

  

(Rev. for clarity and minor content May 9, 2018)

'long answer short' -- with a string of comments to complete the notion following that are in want of integration into the body of this text, and or a editor/publisher -- but not having any expectations other than to be found to be more or less correct on the basic logic here in the long run.

 

Thanks to Dream 11 aka John Blunt for the Artwork 'interpretation' contribution on and to my photo taken on the Black Rock Desert at a Arts Festival we have attended together over the years, this one taken several years ago. Also for his reading my work and giving me feedback in writing which provoked some insight for which I thank and credit him.

  

www.britishscienceassociation.org/blog/the-ascent-of-jaco...

Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.

 

Tonight, however we have headed east of Cavendish Mews, down through St James’, past Trafalgar Square and down The Strand following Sir John’s imposing chauffer driven black Worsley as he takes his fiancée, Lettice, out to dinner. Old enough to be her father, wealthy Sir John was until recently still a bachelor, and according to London society gossip intended to remain so, so that he might continue to enjoy his dalliances with a string of pretty chorus girls of Lettice’s age and younger. After an abrupt ending to her understanding with Selwyn Spencely, son and heir to the title Duke of Walmsford, Lettice in a moment of both weakness and resolve, agreed to the proposal of marriage proffered to her by Sir John. More like a business arrangement than a marriage proposal, Sir John offered Lettice the opportunity to enjoy the benefits of his large fortune, be chatelain of all his estates and continue to have her interior design business, under the conditions that she agree to provide him with an heir, and that he be allowed to discreetly carry on his affairs in spite of their marriage vows. He even suggested that Lettice might be afforded the opportunity to have her own extra marital liaisons if she were discreet about them. Lettice’s heart sank as the purring Worsley pulled up in the queue of vehicles leading to the newly erected Art Deco portico of one of London’s most luxurious and fashionable hotels, The Savoy*.

 

“Of all the places to bring me.” she silently thought to herself as she squirmed on the red Moroccan leather seat next to her fiancée.

 

Once a place Lettice enjoyed going to, the luxurious mahogany, rich red velvet, gilded paintings and extravagant floral displays of the Savoy’s grand dining salon no longer hold the charms for her as they once did, for it was here that Selwyn had organised a romantic dinner for two for he and Lettice in honour of his birthday. However, when Lettice arrived, she was confronted not with the smiling face of her then beau, but the haughty and cruel spectre of his mother, the Duchess of Walmsford, Lady Zinnia. It was in the middle of the dining room that with a cold and calculating smile Lady Zinna announced that she had packed Selwyn off to Durban in South Africa for a year. She made a pact with her son: if he went away for a year, a year during which he agreed neither to see, nor correspond with Lettice, if he came back and still had feelings for Lettice, Lady Zinnia agreed that she would concede and would allow him to marry her. That trip turned out to be fateful, as Lettice later found out from Lady Zinnia when she was summoned to the Duchess’ Park Lane mansion and was shown a cache of photographs and newspaper clippings of Selwyn engaged to the daughter of a wealthy Kenyan diamond mine owner. It was this revelation that caused her to fall into the open and welcoming arms of Sir John.

 

“Are you alright, Lettice my dear?” Sir John asks with concern as he looks into his fiancée’s face, which in spite of the warm, golden light flooding from the Savoy’s windows, looks wan and drawn. “You look very pale all of a sudden.”

 

“Well,” Lettice replies with a shiver, pulling her arctic fox fur stole more snugly around her bare shoulders. “You know what memories I have of this place, John. You might have taken me somewhere else.”

 

The car inches forward to the second place in line as in front of them a lady in a red sequin bespangled evening frock is helped to alight from the passenger cabin of a black and yellow Coupé de Ville** Rolls Royce by one of the liveried footmen of the Savoy.

 

“Well,” Sir John begins in a rather nonchalant fashion. “Think of the Savoy like a horse, Lettice my dear.”

 

“A horse?” Lettice queries in return.

 

“Yes, my dear. When your best thoroughbred throws you during a steeplechase*** what do you do?”

 

“You lie on the ground winded, that’s what you do!”

 

Sir John snorts and chuckles derisively at Lettice’s reply before going on, “You get back on her of course, and keep riding.” He smiles kindly at Lettice. “A faint heart never won a race.”

 

“I still don’t see what that has to do with the Savoy.” Lettice quips.

 

“It’s simple my dear. The Savoy has bad connotations for you, and I understand that.”

 

“Do you?” Lettice snaps disbelievingly.

 

“Of course I do, Lettice my dear.” Sir John soothes. “I may be many things, but I am not a cruel or unkind man.”

 

“Then why did you bring me back to the place of my humiliating rendezvous with Lady Zinnia, if not to rub salt into my wounds****?”

 

“I’m a pragmatist, Lettice, not a sadist.” Sir John replies matter-of-factly as the Worsley is driven up to the steps of the Savoy by Richardson, Sir John’s chauffer. “The best way to dispel those connotations is to make new and happy memories here.”

 

The door of Sir John’s Worsley is opened and the same Savoy liveried footman who helped the previous vehicle’s occupants from their motorcar now proffers his hand to Lettice, who accepts it with a scowl, not directed towards him, but to her unthinking fiancée who waits for her to exit the cabin before stepping out onto the Savoy’s steps himself.

 

The doors to the Savoy are swung open welcomingly for Lettice and Sir John by two liveried doormen and the pair stride in with assured steps, their arms interlinked. Lettice applies a painted smile***** to her face as the wealthy and elegantly dressed clientele of the hotel milling around in the foyer observe and scrutinise them as they walk. The pair are ushered into the grand dining room of the Savoy, a space brilliantly illuminated by dozens of glittering electrified chandeliers cascading down like fountains from the high ceiling above. Beneath the sparkling light, men in white waistcoats and women a-glitter with jewels and bugle bead embroidered frocks are guided through the cavernous dining room where they are seated in high backed mahogany and red velvet chairs around tables dressed in crisp white tablecloths and set with sparkling silver and gilt china. The large room is very heavily populated with theatre patrons enjoying a meal before a show and London society out for an evening. The space is full of vociferous conversation, boisterous laughter, the clink of glasses and the scrape of cutlery against crockery as the diners enjoy the magnificent repast served to them from the hotel’s famous kitchens. Above it all, the notes of the latest dance music from the band can be heard as they entertain diners and dancers who fill the parquet dance floor.

 

A smartly uniformed waiter escorts Lettice and Sir John to a table for two in the midst of the grand dining salon, where they take their seats and peruse the menu. Sir John orders them Caviar de Sterlet****** and saumon fumé******* to start with, followed by Consommé Olga******** and paupiette de sole femina*********. As the waiter sets a silver platter of cheeses and an assortment of water cracker biscuits on the crisp white linen covered table between them as a palate cleanser before their next course of Suprême de Chapon Monselet**********, Sir John clears his throat.

 

“Feeling a little better about the Savoy now, my dear Lettice?”

 

“I don’t know if I’ll ever feel the same about the Savoy, no matter how many times we come here, John.” Lettice says as she sips some of the deep red Bordeaux from her crystal wine glass.

 

She glances around at the bejewel decorated ladies looking like exotic birds in their brightly coloured frocks and feathers and their smartly attired male companions, many craning their necks, stealing surreptitious glances at Sir John, London’s most famous, or infamous, former bachelor, and the pretty Viscount’s daughter and society interior designer who has ensnared him into marriage.

 

“I promise that time is a great healer of wounds, my dear.” Sir John assures her, ignoring the stares of the diners around him and expertly piercing the stilton before him, breaking off a crumbly piece which he lathers a water cracker biscuit with before taking a healthy bite out of it.

 

“I’ll have to take your word for that.” Lettice grumbles.

 

“You’ll find that I’m rather a pragmatist, Lettice my dear.” Sir John goes on. “So in an effort to be somewhat pragmatic, and assuage your discomfort at being here, let’s chat about something pleasurable. You were saying before that you went to visit Charles Hatchett’s wife in Queen Anne’s Gate***********?”

 

“Yes,” Lettice concurs with a sigh as she takes up her own cheese knife and cuts a sliver of Swiss cheese which she places on a cracker of her own choosing from the options laid out on the platter. “I redecorated some of the rooms in Mrs. Hatchett’s house in Sussex back in 1921 when I was just starting out my interior design business. Now that her husband is finally an MP, they have taken a long lease on a rather run-down old town house in Queen Anne’s Gate that had belonged to an admiral. I’m taking on a commission to redecorate some of her principal rooms used for entertaining.”

 

“Do you think that is wise, Lettice my dear?” Sir John asks cautiously with a cocked eyebrow as he cuts himself a slice of gouda cheese from its red waxy rind.

 

“Because it is so run down? Oh, there is no need to worry, John darling. The Hatchetts are currently having maintenance done to make the house habitable again.”

 

“No.” John counters. “I meant, do you think it wise to take on a commission from the wife of a Labour MP?”

 

“Oh yes!” Lettice enthuses. “Mrs. Hatchett has given me carte blanche to decorate this time, and I have great plans for what I want to create for her. None that include chintz!” She shudders at the thought of the floral patterned sofas she finally agreed to in her interiors for ‘The Gables’.

 

“I meant, don’t you think this commission will upset your parents somewhat?” Sir John takes a bite out of the gouda graced cracker before continuing. “We already know that both your parents, not to mention many other people, are against our marriage.”

 

“Oh, I don’t think Pater and Mater are against it, John darling.” Lettice assures him.

 

“Well, perhaps not, but you must confess that they were both a little reserved in their enthusiasm for our engagement.”

 

“I can’t deny that.” Lettice finishes her cracker with Swiss cheese. “But what has that to do with taking a commission from Dolly Hatchett.”

 

“Well, I’m all for your independence, my dear Lettice, but don’t you think you are dropping the tiniest of social briquettes taking on the commission of a Labor MP’s wife, even if you have completed a commission for her previously? Mightn’t this be seen by your parents as another act of rebellion, like engaging yourself to me?”

 

“No, I don’t think so, John.”

 

“Well, I think that this commission might put them a little more off side, my dear. Might I suggest a little caution and prudence, just for the moment?”

 

“Have you been talking to Gerald?”

 

“Gerald?”

 

“My friend, Gerald Bruton.” Lettice elucidates.

 

“Oh!” Sir John chuckles. “That Gerald. No.” He swallows the last of his gouda and crackers. “Why?”

 

“Oh it’s nothing.” Lettice flaps her hand between she and Sir John dismissively. “It’s just that when he visited me not long ago, he made a similar remark.”

 

“Then it isn’t an unfounded concern, Lettice my dear.”

 

Lettice sighs. “I know Mater and Pater being somewhat lukewarm about our engagement at best isn’t quite what we’d hoped for, and Lally being so beastly about the wedding, and Aunt Egg being totally against the idea has made it even worse, but I can’t let my parents rule who I take the commissions of. I have a moderately successful business now.”

 

“More than moderate I’d say my dear, especially once Sylvia gets that positive review for you in The Lady************.”

 

“Then fie caution and prudence, and fie Mater and fie Pater if they don’t like my choice of clients!” Lettice retorts a little hotly, to the surprise of Sir John. “This is my interior design business. Surely, I should be allowed to decide whom I take on the commissions of. You’ll back me in this won’t you, John darling?”

 

“Of course I will, Lettice my dear!” Sir John assures her. “I thoroughly support your independence. It’s just that…” His voice trails off.

 

“Just what, John?”

 

“It’s just that, at this moment when things are delicate, as people grow used to our engagement, we could probably do without any more ructions.”

 

“And you see Dolly Hatchett’s commission as a ruction?”

 

Sir John nods shallowly as he takes another sliver of stilton from the larger wedge on the ornate silver tray.

 

“But she’s a successful MP’s wife now, not just the chorus girl from Chu-Chin-Chow************* who made a suitable match above her station. She’s changed so much from when I first met her.”

 

“She may be an MP’s wife, but her husband is on the wrong side of the chamber, my dear.” Sir John sniffs in distaste. “I just hope this doesn’t make relations with your family any more strained than they already are. I’d prefer to keep your parents on as good a terms as possible, at least before the wedding. Think of which,” He pauses. “Have you spoken to your mother about Clemmie helping you with your trousseau************** up here in London, yet?”

 

“No, not yet, John darling. There hasn’t really been the ideal moment to broach the subject yet,” Lettice admits apologetically. “But I will.”

 

“Well just see that you do, and soon. Maybe discuss that with Sadie, before you tell her about Dolly Hatchett’s commission.”

 

“Yes, John darling. I will.” Lettice agrees with a smile. She then goes on, “Of course Mrs. Hatchett’s commission is the perfect opportunity for me to really make my mark as an interior designer, John darling.”

 

“How so?”

 

“Well, you heard me say that Mrs. Hatchett has given me carte blanche to redecorate.”

 

“Yes,” Sir John sips his glass of Bordeaux as he picks a sliver of cracker from between his teeth with his tongue. “What of it?”

 

“Well you haven’t heard what I’ve got planned.” Lettice says with a hopeful smile.

 

“Go on then. I’m listening.”

 

“Well, there is an exhibition in Paris. It’s called ‘Exposition internationale des arts décoratifs et industriels modernes’***************. It is highlighting and showcasing the new modern style of architecture and interior design: a style I am an exponent of. I’d love to go and gather new ideas on interior design there and incorporate them into my own. Since Mrs. Hatchett’s house won’t be finished for a few months, and I’m currently in the process of creating the design for Sylvia’s new feature wall, I thought I could go once Sylvia’s interior is finished, and I could use Mrs. Hatchett’s home to showcase my new interior designs ideas inspired by the exhibition.”

 

“Oh, that does sound rather exciting.” Sir John agrees.

 

“Then don’t stymie me in my business affairs, John darling! Support me!” Lettice pleads. “In fact,” She pauses for a moment, a smile dancing on her lips as she thinks before continuing, “Why don’t you come with me?”

 

“To Paris?” Sir John queries.

 

“Yes!”

 

“With you?”

 

“Yes! We could go to the exposition together! It would be awfully jolly to have you along, and Paris is the city of romance.” Lettice enthuses. “We could take the midday London-to-Paris flight from Cricklewood Aerodrome****************. I’ve done that before when I went to Paris for a wedding a few years ago. Wouldn’t that be thrilling?”

 

Sir John sighs. “You certainly do know how to throw caution to the wind, don’t you Lettice my dear?”

 

“Well, why shouldn’t we go together? We’re here, dining in public together tonight. Our engagement is official. What’s to stop us travelling on the same aeroplane. There is nothing improper about it.”

 

“I’m not so sure about that, Lettice my dear. What would people think?”

 

“Oh don’t be so old fashioned! This is the 1920s, not the 1820s. Women are more independent and the world is more progressive.”

 

“Nevertheless, there are still things such as society’s expectations and social mores.”

 

“But we’re engaged, John darling! There is nothing inappropriate about us flying to Paris together.”

 

“I suppose…” Sir John muses cautiously. “So long as we stayed in separate suites in Paris.”

 

“Of course!”

 

“Hhhmmm…” Sir John purrs as he smiles enigmatically. “I’m warming to the idea, Lettice my dear.”

 

“You are?”

 

“Yes.” he agrees. “Although I will say that an entire trip devoted to this exposition of yours might bore me a little. You’re the interior designer. I’m not.”

 

“Well, you don’t have to come to see the exposition exclusively, John darling. You could come and explore a little bit of it with me, and then go sightseeing on your own.”

 

“Yes, I was just thinking that.” Sir John’s oily smile broadens and his eyes start to glitter mischievously.

 

“Yes, there is the Champs-Élysées, and…”

 

“I have been to Paris before Lettice.” Sir John interrupts her abruptly. “Don’t forget that Clemmie lived there with Harrison for many years before the war.”

 

“Oh of course!” Lettice laughs self-consciously. “How very foolish of me.”

 

“The Champs-Élysées wasn’t the kind of sightseeing I was thinking of.”

 

Lettice feels a knot grow in the pit of her stomach as he speaks.

 

“No?” she ventures timidly.

 

“No, but I thought, if I accompany you for the morning to this exposition of yours, I might pay a call on an old friend of mine in the afternoon.” Sir John strokes his cleanly shaven chin thoughtfully. “Yes, that might be frightfully jolly.”

 

“A friend?” Lettice asks cautiously.

 

“Yes, from long before the war.” Sir John murmurs as he takes another sip of Bordeaux from his glass.

 

“And old friend?” Lettice fishes. “Perhaps, I could meet him too.”

 

“Her, you mean.” Sir John replies dourly, elucidating. “Madeline Flanton.”

 

“Indeed, yes.” Lettice says, her face flushing with embarrassment at her mistaken assumption. “This Madame Flanton...”

 

“Mademoiselle Flanton,” Sir John says, adding emphasis to her unmarried title as he lowers his voice. “Was an actress from the Follies Bergère****************, that I was introduced to at the Palais de Glace***************** along the Champs-Élysées before you were even born,” He looks meaningfully at his red faced fiancée sitting across from him at the table. “Which is why your talk of the Champs-Élysées reminded me of her.”

 

“Yes, yes of course!” Lettice says hurriedly in an effort to cover up her sudden awkwardness as she realises what Sir John has implied with statement. “Perhaps I could meet Mademoiselle Flanton when we go to Paris.” She takes a large gulp of her Bordeaux, which suddenly tastes bitter in her mouth.

 

“Are you sure you’d want to my dear, knowing what you know of me, and my, friendships?”

 

Determined not to back down, or appear weak, Lettice blurts out. “Indeed yes. I’m sure if she is an old friend,” She hopes that the flame of appeal of Madeline Flanton has been extinguished by four years of war and the passing of time. “I should like to meet her.”

 

Sir John sits in quiet contemplation for a moment, his delicate fingers steepled in front of him as he thinks. “You know, you may be on to something, Lettice my dear. Any whiff of scandal will be discarded if we both visit Madeline. Genius, my dear! Genius!” He claps his hands and beams in delight. “No-one from the newspapers who might tail us in Paris would question my visiting an actress, if you were to be seen visiting her too. After a quick cocktail, Madeline is famous for her hospitality and her cocktails.”

 

“I’m sure she is.” Lettice interjects rather flatly, lowering her head.

 

“Now, now, don’t be like that, Lettice my dear.” Sir John leans across the table and puts his right index finger under Lettice’s lowered chin, lifting her head up, forcing her to engage his intense stare. “We had this discussion at Clemance’s. Perhaps love will come to us in time, but you cannot, and must not, expect it from me, for I cannot promise it you, Lettice, any more than I can promise you fidelity. I was thinking that after a polite social cocktail or two, Madeline could discreetly slip you out the back way of her apartment and arrange for you to be whisked back to the hotel.”

 

“Leaving you to…” Lettice’s sentence remains awkwardly unfinished as she realises that far from extinguished, the passing of time has in fact fanned the flames of Sir John’s infatuation with this Madeliene Flanton.

 

“Catch up on old times.” Sir John finishes Lettice’s sentence. He sighs heavily. “You asked me not to stymie you in your affairs.” He gives her a knowing look. “Then don’t stymie me in mine.”

 

“I said business affairs.” Lettice clarifies. “And yours and my affairs, business or otherwise, are quite different, John.” she adds, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

 

“But ours is an arrangement.” he reminds her gently. “And an arrangement requires give, as well as take, on the side of both parties involved.”

 

Lettice cannot help herself as she remarks, “Isn’t your Mademoiselle Flanton a little old to still be an actress at the Folies Bergère, if you met her before I was born.”

 

“Now, now.” Sir John cautions Lettice warningly with a withering look and a wagging finger as he reaches out and delves his knife into the stilton again. “Cattiness doesn’t suit you, Lettice my dear. I thought you were a little more grown up than that.”

 

“Sorry.” Lettice mumbles in apology.

 

“Cattiness and spite are reserved for actresses. Ladies, on the other hand, carry themselves with grace and decorum, no matter what the circumstances.” He sighs heavily again. “I’ve known actresses who have become ladies, like Lily Elsie******************, but I’m not in the habit of engaging myself to anyone other than someone who is a lady from birth.”

 

“I do apologise, John.” Lettice replies meekly after her fiancée’s sharp rebuke. “That was unfair of me.”

 

“I won’t have jealously from you Lettice.” Sir John withdraws his knife and drops a crumbling piece of stilton onto another biscuit. Wagging the knife between he and Lettice he goes on, “There is no place for jealously in our arrangement, my dear, otherwise our marriage won’t work.”

 

“I won’t let it happen again.” Lettice manages to say as she cradles her glass in her hands.

 

“I should hope you won’t, my dear.” Sir John replies. After taking a bite from his cracker he goes on, “Madeline was a great beauty when I met her, and her looks have served her well throughout the ensuing years since then. She is now a film actress, working for Cinégraphic******************** in Paris. Madeline is a consummate hostess, and has always been very hospitable to any guest I have had accompany me to her smart Parisian apartment.”

 

“I’m quite sure, John.”

 

“And I would expect civility from my companion in equal measure to Madeline’s generosity of spirit and hospitality.” He looks at Lettice seriously.

 

“Of course, John.” Lettice replies.

 

“Good!” Sir John beams. “Let me consider your suggestion of this little sojourn to Paris a little longer. The more I think about it, the more appealing it is to me. Now, have you had enough cheese to cleanse your palate?”

 

Lettice nods shallowly, the thought of eating more cheese curdling her stomach.

 

“Excellent! Then I’ll have the maître d' take this away,” Sir John waves his hand dismissively at what remains of the cheese and water cracker biscuits. “And have him bring our Suprême de Chapon Monselet.”

 

Lettice puts her glass aside and wonders how her suggestion that she and Sir John fly to Paris together, which just minutes ago had been full of promise, was suddenly and completely awry.

 

*The Savoy Hotel is a luxury hotel located in the Strand in the City of Westminster in central London. Built by the impresario Richard D'Oyly Carte with profits from his Gilbert and Sullivan opera productions, it opened on 6 August 1889. It was the first in the Savoy group of hotels and restaurants owned by Carte's family for over a century. The Savoy was the first hotel in Britain to introduce electric lights throughout the building, electric lifts, bathrooms in most of the lavishly furnished rooms, constant hot and cold running water and many other innovations. Carte hired César Ritz as manager and Auguste Escoffier as chef de cuisine; they established an unprecedented standard of quality in hotel service, entertainment and elegant dining, attracting royalty and other rich and powerful guests and diners. The hotel became Carte's most successful venture. Its bands, Savoy Orpheans and the Savoy Havana Band, became famous. Winston Churchill often took his cabinet to lunch at the hotel. The hotel is now managed by Fairmont Hotels and Resorts. It has been called "London's most famous hotel". It has two hundred and sixty seven guest rooms and panoramic views of the River Thames across Savoy Place and the Thames Embankment. The hotel is a Grade II listed building.

 

**A Coupé de ville is a car body style produced from 1908 to 1939. It has an external or open-topped driver's position, as well as an enclosed compartment for passengers. Although the different terms may have once had specific meanings for certain car manufacturers or countries, the terms are often used interchangeably. Some coupés de ville have the passengers separated from the driver in a fully enclosed compartment while others have a canopy for the passengers and no partition between the driver and the passengers (passengers enter the compartment via driver's area).

 

***A steeplechase is a distance horse race in which competitors are required to jump diverse fence and ditch obstacles. Steeplechasing is primarily conducted in Ireland (where it originated), Great Britain, Canada, United States, Australia, and France. The name is derived from early races in which orientation of the course was by reference to a church steeple, jumping fences and ditches and generally traversing the many intervening obstacles in the countryside.

 

****The origin of “rub salt in the wound”, a phrase utilised to express the exacerbation of an already painful or challenging scenario, highlighting the added difficulty or stress, lies in a literal physical practice with roots tracing back to ancient times. Historically, salt was rubbed into wounds as an antiseptic to prevent infection. While it was a method to cleanse and treat the injury, the process was extremely painful due to the interaction between salt and open flesh. Over time, the practice evolved into a metaphor. The application of salt, although for healing, caused additional suffering. Similarly, the idiom began to symbolise a situation where an action or statement intensifies the pain or difficulty in an already problematic situation.

 

*****A painted smile typically refers to a smile that is not sincere or genuine, often masking underlying emotions like sadness, pain, or fear. It's a façade, a false expression intended to deceive or hide true feelings.

 

******Sterlet caviar is a type of caviar that comes from the Sterlet sturgeon, a small fish species that's found in the Caspian Sea. Its small silver-grey caviar with a nutty flavour, and is famed for its velvety smooth finish.

 

*******“Saumon fumé” is the French phrase used for smoked salmon. It refers to salmon that has been cured and then smoked, typically using a cold or hot smoking method.

 

********Consommé Olga is a classic beef consommé with a distinctive flavour, often served with scallops and julienned vegetables. It's a clear, flavourful soup, typically made with beef or veal broth, and features a unique method for clarifying the broth using egg whites and a meat-vegetable mixture. The dish is then garnished with julienned carrots, celeriac, and cucumber, and sometimes includes scallops. It was made famous by being served to first-class passengers aboard the ill-fated maiden voyage of the RMS Titanic in 1912.

 

*********A paupiette is a piece of meat, beaten thin, and rolled with a stuffing of vegetables, fruits, or sweetmeats. It is often featured in recipes from Normandy.

 

**********Suprême de Chapon Monselet is chicken breasts with artichokes, potatoes and aromatics, named for Charles Monselet (30 April 1825, Nantes - 19 May 1888, Paris) the French journalist, novelist, poet and playwright, nicknamed "the king of the gastronomes".

 

***********Queen Anne’s Gate is a street in Westminster, London. Many of the buildings are Grade I listed, known for their Queen Anne architecture. Simon Bradley and Nikolaus Pevsner described the Gate’s early Eighteenth Century houses as “the best of their kind in London.” The street’s proximity to the Palace of Westminster made it a popular residential area for politicians.

 

************The Lady is one of Britain's longest-running women's magazines. It has been in continuous publication since 1885 and is based in London. It is particularly notable for its classified advertisements for domestic service and child care; it also has extensive listings of holiday properties.

 

*************‘Chu Chin Chow’ is a musical comedy written, produced and directed by Oscar Asche, with music by Frederic Norton, based on the story of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. It was the most popular show in London’s West End during the Great War. It premiered at His Majesty’s Theatre in London on the 3rd of August 1916 and ran for 2,238 performances, a record number that stood for nearly forty years!

 

**************A trousseau refers to the wardrobe and belongings of a bride, including her wedding dress or similar clothing such as day and evening dresses.

 

***************The International Exhibition of Modern Decorative and Industrial Arts was a specialized exhibition held in Paris, from April the 29th (the day after it was inaugurated in a private ceremony by the President of France) to October the 25the, 1925. It was designed by the French government to highlight the new modern style of architecture, interior decoration, furniture, glass, jewelry and other decorative arts in Europe and throughout the world. Many ideas of the international avant-garde in the fields of architecture and applied arts were presented for the first time at the exposition. The event took place between the esplanade of Les Invalides and the entrances of the Grand Palais and Petit Palais, and on both banks of the Seine. There were fifteen thousand exhibitors from twenty different countries, and it was visited by sixteen million people during its seven-month run. The modern style presented at the exposition later became known as “Art Deco”, after the exposition's name.

 

****************A London-to -Paris air service from Cricklewood Aerodrome, Hampstead, was inaugurated by Handley Page Transport in 1920. Fares were £18 18s return: a small fortune at the time. Each passenger was allowed 30 pounds of luggage for free and were charged accordingly for air freight for any amount over that. Cricklewood Aerodrome closed in 1929 due to suburban development and the Golders Green Estate was built on the site. Some of the streets where the aerodrome was bear the names of Handley Page.

 

*****************The Folies Bergère is a cabaret music hall in Paris, France. Located at 32 Rue Richer in the 9th Arrondissement, the Folies Bergère was built as an opera house by the architect Plumeret. It opened in May 1869 as the Folies Trévise, with light entertainment including operettas, comic opera, popular songs, and gymnastics. It became the Folies Bergère in September 1872, named after nearby Rue Bergère. The house was at the height of its fame and popularity from the 1890s Belle Époque through the 1920s. Revues featured extravagant costumes, sets and effects, and often nude women. In 1926, Josephine Baker, an African-American expatriate singer, dancer and entertainer, caused a sensation at the Folies Bergère by dancing in a costume consisting of a skirt made of a string of artificial bananas and little else. The institution is still in business, and is still a strong symbol of French and Parisian life.

 

******************The Palais de Glace was a prominent ice-skating rink located on the Champs-Élysées in Paris during the Belle Époque era. Designed by architect Gabriel Davioud, it was known as the “Rotonde du Panorama National” before being converted into the “Palais de Glace” in 1893. The building later became "”he Palace of Nero” during the Universal Exhibition of 1900.

 

*******************Lily Elsie, was an English actress and singer during the Edwardian era. She was best known for her starring role in the London premiere of Franz Lehár's operetta The Merry Widow. Beginning as a child star in the 1890s, Elsie built her reputation in several successful Edwardian musical comedies before her great success in “The Merry Widow”, opening in 1907. Afterwards, she starred in several more successful operettas and musicals, including “The Dollar Princess” (1909), “A Waltz Dream” (1911) and “The Count of Luxembourg” (1911). Admired for her beauty and charm on stage, Elsie became one of the most photographed women of Edwardian times. Elsie left the cast of “The Count of Luxembourg” to marry Major Sir John Ian Bullough, the son of a wealthy textile manufacturer, in 1911, thus becoming Lady Bullough. Sadly, the marriage was an unhappy one, and this was clear by 1915. However due to the social stigma associated with divorce, the couple remained together unhappily until the early 1930s when they finally divorced.

 

********************Cinégraphic was a French film production company founded by director Marcel L'Herbier in the 1920s. It was established following a disagreement between L'Herbier and the Gaumont Company, a major film distributor, over the film "Don Juan et Faust". Cinégraphic was involved in the production of several films, including "Don Juan et Faust" itself. Cinégraphic focused on more experimental and artistic films.

 

This splendid array of cheeses on the table would doubtless be enough to please anyone, but I suspect that even if you ate each wedge of cheese and every biscuit on this silver tray, you would still come away hungry. This is because they, like everything in this scene, are in reality 1:12 size miniatures from my miniatures collection, including pieces from my childhood.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau:

 

The silver tray of biscuits have been made in England by hand from clay by former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight. Her work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination. The cheeses come from Beautifully handmade Miniatures in Kettering, as do the two slightly scalloped white gilt plates and the wonderful golden yellow roses in the glass vase on the table. The cutlery I acquired through Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop in the United Kingdom. The bottle of Bordeaux is hand made from glass and is an artisan miniature made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The bottle features the label from a real winery in Bordeaux. The silver tray on which the wine bottle on the table is made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The two glasses of red wine are made of real glass and were acquired from an online miniatures stockist in the United Kingdom.

 

The two red velvet upholstered high back chairs I have had since I was six years old. They were a birthday present given to me by my grandparents.

 

The painting in the background in its gilded frame is a 1:12 artisan piece made by Amber’s Miniatures in the United States.

 

The red wallpaper is beautiful artisan paper given to me by a friend, who has encouraged me to use a selection of papers she has given me throughout the whole “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.

Groundwater influences on atmospheric dust generation in deserts

 

Abstract

Groundwater resources are being overexploited in arid and semi-arid environments globally, which necessitates a deeper understanding of the roles that groundwater plays in earth system processes. Of particular importance is the elucidation of groundwater's effect on the generation of atmospheric dust. While many spatially extensive, highly productive dust sources are influenced to some degree by water resource use, including groundwater pumping and other modifications to shallow groundwater tables (<10 m from the surface), links between near-surface groundwater processes and dust production have only recently been identified. Processes associated with shallow groundwater tables include the vertical movement of salts to the soil surface, the maintenance of near-surface soil moisture, and the support of groundwater-dependent vegetation. Through these processes shallow groundwater dynamics can have both positive and negative feedbacks towards dust generation, and in extreme cases can lead to desertification in semi-arid systems. Here we combine a diverse set of analytical techniques, including remote sensing, ecological evaluation, and fallout radionuclide tracers to characterize groundwater-dependent ecosystems and evaluate the stability of surfaces under variable groundwater conditions. The interdisciplinary approach we describe here is critical to understand the impacts that groundwater management has on earth surface processes.

 

www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/abs/pii/S0140196308...

 

DSC00224

Source: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dublin

 

Dublin (Irish: Baile Átha Cliath) is the capital and largest city of Ireland. It is on the east coast of Ireland, in the province of Leinster, at the mouth of the River Liffey, and is bordered on the south by the Wicklow Mountains. It has an urban area population of 1,173,179, while the population of the Dublin Region (formerly County Dublin), as of 2016, was 1,347,359, and the population of the Greater Dublin area was 1,904,806.

 

There is archaeological debate regarding precisely where Dublin was established by the Gaels in or before the 7th century AD. Later expanded as a Viking settlement, the Kingdom of Dublin, the city became Ireland's principal settlement following the Norman invasion. The city expanded rapidly from the 17th century and was briefly the second largest city in the British Empire before the Acts of Union in 1800. Following the partition of Ireland in 1922, Dublin became the capital of the Irish Free State, later renamed Ireland.

 

Dublin is a historical and contemporary centre for education, the arts, administration and industry. As of 2018 the city was listed by the Globalization and World Cities Research Network (GaWC) as a global city, with a ranking of "Alpha −", which places it amongst the top thirty cities in the world.

 

Source: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/James_Joyce

 

James Augustine Aloysius Joyce (2 February 1882 – 13 January 1941) was an Irish novelist, short story writer, poet, teacher, and literary critic. He contributed to the modernist avant-garde and is regarded as one of the most influential and important authors of the 20th century. Joyce is best known for Ulysses (1922), a landmark work in which the episodes of Homer's Odyssey are paralleled in a variety of literary styles, most famously stream of consciousness. Other well-known works are the short-story collection Dubliners (1914), and the novels A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (1916) and Finnegans Wake (1939). His other writings include three books of poetry, a play, his published letters and occasional journalism.

 

Joyce was born in Dublin into a middle-class family. A brilliant student, he briefly attended the Christian Brothers-run O'Connell School before excelling at the Jesuit schools Clongowes and Belvedere, despite the chaotic family life imposed by his father's alcoholism and unpredictable finances. He went on to attend University College Dublin.

 

In 1904, in his early twenties, Joyce emigrated to continental Europe with his partner (and later wife) Nora Barnacle. They lived in Trieste, Paris, and Zurich. Although most of his adult life was spent abroad, Joyce's fictional universe centres on Dublin and is populated largely by characters who closely resemble family members, enemies and friends from his time there. Ulysses in particular is set with precision in the streets and alleyways of the city. Shortly after the publication of Ulysses, he elucidated this preoccupation somewhat, saying, "For myself, I always write about Dublin, because if I can get to the heart of Dublin I can get to the heart of all the cities of the world. In the particular is contained the universal."

 

Source: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/James_Joyce_Centre

 

The James Joyce Centre is a museum in Dublin, Ireland, dedicated to promoting an understanding of the life and works of James Joyce.

 

The Centre is situated in a restored 18th-century Georgian townhouse at 35 North Great George's Street, Dublin, dating from a time when north inner city Dublin was at the height of its grandeur. On permanent exhibit is furniture from Paul Leon's apartment in Paris, where Joyce wrote much of Finnegans Wake, and the door to the home of Leopold Bloom and his wife, Molly, number 7 Eccles Street one of the more famous addresses in literature, which had been rescued from demolition by John Ryan. Temporary exhibitions interpret and illuminate various aspects of Joyce's life and work.

 

There is another Joycean display at the James Joyce Tower in Sandycove.

Upon the threshold of the post-house the young American paused, and, wheeling like a flash upon the foeman who pressed him close, he leveled his revolver and pulled the trigger. Excited as he was, Jack’s aim was true. The deadly tube did not deviate a hair’s breadth from its line. It covered the heart of the onrushing Inca when the lad pressed the trigger.

 

Mingled with the loud detonation of the weapon, there sounded a terrible yell from the lips of the giant warrior of the ancient race, and the latter fell headlong at Jack’s feet, right across the threshold, as the boy stepped backward to avoid the contact of the falling body. Jack had laid hold of the door, and he meant instantly to close and secure it. But the dead Incan was now in his way. With feelings of despair, the lad seized the giant Inca and sought to remove his dead frame, so that he might close the portal.

 

But the delay seemed likely to prove fatal to himself. He found the weight of the giant warrior too great for him to move quickly. The other men of the lost city were almost upon him. A spear hurled by one of his pursuers with tremendous force sped by his head as he dodged it. The lad let go of the dead warrior.

 

Then his revolver exploded again, and another of the followers fell. Jack strove to fire again, but his weapon failed him.

 

–––––––––

 

The Lost City of the Andes; or, The Treasure of the Volcano – A Story of Adventures in a Strange Land by Richard R. Montgomery (a pseudonym or "house name") in Pluck and Luck magazine No. 409, April 4, 1906.

 

This is one of at least three printings of The Lost City of the Andes. The story was originally serialized in the weekly The Boys of New York story paper from September 19 through November 7, 1891, published under the name C. Little. The story was later reprinted in Pluck & Luck no. 1210, August 10, 1921.

 

The Lost City of the Andes is one of many dime novel and story paper novels confirmed to have been authored by Francis W. Doughty (1850 - 1917), a prolific pulp story author whose work was published under a plethora of pseudonyms. Read a short biography of Doughty at the SF-Encyclopedia web site:

www.sf-encyclopedia.com/entry/doughty_francis_w

 

Slightly more than 1600 issues of Pluck and Luck magazine were published weekly or bi-weekly from January 1898 until March 1929. Early issues often reprinted stories from Happy Days, Boys of New York, and other serialized Frank Tousey Company publications. Beginning sometime in the mid ‘teens, Pluck and Luck was comprised almost exclusively of reprints of earlier Pluck and Luck stories, with the addition, by the late ‘teens, of short articles about “radio” and other contemporary technology and current events news. Additional information about this publication may be found at the Dime Novels Bibliography web site at DimeNovels.org:

dimenovels.org/Item/3141

 

—————————

 

And with this volume, alas! I share with you, Dear Reader, the last example in my meager collection of vintage dime novels and pulp magazines. For further elucidation and enlightenment, I refer you to the Flickr photo-stream of J. Lovece, The Steam Man of the West, curator of images wondrous and thrilling from the dime novel / penny dreadful / story paper era:

www.flickr.com/photos/120455372@N04/

 

Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.

 

Today however, we are following Edith, Lettice’s maid, along with her best friend and fellow maid-of-all-work, Hilda Clerkenwell, who works around the corner from Cavendish Mews in Hill Street as a live-in maid for Lettice’s married friends Margot and Dickie Channon. It is Wednesday, and both maids have Wednesdays as a half-day off work and are free until four o’clock. The pair of maids head east of Mayfair, to a place far removed from the elegance and gentility of Lettice’s flat, in London’s East End. As a young woman, Edith is very interested in fashion. This interest has intensified, particularly since she started stepping out with Mayfair grocer Mr. Willison’s delivery boy, Frank Leadbetter. She is hoping that after several years of serious courting, that he will soon ask for her hand in marriage and they will become officially engaged. This idea is more predominant in her mind these days, especially now that Lettice is engaged to Sir John Nettleford-Huges and talk at Cavendish Mews often revolves around their forthcoming nuptials*, even if they do seem a little fraught. Edith’s own desire to make their engagement official has gotten the better of her in recent times, and after a fierce row over when Frank would propose to her whilst they were window shopping together up the Elephant** one Sunday afternoon, Edith resorted to visiting a “discreet clairvoyant” named Madame Fortuna, in Swiss Cottage***. Luckily, Madame Fortuna told Edith that Frank would propose within the year, which has allayed her concerns. Like most young girls of her class, Edith’s mother has taught her how to sew her own clothes and she has become an accomplished dressmaker, having successfully made frocks from scratch for herself, or altered cheaper existing second-hand pieces to make them more fashionable by letting out waistlines and taking up hems. Thanks to Lettice’s Cockney charwoman****, Mrs. Boothby, who lives in nearby Poplar, Edith now has her own hand treadle Singer***** sewing machine, and frequents a wonderful haberdasher in Whitechapel, Mrs. Minkin, whom she goes to frequently on her days off when she needs something for one of her many sewing projects as she slowly adds to and updates her wardrobe. Edith’s interest in fashion is greater than that Hilda, who is more bookish, isn’t walking out with a young man like Edith is, and with a fondness for sweet cakes and pastries, has a fuller figure than her best friend. Hilda is also the exception to the rule, and she cannot sew a stitch to save her life. However, Mrs. Minkin has managed to get Hilda involved in her knitting circle, which Hilda joins on some of her own Sundays off, whilst Edith and Frank spend time in one another’s company. Mrs. Minkin’s Haberdashery is just a short walk from Petticoat Lane******, where Edith often picks up bargains from one of the many second-hand clothes stalls.

 

The pair of maids now stand in Mrs. Minkin’s cluttered, yet cosy and well organised haberdashery. The long and narrow old Victorian shop is illuminated by the early summer light filtering through the plate glass front window and several old fashioned Art Nouveau gas lights suspended from the high ceiling which Mrs. Minkin turns on and off and adjusts with a long stick with a hook on the end. The shelves stretching three quarters of the way up the walls of the haberdashers, full of bolts of colourful textiles and dazzling white pressed linens help to dull the noise of the foot traffic outside and cocoon Edith and Hilda in a snug comfort, as do the piles of cloth and lace and the tables of materials artfully arranged to show off all that Mrs. Minkin has to sell. The shop’s smell is always comforting for Edith, as the familiar scent of a mixture of soap, starch, cloves and lavender remind her of her parent’s home, where Edith’s mother, Ada, takes in laundry to supplement the family’s income.

 

Edith spies a holly sprigged tablecloth and six matching napkins on a table and walks over to it. “Perfect!” she breathes, smiling with delight. “I’ll buy them for Mum for Christmas. She’s always wanted a Christmas tablecloth!”

 

“Cor, you are so lucky Edith,” Hilda remarks to Edith as she joins her friend in front of the table which is covered in fabrics laid out expertly in layered rows, carefully showing off enough of the pattern for each one to attract the eye.

 

“Me?” Edith ask. “Why?” she drops her green leather handbag on the textile covered surface of the table and places a hand lovingly on some fabric covered in a bold floral pattern in lupin blue and scarlet that has caught her eye.

 

“Your Miss Lettice seems never to be home. Weekend parties and all that.” Hilda elucidates.

 

“She’s gone home for a few days is all, Hilda,” Edith says dismissively as she runs her hand over the bold, almost pansy like flowers of the fabric. “She’s gone to talk about organising and buying her trousseau******* with her mother, the Viscountess. She’ll be back tonight.”

 

“Yes,” Hilda answers. “I know.”

 

“Oh of course!” Edith exclaims. “She’s going to a dinner party at the Channons tonight, isn’t she.”

 

“As is that American Mr. Carter and his wife.” Hilda adds with a morose sigh. “And you know what that means.” She eyes her best friend with a knowing look.

 

“The hard graft of grinding coffee beans to make fresh coffee for Mr. Carter.” Edith replies with a nod of understanding.

 

“That’s right!” Hilda opines, raising her chin and looking down her nose at Edith before continues, “No Camp Coffee******** for His Majesty the King of the American Department Store!” She sighs again and runs her own pudgy, worn fingers across a bolt of exotic floral fabric in bright pink and blue, embroidered with gold thread. “Still, I mustn’t complain. At least with Mr. Cater and his bottomless American dollar pockets and largess with wine and champagne, I won’t have to worry about telling bare-faced lies********* to the wine merchant, who just like the butcher, the baker and your Frank’s Mr. Willison the grocer, all know about the Channon’s precarious financial situation.”

 

“That’s so awful for you, Hilda.” Edith looks at her friend and smiles sadly. “Being a maid-of-all-work is hard enough graft as it is, without having to try and put off shopkeepers whom Mr. and Mrs. Channon are indebted to.”

 

“I know. I don’t think Mrs. Channon will ever learn how to balance a household account. I’m only relieved that Mrs. Channon’s father Lord de Virre pays my wages.”

 

“We must be grateful for small mercies, Hilda.” Edith says sagely.

 

“Oh, I am, Edith!” Hilda breathes. “Believe me I am!”

 

“Thinking of things to be grateful for, I believe Mr. Bruton will be attending the Channon’s dinner party tonight as Miss Lettice’s escort, and he’s always polite and not dismissive of servants, like Mr. and Mrs. Carter.”

 

“That’s true, Edith. He and Miss Lettice always smile and acknowledge me, and say ‘thank you’, and that does make things a little bit nicer for me when I wait at table for the Channons. And of course Mrs. Channon always tells me at the end of a dinner party, how grateful she is to have me.”

 

“I should think she should!” Edith opines. “There are fewer and fewer servants like us, now, what with working class women like us becoming shop girls and secretaries. I hope she appreciates everything you do for her.”

 

“Oh, she does, Edith. It’s just the chaotic nature of the Channon’s household and their financial precariousness and foolishness that wears me down, sometimes. Mrs. Channon would rather spend eighty-five guineas********** on a new frock from Mr. Bruton to parade around the Crystal Palace Horse Show*********** in, than pay off the sixty pound debt she and Mr. Channon have accrued with the wine merchant, who has flatly refused to extend their credit any further until at least half the amount is paid.”

 

“Imagine spending eighty-five guineas on a frock, Hilda!” Edith gasps. She moves her hand to a green patterned material further down the table, rubbing it between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand before letting it drop in distaste, deciding that it too thick, and therefore not suitable for her purposes. “And here I am, looking at material so I can cut a pattern from Weldon’s************ and make myself a new summer frock for a few shillings.” Her eyes stray back to the brightly patterned pansy fabric.

 

“Do you suppose Mr. Bruton will make Miss Lettice’s wedding frock, Edith?”

 

“I would imagine so, Hilda. I can’t imagine anyone else making it. Then again, that all depends upon Miss Lettice’s mum, the Viscountess, Lady Sadie.”

 

“Why?”

 

“It would be the same for us. Our mums will get involved in our weddings when we get married.”

 

Hilda snorts derisively. “I don’t think I’m ever going to meet a man who wants to marry me, Edith.”

 

“It’s more like the other way around, Hilda.” Edith retorts. “With your exacting standards.”

 

“Well, why shouldn’t I want to step out with a young man who respects me for my mind, and allows me my independence, Edith?”

 

“Oh, you should, Hilda!” Edith assures her. “It’s just that young eligible men are sometimes intimidated by women who are smart and independent.”

 

“No, not all men are like your Frank, that’s for certain, Edith.”

 

“I’m hardly smart or independent,” Edith replies, her hand drifting back to the pansy fabric which she caresses softly. “Well, not like… well, like you, Hilda.”

 

“What rot!” Hilda retorts. “Of course you are, Edith! Frank wouldn’t want to marry a girl who had no brains or ideas of her own.”

 

“Well, I think in that area, you’re probably more of a match for him than I am.” Edith says with a little bit of discomfort. She has always felt that Hilda is far smarter and more forward thinking than she is, and she feels inadequate sometimes when Frank and Hilda talk about politics or the state of working conditions for the everyday man. She decides to try and guide the conversation back to something she does feel more comfortable discussing. “Anyway, just like your mum or mine, Miss Lettice’s mum will want to have her say about Miss Lettice’s trousseau. It’s her right, as Miss Lettice’s mum, to help with it, which is why she has gone down to Wiltshire to see her.” She pauses. “Mind you I don’t think Miss Lettice wants her mum to help her with it.”

 

“Whyever not, Edith? I’m sure being a Viscountess, she can afford more than one eighty-five guinea frock.”

 

“I’m quite sure she can!” Edith chuckles. “I know Miss Lettice certainly can! From what I can gather from snippets I have overheard around Cavendish Mews, I think, Miss Lettice thinks the Viscountess is too old and stuffy and staid in her tastes.”

 

“Well, your Miss Lettice is very fashionable.” Hilda opines.

 

“And she gets help from Mr. Bruton, who is forever making her something new to wear. Her ‘muse’ is what he calls her, whatever that is.”

 

“A ‘muse’ is a person who inspires an artist, Edith.” Hilda elucidates. “So I suppose he must like designing frocks for her.”

 

“See Hilda! You’re as smart as a whip*************.” Edith opines, making Hilda blush. She then goes on, “Miss Lettice’s head has also been turned by her fiancée, Sir Nettleford-Hughes’ sister, who is apparently ever so smartly turned out.”

 

“Have you seen her, Edith?”

 

“No. Not yet anyway, Hilda. But I’m sure it will only be a matter of time before she comes to Cavendish Mews and I can see her for myself. Miss Lettice tells me that Mrs. Pontefract is much older than she is, but that she had been living in Paris for many prior to returning to live in London after her husband died. Miss Lettice is always talking about how much Mrs. Pontefract knows about the latest styles, and how much she admires her style and taste.”

 

“Her mum will have her nose out of joint over that, I’d imagine, Edith, if that’s what Miss Lettice gone down to talk to her about.” Hilda’s thick and dark eyebrows arch over her eyes in apprehension.

 

“I think you’re right, Hilda.” Edith nods in agreement.

 

“That would make a lovely autumn frock, Edit.” eagle eyed Mrs. Minkin calls from behind the shop counter where she is sorting through a box of miscellaneous sewing notions**************, her pudgy finger decorated with a few sparkling gold rings moving with dexterity as she sorts. “The colours would suit your complexion and colourings.”

 

“Thank you, Mrs. Minkin.” Edith calls cheerfully in reply. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

 

“I have some lovely buttons in this box that would go perfectly with it, Edit my dear.” Mrs. Minkin goes on, holding up half a card of glass buttons in a pretty shade of cobalt blue. “I will give them to you as a gift if you buy the fabric.” she says as she tries to tempt Edith.

 

A refugee from Odessa as a result of a pogrom*************** in 1905, Mrs. Minkin’s Russian accent, still thick after nearly twenty years of living in London’s East End, muffles the h at the end of Edith’s name, never ceasing to make the young girl smile, for it is an endearing quality. Edith likes the Jewess proprietor with her old fashioned upswept hairdo and frilly Edwardian lace jabot running down the front of her blouse, held in place by a beautiful cameo – a gift from her equally beloved and at the same time irritating Mr. Minkin. She always has a smile and a kind word for Edith and Hilda, and her generosity towards her has found Edith discover extra spools of coloured cottons or curls of pretty ribbons and other notions in the lining of her parcel when she unpacks it at Cavendish Mews. Mrs. Minkin always insists when Edith mentions it, that she wished all her life that she had had a daughter, but all she ever had were sons, so Edith is like a surrogate daughter to her, and as a result she gets to reap the small benefits of her largess.

 

“That’s far to kind of you, Mrs. Minkin. You are too generous.” Edith replies, blushing as she does.

 

“Nonsense Edit my dear!” Mrs. Minkin scoffs with a wave of her hand. “For me, it is a pleasure. Besides, they are just sitting idly in this box. Better they go home with someone who will use them!”

 

“She’s right about the colours, Edith.” Hilda remarks. “They would suit you.”

 

“Hilda Clerkenwell!” Edith exclaims, here eyes widening in surprise as she looks in amused startlement at her best friend. “Since when do you have an opinion about colours and how they’d suit someone’s complexion!”

 

“Let’s put it down to Mrs. Minkin’s knitting circle.” Hilda replies with a smirk, her doughy face brightening as a blush runs up her neck and floods her face.

 

“Well! That is a turn up for the books****************, I must say!” Shew turns to Mrs. Minkin behind her shop counter. “It seems as if you are having a good influence on Hilda, Mrs. Minkin.”

 

Mrs. Minkin bows her head a little bit and smiles indulgently at the two maids. “I do my best to be a good influence on Hilde, and anyone else, wherever I go, Edit my dear, except perhaps upon my Mr. Minkin.” She rolls her eyes to the stained white painted ceiling above. “Oy vey*****************! No-one can be a good influence upon my tsedoodelt******************Mr. Minkin!”

 

Just as she speaks, the door to Mrs. Minkin’s storeroom opens and her husband in his grey flat cap with his dark beard that is starting to slowly grey steps out. He wears a beautiful silk cravat of jade green and gold at his throat – an expensive, showy and stylish piece that looks like it should belong to an outfit that Beau Brummell******************* had worn in the Eighteenth Century, rather than Mr. Minkin’s outfit of a thick apron over a collarless shirt, dark woollen vest and worn work trousers. He has thick bushy eyebrows arch over soft, dark brown eyes, and a gentle and friendly smile graces his aging face.

 

“What are you saying about me now, Rachel?” he asks in a good natured way, his heavily accented voice soft, rumbling and deep.

 

“Well Soloman,” Mrs. Minkin replies, spinning to her right, away from Edith and Hilda to face her husband, placing her hands firmly on her hips in a stance she is obviously well versed in striking after thirty-five years of marriage and raising three sons. “I was just saying what a tsemisht mentsh******************** you are!”

 

“No wonder I am a tsemisht mentsh, being married to a yenta froy********************* like you Rachel!” A booming laugh bursts from his chest full of teasing joviality. He turns his attentions to Edith and Hilda. “Good afternoon, ladies.” he says politely, bowing towards them in acknowledgement. “Watch out for Mrs. Minkin,” His brown eyes twinkle with mischief. “She’s schlau**********************, my dears innocent ones. She’ll have you buy something you don’t want before you can say… err… say… ay cleaver!”

 

“It’s knife, Soloman, you schlemiel**********************!” Mrs. Minkin says with an air of mock offence. “How many years must we live in London before you learn to speak English properly, or keep your hoykh moyl*********************** shut!”

 

Mrs. Minkin snatches up a half used roll of pink grosgrain*********************** ribbon from her box and throws it across the shop at her husband. As it tumbles through the air, the ribbon uncoils, cascading like a pretty celebratory streamer. Mr. Minkin ducks as, with very good aim from his wife, the spool and streamer of ribbon hits the doorjamb behind where he had been before ricocheting off the wood and tumbling to the floor.

 

“I’ll let you clean that up, Rachel, my beloved schlemiel.” Mr. Minkin says to his wife before slipping back into the safety of storeroom with a final cheeky and loving smile towards her, before closing the door.

 

Mrs. Minkin laughs as she walks the short distance along the aisle behind the counter and bends to pick up the spool of mostly unwound ribbon. “Oy vey!” she laughs.

 

“I wonder what schlemiel means?” Hilda asks Edith.

 

Edith smiles as she chuckles softly. “I think I can guess.”

 

“Thinking of trousseaus and wedding frocks, we should ask Mrs. Minkin to unpack some of her special lace for you.” Hilda says to her friend as Edith runs her hands lightly over a piece of quilted fabric with a pattern of flowers on it.

 

“Hhhmmm?” Edith murmurs distractedly.

 

“Lace Edith.” Hilda insists. “For your wedding frock.”

 

“Has your young man finally proposed, Edit my dear?” Mrs. Minkin pipes up, her figure appearing suddenly from behind the notion filled counter, her middle-aged face a mixture of excitement, joy and expectation as her own dark eyes sparkle with anticipation.

 

“Nothing escapes you, does it, Mrs. Minkin?” Edith laughs. Not expecting an answer to her rhetorical question she goes on. “No, not yet.”

 

“But it’s going to happen soon, Mrs. Minkin.” Hilda pipes up.

 

“How do you know, Hilde?” Mrs. Minkin asks, depositing the roll of ribbon, still only half wound back onto the spool, onto the glass surface of the counter. She quickly steps away from behind the counter and walks over to the two girls.

 

“Well, I thought he was going to ask me on Easter Sunday, Mrs. Minkin.” Edith explains. “He was acting like he wanted to say something… something important, but then at the last minute he didn’t.”

 

“And Edith says he’s been like that a few times since, hasn’t he, Edith?”

 

Edith nods shallowly in acquiescence.

 

“Well then, Edit my dear! There is no harm in looking is there?” Mrs. Minkin purrs. “I have just received some beautiful Huguenot lace************************ from my suppliers in Spitalfields************************.” She carefully guides Edith around with her hands firmly on the young girl’s shoulders and indicates to the counter opposite, which is draped with a collection of crisp white and soft creamy lace.

 

Edith and Hilda both smile with delight as they observe the beautiful and intricate patterns in the lace. Dainty daisies, large asters, bobbles wound around curlicues of white and ecru, each piece seems more ornate and exquisite than the last.

 

“There is no harm in looking, Edit my dear.” Mrs. Minkin says cheerfully. “You don’t have to buy anything today, but let your creative mind imagine what you could do with this lace.” She holds up a length of creamy off-white lace made up of large, stylised chrysanthemum flowers. “Or this.” She carefully withdraws some lace covered with different sized asters from beneath it. “There is no harm in looking, is there?”

 

As Edith looks, her imagination is sparked as she imagines herself arrayed in a blouson style************************** wedding frock of creamy white crêpe de chiné*************************** with ruffles and a braided waistline, embroidered with tiny glass beads, wearing a bridal coronet made of lace, decorated with wax orange blossoms with a cascade of cream lace falling in romantic cascades down her back.

 

“What dreams are made of.” Edith murmurs softly as she feels the delicate lace as Mrs. Minkin runs it lightly across her careworn palm like a whisper of spiderwebs.

 

*Nuptials is a alternative word for marriage. The term “nuptials” emphasizes the ceremonial and legal aspects of a marriage, lending a more formal tone to wedding communications and documentation.

 

**The London suburb of Elephant and Castle, south of the Thames, past Lambeth was known as "the Piccadilly Circus of South London" because it was such a busy shopping precinct. When you went shopping there, it was commonly referred to by Londoners, but South Londoners in particular, as “going up the Elephant”.

 

***According to the Dictionary of London Place Names, the district of Swiss Cottage is named after an inn called The Swiss Tavern that was built in 1804 in the style of a Swiss chalet on the site of a former tollgate keeper's cottage, and later renamed Swiss Inn and in the early 20th century Swiss Cottage.

 

****A charwoman, chargirl, or char, jokingly charlady, is an old-fashioned occupational term, referring to a paid part-time worker who comes into a house or other building to clean it for a few hours of a day or week, as opposed to a maid, who usually lives as part of the household within the structure of domestic service. In the 1920s, chars usually did all the hard graft work that paid live-in domestics would no longer do as they looked for excuses to leave domestic service for better paying work in offices and factories.

 

*****The Singer Corporation is an American manufacturer of consumer sewing machines, first established as I. M. Singer & Co. in 1851 by Isaac M. Singer with New York lawyer Edward C. Clark. Best known for its sewing machines, it was renamed Singer Manufacturing Company in 1865, then the Singer Company in 1963. In 1867, the Singer Company decided that the demand for their sewing machines in the United Kingdom was sufficiently high to open a local factory in Glasgow on John Street. The Vice President of Singer, George Ross McKenzie selected Glasgow because of its iron making industries, cheap labour, and shipping capabilities. Demand for sewing machines outstripped production at the new plant and by 1873, a new larger factory was completed on James Street, Bridgeton. By that point, Singer employed over two thousand people in Scotland, but they still could not produce enough machines. In 1882 the company purchased forty-six acres of farmland in Clydebank and built an even bigger factory. With nearly a million square feet of space and almost seven thousand employees, it was possible to produce on average 13,000 machines a week, making it the largest sewing machine factory in the world. The Clydebank factory was so productive that in 1905, the U.S. Singer Company set up and registered the Singer Manufacturing Company Ltd. in the United Kingdom.

 

******Petticoat Lane Market is a fashion and clothing market in Spitalfields, London. It consists of two adjacent street markets. Wentworth Street Market and Middlesex Street Market. Originally populated by Huguenots fleeing persecution in France, Spitalfields became a center for weaving, embroidery and dying. From 1882, a wave of Jewish immigrants fleeing persecution in eastern Europe settled in the area and Spitalfields then became the true heart of the clothing manufacturing district of London. 'The Lane' was always renowned for the 'patter' and showmanship of the market traders. It was also known for being a haven for the unsavoury characters of London’s underworld and was rife with prostitutes during the late Victorian era. Unpopular with the authorities, as it was largely unregulated and in some sense illegal, as recently as the 1930s, police cars and fire engines were driven down ‘The Lane’, with alarm bells ringing, to disrupt the market.

 

*******A trousseau refers to the wardrobe and belongings of a bride, including her wedding dress or similar clothing such as day and evening dresses.

 

********Camp Coffee is a concentrated syrup which is flavoured with coffee and chicory, first produced in 1876 by Paterson & Sons Ltd, in Glasgow. In 1974, Dennis Jenks merged his business with Paterson to form Paterson Jenks plc. In 1984, Paterson Jenks plc was bought by McCormick & Company. Legend has it (mainly due to the picture on the label) that Camp Coffee was originally developed as an instant coffee for military use. The label is classical in tone, drawing on the romance of the British Raj. It includes a drawing of a seated Gordon Highlander (supposedly Major General Sir Hector MacDonald) being served by a Sikh soldier holding a tray with a bottle of essence and jug of hot water. They are in front of a tent, at the apex of which flies a flag bearing the drink's slogan, "Ready Aye Ready". A later version of the label, introduced in the mid-20th century, removed the tray from the picture, thus removing the infinite bottles element and was seen as an attempt to avoid the connotation that the Sikh was a servant, although he was still shown waiting while the kilted Scottish soldier sipped his coffee. The current version, introduced in 2006, depicts the Sikh as a soldier, now sitting beside the Scottish soldier, and with a cup and saucer of his own. Camp Coffee is an item of British nostalgia, because many remember it from their childhood. It is still a popular ingredient for home bakers making coffee-flavoured cake and coffee-flavoured buttercream. In late 1975, Camp Coffee temporarily became a popular alternative to instant coffee in the UK, after the price of coffee doubled due to shortages caused by heavy frosts in Brazil.

 

*********A bare-faced lie is a blatant, obvious lie told without any attempt to conceal it. It's a lie that is told with complete confidence and without any shame or remorse. The term "bare-faced" itself implies being without disguise or concealment, like a bald head is without hair.

 

**********The guinea was a coin, minted in Great Britain between 1663 and 1814, that contained approximately one-quarter of an ounce of gold. The name came from the Guinea region in West Africa, from where much of the gold used to make the coins was sourced. It was the first English machine-struck gold coin, originally representing a value of twenty shillings in sterling specie, equal to one pound, but rises in the price of gold relative to silver caused the value of the guinea to increase, at times to as high as thirty shillings. From 1717 to 1816, its value was officially fixed at twenty-one shillings. After the guinea coin ceased to circulate, the guinea continued in use as a unit of account worth twenty-one shillings (£1.05 in decimalised currency). The guinea had an aristocratic overtone, so professional fees, and prices of land, horses, art, bespoke tailoring, furniture, white goods and other "luxury" items were often quoted in guineas until a couple of years after decimalisation in 1971. The guinea was used in a similar way in Australia until that country converted to decimal currency in 1966, after which it became worth $2.10.

 

***********The Crystal Palace Horse Show was not a single event but rather a recurring fixture of the Crystal Palace, a large glass and iron structure built for the Great Exhibition of 1851 in Hyde Park, London. Initially housed in Hyde Park, the structure was later moved and reconstructed in Sydenham Hill, south London, becoming a popular attraction and the namesake of the area, Crystal Palace. The horse show was a regular event within the larger Crystal Palace complex, which was designed for public entertainment and events. While the Crystal Palace did host horse racing, the horse show itself likely involved other equestrian events and displays beyond just racing and became a popular destination for Londoners and visitors alike, offering a variety of entertainment and attractions. Held after the Fourth of June at Eaton, the Crystal Palace Horse Show became a fixture of the London Season and thereby the social calendar for the upper-classes: a place to see the latest fashions and be seen in them in a prelude to Ascot Week later in the month.

 

************Created by British industrial chemist and journalist Walter Weldon Weldon’s Ladies’ Journal was the first ‘home weeklies’ magazine which supplied dressmaking patterns. Weldon’s Ladies’ Journal was first published in 1875 and continued until 1954 when it ceased publication.

 

*************Meaning very quick-witted and intelligent, the idiom "smart as a whip" originates from the quick, snapping movement of a whip when it's used to urge on a horse. The rapid action and effectiveness of the whip led to its association with sharp, quick thinking and intelligence.

 

**************In sewing and haberdashery, notions are small objects or accessories, including items that are sewn or otherwise attached to a finished article, such as buttons, snaps, and collar stays. Notions also include the small tools used in sewing, such as needles, thread, pins, marking pens, elastic, and seam rippers.

 

***************Pogroms in the Russian Empire were large-scale, targeted, and repeated anti-Jewish rioting that began in the Nineteenth Century. Pogroms began to occur after Imperial Russia, which previously had very few Jews, acquired territories with large Jewish populations from the Polish–Lithuanian Commonwealth and the Ottoman Empire from 1772 to 1815. The 1905 pogrom against Jews in Odessa was the most serious pogrom of the period, with reports of up to 2,500 Jews killed. Jews fled Russia, some ending up in London’s east end, which had a reasonably large Jewish community, particularly associated with clothing manufacturing.

 

****************“A turn-up for the books” is a British idiom that means a surprising or unexpected event, typically one that is pleasing. The phrase was originally “a turn up for the book”. At Eighteenth and Nineteenth Century English race meetings, when bets were placed the punter’s name and wager were written down in a notebook. Not unreasonably, this process was called “making a book”. If a race was won by a horse that the bookmaker had no record of in his book, he had a “turn up” and kept all the wagered money. By the 1820s, the reference was to cards or dice, which are “turned up” by chance. Specifically, the “turn up” was referred to in the game of cribbage. At the start of a game of cribbage a member of one team cuts the pack and a member of the other turns up the top card. If this is a knave, the second team gets extra points – called “two for his heels”. Holding the knave of the suit that is turned up also merits a point – “one for his nibs”, the knave being one of the “Royal” cards and “nibs” being slang for “a person of importance”.

 

*****************Oy vey is a commonly used Jewish exclamation indicating dismay or grief.

 

******************Tsedoodelt is Yiddish for befuddled or confused.

 

*******************George Bryan "Beau" Brummell was an important figure in Regency England, and for many years he was the arbiter of British men's fashion. At one time, he was a close friend of the Prince Regent, the future King George IV, but after the two quarrelled and Brummell got into debt, he had to take refuge in France.

 

*******************Tsemisht mentsh is Yiddish for a confused man.

 

*********************Both the forms yenta and yente are used in Yinglish (Jewish varieties of English) to refer to someone who is a gossip or a busybody. The use of yenta as a word for “busybody” originated in the age of Yiddish theatre. There is a mistaken belief that the word for a Jewish matchmaker is yenta or yente. In reality a Jewish matchmaker is called a “shadchan”. The origin of this error is the 1964 musical “Fiddler on the Roof”, in which a character named Yente serves as the matchmaker for the village of Anatevka.

 

**********************Whilst there isn't one single word in Yiddish that perfectly translates to “wily” as it is used in English, there are several Yiddish words can convey similar meanings depending on the specific nuance. "Schlaum” or "schlau" mean sly, clever, or cunning, which can fit the context of “wily.”

 

***********************Schlemiel is a Yiddish term meaning "inept/incompetent person" or "fool". It is a common archetype in Jewish humour, and so-called "schlemiel jokes" depict the schlemiel falling into unfortunate situations.

 

**********************Hoykh moyl is Yiddish for “loud mouth”.

 

***********************Grosgrain is a type of fabric characterized by prominent transverse ribs created by a heavier weft than warp in a plain weave. It's a firm, close-woven fabric with a distinct texture, making it suitable for various applications like ribbon, millinery, and crafting.

 

************************Huguenot lace is a type of imitation lace where floral cut-out designs are sewn onto a muslin net ground. This style of lace was popular in England, particularly in the counties of Bedfordshire, Buckinghamshire, and Northamptonshire.

 

*************************After the Massacre of St Bartholomew's Day in Paris in 1572, when over ten thousand Huguenot Protestants were murdered, many fled to England. A second, larger, wave of Huguenots fled from France in the 1680s when King Louis XIV revoked a previous royal edict protecting Protestants from religious persecution and they were again attacked. Many Huguenots had difficult and dangerous journeys, escaping France and crossing to England by sea. Many Huguenot Protestants upon arriving in England after their dangerous journey, set up in London, in Spitalfields, the City, Clerkenwell, Soho, Greenwich, Marylebone and Wandsworth. Here they established weaving and lace making businesses, some of which are still in existence today, albeit not in quite the same form as when they were first established.

 

**************************A blouson dress is characterised by its loose, flowing silhouette, often with a gathered or cinched waistline, creating a blouson effect (a billowing or puffy appearance) over the bust and upper body. The waistline is typically undefined or slightly gathered, creating a comfortable, relaxed fit. This more relaxed style of dress became popular with the abandonment of tightly laced corsets after the Great War in the 1920s, which revolutionised women’s fashions, creating a look that is more characteristic of what we see today.

 

***************************Crêpe de chiné is a lightweight, luxurious fabric known for its smooth, silky feel and fluid drape. It's often associated with silk, although by the mid 1920s, when this story is set, cheaper crêpe de chiné made from other materials like rayon and man-made silks were readily available for women whose budgets couldn’t extend to real silk crêpe de chiné. The name "Crêpe de Chiné" translates to "crêpe from China," reflecting its origins.

 

Mrs. Minkin’s cluttered haberdashers filled with an assortment of notions, bolts of colourful fabrics and swags of creamy lace is not all it seems to be at first glance, for it is made up of part of my 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

Edith’s handbag in the foreground handmade from soft leather is part of a larger collection of hats and bags that I bought from an American miniature collector Marilyn Bickel. The black umbrella came from an online stockist of 1:12 miniatures on E-Bay.

 

The fabrics on the table in the foreground are, aside from the holly print cloth, which is a 1:12 size square tablecloth, all embroidered ribbons from my collection of haberdashery. Each ribbon was given to me by a very drear friend who knows I love and collect beautiful and vintage haberdashery. The ribbons were either manufactured in India or France. The Christmas themed tablecloth and serviettes are 1:12 miniatures from Mick and Marie’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

The delicate lace you see on the counter in the midground and the wooden shelves in the background are a mixture of antique hand sewn and embroidered doilies, milk jug covers or rolls of very fine lace. The ecru coloured lace you see draped beneath the folded linen tied with a ribbon to the right of the photograph is in reality an antique French lace collar from the late Nineteenth Century.

 

The corsetry boxes on the counter are 1:12 size miniatures made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Known mostly for his books, most designed to opened to reveal authentic printed interiors, he also made other paper and cardboard based miniatures including a selection of beautiful boxes. All of Ken Blythe’s books, magazines and boxes are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes and boxes, with meticulous attention paid to the detailing of each one. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make the corsetry boxes miniature artisan pieces. Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire a large number of pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago, as well as through his estate via his daughter and son-in-law. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter.

 

The spools of cotton in the box in front of the corsetry boxes, I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop in the United Kingdom. The concertina wooden sewing box on casters which you can see closed in the background to the left of the photograph, beside the counter, also came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop, as did the starched sheets tied with ribbon on the counter in the midground to the right of the photograph.

Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.

 

Today however, we are not at Cavendish Mews. We are not even in London. Instead, we are north of the capital, motoring through the hedge lined lanes cut through the rich arable snow dusted farmland of Essex as world famous British concert pianist, Sylvia Fordyce, drives Lettice towards the little village of Belchamp St Paul* in her smart and select silvery sage green 1922 Lea Francis** four seater, two door tourer on a circuitous journey to take in some of the picturesque country villages along the way. Lettice met the famous forthright musician last week at a private audience after a performance at the Royal Albert Hall***. Sylvia is the long-time friend of Lettice’s fiancée, Sir John Nettleford-Hughes and his widowed sister Clementine (known preferably now by the more cosmopolitan Clemance) Pontefract, the latter of whom Sylvia has known since they were both eighteen. Lettice, Sir John and Clemance were invited to join Sylvia in her dressing room after her Schumann and Brahms concert. After a brief chat with Sir John (whom she refers to as Nettie, using the nickname only his closest friends use) and Clemance, Sylvia had her personal secretary, Atlanta, show them out so that she could discuss “business” with Lettice. Anxious that like so many others, Sylvia would try to talk Lettice out of marrying Sir John, who is old enough to be her father and known for his dalliances with pretty chorus girls of Lettice’s age and younger, Lettice was surprised when Sylvia admitted that when she said that she wanted to discuss business, that was what she genuinely meant. Sylvia owns a small country property on which she had a secluded little house she calls ‘The Nest’ built not so long ago: a house she had decorated by society interior designer Syrie Maugham****. However, unhappy with Mrs. Maugham’s passion for shades of white, Sylvia wants Lettice to inject some colour into her drawing room by painting a feature wall for her. Thus, she has invited Lettice to motor up to Essex with her for an overnight stay at the conclusion of her concert series at The Hall to see the room for herself, and perhaps get some ideas as to what and how she might paint it.

 

Lettice smiles as she inhales the fresh cold air through the chink in her automobile window she has open and looks at the passing landscape of snow-covered verges lined with trees denuded of their leaves that skirt the undulating white fields around them. “It’s must be so lovely and green in springtime, Sylvia darling.” Lettice opines to Sylvia, sitting across from her in the driver’s seat.

 

“Oh it is,” Sylvia replies over the loud rumble of the purring engine as she turns the steering wheel to guide the Lea Francis up a bend in the road and over a wintery white knoll. She grunts. “The only problem with this time of year and spring is how the weather can turn the roads into treacherous quagmires.”

 

As if attempting to prove her point, the Lea Francis skids slightly on the muddy road, making Lettice gasp.

 

“Don’t worry, Lettice darling,” Sylvia assures her nervous passenger as she changes the gear expertly with a noisy clunk. “I’ve done this trip many times before at this time of the year, and I know the roads well. We won’t come a cropper*****, I promise.”

 

They drive along Gage’s Road, through a cluster of thatched cottages which forms the hamlet of Knowl Green.

 

“We’re nearly there.” Sylvia announces. “Not long now.”

 

They soon drive into a larger cluster of weatherboard and stone farm buildings and cottages with thatched roofs which hug the road as it widens. The recent snowfall makes Lettice think how much like giant cottage loaves the thatched cottages look. A long village green hedged by a smattering of Elizabethan and Georgian cottages appears on the left-hand side of the car.

 

“Welcome to Belchamp St Paul, Lettice darling! That’s the Half Moon******.” Sylvia points to a thatched building with a crescent moon above the front door and a wing with a rounded bay window at the front extending out towards the road. The Georgian paned windows on the ground floor are illuminated with warm and welcoming golden light. “It’s our local, and where we will have supper tonight.”

 

“So, we’re not dining at ‘The Nest’ then?” Lettice asks.

 

“Good god, no!” Sylvia scoffs as they motor past a fork in the road with signposts indicating to Ovington, Clare, Cavendish and Sudbury on a small island which it shares with a red telephone box******* its bright paint standing out against its white snowy surrounds. “You’re only here for the night, Lettice darling, so I didn’t ask Atlanta to join us, nor get Mrs. Silas to cook for us.”

 

“Mrs. Silas?” Lettice queries as Sylvia changes gears with a noisy clunk again as they continue along Vicarage Road, following the sign to Cavendish and Sudbury.

 

“She’s the wife of the farmer I bought the parcel of land I built ‘The Nest’ on, from.” Sylvia elucidates. “I pay her as a housekeeper-cum-cook. She keeps an eye on the place when I’m not here and cooks for me if I’m staying on my own without Atlanta, or have a house party and Atlanta can’t manage the catering alone. I can probably rustle us up some toast, scrambled eggs and some tea for breakfast tomorrow, but don’t ask anything more of me in the kitchen, Lettice darling.” she chuckles throatily. “Anyway as it is, I’m changing my plans.”

 

“Oh, Sylvia darling?” Lettice queries.

 

“Yes,” Sylvia admits guiltily. “I was going to stop at my beloved ‘Nest’ for the duration before I go on my next tour of the provinces, but I’ve had the most delicious invite from a rather dashing Lieutenant-Colonel to his country place, just outside of Chippenham********.” She sighs resignedly. “He’s married, of course, and is a brute and a boor: but that’s why I’m attracted to him!” She lets out another pensive sigh. “It will be a disaster of course, but as I told you last week, I always pick the wrong kind of man.”

 

“I see.” Lettice says with a grimace as the car motors past a smattering of thatched Georgian cottages.

 

“Oh look!” Sylvia exclaims. “There’s Mr. Silas, the man I bought the land from, now.” She points a black leather driving glove hand at a man trudging up the road towards them on the left-hand side of the road. He cuts a lonely figure walking up the road alone against the wintery landscape on an overcast day, with his head down against the wind. Sylvia depresses the horn of the Lea Francis twice, making a loud, yet cheerful, hooting noise. He looks up from watching where he walks and waves to Sylvia’s approaching car. She waves back enthusiastically as they motor past him. “He must be heading for the Half Moon for a ploughman’s lunch.”

 

“Won’t that upset Mrs. Silas?”

 

“Oh Mrs. Silas will have been too busy this morning with airing ‘The Nest’ for me, on top of her own chores, to make Mr. Silas luncheon.”

 

They motor past a lovely old church set well back from the road behind a low snow capped brick wall.

 

“That’s St Andrew’s*********.” Sylvia points out. “It’s far grander than one might expect of a local parish church in a farming village of this size. I’ll show it to you tomorrow before I motor you into Sudbury to catch the LNER********** back to London. I’m sorry, Lettice darling. I feel a bit beastly, not taking you back to London myself and all, after I invited you up here.”

 

“It was always part of the plan, Sylvia.” Lettice assures her. “That I would take the railway back to London. You were stopping up here for a week or so. I was only ever coming for the night, so it isn’t like I’m weighed down by luggage, with only my overnight valise and a brolly to return home with.”

 

They motor on just a little further, past a gentle bend in the road.

 

“Here we are then.” Sylvia says as they slow down and pull up to an old and dilapidated farmer’s gate in a rather scrappy looking hedgerow. Leaving the motor in park with the engine running, she gets out.

 

Lettice watches Sylvia. Dressed in an oversized and rather mannish soft brown velvet cloche pulled low over her head and a luxuriously thick half-length mink fur coat synched at the waist with a wide leather belt with the collar turned up to shelter her from the winter winds of Essex as they slice across the fallow fields, she looks tall and almost androgenous. This look is perpetuated by the fact that she is wearing a pair of roomy Oxford bags***********. Lettice smiles to herself as she remembers her maid at Cavendish Mews, Edith’s, scandalised look when she answered the front door to Sylvia dressed this way. “Don’t worry my dear,” she had assured poor Edith as she stood in the entrance hall, eyes agog at the sight of a woman in slacks. “They’re all the rage in Berlin!”, as if that would allay Edith’s concerns.

 

Sylvia walks up and unlatches the gate which is loosely tethered closed with a rusty old chain and opens it before getting back into the Lea Francis and driving it forward up a boggy driveway of sorts created by two rutted tracks made by motorcar tyres in the mud. Putting the car back into park again, she gets out and closes the gate behind them, reaffixing the old chain. Getting back into the motor, Sylvia catches Lettice’s surprised look. “You don’t think I want to alert people to the fact that there is a house hidden just up there behind that copse, do you, Lettice darling?” she asks. She smiles a smile that is a mixture of smugness and cheekiness. “It isn’t called a retreat for nothing, you know.”

 

They motor up the rutted track through the dusting of snow and into the copse. Lettice gasps with amazement as a smart red brick cottage with mullioned windows, several large chimneys and a sharply angled slate roof built in the picturesque British Arts and Crafts style of Charles Voysey************ begins to emerge from behind the trees.

 

“You’d never guess this was here, Sylvia darling.” Lettice exclaims.

 

“Now you see why I call it, ‘The Nest’.” Sylvia says knowingly, her red lipstick painted mouth breaking into a broad and proud smile as they motor up to the front of the house, where Lettice can see the wintery beginnings of a neat, landscaped cottage garden. “It’s so perfectly coddled amidst the trees. Welcome!” She brakes and turns the engine off.

 

As Lettice hauls her blue leather overnight valise out of the maroon leather back seat, she looks up at the façade and remarks, “It’s so lovely and compact.”

 

“Oh, don’t be fooled, Lettice darling.” Sylvia replies. “Sydney Castle************* is an absolute whizz at making as much as he can out of even the smallest space. It may look modest, but ‘The Nest’ has four bedrooms, all with their own private bathrooms, so my American friends from New York won’t complain about the archaic plumbing like they do about the big old houses they stay in over here: sharing bathrooms or worse yet, not having any indoor plumbing at all!” She bends down and lifts a terracotta plant pot with a dormant shrub of some kind in it and fishes in its saucer underneath, withdrawing a key. She puts the key in the door and unlocks it. “Come along inside, Lettice darling. Mrs. Silas will have turned on the central heating and stoked the fires in the main rooms already, so it will be nice and toasty.”

 

“Central heating!” Lettice exclaims. “What bliss!”

 

A short while later, after being shown to her spacious bedroom upstairs under the steeply slanted roof, unpacking her case, freshening up in the modest adjoining ensuite bathroom and changing from her tweed travelling clothes and Burberry macintosh************** into a rose and marone silk georgette knife pleated frock, Lettice makes her way back downstairs to the cosy drawing room, where she finds Sylvia, still dressed in her Oxford bags, but now accessorised stylishly with a pair of heels rather than boots, and a smart white silk blouse with a cross over frill, draped languidly in a roomy white lounge chair, smoking one of her Craven “A”*************** cigarettes pleasurably.

 

“Is this one of your clever Gerald’s outfits, Lettice Darling?” Sylvia asks, blowing out a plume of pale grey cigarette smoke into the air above her head as she appraises her guest.

 

Released from beneath her over-sized brown velvet cloche, Sylvia’s black dyed sharp bob sits neatly about her angular face. She wears no necklace or earrings, and only the large aquamarine and diamond cluster ring on her left middle finger on her elegant pianist’s hands. As with the drive up, Sylvia’s face is caked with a thick layer of white makeup which she has simply touched up and reapplied after any damage incurred enroute, her red painted lips the only colour afforded her in her entire outfit aside from the cool blue of the aquamarine. As she lounges lazily, she almost blends into Syrie Maugham’s shades of white.

 

“Yes, it is, Sylvia.” Lettice replies, doing a pirouette which causes the skirt of pleats to fly out prettily. When she stops, she notices a faceted glass vase of tulips on a low black japanned oriental coffee table. “Tulips!” she remarks. “In winter! Will your home never cease to amaze?”

 

Sylvia takes a long drag on her cigarette, the paper crackling as she does, before stubbing it out into the chrome smoker’s stand next to her chair and blowing out a final plume of acrid cigarette smoke. “They’re freshly in from Mrs. Silas. Mr. Silas is a flower grower, selling flowers to stallholders in Covent Garden, so he has quite a few greenhouses. Coffee?” She indicates to a dainty blue and white patterned Nipponese**************** eggshell porcelain***************** coffee set next to the vase, set upon a silver salver.

 

“Thank you.” Lettice says, picking up a cup and pouring herself some coffee before adding sugar and milk.

 

“Sadly, the house doesn’t amaze when it comes to this room, Lettice darling.” Sylvia mutters disappointedly. “Which of course is one of the reasons I invited you here.”

 

Lettice looks about the room, which is designed in the prevailingly fashionable Arts and Crafts country style of heavy wooden pieces intermixed with the cleaner and more modern lines of the Modernist movement which is slowly taking hold. The room is dominated as she would expect by a grand wooden piano. The sleek lounge is white, whilst oriental tables, lacquered and japanned sit around them on the blue and gold carpet Sylvia replaced Syrie Maugham’s white one with. The chrome pillar smoker’s stand standing next to Sylvia’s lounge chair gleams in the illumination from the overhead pendant lights. The wall behind her is dominated by a large black and cream marble open fireplace in which a fire, laid by Mrs. Silas a little earlier, crackles contentedly.

 

“I see what you mean by your love of blue and white porcelain.” Lettice remarks as she admires a pair of large bulbous Japanese blue and white urn flanking the fireplace.

 

“It’s not quite as fine a collection as Adelinda Gifford,” Sylvia acknowledges with a wave of her hand. “However, I do have a few nice pieces, even if I do say so myself.”

 

“I’d say more than a few, Sylvia.” Lettice counters.

 

“But you see what I mean by Mrs. Maugham’s rather uninspiring white walls.” Sylvia goes on.

 

“Oh,” Lettice remarks with an awkward chuckle. “The paper is rather lovely.” She walks up to it and runs her hand over the delicate embossed white diamond shapes covering the paper.

 

“It’s insipid!” Sylvia retorts bitterly. “All that money wasted on shades of white. And that’s why I want you to inject this room with drama and colour, Lettice darling!”

 

Lettice takes a seat in the chair opposite Sylvia and places her dainty demitasse****************** on the round table at her right. She looks up at the white feature wall into which the large marble fireplace is built. There are no paintings hanging on it, other than a single watercolour landscape in a gilded frame above the mantle, highlighting the vast expanse of space. She sighs deeply. “A feature wall is far greater than a demilune console table,” Lettice cautions her new friend, anxious not to disappoint her if she says no. “It’s such a large space.”

 

“And that’s why I want you to paint it, Lettice darling!” Sylvia goes on. “It’s the perfect canvas for you to be bright and bold!” she enthuses. “Release that inner artiste that I know is within you.”

 

Lettice sighs even more deeply and stares up at the offending wall. “What were you thinking, Sylvia darling?”

 

“What were you thinking, Lettice darling?” Sylvia answers her friend’s question with a question.

 

Lettice doesn’t answer straight away as she looks up at the wall and then around the room, to see where the light comes from. Large and long mullioned windows imbedded into white painted wooden panelling overlook the front garden along the wall opposite the fireplace, whilst more wooden panelling, painted white by Syrie Maugham grace the remaining two narrower walls. Lettice considers a pair of very beautiful blue and white oriental lidded ginger jars featuring flowers that stand at either end of the mantle shelf. “Can you get your Mr. Silas to paint the wall a flat navy blue?” she asks Sylvia.

 

“Either him or another local.” Sylvia agrees. “If I ask nicely. Why?”

 

“Well, I don’t think I’d like to paint the entire expanse of wall myself,” Lettice replies. “But I might consider painting a pattern by hand over the top of a darker colour if someone could paint the base layer for me.”

 

“Consider it done! And, what would that pattern look like, Lettice darling?” Sylvia asks, leaning forward in anticipation, barely daring to breathe in case she frightens Lettice off the idea of painting the wall.

 

“I’d take inspiration from your blue and white porcelain.” Lettice ruminates aloud as she stares at the ginger jars and two smaller vases that flank a tiny vibrant green Bakelite******************* mantle clock that sits in the middle of the wide mantlepiece. “But white on blue perhaps, rather than blue on white, with a gilded element.” Her eyes begin to glisten with excitement and enthusiasm as her lips turn into a smile. “Something from the garden perhaps. Flowers, or leaves.” She gasps. “Feathers!”

 

“Well, this is ‘The Nest’, Lettice darling.” Sylvia remarks, scarcely daring to hope. “Of course,” she adds with twinkling eyes and a wily smile. “If you take my job on, as I hope you will, Lettice, I’ll have a word with my friend. She’s a senior journalistic contributor and editor at The Lady********************, and I know she’d love to get in here with her best photographer and report an exclusive on Sylvia Fordyce’s secluded country retreat, decorated by Syrie Maugham and Lettice Chetwynd.” She pauses. “Or shall we make that decorated by Lettice Chetwynd and Syrie Maugham?”

 

“Are you trying to take a leaf out of Alisdair Gifford’s book to curry favour, Sylvia darling?”

 

“Well, I had rather heard from Nettie that a splash of publicity wouldn’t hurt as an incentive.” Sylvia’s smile widens and her eyes glitter with delight. “Call it my trump card, if you like, Lettice darling.”

 

“You said you were going away. Could I borrow a few choice pieces of your blue and white porcelain whilst you are gone, to give me inspiration?”

 

“Of course, Lettice darling! You may have full run of ‘The Nest’ if you wish. Whatever you like.”

 

“Well, it would be rather fun.” Lettice muses. “A whole wall to hand paint and decorate.”

 

“Of course it would.” Sylvia purrs.

 

“And I do like big and bold statements.”

 

“Which is one of the many reasons I asked you to take on my little project, Lettice darling.”

 

Lettice doesn’t answer straight away, and the air quickly grows thick with Sylvia’s anticipation as she waits for Lettice’s reply with baited breath.

 

“Very well Sylvia. I’ll do it!”

 

“Oh hoorah!” Sylvia applauds, clasping her elegant long fingers together in delight. “Thank you, Lettice darling! I knew I could count on you.”

 

“Let’s sit down and talk about the logistics of this. When did you say you would be touring the provinces again?”

 

*Belchamp St Paul is a village and civil parish in the Braintree district of Essex, England. The village is five miles west of Sudbury, Suffolk, and 23 miles northeast of the county town, Chelmsford.

 

**Lea and G. I. Francis started the business in Coventry in 1895. They branched out into car manufacturing in 1903 and motorcycles in 1911. Lea-Francis built cars under licence for the Singer company. In 1919, they started to build their own cars from bought-in components. From 1922, Lea-Francis formed a business relationship with Vulcan of Southport sharing manufacturing and dealers. Vulcan supplied bodies to Lea-Francis and in return received gearboxes and steering gear. Two six-cylinder Vulcan-designed and manufactured cars were marketed as Lea-Francis 14/40 and 16/60 as well as Vulcans. The association ended in 1928 when Vulcan stopped making cars. The company had a chequered history with some notable motorcycles and cars, but financial difficulties surfaced on a regular basis. The Hillfields site was abandoned in 1937 when it was sold by the receiver and a new company, under a slightly different name, moved to Much Park Street in Coventry. It survived there until 1962 when the company finally closed.

 

***The Royal Albert Hall is a concert hall on the northern edge of South Kensington in London, built in the style of an ancient amphitheatre. Since the hall's opening by Queen Victoria in 1871, the world's leading artists from many performance genres have appeared on its stage. It is the venue for the BBC Proms concerts, which have been held there every summer since 1941.

 

****Syrie Maugham was a leading British interior decorator of the 1920s and 1930s and best known for popularizing rooms decorated entirely in shades of white. She was the wife of English playwright and novelist William Somerset Maugham.

 

*****In the Eighteenth Century, anyone who took a headlong fall from a horse was said to have fallen “neck and crop”. “Come a cropper” was a colloquial way of describing a “neck and crop” fall, and is first cited in Robert S. Surtees' Ask Mamma, 1858. We now use the term for failing badly at something.

 

******The Half Moon Inn is a pretty thatched tavern overlooking Belchamp St Paul’s village green. With low beams and an old log fire it maintains most of the original features of the current Georgian era building. Originally built in the early Sixteenth Century, The Half Moon has been at the centre of Belchamp St Paul village life for more than four hundred years.

 

*******The first standard public telephone kiosk introduced by the United Kingdom Post Office was produced in concrete in 1921 and was designated K1 (Kiosk No.1). The Post Office had taken over almost all of the country's telephone network in 1912. The red telephone box K1 (Kiosk No.2), was the result of a competition in 1924 to design a kiosk that would be acceptable to the London Metropolitan Boroughs which had hitherto resisted the Post Office's effort to erect K1 kiosks on their streets.

 

********Chippenham is a market town in north-west Wiltshire, England. It lies thirteen miles north-east of Bath, eighty-six miles west of London and is near the Cotswolds Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty.

 

*********It is not known when the first church was built on the sight that today houses St Andrew’s Church of England in Belchamp St Paul. There was a church, however when the Dean of St Paul's, Ralph de Dicto, visited Belchamp on the 15th of January 1181. This early Norman church consisted of a nave with north and south doorways and a chancel. It was dedicated in honour of St Andrew the Apostle who is the patron saint of missionaries, mariners and fishermen. All churches dedicated in honour of St Andrew are usually near rivers. It would seem that after the visitation of Dean William Say in 1458 a major rebuilding of the church took place which was completed in the year 1490. The building which we now see consists of a chancel, nave, north aisle, tower and south porch. The roof dates from 1490 and is of the trussed rafter, beam type, often found in Essex churches.

 

**********The first Sudbury station was built by the Colchester, Stour Valley, Sudbury & Halstead Railway, which even before the opening on 30 July 1849. A railway line has existed there ever since and continues to run today. It is the northern terminus of the Gainsborough Line, a branch off the Great Eastern Main Line in the East of England, serving the town of Sudbury, Suffolk. In 1925 at the time this story is set, the railway would have been run by the London and North Eastern Railway (LNER).

 

***********Oxford bags were a loose-fitting baggy form of trousers favoured by members of the University of Oxford, especially undergraduates, in England from the mid-1920s to around the 1950s. The style had a more general influence outside the university, including in America, but has been somewhat out of fashion since then. It is sometimes said that the style originated from a ban in 1924 on the wearing of plus fours by Oxford (and Cambridge) undergraduates at lectures. The bagginess allegedly allowed plus fours to be hidden underneath – but the argument is undermined by the fact that the trousers (especially in the early years) were not sufficiently voluminous for this to be done with any success. The original trousers were 22–23 inches (56–58 cm) in circumference at the bottoms but became increasingly larger to 44 inches (110 cm) or more, possibly due to a misunderstanding of the measurement as the width rather than circumference.

 

************Charles Francis Annesley Voysey was an English architect and furniture and textile designer. Voysey's early work was as a designer of wallpapers, fabrics and furnishings in the Arts and Crafts style and he made important contribution to the Modern Style, and was recognized by the seminal The Studio magazine.

 

*************Sydney Ernest Castle was born in Battersea in July 1883. He trained with H. W. Edwards, a surveyor and worked as chief assistant to Arthur Jessop Hardwick (1867 - 1948) before establishing his own practice in London in 1908. From 1908 to 1918 he was in partnership with Gerald Warren (1881-1936) as Castle & Warren. He worked on St. George's Hill Estate in Weybridge, Surrey with Walter George Tarrant (1875-1942). Castle was elected a Fellow of the Royal Institute of British Architects (FRIBA) in 1925. He designed many buildings, including the Christian Association building in Clapham, a school in Balham and a private hotel in the Old Brompton Road, as well as many private residences throughout Britain. His firm’s address in 1926, when this story is set was 40, Albemarle Street, Piccadilly. He died in Wandsworth in March 1955.

 

**************Thomas Burberry established Burberry in Basingstoke in 1856 at just twenty-one years old, founded on the principle that clothing should be designed to protect people from the British weather. A few years later in 1879 he invented gaberdine, a breathable wearable and hardwearing fabric that revolutionised rainwear. The Burberry trench coat was invented during the First World War with epaulettes used to suspend military equipment, but in the inter-war years, with the Burberry check registered as a trademark and introduced as lining to their rainwear, it became a luxury brand for the wealthy.

 

***************Craven A (stylized as Craven "A") is a British brand of cigarettes, currently manufactured by British American Tobacco. Originally founded and produced by the Carreras Tobacco Company in 1921 until merging with Rothmans International in 1972, who then produced the brand until Rothmans was acquired by British American Tobacco in 1999. The cigarette brand is named after the third Earl of Craven, after the "Craven Mixture", a tobacco blend formulated for the 3rd Earl in the 1860s by tobacconist Don José Joaquin Carreras.

 

****************Nipponese is the adjective used when relating to a characteristic of Japan or its people or their culture or language. It was used predominantly before the Second World War, and goods exported from Japan were marked Nipon. The term Japanese became the common adjective used after the war, making a pivotal moment of change in Japan’s history after the atomic bombs that hit Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

 

*****************Eggshell porcelain is actually a type of Chinese porcelain characterized by an excessively thin body under the glaze. It often had decoration engraved on it before firing that, like a watermark in paper, was visible only when held to the light; such decoration is called anhua, meaning literally “secret language.” It is very delicate and fragile.

 

******************A demitasse is a small coffee cup. It was the French, in the 1800s, who originated the demitasse and turned after-dinner coffee drinking into an art. Demitasse means “half-cup.” The cups are, typically, half the size of a regular coffee cup, holding two to three ounces of beverage.

 

*******************Bakelite, was the first plastic made from synthetic components. Patented on December 7, 1909, the creation of a synthetic plastic was revolutionary for its electrical nonconductivity and heat-resistant properties in electrical insulators, radio and telephone casings and such diverse products as kitchenware, jewellery, pipe stems, children's toys, and firearms. A plethora of items were manufactured using Bakelite in the 1920s and 1930s.

 

********************The Lady is one of Britain's longest-running women's magazines. It has been in continuous publication since 1885 and is based in London. It is particularly notable for its classified advertisements for domestic service and child care; it also has extensive listings of holiday properties.

 

This 1920s upper-class drawing room is different to what you may think at first glance, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

Sylvia’s roomy Art Deco cream satin armchairs are made by Jai Yi Miniatures who specialise in high end miniature furniture. The black japanned coffee table and round occasional table with their gilded patterns are vintage pieces I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Doll’s House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

The chrome Art Deco smoker’s stand is a Shackman miniature from the 1970s and is quite rare. I bought it from a dealer in America via E-Bay.

 

The three toned marble fireplace is genuinely made from marble and is remarkably heavy for its size. It, the two brass fire dogs and filagree fireplace fender come from Kathleen Knight’s Doll’s House Shop, as do the two blue and white vases and the two blue and white gilt ginger jars on the mantle. Also on the mantle stands a little green and gold Art Deco clock, which is a 1:12 artisan miniature made by Hall’s Miniature Clocks, supplied through Doreen Jeffries Small Wonders Miniatures in England.

 

The two large blue and white urns flanking the fireplace are Eighteenth Century Chinese jars that I bought as part of a large job lot of small oriental pieces of porcelain, pottery and glass from an auction house many years ago.

 

The tiny blue and white coffee set with coffee pot, creamer, sugar bowl and demitasse cups in the foreground on the coffee table are all hand painted. I acquired them from Kathleen Knight’s Doll’s House Shop. The silver tray the coffee pot, creamer and sugar bowl stand on also comes from there. The faceted glass vase on the coffee table is an artisan miniature made from real glass. It comes from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The tulips in the vase are very realistic looking. Made of polymer clay they are moulded on wires to allow them to be shaped at will and put into individually formed floral arrangements. They are made by a 1:12 miniature specialist in Germany.

 

The silver cigarette lighter and the packet of Craven “A” cigarettes on the table were made with great attention to detail by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The Swan Vesta’s matches sitting in the holder on the smoker’s stand also come from Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures.

 

The painting above the mantlepiece is a 1:12 artisan piece made by Amber’s Miniatures in the United States.

 

The blue and white carpet interwoven with gold I acquired through an online stockist of 1;12 miniatures on E-Bay.

 

The embossed chequered wallpaper is art paper given to me by a friend, which inspired the whole “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.

Source: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dublin

 

Dublin (Irish: Baile Átha Cliath) is the capital and largest city of Ireland. It is on the east coast of Ireland, in the province of Leinster, at the mouth of the River Liffey, and is bordered on the south by the Wicklow Mountains. It has an urban area population of 1,173,179, while the population of the Dublin Region (formerly County Dublin), as of 2016, was 1,347,359, and the population of the Greater Dublin area was 1,904,806.

 

There is archaeological debate regarding precisely where Dublin was established by the Gaels in or before the 7th century AD. Later expanded as a Viking settlement, the Kingdom of Dublin, the city became Ireland's principal settlement following the Norman invasion. The city expanded rapidly from the 17th century and was briefly the second largest city in the British Empire before the Acts of Union in 1800. Following the partition of Ireland in 1922, Dublin became the capital of the Irish Free State, later renamed Ireland.

 

Dublin is a historical and contemporary centre for education, the arts, administration and industry. As of 2018 the city was listed by the Globalization and World Cities Research Network (GaWC) as a global city, with a ranking of "Alpha −", which places it amongst the top thirty cities in the world.

 

Source: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/James_Joyce

 

James Augustine Aloysius Joyce (2 February 1882 – 13 January 1941) was an Irish novelist, short story writer, poet, teacher, and literary critic. He contributed to the modernist avant-garde and is regarded as one of the most influential and important authors of the 20th century. Joyce is best known for Ulysses (1922), a landmark work in which the episodes of Homer's Odyssey are paralleled in a variety of literary styles, most famously stream of consciousness. Other well-known works are the short-story collection Dubliners (1914), and the novels A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (1916) and Finnegans Wake (1939). His other writings include three books of poetry, a play, his published letters and occasional journalism.

 

Joyce was born in Dublin into a middle-class family. A brilliant student, he briefly attended the Christian Brothers-run O'Connell School before excelling at the Jesuit schools Clongowes and Belvedere, despite the chaotic family life imposed by his father's alcoholism and unpredictable finances. He went on to attend University College Dublin.

 

In 1904, in his early twenties, Joyce emigrated to continental Europe with his partner (and later wife) Nora Barnacle. They lived in Trieste, Paris, and Zurich. Although most of his adult life was spent abroad, Joyce's fictional universe centres on Dublin and is populated largely by characters who closely resemble family members, enemies and friends from his time there. Ulysses in particular is set with precision in the streets and alleyways of the city. Shortly after the publication of Ulysses, he elucidated this preoccupation somewhat, saying, "For myself, I always write about Dublin, because if I can get to the heart of Dublin I can get to the heart of all the cities of the world. In the particular is contained the universal."

In Jungian psychology, the shadow or "shadow aspect" may refer to an unconscious aspect of the personality which the conscious ego does not identify in itself. Because one tends to reject or remain ignorant of the least desirable aspects of one's personality, the shadow is largely negative, or the entirety of the unconscious, i.e., everything of which a person is not fully conscious. There are, however, positive aspects which may also remain hidden in one's shadow (especially in people with low self-esteem).Contrary to a Freudian definition of shadow, therefore, the Jungian shadow can include everything outside the light of consciousness, and may be positive or negative. "Everyone carries a shadow," Jung wrote, "and the less it is embodied in the individual's conscious life, the blacker and denser it is." It may be (in part) one's link to more primitive animal instincts, which are superseded during early childhood by the conscious mind.

 

Carl Jung stated the shadow to be the unknown dark side of the personality.According to Jung, the shadow, in being instinctive and irrational, is prone to psychological projection, in which a perceived personal inferiority is recognised as a perceived moral deficiency in someone else. Jung writes that if these projections remain hidden, "The projection-making factor (the Shadow archetype) then has a free hand and can realize its object--if it has one--or bring about some other situation characteristic of its power."These projections insulate and harm individuals by acting as a constantly thickening veil of illusion between the ego and the real world.

 

From one perspective, 'the shadow...is roughly equivalent to the whole of the Freudian unconscious'; and Jung himself asserted that 'the result of the Freudian method of elucidation is a minute elaboration of man's shadow-side unexampled in any previous age'.Jung also believed that "in spite of its function as a reservoir for human darkness—or perhaps because of this—the shadow is the seat of creativity";[9] so that for some, it may be, 'the dark side of his being, his sinister shadow...represents the true spirit of life as against the arid scholar.'The shadow may appear in dreams and visions in various forms, and typically 'appears as a person of the same sex as that of the dreamer'.[11] The shadow's appearance and role depend greatly on the living experience of the individual, because much of the shadow develops in the individual's mind rather than simply being inherited in the collective unconscious. Nevertheless, some Jungians maintain that 'The shadow contains, besides the personal shadow, the shadow of society ... fed by the neglected and repressed collective values'.Interactions with the shadow in dreams may shed light on one's state of mind. A conversation with the shadow may indicate that one is concerned with conflicting desires or intentions. Identification with a despised figure may mean that one has an unacknowledged difference from the character, a difference which could point to a rejection of the illuminating qualities of ego-consciousness. These examples refer to just two of many possible roles that the shadow may adopt and are not general guides to interpretation. Also, it can be difficult to identify characters in dreams—"all the contents are blurred and merge into one another ... 'contamination' of unconscious contents"so that a character who seems at first to be a shadow might represent some other complex instead.

 

Jung also made the suggestion of there being more than one layer making up the shadow. The top layers contain the meaningful flow and manifestations of direct personal experiences. These are made unconscious in the individual by such things as the change of attention from one thing to another, simple forgetfulness, or a repression. Underneath these idiosyncratic layers, however, are the archetypes which form the psychic contents of all human experiences. Jung described this deeper layer as "a psychic activity which goes on independently of the conscious mind and is not dependent even on the upper layers of the unconscious—untouched, and perhaps untouchable—by personal experience" (Campbell, 1971). This bottom layer of the shadow is also what Jung referred to as the collective unconscious.

 

Encounter with the shadow

 

The encounter with the shadow plays a central part in the process of individuation. Jung considered that 'the course of individuation...exhibits a certain formal regularity. Its signposts and milestones are various archetypal symbols' marking its stages; and of these 'the first stage leads to the experience of the SHADOW'.[14] If 'the breakdown of the persona constitutes the typical Jungian moment both in therapy and in development',it is this which opens the road to the shadow within, coming about when 'Beneath the surface a person is suffering from a deadly boredom that makes everything seem meaningless and empty ... as if the initial encounter with the Self casts a dark shadow ahead of time'.[16] Jung considered as a perennial danger in life that 'the more consciousness gains in clarity, the more monarchic becomes its content...the king constantly needs the renewal that begins with a descent into his own darkness'his shadow—which the 'dissolution of the persona' sets in motion.

 

"The shadow personifies everything that the subject refuses to acknowledge about himself" and represents "a tight passage, a narrow door, whose painful constriction no one is spared who goes down to the deep well".[19] If and when 'an individual makes an attempt to see his shadow, he becomes aware of (and often ashamed of) those qualities and impulses he denies in himself but can plainly see in others—such things as egotism, mental laziness, and sloppiness; unreal fantasies, schemes, and plots; carelessness and cowardice; inordinate love of money and possessions—...[a] painful and lengthy work of self-education".The dissolution of the persona and the launch of the individuation process also brings with it 'the danger of falling victim to the shadow ... the black shadow which everybody carries with him, the inferior and therefore hidden aspect of the personality'of a merger with the shadow.Merger with the shadow According to Jung, the shadow sometimes overwhelms a person's actions; for example, when the conscious mind is shocked, confused, or paralyzed by indecision. 'A man who is possessed by his shadow is always standing in his own light and falling into his own traps ... living below his own level':hence, in terms of the story of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, 'it must be Jekyll, the conscious personality, who integrates the shadow ... and not vice versa. Otherwise the conscious becomes the slave of the autonomous shadow'.

 

Individuation inevitably raises that very possibility. As the process continues, and 'the libido leaves the bright upper world ... sinks back into its own depths...below, in the shadows of the unconscious',so too what comes to the forefront is 'what was hidden under the mask of conventional adaptation: the shadow', with the result that 'ego and shadow are no longer divided but are brought together in an — admittedly precarious — unity'.The impact of such 'confrontation with the shadow produces at first a dead balance, a stand-still that hampers moral decisions and makesconvictionsineffective...tenebrositas,chaos,melancholia'.Consequently, (as Jung knew from personal experience) 'in this time of descent—one, three, seven years, more or less—genuine courage and strength are required',with no certainty of emergence. Nevertheless, Jung remained of the opinion that while 'no one should deny the danger of the descent ... every descent is followed by an ascent ...enantiodromia'; and assimilation of—rather than possession by—the shadow becomes at last a real possibility.

Assimilation of the shadow Enantiodromia launches a different perspective. 'We begin to travel [up] through the healing spirals...straight up'.Here the struggle is to retain awareness of the shadow, but not identification with it. 'Non-identification demands considerable moral effort...prevents a descent into that darkness'; but though 'the conscious mind is liable to be submerged at any moment in the unconscious... understanding acts like a life-saver. It integrates the unconscious'reincorporates the shadow into the personality, producing a stronger, wider consciousness than before. 'Assimilation of the shadow gives a man body, so to speak',and provides thereby a launching-pad for further individuation. 'The integration of the shadow, or the realisation of the personal unconscious, marks the first stage of the analytic process...without it a recognition of anima and animus is impossible'. Conversely 'to the degree to which the shadow is recognised and integrated, the problem of the anima, i.e., of relationship, is constellated',and becomes the centre of the individuation quest.Nevertheless, Jungians warn that 'acknowledgement of the shadow must be a continuous process throughout one's life'; and even after the focus of individuation has moved on to theanimus/anima, 'the later stages of shadow integration' will continue to take place—the grim 'process of washing one's dirty linen in private',accepting one's shadow.

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shadow_(psychology)

As for Carl Jung, my father had never heard of him. But, when he witnessed the almost magical, transformative effect the letter created, he knew he had to find out about its author. Like a Grail questing knight who had "entered the forest at its darkest point," my father had become alert to clues and hints from the dream lions realm, the place from whence Meaning sprang. There was something significant here he felt. He asked the wild-eyed man in the ragged clothes over to his table and invited him to sit down. Then, for the first time, he learned about the Swiss healer. What he learned transformed him. Again I quote from his journals: One of the few things of which I am absolutely sure is that we live and move and have our being in the midst of a mystery that is beyond our imagining. The more we explore the mystery, the deeper it becomes. It is, I think, the chief responsibility of mankind to carry out that exploration with its utmost ability. It is not limited to technological or scientific exploration. It is better defined as an expansion of consciousness. The individual human being is the only carrier of the differentiated consciousness of which I speak. The expansion of consciousness gives meaning to my existence. I could not have said these words before becoming acquainted with the works of C.G. Jung. Maybe I would have eventually come to the same conclusion. I dont know. I do know that I have found my experiences confirmed by him and this gives me the confidence to trust the ideas resulting from these experiences. Later, he more succinctly put it to a close friend, "Jung saved my life." After that fateful meeting in the café, my father was on his way. Throughout the 1960s, with gathering speed he read everything he could get his hands on, either written by, or about, Jung. By 1970, he very probably owned one of the largest personal libraries on Analytical Psychology in Texas. This took some real doing in that it was done long before the Internet and chain bookstores existed, and in a place that was remote and removed from the mainstream of American intellectual life, to say the least. But assemble a library he did, with all the care and effort that the most dedicated medieval alchemist devoted to his own art. As a boy, I often accompanied him to our local bookshop to pick up those Bollingen Series books with the mysterious, black dust covers. I particularly recall his anticipation the day Volume 9, Aion, arrived. But all this was only preparation, only a prelude to the real task. Entire passages were meticulously underlined in his firm hand, any unknown terms defined in the margins. He tilled the pages like a field and the resulting harvest was full measure. Nearly every page of his battered copy of Memories, Dreams, Reflections was scored with penciled lines and notes. Due to his own health issues, he found particular resonance in Answer To Job. He sifted Jungs words like a prospector, seeking the transforming gold. To paraphrase Jung, however, he did not try to ape the Swiss psychiatrists "stigmata", but, rather, strove to authentically live his own life. Jung once commented, "Thank God Im Jung and not a Jungian." My father understood that.

The great contribution of Jung is not that his ideas form any final explanation . . . but that they are penetrating insights that open doors and lead the way for further elaboration and understanding. And there was no whitewashing. My father realized Jung cast a deep shadow. He was aware of his counter transference issues and especially of that most grievous failure of all in which Jung inadequately and with a still lamentable diminution of feeling all-too-late said he "slipped up." Dad was well conscious of his own human weakness, too, and he wrestled with that angel until the end.

www.cgjungpage.org/learn/articles/culture-and-psyche/729-...

 

Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.

 

This afternoon we have not strayed far from Cavendish Mews and are still in Mayfair, on Bond Street where the premises of the Portland Gallery stand. Lettice has important business with the patrician Mr. Chilvers, the gallery owner, with whom she wishes to discuss acquiring a new painting.

 

“Shall I call you a taxi, Miss?” Edith, Lettice’s maid, asked as Lettice bustled into drawing room of Cavendish Mews, swathed in fox furs to protect her from the chilly late morning autumnal London air outside, announcing she was going to Portland Gallery.

 

“Oh, you are a brick, Edith!” Lettice replied breezily, but then continued just before Edith set down her feather duster and prepared to walk down to the taxi rank in the next street, “But really there’s no need. It’s such a lovely day outside, I think I’ll walk.”

 

Edith looked out of the drawing room window at the dull grey skies hanging above the terrace opposite and crumpled her nose, before she looked back with surprise at her mistress as she fiddled with the large pearl studded hatpin that was skewered through her hair at the back of her head, holding her elegant red felt broad brimmed hat in place.

 

“Are you quite alright, Miss?”

 

Lettice stopped fiddling with the hatpin. “Oh, quite Edith. I’ve got it fastened now.” She sighed as she turned to her Chippendale china cabinet and caught a glimpse of her modish reflection in the spotless glass not long cleaned by Edith. “There! It’s nice and secure.” She tugged on the brim of her hat as she spoke, just to prove the point.

 

“I didn’t mean about your hat, Miss.” Edith scoffed.

 

“Then what did you mean, Edith?”

 

“Well, if you’ll pardon me, Miss, but you don’t walk anywhere,” Edith replied matter-of-factly.

 

“Well, a girl is afforded the luxury of changing her mind and habits every now and then, isn’t she, Edith?” Lettice retorted blithely.

 

“On a day when it looks like rain?” The maid looked sceptically at her mistress through appraising screwed up eyes.

 

“I’ll take a brolly, then.” Lettice huffed as she slipped on a pair of bright red leather cuff length gloves. “Will that satisfy you Edith?”

 

“Yes Miss.” Edith replied, sounding every bit like she felt quite the opposite as Lettice swept out.

 

A short while later, as Lettice walked up the street towards Bond Street, the sharp clicking sound of her heels on the concrete footpath blending with the noise of footsteps and the chugging of engines as pedestrians and motor cars passed her, she sighed and breathed deeply, smiling happily to herself. With her snakeskin handbag jostling around the crook of her right arm, and one of her stumpy handled umbrellas swinging in her left, she allowed her mind to drift as she walked brusquely.

 

For nearly a year Lettice has been patiently awaiting the return of her beau, Selwyn Spencely, son of the Duke of Walmsford, after being sent to Durban by his mother, Lady Zinnia in an effort to destroy their relationship which she wanted to end so that she could marry Selwyn off to his cousin, Pamela Fox-Chavers. Now Lettice has been made aware by Lady Zinnia that during the course of the year, whilst Lettice has been biding her time, waiting for Selwyn’s eventual return, he has become engaged to the daughter of a Kenyan diamond mine owner whilst in Durban. Fleeing Lady Zinnia’s Park Lane mansion, Lettice returned to Cavendish mews and milled over her options over a week as she reeled from the news. Then, yesterday morning she knew exactly what to do to resolve the issues raised by Lady Zinnia’s unwelcome news about her son. Taking extra care in her dress, she took herself off to the neighbouring upper-class London suburb of Belgravia and paid a call upon Sir John Nettleford-Hughes.

 

Old enough to be her father, wealthy Sir John is still a bachelor, and according to London society gossip intends to remain so, so that he might continue to enjoy his dalliances with a string of pretty chorus girls of Lettice’s age and younger. As an eligible man in a aftermath of the Great War when such men are a rare commodity, with a vast family estate in Bedfordshire, houses in Mayfair, Belgravia and Pimlico and Fontengil Park in Wiltshire, quite close to the Glynes estate belonging to her parents, Lettice’s mother, Lady Sadie, invited him as a potential suitor to her 1922 Hunt Ball, which she used as a marriage market for Lettice. Selwyn rescued Lettice from the horror of having to entertain him, and Sir John left the ball early in a disgruntled mood with a much younger partygoer. Lettice recently reacquainted herself with Sir John at an amusing Friday to Monday long weekend party held by Sir John and Lady Gladys Caxton at their Scottish country estate, Gossington, a baronial Art and Crafts castle near the hamlet of Kershopefoot in Cumberland. To her surprise, Lettice found Sir John’s company rather enjoyable. She then ran into him again at the Portland Gallery’s autumn show where she found him yet again to be a pleasant and attentive companion for much of the evening.

 

Sir John also made a proposition to her that night: he offered her his hand in marriage should she ever need it. More like a business arrangement than a marriage proposal, Sir John offered Lettice the opportunity to enjoy the benefits of his large fortune, be chatelain of all his estates and continue to have her interior design business, under the conditions that she agree to provide him with an heir, and that he be allowed to discreetly carry on his affairs in spite of their marriage vows. He even suggested that Lettice might be afforded the opportunity to have her own extra marital liaisons if she were discreet about them. Last night, turning up unannounced on his doorstep, she agreed to his proposal after explaining that the understanding between she and Selwyn was concluded.

 

As she walked, Lettice’s thoughts drifted back to the previous evening when she had sat on the sofa next to Sir John in his elegant drawing room, as they discussed the future after he had agreed to hold to his terms if she married him.

 

“Would you mind horribly, if we waited until after Christmas and New Year, before we announce our engagement to my family, John?” Lettice asked cautiously. Sir John’s bright face darkened slightly as she did so, and she thought she could see a sadness in his eyes. “You do mind.”

 

“No, no I don’t mind,” he replied a little awkwardly. “I… I just don’t understand why, Lettice.”

 

“I’m not ashamed of you, or of our engagement, if that’s what you’re worried about, John.” Lettice assured him quickly with an earnest look.

 

Sir John’s face brightened again, as relief softened his features, rather like the sun coming out from behind a cloud.

 

“No, “ Lettice went on. “I just don’t want there to be any speculation that your proposal of marriage is something I am rushing into on the tail of my break with Selwyn.”

 

“His break with you, you mean, Lettice.”

 

“Yes,” Lettice chuckled sadly. “His break with me. Thank you for reminding me of that fact.”

 

“He’s a damn fool to let you slip though his fingers, Lettice, and I must say.” Sir John’s brow crumpled as he spoke.

 

“Thank you, John.”

 

“But going back to your point about speculations. I thought your parents would be thrilled for us. I mean, it was your mother who asked me to come to her Hunt Ball in 1922 as a potential suitor.”

 

“Oh and they will be, John.” Lettice replied hurriedly, pushing aside and ignoring her father’s very vocal aspersions that Sir John is an old lecher. “They will. It’s just that,” She paused as she gathered her thoughts. “Being my father’s favourite, he always pays extra attention to me, and considering how upset I was after Lady Zinnia sent Selwyn to Durban, it would seem odd - out of character - if I just blurted out and said that Selwyn and I no longer have an arrangement, and now I’m marrying you. If we…”

 

“Let the dust settle?”

 

“Exactly, John!” Lettice enthused. “Then, they will be more receptive to our engagement, and not think it so odd.”

 

Lettice observed as Sir John ruminated, considering her reasoning.

 

“Very well,” he finally replied. “You know your parents better than I, Lettice.”

 

“Oh thank you, John!” she exclaimed.

 

“But not too long, mind you.” he tempered her enthusiasm. “I’d like our intentions known early in the new year, so that we may marry in November.”

 

“Of course, John.”

 

“Anyway, how could I refuse my bride-to-be anything?” His eyes softened as she stared at her.

 

As he chuckled good naturedly, Lettice added with hope in her voice, “I have another condition of our marriage, John.”

 

His chuckles grew as he said, “Of course you do, Lettice. In my experience, it seems it is every bride’s prerogative to have conditions.”

 

“I didn’t think you were overly familiar with brides, John.”

 

“Well, I’ve never really been the marrying kind, before you that is, as you know Lettice. However, many an elicit affair of mine has ended with the peal of wedding bells, so I suppose in my own oblique way, I’ve known a good many brides.” He glanced anxiously up into Lettice’s face as he spoke, gauging her reaction to his statement. “I hope that doesn’t shock you too much.”

 

“As I said before, John. Now that I know you better, and am starting to understand you better too,” she replied kindly. “No, it doesn’t.”

 

“Jolly good!” he sighed with relief. “So, what is it then?”

 

“What is what, John?”

 

“What is the bride-to-be’s condition then?”

 

“Oh that!” Lettice laughed, waving her hand dismissively before her, the diamonds on her fingers glinting in the lamplight of Sir John’s drawing room. “Well, now I think about it, there are actually two.”

 

“Two now?” Sie John’s eyebrows knitted as he spoke. “Best you tell me them then, lest the groom has any counter conditions of his own.”

 

“Well, the first I don’t think you’ll mind too much, John.”

 

“Then indulge me, Lettice.” Sir John mused with an indulgent smile. “What is it?”

 

“Well, if I am to be mistress of your houses once we are married,”

 

“Our houses, you mean, Lettice.” Sir John corrected her.

 

“Our houses,” Lettice replied. “I should very much like to keep on my maid, Edith.”

 

“Well, as chatelaine of several houses, I’ll be more than happy to hand over the staffing to you, my dear. But you’ve talked about her before. Isn’t she just an ordinary maid-of-all work?”

 

“Yes and no. She was an under parlour maid in her previous position. However, if she comes with me, I want her to have a new position.”

 

“Oh yes?”

 

“I should like her to be my lady’s maid.”

 

Sir John looked surprised at her suggestion. “But I thought you were so proud of being a modern woman, Lettice, and had no need for a lady’s maid. You said so yourself when we met at Gossington. You told me that it’s the 1920s, so you don’t need a maid to fasten you into your outfits nowadays.”

 

“Well, I don’t really, and I get my hair done by a professional coiffeuse*.”

 

“Then what would you propose this maid of yours?”

 

“Edith.”

 

“Edith, do?” Sir John queried. “As my future wife, I don’t mind indulging you, Lettice. However,” he cautioned. “I will not fritter my money away on staff who do nothing.”

 

“Well Edith wouldn’t do nothing. I’ve discovered, thank in part to Gerald Bruton, that she’s an excellent seamstress, and with a mother who is laundress, she knows how to goffer** lace to perfection, so whilst I don’t need her to dress me, she does an excellent job of maintaining my wardrobe.”

 

“So, a Mistress of the Robes*** for the future Lady Nettleford-Hughes, then?”

 

“I’d like that, John.”

 

He chuckled again, still with good humour as he replied, “Well, then you shall have your wish.” Sitting back on the Regency striped sofa next to Lettice he continued, “And what is your second condition, My Lady?”

 

“Well, were you speaking in earnest before, when you said I could buy and hang the Picasso?”

 

Lettice held her breath as she waited for Sir John to answer.

 

“I said so, didn’t I?”

 

“You did.”

 

“Then you may. Go and see Chilvers this week, and tell him to put that daub, however ghastly it is, on my account and take it home with you to Cavendish Mews.”

 

“Oh John!” Lettice threw her arms around Sir John in unbridled delight at his agreement. “Thank you!”

 

In her reverie, Lettice almost walks past the impressive three storey Victorian Portland Gallery building with its Portland stone facings, which is where the gallery takes its name from. The ground floor part of the façade has been modernised in more recent times, and features large plate glass windows through which passers by may look at the beautiful objets d’art artfully presented in them by Mr. Chilvers. Currently one window artfully displays a clutch of pottery pieces by Bernard Leach****, whilst the other has a single modernist vase of white marble set up against a rich red velvet curtain, giving it a very dramatic look.

 

Lettice momentarily looks at her reflection in the the full length plate glass doors on which the Portland Galleries’ name is written in elegant gilt font along with the words ‘by appointment only’ printed underneath in the same hand, before walking proudly inside. As the door closes behind her, shutting out the sound of noisy automobiles and chugging busses and the clatter of footsteps on the busy pavement and the chatter of shoppers, the air about her changes. In the crisp and cool silence of the gallery Lettice’s heels click across the black and white marble floor. Her eyes flit in a desultory fashion around the red painted gallery hung with brightly coloured paintings and populated with tables, cabinets and pillars upon which stand a myriad of different sculptures and other artistic pieces.

 

“Ah! Miss Chetwynd!” a mature frock coated man greets Lettice with a broad smile. Taking her hand, he kisses it affectionately, yet with respect. “How do you do.”

 

“Mr. Chilvers!” Lettice greets the smartly dressed gallery owner with a warm smile and the familiarity of the regular client that she is. “How do you do.”

 

Born Grand Duke Pytor Chikvilazde in the Russian seaside resort town of Odessa, the patrician gallery owner with the beautifully manicured and curled handlebar moustache fled Russia after the Revolution, escaping aboard the battleship HMS Marlborough***** from Yalta in 1919 along with the Dowager Empress Maria Feodorovna and other members of the former, deposed Russian Imperial Family. Arriving a in London later that year after going via Constantinople and Genoa, the Russian emigree was far more fortunate than others around him on the London docks, possessing valuable jewels smuggled out of Russia in the lining of his coat. Changing his name to the more palatable Peter Chilvers, he sold most of the jewels he had, shunned his Russian heritage, honed his English accent and manners, to reinvent himself as the very British owner of an art gallery in Bond Street, thus enabling him to continue what he enjoyed most about being Grand Duke Pytor Chikvilazde and enjoy a thriving arts scene. As one of his more high profile customers, Mr. Chilvers happily fawns over Lettice, delighted that she chooses to patronise his very exclusive gallery for pieces to decorate the interiors of her clients’ homes with.

 

“Always a pleasure to have you present in my humble little establishment, Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Chilvers remarks obsequiously, releasing Lettice’s fingers and clasping his hands together in front of him. “Now, when you telephoned this morning, you mentioned you wanted to buy a painting.” His dark eyes glitter with anticipation. “Which one of my beauties has taken your fancy?”

 

“Well, Mr. Chilvers,” Lettice remarks as she strides across the floor of the gallery, smoothly gliding around pedestals and tables displaying pieces of art. “You’ll hardly be surprised when I tell you that I’m interested in…” But the words she is about to utter die on her tongue as she stares up at the painting hanging above the fireplace. Her mouth slackens and her throat becomes suddenly dry as she looks at it. “Where is it, Mr. Chilvers?”

 

“Ahh! I feared as much.” Mr. Chilvers sighs with regret. “The Picasso.”

 

“Yes! Where have you moved ‘The Lovers’ to, Mr. Chilvers?”

 

“I’m afraid that the Picasso is no longer available, Miss Chetwynd.” he replies, opening his hands in a meek gesture of apology.

 

“No longer available?” Lettice utters disbelievingly.

 

“I’m afraid it’s been sold, Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Chilvers elucidates. When he sees Lettice’s face fall, he continues, “I did try to warn you at my little autumnal soirée, that there were others in the room that evening, who had taken a fancy to ‘The Lovers’. Mister Picasso’s new works are causing quite a sensation this season in fashionable avant-guard circles.”

 

“But I was ready to buy it.” Lettice manages to utter in a strangulated voice.

 

“I’m very sorry, Miss Chetwynd.” he apologises again. “But it is too late.”

 

“I don’t suppose you could give me the name of the person who acquired it, Mr. Chilvers?” Lettice asks furtively with s sly gaze and a shy smile.

 

“Miss Chetwynd!” the gallery owner chides her mildly with a disapproving look. “I can’t believe that you, of all people, would countenance asking me such a thing! Many is the time you have acquired art from me that someone else has desired. You know as well as I do that discretion is my byword, and is therefore that of the Portland Gallery. I would never compromise the anonymity of my purchasers.”

 

“Yes, of course! How foolish of me!” Lettice excuses herself with a shaking head. “Forgive me, Mr. Chilvers.”

 

“There is nothing to forgive, Miss Chetwynd.” he purrs. “But, perhaps there is something else I can show you that might take your fancy?”

 

He indicates above the mantle upon which stand several pieces of art pottery, to the selection of paintings in wooden and gilded frames hanging above it. Lettice looks at the street scenes, landscapes and seascapes painted in watercolours and oils. All are lovely, but uninspiring in her eyes as she stares at their muddy browns and ochres.

 

“No, thank you, Mr. Chilvers.” Lettice says shaking her head slowly, unable to avoid keeping the disappointment from her voice as she speaks. “They lack the… the…” In her regret at having not bought the Picasso on the evening of the Portland Gallery’s autumn show, she cannot find the words as she gesticulates around her.

 

“The vitality, perhaps, Miss Chetwynd?” Mr. Chilvers ventures politely.

 

“Exactly, Mr. Chilvers!” Lettice sighs in a deflated fashion. “The vitality, the colour, the movement, of Mr. Picasso’s works.”

 

“Well, I might be able to get another piece of Picasso’s work, Miss Chetwynd, but as I said, his pieces have been creating quite a stir, so it may be a little while before I get one.”

 

“It doesn’t matter, even if you do, Mr. Chilvers.” Lettice sighs. “It won’t be ‘The Lovers’, will it?”

 

“Sadly, not, Miss Chetwynd.” the gallery owner replies regretfully.

 

The pair fall into silence for a short while.

 

“I do have the work of a promising young English artist named Roland Penrose****** coming as part of a shipment from France, Miss Chetwynd.” Mr. Chilvers says optimistically. “He is a friend of Picasso, and Penrose’s work has been influenced greatly by him. His work is quite striking, I can assure you. I really think you will like it.”

 

“No, no, Mr. Chilvers.” Lettice rebuts sadly. “Thank you, but no. It was ‘The Lovers’ I had set my heart upon.”

 

“I understand, Miss Chetwynd.”

 

“It’s my own idiotic fault for not buying it when you encouraged me to.”

 

The pair fall into silence again as they both look up at the paintings hanging on the gallery wall in front of them.

 

“It is funny, is it not, Miss Chetwynd,” Mr. Chilvers remarks. “What passions can stir the heart.”

 

“Indeed it is, Mr. Chilvers.” Lettice replies with another deep sigh, as she contemplates her own passion, recent heartbreak, and now the renewal of her life that she is about to embark on, as Lady Nettleford-Hughes.

 

*A coiffeuse is the old fashioned term for a woman who is a hairdresser.

 

**Goffer means to crimp, plait, or flute (linen, lace, etc.) especially with a heated iron.

 

***A Mistress of the Robes is a position held by a woman of high rank in the royal household who is in charge of a queen’s wardrobe

 

****Bernard Howell Leach was a British studio potter and art teacher. He is regarded as the "Father of British studio pottery".

 

*****In 1919, King George V sent the HMS Marlborough to rescue his Aunt the Dowager Empress Maria Feodorovna after the urging of his mother Queen Dowager Alexandra. On the 5th of April 1919, the HMS Marlborough arrived in Sevastopol before proceeding to Yalta the following day. The ship took Dowager Empress Maria Feodorovna and other members of the former, deposed Russian Imperial Family including Grand Duke Nicholas and Prince Felix Yusupov aboard in Yalta on the evening of the 7th. The Empress refused to leave unless the British also evacuated wounded and sick soldiers, along with any civilians that also wanted to escape the advancing Bolsheviks. The Russian entourage aboard Marlborough numbered some 80 people, including forty four members of the Royal Family and nobility, with a number of governesses, nurses, maids and manservants, plus several hundred cases of luggage.

 

******Sir Roland Algernon Penrose was an English artist, historian and poet. He was a major promoter and collector of modern art and an associate of the surrealists in the United Kingdom. After studying architecture at Queens' College, Cambridge, Penrose switched to painting and moved to France, where he lived from 1922 and where in 1925 he married his first wife the poet Valentine Boué. During this period he became friends with the artists Pablo Picasso, Wolfgang Paalen and Max Ernst, who would have the strongest influence on his work and most of the leading Surrealists.

 

Whilst this up-market London gallery interior complete with artisan pieces may appear real to you, it is in fact made up completely with pieces from my 1:12 miniatures collection. This tableau is particularly special because almost everything you can see is a handmade artisan miniature piece.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

Central to our photo the copy of “Place du Théâtre Francois, Paris” is a 1:12 miniature painted by hand in the style of Pissarro by miniature artist Ann Hall. The frame was handmade too.

 

The two pen and watercolour images hanging to the right of the photograph are by miniature artist R. Humphreys. I acquired these through Kathleen Knight’s Doll’s House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

The jug and bowl on the fireplace mantle had been hand fashioned and painted by an unknown miniature artisan ceramicist, as are the two vases that flank it. The jug and bowl I acquired from a private collector of miniatures selling their collection on E-Bay, whilst the vases came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

The jug and the vase on the stands to either side of the fireplace are by unknown artisans as well. They were acquired from Mick and Marie’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

The two pedestals either side of the fireplace were made by the high end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq.

thebass.org/art/haegue-yang/

HAEGUE YANG

IN THE CONE OF UNCERTAINTY

 

NOV 2,2019-APR 5,2020

 

In the Cone of Uncertainty foregrounds Haegue Yang’s (b. 1971, Seoul) consistent curiosity about the world and tireless experimentation with materializing the complexity of identities in flux. Living between Seoul and Berlin, Yang employs industrially produced quotidian items, digital processes, and labor-intensive craft techniques. She mobilizes and enmeshes complex, often personal, histories and realities vis-à-vis sensual and immersive works by interweaving narrative with form. Often evoking performative, sonic and atmospheric perceptions with heat, wind and chiming bells, Yang’s environments appear familiar, yet engender bewildering experiences of time and place.

 

The exhibition presents a selection of Yang’s oeuvre spanning the last decade – including window blind installations, anthropomorphic sculptures, light sculptures, and mural-like graphic wallpaper – taking its title from an expression of the South Florida vernacular, that describes the predicted path of hurricanes. Alluding to our eagerness and desperation to track the unstable and ever-evolving future, this exhibition addresses current anxieties about climate change, overpopulation and resource scarcity. Framing this discourse within a broader consideration of movement, displacement and migration, the exhibition contextualizes contemporary concerns through a trans-historical and philosophical meditation of the self.

 

Given its location in Miami Beach, The Bass is a particularly resonant site to present Yang’s work, considering that over fifty percent[1] of the population in Miami-Dade County is born outside of the United States, and it is a geographical and metaphorical gateway to Latin America. Yang has been commissioned by the museum to conceive a site-specific wallpaper in the staircase that connects the exhibition spaces across The Bass’ two floors. This wallpaper will be applied to both transparent and opaque surfaces to accompany the ascending and descending path of visitors within the exhibition. Informed by research about Miami Beach’s climatically-precarious setting, the wallpaper, titled Coordinates of Speculative Solidarity (2019), will play with meteorological infographics and diagrams as vehicles for abstraction. Interested in how severe weather creates unusual access to negotiations of belonging and community, as well as the human urge to predict catastrophic circumstances, the work reflects a geographic commonality that unconsciously binds people together through a shared determination to face a challenge and react in solidarity.

 

Yang’s exhibition encompasses galleries on both the first and second floors of the museum and exemplifies an array of Yang’s formally, conceptually ambitious and rigorous body of work. Considered an important ‘Light Sculpture’ work and one of the last made in the series, Strange Fruit (2012-13) occupies one of the first spaces in the exhibition. The group of anthropomorphic sculptures take their title from Jewish-American Abel Meeropol’s poem famously vocalized by Billie Holiday in 1939. Hanging string lights dangling from metal clothing racks intertwined with colorfully painted papier-mâché bowls and hands that hold plants resonate with the poem’s subject matter. The work reflects a recurring interest within Yang’s practice, illuminating unlikely, less-known connections throughout history and elucidating asymmetrical relationships among figures of the past. In the story of Strange Fruit, the point of interest is in a poem about the horrors and tragedy of lynching of African-Americans in the American South born from the empathies of a Jewish man and member of the Communist party. Yang’s interests are filtered through different geopolitical spheres with a keen concentration in collapsing time and place, unlike today’s compartmentalized diasporic studies.

 

Central to In the Cone of Uncertainty is the daring juxtaposition of two major large-scale installations made of venetian blinds. Yearning Melancholy Red and Red Broken Mountainous Labyrinth are similar in that they are both from 2008, a year of significant development for Yang, and their use of the color red: one consists of red blinds, while the other features white blinds colored by red light. With its labyrinthine structure, Red Broken Mountainous Labyrinth bears a story of the chance encounter between Korean revolutionary Kim San (1905-1938) and American journalist Nym Wales (1907-1997), without which a chapter of Korean history would not survive to this day. Yearning Melancholy Red references the seemingly apolitical childhood of French writer and filmmaker Marguerite Duras (1914-1996). While living in French Indochina (present-day Cambodia, Vietnam, and Laos), Duras and her family experienced a type of double isolation in material and moral poverty, by neither belonging to the native communities nor to the French colonizers, embodying the potentiality for her later political engagement. Despite their divergent subject matter, both works continue to envelop an interest in viewing histories from different perspectives and the unexpected connections that arise. By staging the two works together, what remains is Yang’s compelling constellation of blinds, choreographed moving lights, paradoxical pairings of sensorial devices – fans and infrared heaters – and our physical presence in an intensely charged field of unspoken narratives.

 

A third space of the exhibition will feature work from Yang’s signature ‘Sonic Sculpture’ series titled, Boxing Ballet (2013/2015). The work offers Yang’s translation of Oskar Schlemmmer’s Triadic Ballet (1922), transforming the historical lineage of time-based performance into spatial, sculptural and sensorial abstraction. Through elements of movement and sound, Yang develops an installation with a relationship to the Western Avant-Garde, investigating their understanding in the human body, movement and figuration.

 

Observing hidden structures to reimagine a possible community, Yang addresses themes that recur in her works such as migration, diasporas and history writing. Works presented in In the Cone of Uncertainty offer a substantial view into Yang’s rich artistic language, including her use of bodily experience as a means of evoking history and memory.

 

Haegue Yang lives and works in Berlin, Germany and Seoul, South Korea. She is a Professor at the Staedelschule in Frankfurt am Main. Yang has participated in major international exhibitions including the 21st Biennale of Sydney (2018), La Biennale de Montréal (2016), the 12th Sharjah Biennial (2015), the 9th Taipei Biennial (2014), dOCUMENTA (13) in Kassel (2012) and the 53rd Venice Biennale (2009) as the South Korean representative.

 

Recipient of the 2018 Wolfgang Hahn Prize, she held a survey exhibition titled ETA at the Museum Ludwig in Cologne in the same year, which displayed over 120 works of Yang from 1994-2018. Her recent solo exhibitions include Tracing Movement, South London Gallery (2019); Chronotopic Traverses, La Panacée-MoCo, Montpellier (2018); Tightrope Walking and Its Wordless Shadow, La Triennale di Milano (2018); Triple Vita Nestings, Govett-Brewster Art Gallery, New Plymouth, which travelled from the Institute of Modern Art, Brisbane (2018); VIP’s Union, Kunsthaus Graz (2017); Silo of Silence – Clicked Core, KINDL – Centre for Contemporary Art, Berlin (2017); Lingering Nous, Centre Pompidou, Paris (2016); Quasi-Pagan Serial, Hamburger Kunsthalle (2016); Come Shower or Shine, It Is Equally Blissful, Ullens Center for Contemporary Art, Beijing (2015); and Shooting the Elephant 象 Thinking the Elephant, Leeum, Samsung Museum of Art, Seoul (2015). Forthcoming projects include the Museum of Modern Art (October 2019), Tate St. Ives (May 2020) and Art Gallery of Ontario in Toronto (2020).

 

Yang’s work is included in permanent collections such as the Museum of Modern Art, New York, USA; M+, Hong Kong, China; National Museum of Modern and Contemporary Art, South Korea; Tate Modern, London, UK; The Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum, New York, USA; and The Walker Art Center, Minneapolis, USA. Her work has been the subject of numerous monographs, such as Haegue Yang: Anthology 2006–2018: Tightrope Walking and Its Wordless Shadow (2019); Haegue Yang: ETA 1994–2018 (2018); Haegue Yang – VIP’s Union (2017); and Haegue Yang: Family of Equivocations (2013).

Project 52 - Week 12

 

Believe in yourself and you can achieve,

things you never thought possible.

Believe in yourself and you can discover,

new talents hidden inside you.

Believe in yourself and you can reach,

new high that you thought immeasurable.

Believe in yourself and you can elucidate,

the problem that defy every solution.

Believe in yourself and you can tackle,

the hardest of all situations.

Believe in yourself and you can make,

the complicated things seem simple.

Believe in yourself and you can enjoy,

the beauty of the nature's creation.

Believe in yourself and you can learn,

skill of gaining knowledge from experience.

Believe in yourself and you can discern,

new depths in your life.

Believe in yourself and you can perform,

way beyond your expectations.

Believe in your aim and work towards it,

with elation, determination and dedication.

Believe in yourself and you’ll feel blessed,

as you are the god’s special creation.

 

by Sagar Satpathy.

Turn of a Friendly Card

************************************************************

Based on a true adventures of a rogue active in the waning years of the 1930’s as discovered in the criminal archives of Chatwick University.

 

Act 1

I begin my tale in the present…

 

That afternoon a soiree was given as part of the purchase price of the tickets for the annual Autumn Charity Ball to be presented later that evening at the manor’s great house. Since I was alone, I just went mainly for the free food and to rub my elbows with the wealthy guests who would be in happy attendance there, and at the Ball. I was alone, but certainly not bored. There was a game I enjoyed playing to pass the time at these affairs that entailed scoping out by their dress and day jewels worn, those ladies whom would be most likely to be wearing the better costumes and sparklers that evening. It often proved to be a most beneficial insight into the actions and mannerisms of the very rich. I walked amongst the cheerful guests, eying one here ( a lady in satin and pearls) and another there( a high spirited girl with a diamond pin at the throat of her frilly silken blouse). It was as I was passing the latter that the friend she had been talking too (dressed like a vamp), bumped up against me. I caught her, steadying her as they both giggled. I didn’t mind, for the lassie’s too tight satin sheath tea dress had been an enticement to hold, and the gold bracelet that had been dangling from her gloved wrist had been a pleasure to observe. I kissed her gloved hand, rings glittering, as I apologized gallantly for my clumsiness. Her eyes were bright, almost as bright as the twin necklaces of gold that hung swaying down pleasantly from between her ample bosom. I left them, moving on to greener pastures, and it was very green, all of it….

 

It was then that I detected another pretty lassie. It was her long fiery red hair with falling wispy curls that first captured my attention. She was wearing a fetchingly smart white chiffon party dress that commanded me to acquire a closer examination. She appeared to be a blithe spirit, seemingly content with just being by herself and roaming about with casual elegance, the extensive grounds of the manor proper. I began to discreetly follow her at a distance. Although she did not wear any jewelry, her manner and the eloquent way she moved is what attracted me the most. It would be very interesting to seek her out later that evening and she what she would have chosen to decorate herself with. I followed her as she sojourned into the depths of a traditional English garden with a maze of lushly green trimmed 8 foot high hedges

 

As I strolled through the hedgerows in her wake I allowed my mind to wander its own course. Suddenly I straightened up, my reverie broken by an epiphany of sorts. I allowed myself to grin and the lady whose enchantment I was swollen up in, at that moment turned, and seeing my beaming smile assumed it was for her and gave me a rather cute nod of her head. I answered in same, as I headed en route to a nearby stone garden bench to allow my thoughts to think through themselves.

 

But before I go on, allow me the pleasure to sojourn and reminisce about an incident that occurred several years prior:

*******************

I was still working unaided in those days, travelling on to a new next quest that would take me just outside of Surrey.

I had just purchased my train ticket and had seen my luggage safe on board when I decided to rest in the lounge, it being some 45 minutes before allowed to enter personally aboard. Being so early the lounge was almost deserted, only one other occupant. I assumed she was waiting for someone on an incoming train due to the fact she carried no luggage. She was obviously well off, well dressed in satins and lace, and her jewels shone magnificently in the dim lights. Especially one of her rings, noticeably lying loosely around a finger, it sparkled with an expensive brilliance. I had seen one like it in a tiffanies store, worth almost 250 pounds. But she did not appreciate the show her jewelry was putting on under the lounge lights, for she was fast asleep.

 

I circled around her, aiming for a seat next to her, eyeing her and her possessions carefully. I noticed her purse had fallen off her lap and lay on the floor. An idea popped into my head, and I picked the purse up, and looked around carefully, before placing my plan into action. But I was thwarted as an older, matronly lady was spotted heading our way. I slipped the purse into my jacket and moved off before I was noticed. Of course she came in and took the empty seat across form the sleeping princess, and soon busied herself with knitting. As the older lady had sat down, not quietly, the wealthy lady stirred waking up at the noise. I went into a corner and sat, waiting. The two ladies soon fell into conversation; the minute’s ticked by excruciatingly slow. Soon I noticed we even had more company.

He was a lad of only fourteen, but with a devilish look about him that marked him a kindred spirit to meself, and his quick eyes were darting about taking it all in as he stood outside the paned glass window.

 

It was as the first announcement of boarding the train that I saw a chance for opportunity to strike.

The older lady folded up her knitting and clinching her bag, bid adieu to her new friend,( befuddled a little by the old ladies constant stream of gossip), and headed to the train. I was twenty steps ahead of her and was standing behind the youth as she left the lounge. I tapped him on the shoulder; he looked around at me suspiciously, and then caught sight of the shilling I was holding in front of his nose. I quickly whispered a few words into his ear on how he could earn it, and his grin spread as he bought into my story. I still held onto the shilling as he darted around and inside the lounge. I watched as he ran up behind the lady, circling her, then running in front of her he tripped over her leg, as she helped him up, her hand with the ring reaching down, he turned and spat onto the wrist and sleeve of that hand, than standing he ran away. Running alongside me, I handed him the shilling in passing as he ran off, disappearing in to the street.

 

I went inside and approached the astonished lady, as she was looking for her purse to get a handkerchief, confused as to its absence, while she held up her soiled hand( ring glittering furiously) in utter disbelief. I approached, catching her attention by the soothing words I uttered to her. I took her hand, unbelieving with her at just had happened, and I as I apologized for the youth of today I produced my own silk handkerchief and starting with her silky sleeve, began to wipe it off, continuing my tirade of displeasure and contempt at what had just occurred to the dear lady as I did so. As I finishing wiping her down, ending with her warm slender fingers, I kissed them, just as the last boarding announcement came over (perfect timing!) I let her go, explaining that I must catch my train. I turned and without looking back made the train just as it was letting off steam before chugging off.

 

I gained my private carriage just as the train began to lurch away. It wasn’t until after the train began its journey that I casually removed my silk handkerchief from my pocket and unwrapped it carefully, admiring up close the shimmering, valuable tiffany ring that was lying inside. I pocketed it, and then remembered the purse. I took it out and examined its contents: coin and notes equaling a handsome amount, a gold (gilded) case, embroidered lacy handkerchief, small silver flask of perfume, and ( of all things)a large shimmering prism , like one that would have dangled from a fancy crystal chandelier. A prism?, I questioned with interest as I examined it. It was pretty thing, about the circumference of a cricket ball, but shaped like a pendulum, it shimmered and glittered like the most precious of jewels. Why she had it in her purse? I couldn’t guess, and I saw no value in it, so I pocketed it and allowed it to leave my mind.

 

As I settled into my seat I began to think of the lad I had just met, I had been right on the money as far as his eagerness for mischief. Actually he reminded me of myself at that age, and I wondered if that lad with the shifty eyes would also turn out to follow the same course I had explored.

 

Which Begs the question, what had I turned out to become. And since I’m still reminiscing

I’ll give little background material about me, hopefully I don’t come across as being too conceited about my self-taught skills..

 

I had never been one to take the hard road, and even at a young age I was always looking for angles, or short cuts to make some money.

Once, while watching for some time a street magician and his acts. I observed a pick pocket working the crowd. He approached a pair of well-dressed ladies in shiny clothes, and standing behind them bided his time and then lifted a small pouch from one velvet purse, and a fat wallet from a silken one, then he moved on. Now both ladies were wearing shiny bracelets, one with jewels. I thought that he could have realized a greater profit if he had nicked one or both of the bracelets first, than try for the contents of their purses. The bracelets’ alone would have realized a far greater profit than what he lifted from their purses. It further occurred to me that by mimicking some of the sleight of hand tricks and misdirection that the magician was using on his audience, it could be accomplished. A hand placed on the right shoulder and as the lady turned right, whisk off the bracelet from her left wrist, and excuse oneself, that sort of thing.

 

So, I practiced (on my sisters, who proved to be willing accomplices to “my game”) and learned to pick their purses and pockets. I than moved onto their jewelry, starting by lifting bracelets and slipping away rings, before advancing to the brooches, necklaces and earrings they were wearing. After I was satisfied at my skill level, I went out and worked the streets. Sometimes using my one sister who was also hooked on what I was doing as a willing partner.

But I found myself still not being satisfied, in the back of my mind I thought there had to be a more lucrative way to turn a profit.

 

I’d found my answer when an attractive lady in a rustling satin gown zeroed in on me while I was “visiting” a ballroom. She was jeweled like a princess right up to the diamond band she wore holding up her piles of soft locks like a glimmering crown. The more she drank, the closer she got and I decided that her necklace would definitely help pay my expenses more than the contents of her purse (although I had already lifted the fat wallet from her small purse), and I did have very expensive tastes to pay for. So I took her onto the dance floor.

 

I was amazed at how easily I had been able to open the necklace’s clasp , slipping it over her satiny shoulder, lifting it off and placing it safely in my pocket with almost no effort. Then she decided to be playful once the song ended and brushed up against me. She felt the necklace in my pocket and before I could act she had her hand in and pulled it out.

 

The silly naive twit thought I was teasing her and told me that for my penance I had to go up to her suite in order to put it back on for her. I kept up the charade as best as I could.

 

And that’s where we ended up. A little bit of light fondling began as I placed the necklace back around her throat. I began to tease her, plied her with more and more alcohol as I tried to keep my distance, and virginity. Finally she passed out in a drunken stupor, but not before I had learned where she hid her valuables by suggesting she should lock her jewels up for the night..

 

With her safely unconscious, I began to strip her clean off all her jewels, reclaiming the necklace first. Then I visited all her jewelry casket and began looting it. I even took her small rhinestone clutch with the diamond clasp; of course I already had liberated its small wallet.

 

When I’d left her lying happily asleep in bed, still in her satin gown( the only item left to her that shined), I knew I had found a much more profitable line of “work”

 

So I began making circuits around to the haunts of the very rich, I still kept may hand in pickpocketing, so to speak, but centered only on those “pockets” containing mainly jewelry. I also began to carefully explore new ways of acquiring jewels” in masse”, so to speak.

 

Soon I had accumulated many tricks and tools, having them at my disposal to put into action once required, and for the remaining years up till the present had managed to live quite comfortably off of the ill-gotten gains using them allowed me to acquire.

 

Which brings me back to the train ride, my prism, and the rest of my background story before I retun to the present tale. Please be patient.

*****

So, anyway, I reached Surry without any further incident and disembarking, made my way out to the large country house where I would be staying to take a short rest, vacation if you will. But, pardon the play on words, for there is never any rest for the wicked, is there?

 

I had become acquainted with a servant of the old mansion ( almost a small castle, really) , that was about a mile off. I managed to learn a great deal, and soon found myself, on the pretense of visiting her, exploring the grounds. There was to be a grand ball taking place a couple of weekends away , and the maid had filled my ears with the riches that would be displayed by the multitude of regal ladies making an appearance. I began to think about trying to make a little bit of profit from my vacation. I am not sure how the idea developed, but the prism that I still had in my possession, came up centrally into my plans.

 

Late on the evening of the regal affair, I snuck over, covered head to toe in black, with my small satchel off tools by my side. I set up a candle behind an old stone ivy covered wall in a far corner of the rather large and intricate English garden that surrounded the inner circle around the mansion. I than strung the jewel-like prism in front of it. Standing behind the wall, I would strike the prism with a long stick I was holding whenever I observed sparkles emanating from silkily gowned ladies walking in the distance, solitary or in pairs. The prism would flash fire, sort of like a showy lure being used when fishing in a crooked trout stream. Only I was fishing for far sweeter game than trout. My objective was to trick certain types of jeweled ladies (scatterbrains some may call them) by luring them down onto the path beyond the wall, using their natural curiosity to my advantage.

 

I had at least two strikes rise up to my lure in the second hour.

On was a pretty lady in flowing green satin number, decorated with plenty of emeralds, which, hidden in the shadows, I observed were probably paste. I let her wonder about; as she looked and played with the shiny toy, remaining hidden until she grew bored and wandered off.

The second was a slender maiden wearing a long sleek black gown with long ivory silk gloves. I had never before seen a lady so decked out in jewels, literally head to toe. With the exception of the rhinestones adorning her heels, the rest of the lot was real, so valuably real that I could feel my mouth salivating at the thoughts of acquiring her riches. Now in Edwardian times only older, married ladies would be allowed the privilege of wearing a diamond Tiara. But in these modern times, it had become culturally acceptable for any well-to do lady, single or otherwise, to wear one out in society. Even so, they were still rarely worn, and seldom seen outside the safety of large gatherings. But there it was, a small, delicately slender piece of intricate art that glistened from the top of her head like some elegant beacon. That piece alone was probably worth more than I had made all the last four months combined!

I began to skirt around in the shadows, placing myself in position to cut off her retreat. Her diamonds blazed as she approached, eyeing the swinging prism with total concentration. Which was unfortunate, because as I was about to leave the shadows, she walked into the thorns of a rose bush, screeching out, and attracting the notice of a pair of gentlemen who had just crossed the path quite a ways off, called out when they heard the commotion. She started to become chatty with them, obviously coming on to her rescuers, my prism all but forgotten. Than before I knew it, in a swishing of her long gown, she was gone, “swimming” off before I was able to set me ”hook”.

 

Which I was able to do on the third strike, almost an hour later, just as I was beginning to ponder wither I should call it off and head back home..

 

They were a pair of young damsels in their young twenties. They may have been sisters, or cousins at the least. I still remember how my heart leapt into my throat as they observed my colourful prism and turned down the old flagstone path. I had not seen anyone out and about for some time, so I knew they would be no would be rescuers around to come to their aid

And, best of all, they were both dressed for the kill!

One, the blonde, was clad in a black velvet number that one could cannily describe as quite form fitting. As were the small ropes of pearls that hung from all points of interest, pretty with a matching pricelessness.

But her cousin, as I will refer to her, out shone black velvet quite literally.

This one, a stunning raven haired beauty, wore a long streaming gown of liquid ivory satin. A diamond brooch sparkled as it held up a fold of the gown to her waist. The fold allowed her to show a rather daring amount of a slender bare calf. The brooch was not paste, but a real jewel that had been added for the nights festivities ( To be successful, one learns to read these signs accurately) Her ears and neckline were home to a matching set of pure white diamonds. A wide diamond bracelet graced a bare right wrist ,so she must be left handed I instinctively thought, an observation that would have aided me if I were planning on having a go for slipping the bracelet from her wrist, but tonight I was planning a much more daring attempt to empty the entire jewel casket, so to speak.

 

They went to the prism, playing with it a bit, I had begun to circle around, when I noticed black velvet pointing out with multiple ringed fingers, to something further down the path past the wall.

 

With a clicking of heels I let the pair pass, they apparently wanted to see what was on the other side of the wall. I followed; it was not hard, because the necklace the raven haired one wore, diamonds fully encircling her throat, rippled and sparkled from their perch, caught in the full harvest moon’s cast, giving me more than enough light to shadow them quietly .

 

After a while they caught on that something/someone was following them, but as they turned they could see nothing. I was in black, and hooded, invisible to them in the shadows of the trees. They whispered amongst themselves, now worried, realizing that there were dangers lurking beyond the pale, in their case, the safety of the gardens , especially for ones decked out as they were. They then turned and headed right back from where they had come, right into my waiting arms.

 

It is interesting what good breeding does for young, poised ladies. For, as I stepped out of the shadows, a finger of my right hand to my lips, my Fairborn in my left hand, its black blade glinting wickedly in the moonlight , they did not scream out or shout for help. Instead the pair merely let out small gasps, and then they both, in a quite charming synchronized display of disbelief, place each one hand over their open mouths, and the other upon their perspective necklaces.

 

And as I flourished my wicked looking Fairbairn–Sykes blade in their direction, they unquestioningly reached around and undid those pretty necklaces, tremblingly handing them out to me, like actresses following a well-read script. I took the little pretties and after stuffing them into my satchel, held out again my free hand, my fingers beckoning. Not a word was spoken between us, as the frightened pair of young ladies began removing their shimmering jewels and added them in a neat little growing pile along my open palm. The raven haired girl even undid her brooch without me having to command her to do so. Once I had stashed it all away, I motioned for them to turn back around, than with a little helpful prodding on my part, they began moving forward back down the hill, away from the garden. The one in white hobbling a little now as she kept tripping over the hem of her dress, now no longer held up by the stolen brooch.

 

After we had traveled about 200 meters I had them stop, and take off their high heels. Then picking the pretty things up, I motioned them to turn back around and made them walk back the way we had come in their bare feet, watching the pair awkwardly hobble barefooted down the wooded path. They would be quite a while on their journey back, allowing me more than ample time to make me escape. I threw their shoes off to the side and went briskly the other way, reaching the place was staying at , gaining my room without notice. But not before I had hidden the jewels inside an old stump to retrieve them at a later date. I never really heard so much as a whisper of the incident, other than from the pretty lips of my friendly maiden. The wee hours of the morning before my early departure for the train station found me revisiting the stump and retrieving my satchel and its precious cargo. After hiding it all in a false bottom of my case I laid my head on the pillow and drifted off to sleep as I wondered what had happened to the little prism, marveling at how useful it had ended up proving to be.

 

So, how does this story (journey rather) relate to the one I had already started? Please read on, and enrich your curiosity… my dear readers.

****************************************************************************

Act 2

 

So, with apologies for my lengthy elucidation, but I now return you back to the garden party I was now attending on that warm fall day. But, as you will see, my prism story needed to be told in order to add a bit of flavor to what was about to unfold.

 

As I sat on the garden bench I formulated my plans. I should be able to acquire the main piece tonight at the Ball, I would have time this afternoon to retrieve my ever handy satchel and its array of tools and have it hidden at the spot I had already selected. It was perfect, located at the end of the path I had found, or rather the charming lady in the smart chiffon dress had found for me. A gas lamp would provide adequate light for my “lure”, and it led to a back wood where I could lead any victims away and liberate them of their valuables before making my escape. I rose, just enough time to walk my escape route, before setting up and then be dressed for the evening’s festivities. I looked around, I was alone now, my lady in white had disappeared, following her own course, whatever it may have been.

 

The Autumn Ball that evening was in full swing by the time I arrived. Being a cool fall day, most of the women were wearing long gowns and dresses, and that, for whatever the reason, usually meant they were decked out with more layers of jewelry than say , if it had been the middle of summer. In order to put my plan in action I need and intrinsic piece of the trap, a prism. The one I had once had was long ago lost, a minor pawn in a game to take a pair of princesses.

 

I knew exactly the type of prism required for my plan, and so began mingling amongst the guests with that in mind.

 

I started out by walking through to the chamber like ballroom where a full orchestra was starting to play. The first person I saw from the garden party was the little tramp who had been wearing the too tight satin tea dress. That dress had been replaced with a long silky gown, her gold jewelry replaced with emeralds; including a thin bracelet that had taken the place of the gold one that she had so obligingly dangled in my larcenous path. I decided to avoid her In principle, and in doing so spied someone quite interesting.

 

That someone was a pretty lady in a long velvet gown standing off to one side, idly watching the many dancers out on the floor. The dancing couples were forming an imagery of a rainbow coloured sea of slinky swirling gowns and with erupting fireworks of sparkling jewels, ignited by pair of immensely large chandeliers that hung over the dance floor, setting them off. I made my way, skirting the dance floor to reach her, my eyes on her jewels, which were making pretty fireworks of their own. I happened to walk up just as a waiter with a tray of drinks was passing by. Plucking off a drink I offered it to the lady with one hand, my other hand placed on her back as If to steady myself. She laughed prettily, and taking the drink I met her eyes, as she was focused on reaching and holding the glass in her slippery gloved hand, mine was on the ruby and diamond necklace. My hand behind her had flicked open the simple hook and eye clasp of the antique piece and was in the process of lifting it up and whisking it away from her throat. As I said a few words to her, I pocketed it, while also taking in the rest of her lovely figure and its shiny decorations, before biding adieu. She smiled, her pale bare neckline now quite glaringly extinguished of its fire.

 

It was about an hour later, after spotting, but unable to make inroads with several likely candidates, that I finally struck gold (figuratively). It came in the form of a young couple arguing between themselves in a far corner of the chamber. She was lecturing a rather handsome man in a tux, her jeweled fingers flying in his face. If she hadn’t been moving about in such an animated fashion as she lectured, I may not have even noticed her. But as it happened I did, especially noticeable was the sanctimonious lady’s wide jeweled bracelet that was bursting out in a rainbow of colorful flickers as her hand was emphatically waving, as her long gown of silk swished around with every movement she made. Perfect. I watched for a bit, and sure enough they moved off, the man heading for the patio leading outside, the wealthy girl following him, still giving him lashes with her tongue. I moved and managed to have her bump into me simply by stepping on the hemline of her long gown. For a few seconds I was the one on the receiving end of her wrath, but I took it like a man, I could see in the eyes of her tongue lashed husband, that he was grateful for the respite. I was also grateful; grateful for the quite wide, very shimmering, bracelet that I had removed from her wrist and now was residing in my pocket.

 

I began to leave the patio, but was stopped by a matronly lady in ruffles, laces and pearls, her breath heavy with alcohol. She started to question me on what the couple had been on about. Then without waiting for an answer she launched herself into a tirade of her own, her gem encrusted, silken gloved fingers, waving in my face for emphasis. It was almost ten minutes before I was able to make my escape. Which I did, but not before slipping off one of the lecturing ladies vulgarly large cocktail rings.

 

I headed onto the patio; the time was getting ripe for my plan, which I was now ready to put into motion, now having acquired its most essential piece. I went to the end of the large patio, weaving in and out of the by now well liquored guests whom had assembled there. Across the way I saw a lady tripping over her own gown. By the time I reached her she had fallen down, giggling merrily. Two of us rushed to her aid, she was busy gushed her thanks to the rescuer she knew, while ignoring the one she didn’t! Which was unfortunate on her part, for by ignoring me, she also was ignorant of the fact that I was busy lifting the small stands of black pearls from her wrist. I left unnoticed, much like a shadow fading out of the light, or at least that’s how it seemed. Finally I reached the patios outer edge without further incident, or gain. I went on the grass and turned a corner with the intention of going, post haste around the house to reach the gardens by the long way, hoping not to be seen by anyone. But I no sooner turned the corner, when I realized that it was not to be the case.

 

It was my blithe spirit in white chiffon from the garden party, pardon me, soiree. She was unescorted, looking up at the moon above a stone turret with one lit window, so intently that my presence had not been noticed. I had been absolutely correct in my observation of her as far as what she would be wearing for the evening. For what she had lacked in ornaments at the soiree, she had more than made up for in the evening festivities. She was absolutely gorgeous, resplendent in as beautiful a silvery satin gown that I had ever witness. It was just pouring down, shimmering along her delightful figure. Her long blazing red hair was still curling down and free, but now a pair of long chandelier earrings cascading down from her earlobes, were peeking out every now and then as they swayed with her every movement. Her blazingly rippling necklace was all diamonds, dripping down the front of her tightly satin covered bosom, twinkling iridescently like an intensively glimmering waterfall. Her slender gloved wrists were home to a pair of dangling diamond bracelets that were almost outshone by her many glistening rings. All in all she was quite a lure all too herself

 

I came up to her, starling her from her reverie. Taking up her hand, I looked into her startled, suddenly blushing face. I complimented her on the fine gown she wore. She thanked me, and I could see I that she suddenly remembered she me as the chap who she thought smiled to her in the garden. She seemed to accept my compliment quite readily. I chanced it( although Lord knows I was short on time) and asked her to a dance. I did not think she would agree, so it was with a little bit of surprise, hoping she would politely decline and walk off, leaving me free to go about my business unobserved. But she accepted, and I will admit that my heart leapt as she agreed (although in the back of my mind I knew I should be off if my plan was to work). The music had stopped so we made small talk as we slowly walked back to the ballroom. Her name was Katrina. It seems she was waiting for someone, which suited my plans, but he was late and so she had time. Which may have sounded dismissive, but from the apologetic way she said it, it was anything but the sort.

 

The orchestra started to tune back up as we entered, and taking her offered hand up, was soon lost in the elegance of my appealing partner. It was a long dance, and a formal one, but I could tell she was subtly anxious to be off on her meeting, as I was to be off to my own adventure. But Katrina did not really allow it to show, which was very uncharacteristic of her someone with her obvious breeding. So I was ready when the by the end of the music she begged her condolences and took flight. I watched her as she fluidly moved away, her jewels sparkling, all of them. On her mission to meet Mr. X I thought, for whom I was already harboring a quite jealous dislike. I should be off I thought to meself.

 

But I stood, still as stone; totally mesmerized by the way Katrina’s swirling silvery satin gown was playing out along her petite, jewel sparkling figure. It wasn’t till the last of her gown swished around a corner out of sight that I moved, but not without having to shake my head to clear the thoughts of her out of it. Well old son, focus. For by now the guests were starting to wander a bit afield in the waning hours of the Autumn Ball, and my small window of opportunity was closing fast. If my little plan was going to have any chance of success it would have to be now.

 

I walked out and made my way to one of the outside exist of the garden wall. Reaching into my pocket as I did so, fingering the bracelet, now cold, that had belonged to the quarrelsome lady,and soon would be playing another role, far from one its former mistress would ever have dreamed off. I also felt my new acquisition, still warm from my dance partner’s body. I will admit that I had felt a twinge of regret for taking it from a lady I had found to be most charmingly captivating. But slipping off the diamonds up and away from her throat had been as temptingly easy as it had been automatic. I had advantageously made use of the sleekness of her scintillatingly silky gown, and with the distractions created by the movements of the dance, successfully managed to keep Katrina’s attention safely diverted from the reality of why my fingers were ever so gently, caressingly sliding along her slippery gowns neckline. The truth was I had originally placed my hand there because it had felt so right, and I was a little startled when my fingers had subconsciously started playing with her necklaces clasp. Before I knew it, they had flicked open the gemstone clasp of her obviously expensive diamond necklace, and had lifted up. As I watched out of the corner of my eye, almost like I was a spectator, as opposed to being the perpetrator, I saw the chain move up and over her shoulder; its diamonds sparkling with is as the necklace disappeared from view behind her back.

It was a favored technique that I had perfected to the point that by this stage of my career I nearly always acquired my objective. But, as odd as it sounds, I was not happy with myself on this occasion.

 

But I did not long dwell on my mixed feelings on taking the charming lass’s diamonds, for by now I had reached my place of ambush. It was in one of the farthest reaches of the garden, at a bend on the end of a long path that, with a gas lamp at its beginning just off the patio, would allow me to see from some distance off. Behind me was a break in the hedge wide enough for a person to walk through comfortably. It was here, off a tree limb, underneath a second ornate cast iron gas lamp, which was now lit, that I hung the shimmering bracelet that I had sought out and acquired for just that reason

 

I walked around and saw that it could be seen flickered off in the distance from the woods, Perfect! Earlier I had hidden my satchel with a hood and knife and bit of rope in the hollow of an old tree. I now retrieved them, and after getting ready, found my position and waited. At 10 minutes past the first hour of my wait, with nary a single glimpse of anyone, I started to fidget. My corner may be just a bit too desolated I was beginning to admit to myself. It seemed that most of the guests were staying by the patio. I was starting to think that I should pack it in, possibly rejoining the guests for one last parting( of someone from her Jewelry). I was just reaching down to pick up my satchel when I suddenly saw something flash under the gas lamp at the beginning of the path, and my senses immediately perked up. I watched as the wisps of rich shimmery satin moved closer, I stiffened, drooling with anticipation, the game was afoot.

  

I could see clearly the flickering jewels she wore, and by their blazing sparkles of rippling fire, I knew that my long vigil would not have been in vain. As the lady drew I recognized her gown of silvery satin! I knew who was making those tantalizing flashes of appealing treasures. Katrina!

 

I watched as she approached, in all her glittering elegance. My heart and conscious was in turmoil, but I knew I probably would not get a second chance. I could not let her get away unscathed. Beside, from the shock of being confronted with a masked scoundrel wielding a wicked blade, she would be in no shape to recognize her assailant. She stopped, apprehensively looking back towards the bright lights of the Manor, Then turning back I saw she had a self-satisfied smile creeping upon her face. She reached up, and undoing her hair, shook it down, curls of softness cascading down, hanging loosely down. It was as she performed this provocative act, that I saw her eyes open wide in curiosity; she had spied my pretty little “prism”. The charming fish was hooked.

 

I waited, watching her approaching ever closer to fate, and from my concealment, I basked in her glow. My heart beating fast, my adrenaline pumping, for the remaining jewels (I thought of her necklace in my custody) that she possessed I already had witnessed were quite valuable. She passed my hiding spot and went to the hanging, shimmering object. As she reached up, looking around, she failed to see me approaching in the shadows. I came up from behind, jabbing a finger in her back as I reached her, I gruffly in no uncertain terms, snarled for her to freeze and make no sound. She stiffened under my touch, but made no move or outcry. I went around; pointing my knife in her direction, looking into her sad doe wide eyes as she realized what was going to happen next. She was trembling; from fear I guessed, and knew I had her right where I wanted. As I made my demands upon her, gimme them jewels sister, she, not surprisingly, was very compliant in giving them up to me. She reached for her necklace last, and looked entirely shocked to find her throat bare, as she searched the neckline of her gown I saw her look into my hand, now dripping with her precious jewelry, almost as if to see if she had not already removed it. She looked apologetically into my eyes, startled; almost pleading that she didn’t know what had happened to it. I just played dump. She than spoke for the first time, sir, may I ask to keep my purse? Her words would have instantly melted even the coldest chunk of ice, I looked down at the little silvery clutch hanging from her arm on its rhinestone chain, I nodded, indicating that she could, and saw relief wash over her face. I told her she now needed to turn around and walk off into the woods ahead of me. She hesitated, and I told her no harm would befall her, I had no intentions along those lines.

 

About 5 meters in I stopped her, and had her remove her shoes, as she bent over to undo the high heels rhinestone clasps I watched her gown tightly outlining her figure. She tripped on the hem of her gown, and as she attempted to keep her balance, accidently let her purse slip off her shoulder. Without thinking I reached down to pick it up for her as she tried reached for it simultaneously

 

The small purse was far heavier than it should have been. Curious I opened it, finding that it contained a rather extensive array of mismatched jewelry, glittering in unbelievably expensive fire . I looked into Katrina’s horror struck eyes dumb founded, as she looked guiltily into mine. The gig was up. The jewels belonged to the lady of the manor, my muse in silver was a thief, a female version of me very self.

 

Aye, what’s this than luv? I questioned her as she looked into my eyes, hers large with a mixture of fright and disbelief. She melted before me, fainting, I caught her in my arms, and it was no ruse. I held her as she came to, holding her warm, silky figure lovingly to mine. I did not know what to think. Nor could I ever explain what possessed me to do what I did next. As she came to, her eyes opened, and I removed my mask, looking back into them deeply.

 

Oh, she gasped, I’m glad it was you, startled that she had said the words out loud. She than started to coyly blushes, quite demurely. Something sparked in me, and unless she was an incredibly good actress, it did also for Katrina. Our eyes both looked into the others, melting away in the lust of the moment. We embraced, deeply, and I held her squirming warm slick figure tight in my enveloping arms. I looked over her shoulder, eyeing the glistening bracelet hanging from its branch. To catch a thief, the thought suddenly opened in my mind, what a great title for a novel I thought to myself, as I buried my nose into Katrina’s luxuriously soft hair.

 

We talked for a bit, walking off into the woods, then she looked into my eyes again, a coy, look that melted me on the spot, and that was the end of it, we embraced again, and wholly gave ourselves to one another. What about your man I asked suddenly remembering, my man she questioned , than oh, you mean the Lord, I was waiting for him to come down from smoking in his tower study, that’s where the lady’s jewels are kept. She broke into an Irish brogue as she said the last bit, and that I guessed was her natural tongue. she laid a hand on the side of my face, thanks for being jealous though, me lad.

I should collect my lure I said, which made her smile; it was such an enticing smile at that. We started to head back and watched as it dangled in front of us flickering. With a far off look in her green eyes, Katrina spoke as if in deep though.

 

The daughter of the house, she has a bracelet on like the one you have dangling, a bracelet of diamonds that I had taken a fancy to, wishing it had been in the safe along with the rest of the ladies of manors jewelry. I knew who she was talking about. The one in green taffeta I asked? Aye lad, that’s the one. Actually her necklace would be just as easy, and worth more I said. Just then her bright green eyes gleamed, Give me about a half an hour, she told me, we will put your little lure to use again. She noticed my hesitation, don’t worry luv she said soothingly placing a gloved hand to my cheek, no longer was it sparkly with its stolen bracelet and rings. I’ll leave my purse with you, can’t very well be carrying it around now can I? I nodded my consent, my mind burning with the thoughts she had alluringly placed there.

  

She turned, and then hesitated; turning back she said I probably should not go back in naked luv. I smiled, reaching in I pulled out her necklace and placed it around her throat. With a little gasp she blurted, so it was you, I was wondering who and when it had happened. It’s not the first time I’ve had me jewels lifted, but it’s a bloody annoyance to have to let them get away with it, crawls under my skin to have pretend not to notice so that I don’t draw any attention to me self before making my move to steal the posh ones jewels.

 

But you, mister, I never felt as much as a prickling. I was ready to assume my pretties had been a victim of a broken clasp this time. I gave a little nod in acceptance. That wasn’t exactly a compliment lad, she said in what I hopped was a subtle jest. Just last summer some clumsy bugger slipped of me earrings, my favorite pearls, as we were danc… she stopped, seeing the guilt in my eyes. Men! As thieves you are all of the same skin she spat out angrily, or attempted to sound angry, for the look in her eyes to me she wasn’t. I best be off, before I change me mind about out little endeavor.

 

With that she swirled around on her heels, and started off, but not before turning and giving me an extremely coy look of interest. As she swirled back around I heard her say loud enough for my ears, I’ll learn me self to be a picker of pockets, see how males like to be taken advantage of in their vulnerabilities! She nodded to herself as she said it. Then suddenly she stopped, than twirled on her heels, her gown swirling enticingly along her figure. Looking me dead in the eye she said, “Vie ne est pas d'attendre que la tempête , mais d'apprendre à danser sous la pluie” !

 

What does that mean? I questioned in a low voice, perplexed.

 

Maybe, Mon Cheri, someday I will tell you… And with that she turned on her heel, her gown once again swirling about, and went, determinedly, swishing her way back up the path. I just watched. I had never heard anyone speak French with an Irish Brogue and I had found it to be rather provocative!

 

I watched as she swished and swayed her way back through the hedge and regained the path leading back to the manor. Her plan was simple; she would lead the daughter of the house to my corner and as she had done, go out with her to look at the swinging charm. I would then make my appearance, rob both ladies of their finery, and telling the daughter to wait until I released her friend, walk off with Katrina as a hostage, and we would both take off and make good our escape. A simple plan, so simple it should actually work.

 

So, there I was. Holding a purse with a small fortune in jewels, my pocket full of more jewels worth an additional pretty farthing, and her charms were wearing off by her leaving. And my thieving nature coming back, reawakened from the spell they had been under!

 

The devil of my conscious crept out on my shoulder, the angel markedly absent from the other.

 

Look mate, she may not be all she seems, and possibly has some other game in mind. Maybe she does have a male confidante helping her out… and was actually on her way to fetch him. He said in my inner ear. And, after all, you took her diamonds twice, didn’t ye now? Do you really think shell forgive you of that me lad?

 

And there is no honor amongst thieves, as the saying goes, he added as a closing argument...

 

I rolled it over in my mind…I could leave, absconding with it all, book a cruise to the states or down under where there lay untried fertile grounds to ply my trade. Not to mention working over my fellow passengers aboard the cruise ship while they attended the fancy affairs that were always going on, or so the brochures always seemed to show……

 

Then In the distance I caught a wisp of Katrina’s long silvery gown. She was coming, and not only with the daughter of the manor, but also with a spare. For I could see a purple coloured gown swishing alongside with the prey in rustling green taffeta.. I watched as all three ladies, resplendent with the rippling fiery gems they all possessed, came up the path, gowns sweeping out , shimmery from the now misty distance.

 

The thought of making my escape with all the loot continued to haunt me, there was still time now to take off without notice, or I could rob all three, and leave with purple silk as my hostage, Katrina would not be able to say anything on chance of giving up her part of the game, or I could just be a good lad and sty with the script that Katrina had written. Take a chance, roll the dice and believe that she was all she had me believing she could ever be.

 

As they came closer I knew my time was running out. The thoughts of just looking out for myself kept coming up playing the devil with my conscience as the precious seconds ticked away…

 

No honor amongst thieves…

What will it be, old boy I challenged myself,

What will you have it be?........

To see what his decision ultimately was, and the eventual path it led to, see the album question answered)

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Life is not about waiting out the storm, but about learning to dance in the rain.

Vie ne est pas d'attendre que la tempête , mais d'apprendre à danser sous la pluie .

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Courtesy of Chatwick University Archives

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The River Lune in Lancaster, Lancashire.

 

It runs for 53 miles through the counties of Cumbria and Lancashire. Several elucidations for the origin of the name Lune exist. Firstl, it may be Brittonic and derived from lǭn meaning "full, abundant", or "healthy, pure". Or that it came from Old English Ēa Lōn a phonetic adaptation of a Romano-British name referring to a Romano-British god Ialonus who was worshipped in the area.

 

Information Source:

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/River_Lune

 

VIDEO: www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jli9s_PCKFs

 

••• SCRIPT/LYRICS: •••

 

MOLEMAN'S EPIC RAP BATTLES!!!!!

 

STEVEN UNIVERSE…

 

…VS…

 

…NORMAN BATES!

 

BEGIN!

 

Steven Universe:

We…

…Shouldn't have to bother trading blows two-sidedly,

Because your brain has excess vacancies if you'd go fighting me!

I'm checking in to checkmate chumps, no need for shelter from a rainstorm,

And won't be here come the morning, but I'll tell it to you plain, Norm:

You look like if they made Andrew Garfield fuse with Seymour Skinner,

But don't start up, spinning webs of lies, when I drop by for dinner;

Fans of mine go flaming lame establishments that do me wrong,

So put your rounds on hiatus and learn to love the Steven-bomb!

 

Norman Bates:

I'll not be tolerating fat-ass posers, preaching love and peace,

With ukulele-strumming sappier than IZ's…

Mother, please…

This freak's whore matron lives inside his gut, straight out of Total Recall,

So if you've got any, show some; go tell off the little meatball!

Wipe that wormy smile right off your bean-headed face and listen:

I go more than just a little mad come time to lay some dissing

On the white male Cap of S.J.W. America,

Who's far from either of his home-worlds, faced with trouble to be wary of!

As my guest of dishonor, your roasting will be a shoo-in

For this host who boasts the most, and you alone will come out ruined!

Mother raised no fool who'd heed the crap this half-breed bastard states;

Vince Vaughn's performance schtick more firmly grasped the task to master Bates!

 

Steven Universe:

Those bars couldn't scratch me were my gemstone gypsum; quite contrarily,

These triple-A-grade raps are cutting you with crystal-clarity!

A far cry from restorative, what I spit here amounts to acid,

And you'll share your dad's demise, like:

Connie: He can't see without his glasses!

Steven: Anyone, though, could see plain that your mom's off her wretched rocker;

If I knew no better, I'd swear I'd just heard three separate squawkers!

You're trapped in a private bubble by that hag's controlling force;

I've watched stabler relationships get straight self-dragged to ocean floors!

I do hope that you like it in your little motel; honestly,

But you'll get put to bed for good if you don't show some modesty,

You meager mouse! This tiger of a skillionaire's about to pin you;

Make like other feline forms with your aggression: discontinue!

No fat fry-boy'd fantasize your words'll get the best of me:

You'll be force-fed mine, á la far more infernal such entities,

'Cause I mean Bismuth: you don't wanna push me past my point of breaking!

Call me Ste-Van Sant; I'm matching you for every shot you're taking!

 

Norman Bates:

"Crystal clarity", he says; let me have at that addled shit,

And I'll show him elucidation!

Stay your hand; I'll handle this!

Boy, you can handle taking out the garbage; you ain't up to snuff

To carry this the way I can on your two legs!

Enough; enough!

Denying my lyrics' meatiness? Your own fanatics won't be happy;

They'll deem it more problematic than the crap they did to Zamii!

Understand me, or'd Rebecca Sugar-coat that, true to form

For a tart-bitch whose art-list starts with Eds and Ratatouille porn?

Get out of my hair, and hop into some carnationed walking dead's:

You'd better run-run-run away; I'm making like the Talking Heads,

And burning down the house until I'm free of all your verbal sinning,

For this battle, as a contest, ended with its own Beginning!

Watch me prove your emo matriarch inferiorly powered:

Knock you off your balanced breakfast, friend, 'til tears rain down in showers!

It's your final curtain call if you don't stay this confrontation;

Forty thousand bucks says you won't last halfway through its duration!

You're no Brody Baker, boy: best not boost beefs by bashing mamas;

Yeah, it's taxing that I'm asked to keep her acts from catching drama,

But I'll always do it for her for as long as we're together,

And that is to say, and don't forget it: you'll be here forever.

 

Steven Universe:

Threads alleging you descent-deceived were reeled back to the Spool?

I need no retroactive tricks; spit real-time counters as we duel,

While twenty-three years won't see you come back home once I've testified,

Seen through this nightmare by the same free speech ol' Dylan exercised,

Plus the same self-defense young Dylan exercised against your fury,

For this E.R.B.'s like A&E: I'll end you prematurely,

And you'll thank me for it, surely! Your whole outlook is defective,

So step off Susanna; let me let you see the full perspective:

Your split mind's cracked like a Rutile, and as for off-color jokes,

A sixfold grandma's Alice version'd have to wonder what you smoke!

Alarming points were made the day returning Homeworld forces landed,

And with six-decade-old spoilers, I'm being still-heavier-handed:

You should put your mom someplace, alright, but no madhouse will have her;

Try a mausoleum for the morbid, mummified cadaver,

And while hard-to-swallow truths quite clearly aren't your cup of tea,

The glass that poisoned her sure was, although you struck reluctantly,

And that's the sole detail for which I wouldn't give full clemency,

Because the mommy dearest to this boy was his worst enemy!

In fact, Crawfordian comparisons would paint her ire tamer:

If you'd wound up back inside her womb, she'd pay for wire hangers!

Now, your psyche's self-implanted with a vengeful vestige of her,

Mortally unmaking matches to divest you of a lover,

Save for memories of back when you slept next to one another!

Even Oedipus would go:

Lars: You are the densest motherfucker… AAAAAH!

 

(*REE, REE! REE, REE! REE, REE! REE, REE!*)

 

Norman Bates, "Norma Bates":

Fade to black for now for Norm, for Mother knows best in these matters;

Son, you're staring down the singular most seminal of slashers,

Whose small serving size of slayings was hardly hearty for the reaper,

But tonight, I'm stacking up the bodies, starting with a threefer!

I can see your geological progenitor's revered,

But single-year-old spoiler alert: they had you wrongly-steered.

A big ol' birdie couldn't tell all on her alleged act of violence,

But when I speak what the truth is, don't expect a smash to silence.

Her remaking took one stone's turn to a dorsal point of view,

But her deception can't be spun to any sort of rosy hue,

And you would know it, too! I heard it from a little fairy-Cartman:

You yourself confessed in your pursuit of planetary pardon

That you are incarnate of her soul, reforged in flesh and mind;

Made as a mule for managing the mess past forms had left behind.

She quit on life and ditched her proven, tried and true confidant-rock

To hitch a ride on Mr. Universe's suiciding cock!

Now, it's the Pink entelechy entire's trial, Quartz and all:

I'll be judge, jury, executioner and tearer-down of walls,

Of arteries, that is, so let me drive my knife into your heart,

And crack you to your very core; deny your life a third restart!

 

Steven Universe, "Pink Diamond":

Well, then, if you'd insist, a planet-champ commander's what I'll be,

Outspoken with sardonic humor and a hammer's subtlety!

This Diamond does the hitting here, stepped to the plate to pitch a flow

Against the sour transvestite of the Hitchcocky Horror Picture Show!

This bitch should know: a Gem-boss hero's got stars in his eyes;

Behind yours lives what the superior Sam Loomis summarized!

They ought to put you in a zoo, man: not some kind of Eden, either:

For if Norman's kind were mankind's norm, then I wouldn't even be here!

Don't complain of abdicating blame, Ms. "Wouldn't-harm-a-fly";

Bates is to Osborn as that carcass is to some wack Goblin mask!

I'm restoration of a culture's cornerstone, personified

For reformation from its harshness as a grand iconoclast!

I'm making Homeworld great again, though oppositely to America,

When all-inclusive love is what I usher in the era of,

Aberrance such as parents of apparent nuts as gimmicks,

Madly mimicked to extents of axing pregnant mates, omitted!

Don't expect you'll get me fretting with your serial killings;

I'd be hard-pressed to feel less threatened from your cereal-shilling,

And bringing up ride-hitching, are we? You'll regret that something awful

As you're finished with as faint fanfare as Bloch's own second novel!

End your call, "Ed"; you aren't even modeled, truly, after Gein;

Try some pathetic, obese maker of B movie magazines!

A single bound brought me up here for a return long-overdue;

There'll be no shortage, though, of legwork as I walk all over you!

 

Norman Bates, "Norma Bates":

Go get encased to taste your race of faking's fate; launched into space.

I'll Gallagher-smash all your Pikmin progeny, then break your your face,

While I fall closer to the form of flora Silverstein portrayed:

I give my all in setting out to take your everything away;

Leave but a stump, sunk in the swamp! I'll bust you, no failing, no contest:

Shatter Pink for sure, for real, and thus to Mohs' scale in the process;

Recreate some Swedish taxidermy with your dainty lion,

And we'll see if you still shine on after I get crazy, Diamond!

You'll say "Uncle" soon enough, and no, it isn't April Fools':

I'd blast you back to Kindergarten, if you'd ever been to school,

And just as your rogue runt of her dark army's litter slept too long,

You'll be left six-feet-under-grounded for the next millennium!

I speak authoritatively, like your big sisters blasting light,

To wreck your body, soul and mind, and do it all in black and white,

Suspenseful in the real way with the buildup to my blow-barrage,

While you have all the tact of your wack fifty-foot Nicki Minaj!

Yo, here's my fifty cents: it's down the drain for your hopes in the worst way;

Gonna watch your life ebb out like it's every one of your birthdays!

Getting diced to pieces on the mic, you'll be reduced to tears,

So emulate your own turf's breed of Onion, boy: avert your ears!

I'm going out on a limb here, although some Peridot, I ain't:

Log four-five-one will soon attest the Steven perished on this date!

You couldn't attack me free of peril in your own room of illusion;

Go and ask Maude's buddy Harold: Mother knows no substitution!

 

Steven Universe, "Pink Diamond":

Qu'est-ce que c'est; so, you suppose your killer win a fated thing?

You ought to know: it isn't over 'til the skinny lady sings!

You couldn't get a clue on my case if your name was Peter Sellers,

'Cause you're out of your mind, Bates: a fruitloop; best keep to the cellar!

As for lapses from the actual, I've had them, too; outright

Enacted past-abstractions, napping, trapped on freakshow jungle moons,

But in no dream would I stand for this! The tear-shedding you incite

Undoes that of the blood you've spilled, like:

Lars: …Bada-bingo, bongo-boom.

Steven: The spelling-out of your psychosis marked the low point of an opus,

But give me eight bars, and I'll succinctly state your diagnosis:

You're corrupted to the core; devoid of happiness in life,

And that's ignoring all the people you go stabbing with your knife!

I've pacified planet-sized Frankensteins smack-dab inside Earth's mantle,

But your mental clusterfuck is far too huge to help be handled!

Blue and Yellow both agree that such fixation is pathetic;

Tell me: what's the use of feeling murderously schizophrenic?

 

Norman Bates, "Norma Bates":

You chose poorly with time-travel, to which you yourself bore witness,

Yet it henceforth was forgotten, like some Harry Potter business.

I assure you: in this battle, you'll forevermore be finished;

Penetrating past projections, I defy blow-blocker gimmicks!

Plus, don't bother if it's some old sword you'd take up, grasp and harness;

Your girlfriend could do it better, and I'd snap that crap regardless!

While the junk involved when you two get together's dubious,

I'll slice you even, Steven; to the most distinct of juicy bits!

I'll see blood volumes lowered quarts, subjecting Rose's bud to nipping;

Give the biggest boot to Gems and holograms since twenty fifteen!

Follow fandom's lead and conjure yet another lame persona;

There's no way, dear, you'd escape your stay here were your name Rihanna!

Mother, this has gotten out of hand; it can't continue!

Shove it;

It's too late to turn your back against me now, boy, and besides,

Where was this protest when our other pretty patrons kicked the bucket?

But he's just a kid!

Trust me: within, a stone-cold slut's what hides!

I'll be your Sandman, though think less Chordettes, and more Metallica;

It's exit, son and enter, mother as she's forced smack out of ya',

So welcome to your final comeback, Pink! Skipping all celebratory formalities,

Cut it straight to the chase: make your case; be yourself as you're met with a gory fatality!

 

………

 

Steven Universe:

…DON'T CALL IT A COMEBACK! There's only Steven; has been for years,

Like motherfuckers adhered to Ghostbusters' worst fears!

With lines between being finally drawn, let lines one sees be finely-drawn

As inner light rejoins the ether with a scream of FEIM ZII GRON!

Even while you're repentant, evil taints your every essence,

Cupid's arrow for potential sweethearts made a deadly sentence,

And it's evident: change your mind? I'd sooner get through to Crowder;

Your own better half alone could hope to shoo the shrew from power.

 

Norman Bates:

Don't just stand there, now; go after him!

I shouldn't do it…

What?!

Son, I command you: pick that blade back up, and put it through his gut!

I won't…

You'll let me at once out of your mind's space, you useless sack of nuts!

How about I'll defiantly beat a dead horse hind-faced, abusive hag to dust?!

Noooooo…

…And now it's over, isn't it? Yet, I can't just move on,

When murderous maternal madness has maintained for much too long;

They'll surely lock me up forever. Even so, though, I'll be free, then,

From delusion, dominance and the darkest of inner demons…

…And Steven.

 

WHO WON?

 

WHO'S NEXT?

 

I DECIDE!

 

MOLEMAN'S EPIC RAP BATTLES!!!

Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.

 

Today however we are not in Lettice’s flat. Instead, we have followed Lettice south-east, past the Royal Academy, across Picadilly, through the neighbouring borough of St James’ with its private clubs and gentlemen’s tailors, over St James’ Park and Birdcage Walk where once the Royal Menagerie and aviaries of King James I and King Charles II had stood, to Queen Anne’s Gate* in Westminster, lined with fine early Eighteenth Century townhouses. Walking beneath a cloudy spring sky with teasing peeks of blue between the rolling white and grey clouds, Lettice strides up the street with unhurried footsteps, cutting a fine figure in her three-quarter length fox fur coat with a wide brimmed red felt hat positioned at a jaunty angle on her head. The heels of her red pumps click along the footpath as she looks up pleasurably and admires the simple, elegant façades of the red and rich brown brick buildings around her, all set with rigid rows of twelve, nine and six pane Georgian windows. She pauses to make a closer inspection of one of the ornately carved canopies** over the main door of a residence. Painted in white to match the window frames of the house, the wood of the canopy is finely carved with a mixture of flowers, draped festoons, oak leaves and acorns. In the centre, the face of a woman, possibly Queen Anne herself, peers out surrounded by the curls of her hair and lace of her collar. It is then that she realises as she notices the shiny brass numbers nailed to the black painted door, that she has reached her destination. “Very nice.” she murmurs in a mixture of approval and admiration. She can hear the muffled sound of distant hammering but cannot tell whether it emanates from the house she stands before, or another in the row. Looking behind her she notices several tradesmen’s vehicles parked amidst the smarter Austins and Worsleys along the street. Walking up the two Portland stone steps to the front door she notices a bell pull sticking out of the red brick to the left of the door. She pulls it. From within the house the sound of a loud bell echoes hollowly, implying that the interior is devoid of furnishings. She waits, but when no-one comes to open the door, she exercises the bellpull for longer. Once again, the bell echoes mournfully from deep within the house behind the closed door. Finally, a pair of shuffling footsteps can be heard along with indecipherable muttering and then a vaguely familiar fruity cough as the latch to the door turns.

 

“Mrs. Boothby!” Lettice exclaims, coming face-to-face with the wrinkled face of her charwoman*** as the old Cockney woman opens the door to the townhouse.

 

“Well, as I live an’ breave!” she exclaims in return with a broad and toothy smile before coughing loudly again, making Lettice wince. “If it ain’t Miss Lettice! G’mornin’ mum!” Dressed in a bright floral cotton pinny over her dress and with an equally bright and cheerfully patterned scarf tied around her head, she bobs a curtsey respectfully. “You must be ‘ere to see Mrs. ‘Atchett! C’mon in wiv ya!”

 

Lettice walks through the door held open by Mrs. Boothby and steps into a well proportioned vestibule devoid of furnishings, but with traces of where furniture and paintings once were by way of tell-tale shadows and outlines on the floor and walls. Now that she has stepped into the townhouse, she can hear the hammering and sawing of tradesmen more clearly, confirming that the work she heard from outside is happening in this building. Ahead of her a carved dividing screen of two burnished mahogany columns with a delicate glass lunette**** of seven panes of clear glass splaying out from a central semi-circle above, frames an equally empty hallway at the end of which she can see the sweeping curl of a bannistered Georgian staircase with dainty spindles along it. Only a non-working clock with a brass frame showing the wrong time graces the walls of the hallway, imbedded into a space above a closed doorway that may possibly lead downstairs the servants’ quarters in the basement.

 

“Come this way, mum. Mrs. ‘Atchett’s frough ‘ere, just up the stairs, in the drawin’ room on the first floor.” Mrs. Boothby says. “If you can call it that right now.” The old woman leads the way, her low heeled shoes slapping across the dusty, stained and badly damaged parquetry floor, pieces of which are missing or sticking up, splintered. Noticing Lettice’s concerned look, the Mrs. Boothby goes on, “You mustn’t mind the mess, mum. It’s all sixes ‘n’ sevens ‘round ‘ere, what wiv tradesmen thumpin’ in and out in their ‘obnail boots*****. C’mon up.”

 

“How is it that you are here, Mrs. Boothby?” Lettice asks in bewilderment as she follows the older woman down the hallway and up the staircase, which she finds is carpeted in a tatty, filthy and moth eaten Victorian stair runner.

 

“Well, you know ‘ow it is, mum. Word gets ‘round.” Mrs. Boothby replies with air of mystery.

 

“Does it, Mrs. Boothby?” Lettice queries, eyeing the back of her charwoman sceptically as they ascend the stairs with Mrs. Boothby in the lead.

 

“Indeed it does, mum!” Mrs. Boothby replies cheerfully, releasing another of her fruity coughs as she does.

 

“This is quite a coincidence.” Lettice adds, remembering when she first visited the Pimlico flat of one of her former clients, the American film actress Wanetta Ward, and found Mrs. Boothby answering the door. “This wouldn’t happen to be because you heard from Edith that I was potentially going to do some redecoration for Mrs. Hatchett, would it Mrs. Boothby?”

 

Mrs. Boothby stops on the first floor landing. Turning back to face Lettice she allows her hand to rest upon the curving mahogany bannister. “’Eavens no, mum! Our Edith is the soul of discretion! She’d never gossip ‘bout you or ‘ooever you’re decoratin’ for!” she purposefully lies with an air of conviction in her voice, determined not to let Edith, Lettice’s maid, suffer any consequences because Mrs. Boothby easily wheedled out of her the fact that Mrs. Hatchett was setting up a house in Queen Anne’s Gate with her Member of Parliament husband. “’Er mum brung ‘er up proppa, just like mine did me.”

 

“Of course, Mrs. Boothby!” Lettice finds herself apologising. “So, how did you find this position, working for Mrs. Hatchett, then, Mrs. Boothby?”

 

“Well I cleaned for Lady Pembroke-Duttson, just ‘round the corner from ‘ere ‘till ‘er ‘ouse burnt dahwn in November that is. I was doin’ for ‘er in ‘er new ‘ouse in them fancy Artillery Mansions******, and she mentioned that Mrs. ‘Atchett was movin’ into the neighbour’ood, so I made some enquiries. So, ‘ere I is.” She spreads her careworn hands expansively. “Lady Pembroke-Duttson left a big gap in me schedule, so I’m ‘opin’ this’ll be permanent like soon.”

 

“But I thought you just said you were still cleaning for Lady Pembroke-Duttson, Mrs. Boothby.” Lettice says with a sceptical squint.

 

“Ay?” the old woman asks.

 

“You just said that you were cleaning for Lady Pembroke-Duttson.” Lettice elucidates. “How can she leave a gap in your schedule of jobs if you’re still cleaning for her.”

 

Thinking quickly on her feet, Mrs. Boothby releases a throaty chuckle, blushing as she does. “Lawd luv you, mum! Cleanin’ a flat in Artillery Mansions ain’t like cleanin’ ‘er old ‘ouse what burnt dahwn. ‘Er old ‘ouse ‘ad ever so many rooms, whereas now she’s got rooms ‘bout the size of yours, mum. That leaves a big gap, mum.”

 

Lettice silently wonders whether the old charwoman’s story holds any truth, however she has no proof that it doesn’t, so she just smiles benignly and nods. Whether Mrs. Boothby squeezes titbits of gossip from Edith or not, the pair of domestics keep Lettice’s Cavendish Mews flat spick and span, and with such difficulty finding decent staff in the aftermath of the war, Lettice decides that she best say nothing about her suspicions to Edith.

 

“Anyway,” Mrs. Boothby adds. “It’s only right, ain’t it?”

 

“What is, Mrs. Boothby?”

 

“Me cleanin’ for Mr. and Mrs. “Atchett, mum.”

 

“How so, Mrs. Boothby?” Lettice queries.

 

“Well, Charlie ‘Atchett’s the MP for Tower ‘Amlets*******, and that includes me, what wiv me own ‘ouse bein’ in Poplar! It’s only right!”

 

“Does Mrs. Hatchett know that you clean for me, Mrs. Boothby?” Lettice asks warily, holding her breath as she speaks.

 

“Lawn no, mum.” Mrs. Boothby cackles.

 

“Well, just see that she doesn’t, Mrs. Boothby.” Lettice snaps, irritated by the cockney woman’s gib attitude to the situation. “I can’t have a whiff of any perceived potential gossip from me with Mrs. Hatchett. I won’t have any such thing jeopardise this commission.”

 

“As if I would.” Mrs. Boothby replies with a lofty air. “Come along now. She’s just in ‘ere.”

 

The pair walk down a dingy oak panelled corridor lined with open doors through which Lettice can see a series of rooms in different states of decay and repair, all empty except for one where a group of workmen on scaffolds strip paper off a wall and patch the brickwork behind it, and a second where men are laying a new floor, which is where all the hammering is emanating from. The old Cockney woman leads Lettice past a fine mahogany door that has been removed from its hinges and into a gloomy room devoid of furniture except for a pair of old, mouldering brown leather wingback******** armchairs, a neat pedestal table and a portrait sitting on an easel. A large white marble fireplace is being scrubbed with a wiry brush by another charwoman, far younger than Mrs. Boothby, overweight and with a mass of black curls tied back off her face by a rag bandeau********* on her hands and knees in front of the grate, grunting noisily with her laboured movements, her efforts revealing beautiful white details from beneath many years of brown grime.

 

“Well, she was ‘ere, mum.” Mrs. Boothby apologises in surprise. “I dunno know where she’s gawn now.” She looks at the other charwoman cleaning the fireplace. “’Ere, Elsie! You know where Mrs. ‘Atchett’s gawn?”

 

“Nah!” the charwoman grunts back monosyllabically before pausing in her labours and leaning back on her haunches and looks up at Mrs. Boothby, ignoring Lettice’s presence entirely. “Gawn to the lav most likely. I think I need it too. Cleanin’ this fireplace gives me the shits**********!”

 

Lettice sucks in a gulp of air in shock at the other woman’s vulgarity.

 

“Elsie!” Mrs. Boothby exclaims aghast. “Whachoo fink you’re doin’, sayin’ words like that in front of a laydee! This ‘ere is the Honourable Miss Lettice Chetwynd, what’s a friend of Mrs. ‘Atchett’s.” She gesticulates with sweeping gestures around Lettice like a vendeuse*********** showing off a model in the latest fashion.

 

“So?” Elise replies, yawning loudly, giving Lettice ample view of her grey, rotting teeth. “’S not my concern!” Scrabbling off her knees with another exhausted groan, she wanders off lazily, her down-at-heel slippers slapping loudly across the floor as she exits the room through another door, muttering to herself as she does.

 

“I do beg your pardon, mum.” Mrs. Boothby apologises profusely.

 

“It’s quite alright, Mrs. Boothby.” Lettice replies, gracefully attempting to smooth over the nasty gaff from the other woman.

 

“No it ain’t! Elsie’s got no right to talk to you like that! Elsie was ‘ere when I arrived. I dunno, ‘cos I don’t talk to ‘er much, but I fink she’s the daughter of one of the carp’nters,” She indicates behind her with her right thumb. “And the wife of annuva. She’s very rude, lazy, and got no respect for no-one.” Her old face crumples in distaste. “She certainly ain’t no friend of mine, and that’s a fact!”

 

“Really, it’s quite fine.” Lettice assures Mrs. Boothby.

 

“I’ll go see if I can find Mrs. ‘Atchett for you, mum.” Mrs. Boothby says soothingly, bustling from the room through the same open door Elsie had exited through.

 

Left alone, Lettice is better able to explore and take in her gloomy surroundings. The walls are papered in old fashioned Victorian flocked wallpaper which must once have been a beautiful gold, but is now dreary, faded and tattered. Large floor to ceiling bookshelves made of dark mahogany run along the walls to either side of the fireplace, adding to the overall cheerlessness of the room. Dirty and torn scrim hangs at the window, obscuring the view and the much needed daylight. There is a pervading smell of damp which is only offset by the scent of freshly cut timber coming from the carpenters laying the floor down the hallway. Lettice notices a single ornate pedestal appearing out of the gloom in the space to the right of the fireplace. Various cleaning agents have been left around the room: some Vim*********** on an empty bookshelf beneath a bright yellow cleaning cloth, probably deposited there by Mrs. Boothby, and some Zebo Grate Polish************* on the mantle along with a feather duster. The blue, red and yellow Victorian carpet beneath her feet must once have been very fine, but now, like the stair runner is faded, worn and dirty. In fact, aside from the portrait on the easel, there is a thick film of filth on almost every surface, as though it has been decades since the room was property cleaned. The portrait however, is dazzling by comparison to its surroundings. Set in a simple gold frame, the oil on canvas depicts Mrs. Hatchett with her modishly styled blonde hair and pale peaches and cream complexion in a pale blue gown against a neutral coloured background. Mrs. Hatchett’s eyes glitter and sparkle whilst a gentle smile teases the edges of her reddened lips. The strokes are bold and the image has a sense of energy and about it.

 

“Do you like it, Miss Chetwynd?” comes a familiar voice.

 

Lettice turns and sees Dolly Hatchett standing in the doorway Mrs. Boothby and Elsie had disappeared through. Like her portrait, Mrs. Hatchett’s pale blue eyes twinkle and sparkle with life, and her soft skin has a gentle glow to it as she smiles at Lettice, her simple gesture adding warmth and joy to the cheerless room. No wonder Captain Charles Hatchett, home on leave during the Great War, had fallen in love with the chorus girl from ‘Chu Chin Chow’************** as he watched her in the darkened auditorium of His Majesty’s Theatre. Wrapped in a sleek full length mink coat with a string of pearls at her throat and a fashionable black felt cloche from under which her blonde waves poke, the slightly awkward and gauche wife of the once banker, now Member of Parliament, that Lettice met for the first time at her Sussex home in 1921 is gone. In her place stands an elegant and confident woman whose experience, social advancement and successes since that time have given her a presence which Lettice cannot help but admire.

 

“Mrs. Hatchett!” Lettice exclaims. “You look wonderful!”

 

Mrs. Hatchett laughs, her peal beautiful and carefree, as she steps into the room, walking with poise across the carpet to Lettice’s side. “No, not me, Miss Chetwynd, the portrait!”

 

“Oh!” Lettice turns and glances back at the painting before returning her attention to Mrs. Hatchett. “Oh it’s marvellous too, but not nearly so much as you, Mrs. Hatchett.” she enthuses.

 

“You always were so kind to me, Miss Chetwynd,” Mrs. Hatchett says with a dismissive sweep of her hand. “Thank you.” She blushes.

 

“You’ve changed so much, Mrs. Hatchett.” Lettice remarks with a smile. “You are nothing like the, dare I say it, mousey, young woman I met in 1921! You’re so, so assured, self-possessed!”

 

Mrs. Hatchett laughs again. “I’m still little Dolly Hatchett the chorus girl under my warpaint.” She cocks an expertly plucked and shaped eyebrow, also newly acquired since Lettice last met her, over her eye. “I’m just better at disguising her now, so I can be the suitable wife successful MP for Towers Hamlets, Charles Hatchett, needs.”

 

“I’m sure it’s more than that, Mrs. Hatchett.” Lettice counters.

 

“Maybe,” Mrs. Hatchett admits quietly. “But if it is, I have you and dear Mr. Bruton to thank for it. You helped me to understand that I deserved more respect than that which I received from my mother-in-law, and Mr. Bruton taught me the power of clothes when it comes to presenting a confident appearance.”

 

“Indeed he has!” Lettice sighs. “You look ever so smart and select, Mrs. Hatchett.”

 

“Thank you, Miss Chetwynd.” Mrs. Hatchett purrs. “Goodness, it does seem an age since that wonderful weekend at ‘The Gables’.”

 

“Yes, we were celebrating the completion of my interior decoration for you.”

 

“And you encouraged me to let myself be dressed by Mr. Bruton that first evening. Now everyone in Rotherfield and Mark Cross, and a good many more beyond it, follows what I wear with interest and try to mimic it.”

 

“Well, I’m happy for you, Mrs. Hatchett.”

 

A gust of wind blows outside, causing the windows to rattle in their casings and the scrim to quiver. The rasp of leaves echoes from the fireplace and some dust and soot falls from the chimney and into the empty blacklead grate.

 

Lettice shivers. “I’m glad you warned me to wear a fur coat here, Mrs. Hatchett. It’s rather chilly.”

 

“I’d have had a fire laid, Miss Chetwynd,” Mrs. Hatchett apologises. “But I’m a bit apprehensive that the whole place doesn’t ignite before I get chimney sweeps in to check and clean the flues. One of the daily women I’ve hired told me of a woman who lived not far from here that she cleaned for, whose house went up in flames dramatically in November.”

 

“Did she?” Lettice tries to muffle a gentle smile with her hand.

 

“She did! She said she was lucky to get away with her life!”

 

Lettice’s smile broadens as she recognises the more innocent, less worldly, but more endearing Dolly Hatchett carefully obscured beneath the layers of Gerald’s couture, just as Mrs. Hatchett assured her she was.

 

“Anyway,” Mrs. Hatchett goes on. “What do you think of the House of Usher?”

 

“You don’t like it, Mrs. Hatchett?” Lettice queries, surprised considering how enthused Mrs. Hatchett had sounded over the telephone about she and her husband’s new London home, intended to replace the pied-à-terre*************** in Kensington that Charles and she are currently using as their London base.

 

“Oh I do from the outside,” Mrs. Hatchett quickly explains. “But this…” Her voice trails off as she waves her hand around the room.

 

“Yes,” Lettice sighs. “This.”

 

As if the house knows that it is being spoken of disparagingly, some more soot falls from somewhere high above, crashing and crumbling into the grate in a disgruntled fashion.

 

“Charlie tells me that her bones are good,” Mrs. Hatchett goes on. “But looking about these rooms all I see is decay.”

 

“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far, Mrs. Hatchett!” Lettice blusters. “It seems to me that you’ve already begun the house’s rebirth and renewal. The rooms are well proportioned, being early Eighteenth Century.”

 

“Aaahh…” Mrs. Hatchett sighs contentedly. “And that’s why I need your eye of possibility again, Miss Chetwynd. You saw through all my mother-in-law’s drab Victorian décor at ‘The Gables’ and envisioned how beautiful and light it could be, and you brought that vision to fruition. Now you can see it here, or at least I hope you can, somewhere under the layers and layers of filth and decomposition.”

 

“I think I can.” Lettice admits, looking around the room again.

 

She goes to sit in the larger of the old wingback brown leather chairs.

 

“Oh, I shouldn’t do that if I were you, Miss Chetwynd!” Mrs. Hatchett exclaims, putting out her hands to stop Lettice from sitting.

 

“Why ever not, Mrs. Hatchett?” Lettice asks in surprise.

 

“Well, for a start, in case you hadn’t noticed, we do have a bit of damp problem. There’s nothing to say it hasn’t gotten into the furniture left by the auctioneers when they cleaned the house out.”

 

“Yes,” Lettice sniffs and screws up her nose a little. “There is a definite sense of dampness in the air.”

 

“Oh, and behind these worn old papers,” She gesticulates around the room again. “And in the plaster ceilings, under the wainscots, and,” She moves the toe of her black leather pump back and forth on the carpet, making the parquet flooring beneath groan. “And the floorboards.”

 

“Oh don’t, Mrs. Hatchett!” Lettice pleads her hostess, who smiles cheekily when she sees Lettice shiver.

 

Stopping her torment of the floor, Mrs. Hatchett goes on. “Secondly, I believe he died there.”

 

“Who?” Lettice’s eyes grow wide as she stares at the worn seat of the chair.

 

“The Admiral.” Mrs. Hatchett replies, pointing to the single painting hanging on the wall in the room, hanging above the fireplace.

 

Lettice looks up at the portrait, which like most everything else in the room is dark and covered in a film of dirt. Through the filth, beneath the cracking golden yellow layers of varnish, Lettice can see a rather handsome looking gentleman in a dark frock coat and orange breeches leaning against a wall, gazing out of the frame into the distance.

 

“Or so I have on good authority.” Mrs. Hatchett adds.

 

“From whom?” Lettice asks in alarm.

 

“From his old housekeeper.” Mrs. Hatchett replies. “She came with the house, staying on after the Admiral died to show us, as the new owners, the quirks of the house.”

 

“That’s quite a quirk!” Lettice looks askance at the chair.

 

“Apparently, he was one hundred and twelve when he died. He was bed, ahem…” Mrs. Hatchett clears her throat awkwardly. “Chair ridden and he only lived in this room and a few others since 1910. You wait until I show you some of the downstairs rooms towards Birdcage Walk where the garden has unceremoniously entered the house.”

 

“Well, I shall lo…” Lettice begins when a sudden rattling over crockery interrupts her words.

 

“’Ere we are mum… err… Miss… Miss Chetwynd,” Mrs. Boothby stutters as she quickly remembers that she is supposed to pretend that she doesn’t know Lettice. “And Mrs. ‘Atchett.” The old woman walks into the room carrying a wooden tray on which sit two plain white teacups and saucers, a matching milk jug, sugar bowl, a non-matching but pretty floral teapot covered in pink roses, and a tin of Huntly and Palmer**************** biscuits.

 

“Oh splendid timing Mrs. Boothby!” Mrs. Hatchett sighs, clapping her steepled fingers in delight.

 

With a groan, Mrs. Boothby lowers it onto the pedestal table. “Take a seat, mu… Miss Chetwynd and Mrs. ‘Atchett!”

 

“I think I’d prefer to stand.” Lettice remarks, looks askance at the chair.

 

“Suit yourself.” Mrs. Boothby remarks, looking oddly first at Lettice and then at the chair, screwing up her nose as she considers the chair may be a little grubby, but not beyond her mistress sitting in. “Do you want me to keep cleanin’ in ‘ere, mum?” she addresses Mrs. Hatchett.

 

Lettice almost replies automatically, but luckily her utterance is cut off by Mrs. Hatchett.

 

“If you’d just focus on the dining room for now, thank you Mrs. Boothby. You may return here after Miss Chetwynd and I have finished our business.”

 

“Very good, mum.” Mrs. Boothby answers, dropping a quick bob curtsey. She turns and goes to walk away. Then she turns back to Mrs. Hatchett. “Oh, and mum?”

 

“Yes Mrs. Boothby?” Mrs. Hatchett asks.

 

“You’re still alright wiv me ‘avin that old teapot I found,” She nods towards the floral teapot on the tray.

 

“Oh yes, Mrs. Boothby. Of course! Of course!” Mrs. Hatchett replies.

 

She giggles once the old Cockney woman has left the room. “I do believe she is a bit of a collector.” She smiles indulgently at Lettice. “But I rather like her, so I can’t help but indulge her.”

 

“She is certainly nicer than the other daily woman I met.” Lettice adds seriously.

 

“Oh, the other one came with them.” Mrs. Hatchett indicates through the door off its hinges into the hallway where the banging of nails being hammered into wood continue. “She’s rather slovenly, and certainly sullen.”

 

“You still can’t quite manage the staff, can you, Mrs. Hatchett?” Lettice chuckles.

 

Mrs. Hatchett chuckles self consciously in return. “I told you that it’s still little me under this façade that you and Mr. Bruton helped to create.” She muses silently to herself, smiling before continuing, “I think I might employ her as a daily.”

 

“What?” Lettice ask in surprise. “Who?”

 

“Mrs. Boothby. The old woman who answered the door to you and brought our tea in. She’s been very reliable and works hard, she knows the area well, has a cheerful disposition, and she seems to have some rather good references.”

 

Lettice does not reply to Mrs. Hatchett’s remarks about Mrs. Boothby as Mrs. Hatchett sets about pouring tea into the teacups, which Lettice notices are thicker and plainer than what she is used to, and assumes that they must be part of an old servant’s set from below stairs, left when the Admiral’s more finer possessions were cleared out by the auctioneers who sold off his estate. Perhaps the teapot escaped by being hidden in an out of the way corner cupboard, she considers.

 

“So, Mrs. Hatchett,” Lettice finally says with a sigh, accepting a cup of tea proffered to her by Mrs. Hatchett to which she adds sugar and milk. “You’d like me to decorate this room, a dining room and another reception room?”

 

“Yes, Miss Chetwynd.” Mrs. Hatchett enthuses. “The suite of principal rooms on this floor, which Charlie and I will use as our main entertaining space.”

 

“I shall have to see the state of the other rooms.” Lettice sips her tea as she stands next to Mrs. Hatchett and looks again around the gloomy interior in the midst of which they stand with a critical eye.

 

“I shall take you on a tour directly after we’ve had our tea, Miss Chetwynd.” Mrs. Hatchett replies. “And I’ll show you some of the rooms you won’t have to deal with, luckily for you. Biscuit?” She opens the tin of Huntley and Palmer’s Empire Assortment and proffers the selection of biscuits to Lettice.

 

“I can’t take your commission on straight away.” Lettice tempers her companion’s enthusiasm as she selects a jam fancy from amongst the biscuits on the offing in the tin. “I’ve just accepted a commission from another client who wants some work done on her country house in Essex.”

 

“Oh, that’s alright!” Mrs. Hatchett replies, selecting a Bourbon biscuit for herself. “This place won’t be shipshape for a good month or two yet: maybe even longer. Work is only really just getting started.” She bites into her biscuit and munches it pleasurably.

 

“And what do you envisage this time, Mrs. Hatchett?” Lettice asks after finishing her own mouthful of biscuit and sip of tea. “Oh, and just to be clear, I won’t settle for chintz of any kind this time.”

 

“Oh no, my dear Miss Chetwynd! Of course not!” Mrs. Hatchett assures her.

 

“Well, I know you have a fondness for it, Mrs. Hatchett.” Lettice eyes Mrs. Hatchett over the white china edge of her cup as she takes another sip of tea.

 

“I do, Miss Chetwynd. I won’t lie.” Mrs. Hatchett admits guiltily. “But not this time. Not here.”

 

“Good!” Lettice replies. “Then we are in agreeance.”

 

“When you came to ‘The Gables’, Miss Chetwynd,” Mrs. Hatchett goes on. “I told you that I didn’t need you to ape the houses of peers with your own taste.”

 

“Yes, I remember that, Mrs. Hatchett.”

 

“Well this time, because this is a London house, and a place where Charlie and I plan to entertain other MPs and dignitaries, I need Queen Anne’s Gate to exude stability, knowledge and most of all, sophistication.”

 

“And what does that look like to you, Mrs. Hatchett?” Lettice asks.

 

“No, what does it look like to you, Miss Chetwynd? You once again have a clean slate to work with.” She looks around her critically. “Or rather it will be when you come back.”

 

“If I agree.” Lettice counters.

 

“Can you resist such an offer, Miss Chetwynd? I’m giving you carte blanche to redesign and decorate these rooms.”

 

“Do you really mean that, Mrs. Hatchett?” Lettice asks. When Mrs. Hatchett nods her confirmation, Lettice goes on, “Well, if I am to be given carte blanche, may I ask, how avant-garde might I be permitted to be with this interior design?”

 

“As much as you want, Miss Chetwynd!” Mrs. Hatchett says with a hopeful lilt. “Carte blanche! Neither Charlie nor I know anything about art perse, so we’ll be guided by you. My only request is that I was hoping you could take some of your inspiration from my portrait in your design.” She walks over to her portrait and rubs the edge of the gilded frame affectionately. “You see, I’m really rather proud of it, and I want it to hang above the fireplace in here in place of the Admiral’s portrait.”

 

“A centrepiece?”

 

“Yes, that’s right!”

 

Lettice looks at the portrait again, carefully admiring the vivid brushstrokes of the artist who has so expertly captured Mrs. Hatchett’s spirit. “Very good, Mrs. Hatchett.” she agrees with a smile.

 

“Oh hoorah!” Mrs. Hatchett deposits her teacup and what is left of her biscuit on the tray and claps her hands in delight. “So, what have you in mind, Miss Chetwynd?”

 

“There is an exhibition happening in Paris in April. It’s called ‘Exposition internationale des arts décoratifs et industriels modernes’*****************. It is highlighting and showcasing the new modern style of architecture and interior design: a style I am an exponent of. I’m planning to go when it opens, Mrs. Hatchett, and I’m hoping to gather new ideas on interior design there and incorporate them into my own. Since the house won’t be finished for a few months, I could use your interior designs to showcase some of my ideas inspired by the exhibition.”

 

“I say!” Mrs. Hatchett breathes. “How deliciously fashionable! I’d have the most avant-garde house amongst the MPs’ wives! That would be a feather for my cap!”

 

“Yes, it would, Mrs. Hatchett.” Lettice purrs. “You’d be the most fashionable, the most up-to-date, the most smart and select.”

 

“Yes! I agree!” Mrs. Hatchett laughs. “As avant-garde and daring as you like, Miss Chetwynd!”

 

“Then we’d best finish our tea so you can show me around, Mrs. Hatchett.” Lettice concludes.

 

*Queen Anne’s Gate is a street in Westminster, London. Many of the buildings are Grade I listed, known for their Queen Anne architecture. Simon Bradley and Nikolaus Pevsner described the Gate’s early Eighteenth Century houses as “the best of their kind in London.” The street’s proximity to the Palace of Westminster made it a popular residential area for politicians.

 

**Originally a street and a square, Queen Anne’s Gate began life as Queen Square and Park Street. The two were separated by a high wall until 1873when the two areas were combined into Queen Anne’s Gate. Queen Square was constructed first, then when Park Street was constructed, residents of Queen Square were so concerned that the road would be used as a cut through for carriages to avoid the traffic of King Street, the Sanctuary and Tothill Street that a subscription was collected for the building of the wall to avoid the residents having the peace of their square disturbed. The architecture of the buildings in the original Queen Square part of Queen Anne’s Gate is superb, and the main doors to the majority of buildings have very elaborate decorated wooden canopies.

 

***A charwoman, chargirl, or char, jokingly charlady, is an old-fashioned occupational term, referring to a paid part-time worker who comes into a house or other building to clean it for a few hours of a day or week, as opposed to a maid, who usually lives as part of the household within the structure of domestic service. In the 1920s, chars usually did all the hard graft work that paid live-in domestics would no longer do as they looked for excuses to leave domestic service for better paying work in offices and factories.

 

****A lunette is a crescent- or half-moon–shaped or semi-circular architectural space or feature, usually above a doorway or walkway, variously filled by windows, masonry, a painted mural, or sometimes left void.

 

*****Hobnailed boots (known in Scotland as “tackety boots”) are boots with hobnails (nails inserted into the soles of the boots), usually installed in a regular pattern, over the sole. They usually have an iron horseshoe-shaped insert, called a heel iron, to strengthen the heel, and an iron toe-piece. They may also have steel toecaps. Often used for mountaineering, the hobnails project below the sole and provide traction on soft or rocky terrain and snow, but they tend to slide on smooth, hard surfaces. They have been used since antiquity for inexpensive durable footwear, and were often by workmen and the military.

 

******Built in Westminster, quite close to the Palace of Westminster and the Houses of Parliament Artillery Mansions was just one of the many fine Victorian mansion blocks to be built in Victoria Street around St James Underground Railway Station in the late 1800s. Constructed around open courtyards which served as carriageways and residential gardens, the mansion blocks were typically built of red brick in the fashionable Queen Anne style. The apartments were designed to appeal to young bachelors or MPs who often had late parliamentary sittings, with many of the apartments not having kitchens, providing instead communal dining areas, rather like a gentleman’s club. Artillery Mansions, like many large mansion blocks employed their own servants to maintain the flats and address the needs of residents. During the Second World War, Artillery Mansions was commandeered by the Secret Intelligence Service as a headquarters. After the war, the building reverted to private residences again, but with so many of its former inhabitants either dead, elderly or in changed circumstances owing to the war, it became a place to house many ex-servicemen. The Army and Navy Company, who ran the Army and Navy Stores just up Victoria Street registered ‘Army and Navy Ltd.’ at Artillery Mansions as a lettings management company. By the 1980s, Artillery Mansions was deserted and in a state of disrepair. It was taken over by a group of ideological squatters who were determined to bring homelessness and housing affordability to the government’s attention, but within ten years, with misaligned ideologies and infighting, the squatters had moved on, and in the 1990s, Artillery Mansions was bought by developers and turned into luxury apartments.

 

*******The London constituency of Tower Hamlets includes such areas and historic towns as (roughly from west to east) Spitalfields, Whitechapel, Bethnal Green, Wapping, Shadwell, Mile End, Stepney, Limehouse, Old Ford, Bow, Bromley, Poplar, and the Isle of Dogs (with Millwall, the West India Docks, and Cubitt Town), making it a majority working class constituency in 1925 when this story is set. Tower Hamlets included some of the worst slums and societal issues of inequality and poverty in England at that time.

 

********A wingback chair is a type of chair with a back that curves out to the sides. Wingback chairs are named for the wings, or extensions, of fabric on either side of the seat, typically, but not always, stretching down to the arm rest. The wings can be made of wood or metal, but they're typically padded and upholstered in fabric. The wingback chair was invented in the Sixteenth Century. It was created during a period of fine English furniture design when English furniture makers were creating furniture that has elaborate designs and ornate carvings. The name “wingback chair” is derived from the chair's back wings. The wings were added to provide support for the head and neck of the person sitting in it, as well as affording the sitter with protection from draughts and to trap the heat from a fireplace in the area where the person would be sitting. Hence, in the past, these were often used near a fireplace. They also provided a place for a person to rest their arms, which gave it its distinctive look—a shape similar to that of a bird's wing or butterfly wing.

 

*********A bandeau is a narrow band worn round the head to hold the hair in position.

 

**********Believe it or not, but the interjection of “shit” was not uncommon by the 1920s amidst the lower classes. The earliest known use of the interjection shit is in the 1860s. It is also recorded as a noun from the Old English period (pre-1150).

 

***********Derived from the French, a vendeuse is a saleswoman, usually one in a fashionable dress shop.

 

************Vim was a common cleaning agent, used in any Edwardian household. Vim scouring powder was created by William Hesketh Lever (1st Viscount Leverhulme) and introduced to the market in 1904. It was produced at Port Sunlight in Wirrel, Merseyside, a model village built by Lever Brothers for the workers of their factories which produced the popular soap brands Lux, Lifebuoy and Sunlight.

 

*************Zebo (or originally Zebra) Grate Polish was a substance launched in 1890 by Reckitts to polish the grate to a gleam using a mixture that consisted of pure black graphite finely ground, carbon black, a binding agent and a solvent to keep it fluid for application with a cloth or more commonly newspaper.

 

************* ‘Chu Chin Chow’ is a musical comedy written, produced and directed by Oscar Asche, with music by Frederic Norton, based on the story of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. It was the most popular show in London’s West End during the Great War. It premiered at His Majesty’s Theatre in London on the 3rd of August 1916 and ran for 2,238 performances, a record number that stood for nearly forty years!

 

**************The Fall of the House of Usher is a short story in the horror/gothic genre by American writer Edgar Allan Poe, first published in 1839 in Burton's Gentleman's Magazine. The story revolves around the narrator visiting his the house of his childhood friend, Roderick Usher: the House of Usher falling slowly but more surely into decrepitude as the story goes on, before finally splitting in two as the narrator flees, and silking into a lake.

 

***************A pied-à-terre is a small flat, house, or room kept for occasional use.

 

****************Huntley and Palmers is a British firm of biscuit makers originally based in Reading, Berkshire. The company created one of the world’s first global brands and ran what was once the world’s largest biscuit factory. Over the years, the company was also known as J. Huntley and Son and Huntley and Palmer. Huntley and Palmer were renown for their ‘superior reading biscuits’ which they promoted in different varieties for different occasions, including at breakfast time, morning and afternoon tea and reading time.

 

*****************The International Exhibition of Modern Decorative and Industrial Arts was a specialized exhibition held in Paris, from April the 29th (the day after it was inaugurated in a private ceremony by the President of France) to October the 25the, 1925. It was designed by the French government to highlight the new modern style of architecture, interior decoration, furniture, glass, jewelry and other decorative arts in Europe and throughout the world. Many ideas of the international avant-garde in the fields of architecture and applied arts were presented for the first time at the exposition. The event took place between the esplanade of Les Invalides and the entrances of the Grand Palais and Petit Palais, and on both banks of the Seine. There were fifteen thousand exhibitors from twenty different countries, and it was visited by sixteen million people during its seven-month run. The modern style presented at the exposition later became known as “Art Deco”, after the exposition's name.

 

Although this may appear to be a real room, this is in fact made up with 1:12 miniatures from my miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The two intentionally worn leather wingback chairs are both 1:12 artisan miniatures which I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop in the United Kingdom. The small pedestal table, the white plaster fireplace, the black painted metal fire basket and fender, black painted fire irons, easel, metal step ladder and pedestal also come from there. The painting on the easel is my own selection of what I thought Mrs. Hatchett might look like, put into a gilded frame that also came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop.

 

The wooden tea tray is a 1;12 artisan miniature piece that I acquired from a miniatures stockist on E-Bay. The floral teapot is an artisan piece as well, decorated by the artist Rachel Munday, whose work is highly prized by miniatures collectors. The Huntley and Palmer’s Empire Assorted Biscuit tin containing a replica selection of biscuits is also a 1:12 artisan piece. The plain white teacups, milk jug and sugar bowl are painted metal and come from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls House Shop.

 

The painting hanging above the fireplace came from Amber’s Miniatures in the United States.

 

On the fireplace stands a bottle of Zebo grate polish and a can of Brasso. Zebo (or originally Zebra) Grate Polish was a substance launched in 1890 by Reckitts to polish the grate to a gleam using a mixture that consisted of pure black graphite finely ground, carbon black, a binding agent and a solvent to keep it fluid for application with a cloth or more commonly newspaper.

 

The feather duster on the fireplace mantle I made myself using fledgling feathers (very spring) which I picked up off the lawn one day thinking they would come in handy in my miniatures collection sometime. I bound them with thread to the handle which is made from a fancy ended toothpick!

 

On s shelf to the right of the photo on top of a yellow cleaning cloth is a can of Vim with stylised Edwardian. Vim was a common cleaning agent, used in any Edwardian household. Vim scouring powder was created by William Hesketh Lever (1st Viscount Leverhulme) and introduced to the market in 1904. It was produced at Port Sunlight in Wirrel, Merseyside, a model village built by Lever Brothers for the workers of their factories which produced the popular soap brands Lux, Lifebuoy and Sunlight.

 

The flocked wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend who encouraged me to use it as wallpaper for my 1:12 miniature tableaux.

 

The large Persian rug on the floor has been woven by Pike, Pike and Company in the United Kingdom.

Source: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dublin

 

Dublin (Irish: Baile Átha Cliath) is the capital and largest city of Ireland. It is on the east coast of Ireland, in the province of Leinster, at the mouth of the River Liffey, and is bordered on the south by the Wicklow Mountains. It has an urban area population of 1,173,179, while the population of the Dublin Region (formerly County Dublin), as of 2016, was 1,347,359, and the population of the Greater Dublin area was 1,904,806.

 

There is archaeological debate regarding precisely where Dublin was established by the Gaels in or before the 7th century AD. Later expanded as a Viking settlement, the Kingdom of Dublin, the city became Ireland's principal settlement following the Norman invasion. The city expanded rapidly from the 17th century and was briefly the second largest city in the British Empire before the Acts of Union in 1800. Following the partition of Ireland in 1922, Dublin became the capital of the Irish Free State, later renamed Ireland.

 

Dublin is a historical and contemporary centre for education, the arts, administration and industry. As of 2018 the city was listed by the Globalization and World Cities Research Network (GaWC) as a global city, with a ranking of "Alpha −", which places it amongst the top thirty cities in the world.

 

Source: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/James_Joyce

 

James Augustine Aloysius Joyce (2 February 1882 – 13 January 1941) was an Irish novelist, short story writer, poet, teacher, and literary critic. He contributed to the modernist avant-garde and is regarded as one of the most influential and important authors of the 20th century. Joyce is best known for Ulysses (1922), a landmark work in which the episodes of Homer's Odyssey are paralleled in a variety of literary styles, most famously stream of consciousness. Other well-known works are the short-story collection Dubliners (1914), and the novels A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (1916) and Finnegans Wake (1939). His other writings include three books of poetry, a play, his published letters and occasional journalism.

 

Joyce was born in Dublin into a middle-class family. A brilliant student, he briefly attended the Christian Brothers-run O'Connell School before excelling at the Jesuit schools Clongowes and Belvedere, despite the chaotic family life imposed by his father's alcoholism and unpredictable finances. He went on to attend University College Dublin.

 

In 1904, in his early twenties, Joyce emigrated to continental Europe with his partner (and later wife) Nora Barnacle. They lived in Trieste, Paris, and Zurich. Although most of his adult life was spent abroad, Joyce's fictional universe centres on Dublin and is populated largely by characters who closely resemble family members, enemies and friends from his time there. Ulysses in particular is set with precision in the streets and alleyways of the city. Shortly after the publication of Ulysses, he elucidated this preoccupation somewhat, saying, "For myself, I always write about Dublin, because if I can get to the heart of Dublin I can get to the heart of all the cities of the world. In the particular is contained the universal."

 

Source: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/James_Joyce_Centre

 

The James Joyce Centre is a museum in Dublin, Ireland, dedicated to promoting an understanding of the life and works of James Joyce.

 

The Centre is situated in a restored 18th-century Georgian townhouse at 35 North Great George's Street, Dublin, dating from a time when north inner city Dublin was at the height of its grandeur. On permanent exhibit is furniture from Paul Leon's apartment in Paris, where Joyce wrote much of Finnegans Wake, and the door to the home of Leopold Bloom and his wife, Molly, number 7 Eccles Street one of the more famous addresses in literature, which had been rescued from demolition by John Ryan. Temporary exhibitions interpret and illuminate various aspects of Joyce's life and work.

 

There is another Joycean display at the James Joyce Tower in Sandycove.

Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.

 

Lettice is not long returned from Glynes, the grand Georgian family seat of the Chetwynds in Wiltshire, and the home of Lettice’s parents, the presiding Viscount and Countess of Wrexham and the heir, their eldest son Leslie and his wife Arabella. Lettice visited her family home for Christmas and the New Year until not long after Twelfth Night*. For nearly a year Lettice had been patiently awaiting the return of her then beau, Selwyn Spencely, son of the Duke of Walmsford, after being sent to Durban by his mother, Lady Zinnia in an effort to destroy their relationship which she wanted to end so that she could marry Selwyn off to his cousin, Pamela Fox-Chavers. Having been made aware by Lady Zinnia in October that during the course of the year, whilst Lettice had been biding her time, waiting for Selwyn’s eventual return, he had become engaged to the daughter of a Kenyan diamond mine owner whilst in Durban. Fleeing Lady Zinnia’s Park Lane mansion, Lettice returned to Cavendish Mews and milled over her options over a week as she reeled from the news. Then, after that week, she knew exactly what to do to resolve the unpleasant issues raised by Lady Zinnia’s unwelcome news about her son. Taking extra care in her dress, she took herself off to the neighbouring upper-class London suburb of Belgravia and paid a call upon Sir John Nettleford-Hughes.

 

Old enough to be her father, wealthy Sir John is still a bachelor, and according to London society gossip intends to remain so, so that he might continue to enjoy his dalliances with a string of pretty chorus girls of Lettice’s age and younger. As an eligible man in a aftermath of the Great War when such men are a rare commodity, with a vast family estate in Bedfordshire, houses in Mayfair, Belgravia and Pimlico and Fontengil Park in Wiltshire, quite close to the Glynes estate belonging to her parents, Lettice’s mother, Lady Sadie, invited him as a potential suitor to her 1922 Hunt Ball, which she used as a marriage market for Lettice. Selwyn rescued Lettice from the horror of having to entertain him, and Sir John left the ball early in a disgruntled mood with a much younger partygoer. Lettice recently reacquainted herself with Sir John at an amusing Friday to Monday long weekend party held by Sir John and Lady Gladys Caxton at their Scottish country estate, Gossington, a baronial Art and Crafts castle near the hamlet of Kershopefoot in Cumberland. To her surprise, Lettice found Sir John’s company rather enjoyable. She then ran into him again at the Portland Gallery’s autumn show in Soho, where she found him yet again to be a pleasant and attentive companion for much of the evening. Sir John also made a proposition to her that night: he offered her his hand in marriage should she ever need it. More like a business arrangement than a marriage proposal, Sir John offered Lettice the opportunity to enjoy the benefits of his large fortune, be chatelain of all his estates and continue to have her interior design business, under the conditions that she agree to provide him with an heir, and that he be allowed to discreetly carry on his affairs in spite of their marriage vows. He even suggested that Lettice might be afforded the opportunity to have her own extra marital liaisons if she were discreet about them. Turning up unannounced on his doorstep, she agreed to his proposal after explaining that the understanding between she and Selwyn was concluded. However, in an effort to be discreet, at Lettice’s insistence, they did not make their engagement public until the new year: after the dust about Selwyn’s break of his and Lettice’s engagement settled. Sir John motored across from Fontengil Park in the days following New Year and he and Lettice announced their engagement in the palatial Glynes drawing room before the Viscount and Lady Sadie the Countess, Leslie, Arabella and the Viscount’s sister Eglantyne (known by all the Chetwynd children affectionally as Aunt Egg). The announcement was received somewhat awkwardly by the Viscount initially, until Lettice assured him that her choice to marry Sir John has nothing to do with undue influence or mistaken motivations. However, the person most put out by the news is Aunt Egg who is not a great believer in the institution of marriage, and feels Lettice was perfectly fine as a modern unmarried woman.

 

Today Lettice is entertaining her Aunt Egg in her elegantly appointed Cavendish Mews drawing room in an effort to curry favour with her and change her mind about the engagement of Lettice and Sir John.

 

“Oh Aunt Egg!” Lettice exclaims in exasperation, sinking in the rounded back of her white upholstered tub chair. “After the somewhat mediocre response to my engagement to John, I need someone in my corner.”

 

“And why would that be me, my dear Lettice?” Eglantyne asks.

 

“Well, I… I just thought.” Lettice stammers.

 

“You thought what, Lettice?”

 

“Well, usually you are at odds with Mater. If Mater says it is white, you say it is black. I thought, well I thought that since Mamma seems to be as lukewarm to the idea of me becoming the next Lady Nettleford-Hughes..”

 

“That I would immediately be for it, my dear?” Eglantyne finishes Lettice’s statement for her as she picks up her teacup and sips some more tea from it beneath lowered lids, avoiding Lettice’s imploring gaze, before returning it to its saucer.

 

“Well… well yes.” Lettice admits guiltily.

 

Lettice’s Aunt Egg, as well as being unmarried, is an artist and ceramicist of some acclaim. Originally a member of the Pre-Raphaelites** in England, these days she flits through artistic and bohemian circles and when not at her Little Venice*** home in her spacious and light filled studio at the rear of her garden, can be found mixing with mostly younger artistic friends in Chelsea. Her unmarried status, outlandish choice of friends and rather reformist and unusual dress sense shocks Lettice’s mother, Lady Sadie, and attracts her derision. In addition, she draws Sadie’s ire, as Aunt Egg has always received far more affection and preferential treatment from her children. Viscount Wrexham on the other hand adores his artistic little sister, and has always made sure that she can live the lifestyle she chooses and create art. Today Eglantyne has eschewed her usual choice of an elegant and column like Delphos gown**** and has opted instead for a rather loose and slightly mannish two piece suit of dark navy wool crêpe. However, as a lover of colour and bohemian style, she has accessorised it with a hand painted Florentine silk scarf splashed with purples and magentas, and as usual, she has strings of colourful glass bugle bead sautoirs***** cascading down her front. When she was young, Eglantyne had Titian red hair that fell in wavy tresses about her pale face, making her a popular muse amongst the Pre-Raphaelites she mixed with. With the passing years, her red hair, when not hennaed, has retreated almost entirely behind silver grey, save for the occasional streak of washed out reddish orange. Today she has hidden it beneath a very impressive turban, which in spite of being dyed navy to match her suit, is at odds with it, especially with a rather exotic aigrette****** of magenta dyed feathers affixed with a diamante brooch sticking out of it.

 

“Yes, I was more than a little surprised at Sadie’s lack of enthusiasm for your marriage to John when you announced your engagement, especially when you consider how much she tried to foist you under his nose.” She snorts derisively. “As if he didn’t know of your existence as a young jeune fille à marier*******.” Eglantyne goes on. “However, I’m sorry to disappoint you, Lettice my dear, but today I am not the Thoroughbred to back. For once,” She sighs resignedly. “I am in complete agreement with your mamma.”

 

“What?” Lettice asks, looking across the low black japanned coffee table at her aunt. “Won’t you wish your favourite niece well in her marriage Aunt Egg?”

 

“Who says you are my favourite niece?” Eglantyne asks finally engaging Lettice’s gaze with her own emerald green eyes and cocking an eyebrow as she does.

 

“You do!” Lettice retorts in surprise. Then she adds with a little hurt in her voice, “Or rather, you used to.”

 

“But as you have opined, my dear, on many occasions - you are quite sure I call your sister Lally and all your female cousins, ‘my favourite niece’. You’ll never know, will you my dear,” the older woman continues with a cheeky smile. “I like to keep you all guessing who will inherit my jewels when I die.”

 

“Oh Aunt Egg!” Lettice scoffs. “You mustn’t talk like that.”

 

“We all of us are going to die one day, Lettice. Anyway,” Eglantyne smiles and reaches out to her niece, wrapping her knee in one of her gnarled and bejewelled hands in a comforting and intimate gesture. “To allay your fears, you are probably the most like me out of all of you girls, with your artistic tendencies, so why shouldn’t you be my favourite? I’ve always enjoyed indulging you.” She withdraws her loving touch and sinks back into her seat. “Mind you, you might be more of a favourite to me if you let me smoke in here.” She taps her gold cigarette case containing her favourite Black Russian Sobranies******** sitting on the green and gold embroidered stool next to her.

 

“In case you’ve forgotten, Aunt Egg, my drawing room is also my showroom for my interior design business. It’s bad enough that Mrs. Boothby smokes in the kitchen when she comes.”

 

“So, this Mrs. Boothby of yours can smoke, but I can’t?” Eglantyne asks with effrontery.

 

“Mrs. Boothby is my char*********, Aunt Egg. You are my aunt. Good chars like Mrs. Boothby are hard to find, what with the servant problem**********.”

 

“And aunts are easily replaceable?” Eglantyne laughs.

 

“No, but you know what I mean, Aunt Egg!” Lettice laughs. “I’d hate for my drawing room to wreak of cigarette smoke.”

 

“You may not like to hear this my dear, but whilst you might be my favourite because you are most like me in temperament and artistic abilities,” Eglantyne smiles and picks up her teacup again. “In some ways, you are just like your mother.”

 

“Well, if I am your favourite niece, why won’t you give my engagement your blessing, Aunt Egg?” Lettice asks imploringly again.

 

“You know me well enough, my dear Lettice, to know that I have no faith in the institution of marriage.” Eglantyne replies matter-of-factly. “Why on earth should I wish to celebrate with congratulations and champagne, or tea for that matter.” She foists her cup upwards as she speaks. “The contract that sells my independent and intelligent niece with a head for business that many men could well do with, like a chattel to her husband?” She shakes her head. “We shan’t fall out over this, and please know that I love you dearly, but for once, I don’t understand you Lettice. You have a perfectly good and full life.” She gesticulates broadly around her with dramatic and sweeping gestures. “Why would you want to spoil it with an engagement?”

 

“Well I…” Lettice begins, but is interrupted by Edith, her maid as she enters the drawing room, ringing her hands anxiously. Lettice looks across at her. “Yes, what is it, Edith? I don’t think the pot needs replenishing yet, thank you.”

 

“Beg pardon, Miss, but I haven’t come to replenish the pot.” Edith explains. “There’s a man at the tradesman’s entrance with a parcel which he says is for you.”

 

“A parcel, Edith?”

 

“Yes Miss. A very large parcel too, all wrapped up in brown paper.”

 

Lettice looks first at her aunt who returns it with a quizzical gaze, and then glances down at the floral patterns in the Chinese silk carpet at her feet, her face crumpling as she does so. “I’m not expecting any parcels.”

 

“That’s what I thought, Miss.” Edith agrees with a curt nod. “I don’t know if I ought to let him in.”

 

“Well, why ever not, Edith?”

 

“Well, he looks a little rough, if you don’t mind me saying, Miss. He’s a delivery man you see, Miss.”

 

“Delivery men often look rough, Edith.” Lettice opines.

 

“What does he want, Edith?” Eglantyne asks.

 

“That’s just the thing, Miss Chetwynd.” Edith replies, addressing the older woman. “He says Miss Lettice is expecting his parcel.”

 

“But I’m not.”

 

“Yes Miss. Err… I mean, no Miss.” Edith stammers.

 

“Where is he from?” Lettice asks.

 

“The Portland Gallery in Soho, Miss.”

 

“The Portland Gallery? Oh!” gasps Lettice, placing her teacup aside and straightening her skirt so it sits neatly just over her knee. “Show him in!”

 

“Very good Miss.” Edith answers in a slightly worried tone, lowering her head and retreating.

 

“Mr. Chilvers must be sending me something very special on approval if I don’t know anything about it!” Lettice exclaims, bouncing a little in her seat as she trembles with excitement.

 

“Indeed.” her aunt agrees with a smile and a nod.

 

Just then, the bell at the front door rings. When no-one answers it, it jarringly sounds again.

 

“Edith!” Lettice calls from her seat. “Edith there is someone at the door!”

 

“Edith’s dealing with the tradesman from the Portland Gallery.” Eglantyne points out helpfully.

 

“Oh yes!” Lettice exclaims. She rises from her seat as the doorbell rings a third time. “Then I suppose I must go and answer it. Would you excuse me, Aunt Egg?”

 

As Lettice enters the entrance hall with its black japanned console table, Edith comes in through the doorway that leads from the service area of the house.

 

“Beg pardon, Miss. I’m just trying to deal with the man from the Portland Gallery. The parcel’s ever so large and he needs someone to hold the doors open for him, Miss.”

 

“It’s alright, Edith.” Lettice assures her with a wave and a nod of her head. “I’ll answer the front door.”

 

“Thank you, Miss.” Edith replies gratefully, retreating quickly back into the corridor behind the door.

 

When Lettice answers the door, she finds to both her surprise and delight, Sir John on her threshold, dressed in a splendid three-quarter length grey winter overcoat with a glossy beaver fur collar, it’s smart cut and perfect fit indicating at a glance that it has come from one of the finest Jermyn Street*********** tailors. He holds his silver topped walking cane in his grey glove clad hand and smiles warmly at Lettice, his eyes sparkling at the sight of her.

 

“Well, this is a surprise, John!” Lettice exclaims in pleasure.

 

“No more than it is a surprise to find you answering your own front door, Lettice my dear.” Sir John says with a mirthful lilt to his voice, a cheekiness turning up the corners of his smile. “What a thoroughly modern woman you are to dispense with the usual protocols.”

 

“Well,” Lettice replies with an awkward and embarrassed laugh. “Usually I wouldn’t, but… well Edith is occupied with a tradesman bringing me an apparently large package from the Portland Gallery.”

 

“That sounds rather thrilling, my darling!” Sir John replies with arched eyebrows. Elegantly, he leans in and kisses Lettice’s right cheek before stepping back slightly and withdrawing a bunch of beautiful red roses with a theatrical flourish and a smile from behind his back. “For you!”

 

“Oh John!” Lettice exclaims, accepting the proffered red blooms, their velvety petals slightly open and releasing a waft of sweet fragrance. “They’re beautiful.” She spends a moment admiring them and appreciating their scent before she suddenly realises that Sir John is still standing on her front doormat. “Oh, where are my manners!” she gasps. “Please, do come inside.” She steps aside and allows Sir John to enter. “Aunt Egg is visiting too. We’re just in the drawing room.”

 

“Oh splendid.” Sir John opines. “lead the way.”

 

The pair walk back into the drawing room where Aunt Egg remains seated. Lettice scurries ahead and deposits the roses on the stool next to the seat her aunt occupies before she pulls a back japanned Chippendale chair across the carpet and draws it up to the coffee table between Lettice’s two armchairs.

 

“Look who it is, Aunt Egg!” Lettice says brightly.

 

“John!” Eglantyne replies. “What a surprise. How do you do.”

 

“How do you do, Eglantyne.” he replies. “I just happened to be passing, and I thought I’d stop, in the hopes of catching Lettice.”

 

“And with a bunch of roses!” Eglantyne remarks, reaching out at touching the rich blooms. “You are sure of yourself.”

 

Lettice turns to her fiancée as he places his derby on a small round chinoiserie tabletop and starts to unbutton his coat whilst still clutching his gloves and his cane in his left hand. “Here, let me take those.” she says apologetically, reaching out. Laughing awkwardly as she accepts his coat she adds, “As you can see, I’d never make a good maid.”

 

“It’s just as well that I don’t want to marry one then, isn’t it, Lettice my darling.” Sir John replies with a chuckle.

 

She smiles. “Aunt Egg and I were just having tea. I’ll have Edith fetch a third cup when she arrives.”

 

Moments later an unnerved Edith shows a rather burley fellow in overalls and a workman’s cap clutching a tall and wide parcel wrapped in brown paper into the drawing room where he stands awkwardly before the assembled company, somewhat dumbstruck by the elegant surroundings and well dressed inhabitants of Lettice’s drawing room as he glances around.

 

“You must be Mr. Chilver’s man.” Lettice says, breaking the awkward silence.

 

“Yes mum! Said ‘e ‘ad a package for you, mum. Special delivery.”

 

“Yes! Yes! Well, I wasn’t exactly expecting it, but if you would be good enough to lean it down here,” she indicates with a sweeping gesture to the Hepplewhite desk next to the fireplace. “Thank you.”

 

“Yes mum.” the delivery man says gratefully, gently lowering the parcel with a groan and leaning it against the edge of the desk.

 

“Excellent.” Lettice replies. “Oh Edith,”

 

“Yes Miss?”

 

“Could you take Sir John’s coat, hat and gloves, please.” Lettice proffers the clothing items to her maid. “And fetch another cup, please.”

 

“Yes Miss.” Edith replies, accepting the items and bobbing a quick curtsey before turning to go.

 

“Oh and Edith,” Lettice goes on.

 

“Yes Miss?” Edith answers, turning back.

 

“Please take a couple of sixpences out of the housekeeping money tin to tip our man here.” Lettice smiles gratefully at her maid. “I’ll replenish it later.”

 

“Yes Miss,” Edith replies bemused. “Very good, Miss.”

 

“Much obliged, mum.” the burly man replies, snatching his cap from his head and twisting it anxiously between his hands, before turning at Edith’s insistence and following her as she guides him back through the green baize door between the dining room and the service area of the flat.

 

“Were your ears burning, John?” Eglantyne asks.

 

“No!” he chuckles in reply. “Should they have been?”

 

“Lettice and I were just discussing your engagement.” Eglantyne elucidates.

 

“Were you?” Sir John arches his elegantly shaped eyebrows as he gazes knowingly and undeterred at Eglantyne. “Ahh well, thinking of that,” he goes on, a confident smile gracing his thin lips. “I know you wouldn’t have been expecting this parcel, Lettice my dear.” His smile broadens with pleasure, not least of all for having an audience in Eglantyne. “But it comes from me. I arranged to have it sent over. Mr. Chilvers has been kindly holding onto it for me.” He steps over to the parcel and hoists it up with a groan, leaning it against himself as the edge rests on the black japanned surface of the coffee table. “Now that it is official, and our engagement will be appearing in The Times, and the Wiltshire Times and Trowbridge Advertiser************, this is my gift to my bride-to-be!”

 

“Oh John!” Lettice exclaims.

 

“What is it?” Eglantyne asks, leaning forward, her beads trailing down her front rattling noisily together as she does.

 

“Well, why don’t you open it and find out, Lettice?” Sir John says, gazing at his future bride expectantly and extending his left hand encouragingly towards her as he speaks.

 

Lettice needs no second bidding. With trembling hands, she steps forward and gingerly tears at a loose piece of paper which rips noisily as she pulls it asunder. The corner of a simple wooden frame appears first, and then as she continues to tear at the paper, growing more excited with each rip, Lettice can soon see the bold colours and energetic strokes of thickly layered paint on canvas.

 

“Picasso’s ‘The Lovers’!” Eglantyne gasps in amazement.

 

“You bought it!” Lettice exclaims, raising her hand to her painted lips, upon which a broad smile appears. “For me?”

 

Angular lines pick out the faces and torsos of two figures on the canvas. Eyes, noses, hands, two thin lines making up a mouth. Fragmented, distorted and distracted the image radiates intimacy as much as it does boldness: a hand resting on a shoulder, the pair of figures’ heads drawn closely together, both with eyes downcast.

 

“Well, I could hardly declare that I would allow you to hang these daubs of modern art you so dearly, if in my opinion misguidedly, love, unless I gave you at least one to hang.” Sir John says proudly.

 

“Oh John! I don’t know what to say!” Lettice places a chaste kiss on his proffered left cheek.

 

“A thank you is customary.” Sir John answers with a chuckle.

 

“Thank you! You are a darling, John!” Lettice gushes, kissing him chastely on the lips this time, and embracing her fiancée. “Oh! I love it!”

 

Sir John chuckles. “I’m glad, Lettice darling.”

 

“But where will you hang it for now, Lettice?” Eglantyne asks. “Until you can hang it on one of John’s walls?” she adds, referring to Sir John’s previous comment.

 

“Well, I thought Lettice could hang it in here, above the fireplace.” Sir John answers for Lettice, indicating to the space above the mantle currently occupied by a colourful still life of pottery and fruit.

 

“Oh no!” Lettice exclaims, shaking her head. “It’s far too intimate a painting to hang in here.” The tips of her fingers run across her lips playfully and her eyes sparkle as Lettice drunks in the fine details of the colours and the textures of the brushstrokes. “I shall hang it in my boudoir, and that way I can look at it every morning until we are married, John darling!”

 

Lettice immediately turns on her heel and hurries out of the drawing room and into the entrance hall of the flat, calling for Edith to help her move a painting in her bedroom.

 

“Well,” Eglantyne remarks as she sinks back languidly into her seat again, staring up at the painting in Sir Johns hands. “You are full of surprises, my dear John.”

 

Sir John lifts the painting off the surface of the coffee table and shakes it, freeing it of the last of its brown paper protective wrapping.

 

“I never would have imagined you buying a Picasso.” Eglantyne goes on, admiring the boldness of the artwork as Sir John lowers it back to the ground and carefully leans it against the edge of the desk again.

 

“Well,” he remarks as he bends down and gathers up the paper, scrunching it noisily together in a big ball. “It’s not for me, but for Lettice.” He pauses with the large ball of paper in his hands and looks at Lettice’s aunt earnestly. “I really do care for her, you know.” he states with determination.

 

“Oh I don’t doubt it, John, but as I was saying to Lettice before your unexpected arrival, I cannot with all good conscience condone your engagement.”

 

“Why not, Eglantyne?”

 

“You know perfectly well, John, that I am a free spirit. I don’t believe in, nor have any faith in, the institution of marriage that society seems so desparate to conform us all to.” Eglantyne replies matter-of-factly. “As I remarked to Lettice just a short while ago, why on earth should I wish to celebrate the contract that sells my beautiful, intelligent and independent niece like a chattel?” She picks up her nearly empty teacup of now tepid tea. “Lettice had a perfectly good and full life before she became engaged to you.”

 

“Now don’t be bitter, Eglantyne dear.” Sir John chides.

 

“I’m not. I’m simply stating the fact that Lettice was perfectly fine on her own: a single and independent modern woman, just as she has every right to be.”

 

“Has she no right to be a happily married woman, Eglantyne?”

 

“She won’t be happy with you, John. No girl with marriage prospects like Lettice will. And, before you say it,” She wags a heavily bejewelled gnarled finger at Sir John. “I didn’t encourage her involvement with Selwyn Spencely either, unlike her mother who is so besotted with pedigree and titles, so I’m not playing favourites. Lettice was perfectly fine without any man in her life. In fact, she was just embarking on what promised to be a most successful career as an interior designer, but now pfftt!” Sir John can see her lips pursed tightly together in disapproval. Her eyes glow with frustration. “It’s gone! Just like that!”

 

“Says whom?” Sir John asks defensively.

 

“Your marriage contract.” Eglantyne replies with squinting eyes boring into him.

 

“No, it doesn’t, Eglantyne, or rather it won’t, which shows you just how little you know, and what little faith you place in me as a suitable suitor for your precious favourite niece!” When her eyes grow wide in surprise at his sudden harsh outburst at her, Sir John continues, “I’ll have you know that I have made an agreement with Lettice that when she marries me, she may continue her interior design business. Heaven save me from a bored and idle wife with nothing to do all day.” He rolls his eyes.

 

“Except interfere in your own affairs.”

 

“Exactly Eglantyne!” Sie John agrees. “I’m a businessman. She’s a businesswoman, and a successful one, as you’ve pointed out. Why should I stop her from reaching the heights she aspires to and her full potential?”

 

“Then you’re a better man than I took you for, John.” Eglantyne acquiesces.

 

“You did say I was full of surprises.”

 

“I did.”

 

“But?” Sir John says, picking up the unspoken word from Eglantyne’s lips. He shakes his head. “Do you really despise me so?”

 

Eglantyne lifts her eyes to the ornate plaster ceiling above as she shakes her own head as she raises her hand to her rumpled brow. She sighs heavily. “I don’t despise you, John.”

 

“Then what, Eglantyne?”

 

“Come.” She pats the Art Deco patterned cushioned seat of the Chippendale chair next to her. As he walks around the coffee table and lowers himself onto it, she continues, “You mustn’t spread this rumour around, John, but I actually quite like you as a person. I think you and I are rather alike in some ways, which is probably why I do like you. We’re both forthright, even when society suggests we ought not to be, and you’ve never conformed to the societal rule that you should get married.”

 

“Then…”

 

“Until now.”

 

“Well, maybe I just hadn’t met the right girl, up until now.” Sir John defends, smiling smugly with a cocked eyebrow, staring at Eglantyne with defiance.

 

“Oh come!” Eglantyne scoffs. “You’ve never involved yourself with the right girls to get married to in the first place, John. You’ve always had a penchant for chorus girls - young chorus girls. Everyone knows that.” She glances up and looks towards the open doorway of the drawing room. In the flat beyond it she can hear Lettice instruct Edith to help her remove a painting off her boudoir wall. “Well, almost everyone.”

 

“Is that all?” Sir John laughs.

 

“What do you mean is that all?” Eglantyne exclaims in effrontery. “I may not have the belief in the sanctity of marriage, but that isn’t to say my niece doesn’t! This is not an inconsequential step for her. I question your motives.” She eyes him now that they are at the same level. “Just what are you up to, John?”

 

“Me?” He feigns innocence as he holds his hands up in defence. “I’m not up to anything, as you so bluntly put it, Eglantyne. Perhaps your somewhat suspicious mind will be put at ease when I tell you that your intelligent young niece has walked into this marriage proposal with completely open eyes.”

 

“I doubt that!” Eglantyne scoffs again.

 

“Oh but that is where you are wrong, Eglantyne. She knows about my… err… dalliances, shall we say, just as you do.”

 

“So, she knows about Paula Young then?” Eglantyne asks, referring to the young up-and-coming West End actress who is the latest in Sir John’s list of conquests.

 

“Not by name as such, no.” Sir John admits. “I felt it was a little…” He pauses as he tries to think of the correct phrasing. “Indelicate at this sensitive stage in our engagement to introduce her by name. However, she does know, Eglantyne, and she also knows that I won’t shame her publicly – which I give you my assurance I won’t. I’ll never give her a reason to reproach me, and in return for her allowing me my little dalliances with the likes of Paula and those who follow her into my bed thereafter, and keeping them in her confidence, she gets to maintain her business unimpeded by me, be the chatelaine of all my properties, and live a life of luxury. In return, I get an intelligent and pretty wife to appear alongside me at social functions, and maybe some of that idle society gossip can finally be put to bed.”

 

“Really, John?” Eglantyne exclaims in disbelief. “It’s hardly a marriage I’d condone my niece to enter. A marriage of convenience that suits you.”

 

“I promise I’ll make her happy, Eglantyne.” Sir John assures her.

 

“With pretty paintings paid for with deep pockets?” Eglantyne gesticulates towards the Picasso.

 

“We’re both getting exactly what we want out of the bargain.”

 

“Really, John?” Eglantyne asks again with incredulity. “I don’t possibly see how being permitted to continue her business affairs is enough in a marriage to make Lettice happy.”

 

“If I’m being perfectly honest, which I know I can be with you, dear Eglantyne,” Sir John goes on. “As part of our arrangement, so long as she gives me an heir, and there is no question as to his paternity, I am also giving Lettice the opportunity to engage in arrangements of her own outside the marriage bed, should she choose to indulge.”

 

Eglantyne shudders. “I still cannot condone such a marriage, even with that clause. A marriage of two people loving anyone other than one another is recipe for tears and divorce. There is no happiness that I can see for poor Lettice.” She sighs. “Nor for you in the long run, you sad, misguided soul. However, she has made up her mind,” She pauses. “For now ,anyway, whilst she is besotted with the idea. Let’s see how long that lasts for once the realties of this arrangement of yours start to solidify in Lettice’s mind. Will you let her go if she comes to her senses before she walks up the aisle?”

 

“Of course, Eglantyne. Lettice isn’t the only one who has her eyes open. I know I’m much older than her, and that perhaps my dalliances may be too much for a sensitive soul like Lettice, but I aim to keep them as discreetly far away from her sphere as possible.”

 

“Can a leopard change his spots, thus?” Eglantyne leans forward. “Don’t forget that I have known you for a long time, John. Discretion has never been your strongest suit.”

 

“Well, Eglantyne,” Sir John stares back at her. “We shall just have to wait and see.”

 

“Indeed we will see.” Eglantyne nods knowingly.

 

*Twelfth Night (also known as Epiphany Eve depending upon the tradition) is a Christian festival on the last night of the Twelve Days of Christmas, marking the coming of the Epiphany. Different traditions mark the date of Twelfth Night as either the fifth of January or the sixth of January, depending on whether the counting begins on Christmas Day or the twenty-sixth of December. January the sixth is celebrated as the feast of Epiphany, which begins the Epiphanytide season.

 

**The Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood (later known as the Pre-Raphaelites) was a group of English painters, poets, and art critics, founded in 1848 by William Holman Hunt, John Everett Millais, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, William Michael Rossetti, James Collinson, Frederic George Stephens and Thomas Woolner who formed a seven-member "Brotherhood" modelled in part on the Nazarene movement. The Brotherhood was only ever a loose association and their principles were shared by other artists of the time, including Ford Madox Brown, Arthur Hughes and Marie Spartali Stillman. Later followers of the principles of the Brotherhood included Edward Burne-Jones, William Morris and John William Waterhouse. The group sought a return to the abundant detail, intense colours and complex compositions of Quattrocento Italian art. They rejected what they regarded as the mechanistic approach first adopted by Mannerist artists who succeeded Raphael and Michelangelo. The Brotherhood believed the classical poses and elegant compositions of Raphael in particular had been a corrupting influence on the academic teaching of art, hence the name "Pre-Raphaelite".

 

***Little Venice is an affluent residential district in West London, England, around the junction of the Paddington Arm of the Grand Union Canal, the Regent's Canal, and the entrance to Paddington Basin. The junction, also known as Little Venice and Browning's Pool, forms a triangular shape basin designed to allow long canal boats to turn around. Many of the buildings in the vicinity are Regency white painted stucco terraced town houses and taller blocks (mansions) in the same style.

 

****The Delphos gown is a finely pleated silk dress first created in about 1907 by French designer Henriette Negrin and her husband, Mariano Fortuny y Madrazo. They produced the gowns until about 1950. It was inspired by, and named after, a classical Greek statue, the Charioteer of Delphi. It was championed by more artistic women who did not wish to conform to society’s constraints and wear a tightly fitting corset.

 

*****A sautoir is a French term for a long necklace that suspends a tassel or other ornament.

 

******An aigrette is a headdress consisting of a white egret's feather or other decoration such as a spray of gems.

 

*******A jeune fille à marier was a marriageable young woman, the French term used in fashionable circles and the upper-classes of Edwardian society before the Second World War.

 

********The Balkan Sobranie tobacco business was established in London in 1879 by Albert Weinberg (born in Romania in 1849), whose naturalisation papers dated 1886 confirm his nationality and show that he had emigrated to England in the 1870s at a time when hand-made cigarettes in the eastern European and Russian tradition were becoming fashionable in Europe. Sobranie is one of the oldest cigarette brands in the world. Throughout its existence, Sobranie was marketed as the definition of luxury in the tobacco industry, being adopted as the official provider of many European royal houses and elites around the world including the Imperial Court of Russia and the royal courts of United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, Spain, Romania, and Greece. Premium brands include the multi-coloured Sobranie Cocktail and the black and gold Sobranie Black Russian.

 

********A charwoman, chargirl, or char, jokingly charlady, is an old-fashioned occupational term, referring to a paid part-time worker who comes into a house or other building to clean it for a few hours of a day or week, as opposed to a maid, who usually lives as part of the household within the structure of domestic service. In the 1920s, chars usually did all the hard graft work that paid live-in domestics would no longer do as they looked for excuses to leave domestic service for better paying work in offices and factories.

 

**********With new employment opportunities opening for working-class women in factories and department stores between the two World Wars, many young people, mostly female, left the long hours, hard graft and low wages of domestic service opting for the higher wages and better treatment these new employment opportunities provided.

 

***********Jermyn Street is a one-way street in the St James's area of the City of Westminster in London. It is to the south of, parallel, and adjacent to Piccadilly. Jermyn Street is known as a street for high end gentlemen's clothing retailers and bespoke tailors in the West End.

 

************The Wiltshire Times and Trowbridge Advertiser is weekly newspaper which serves the towns of west Wiltshire, including Trowbridge. Printed in Trowbridge it was established in 1854 by Benjamin Lansdown, as The Trowbridge and Wiltshire Advertiser. Benjamin was born in Trowbridge and was the son of a woollen mill employee but this was not the path he wished to follow and he was apprenticed as a printer alongside Mr John Sweet. He bought a hard press and second-hand typewriter before starting his own newspaper, along with establishing his own stationery shop in Silver Street around 1860. He moved the business into 15 Duke Street around 1876. Duke Street became home to the impressive R. Hoe & Co printing press that allowed printers to use continuous rolls of paper, instead of individual sheets, to speed up the process and countless copies of the newspaper rolled off the press at Duke Street for many years. The newspaper was based there for more than one hundred years and the business remained within the Lansdown family for generations until it was finally sold in the early 1960s. Over the years in had various names including The Trowbridge and North Wiltshire Advertiser from 1860 until 1880, The Wiltshire Times and Trowbridge Advertiser from 1880 until 1949, The Wiltshire Times between 1950 and 1962 and The Wiltshire Times & News between 1962 and 1963. It then became known as the Wiltshire Times – the banner it holds today. In 2019, the Wiltshire Times and its sister paper the Gazette & Herald moved to offices on the White Horse Business Park in North Bradley, stating that its Duke Street building was no longer fit for purpose. These offices later closed in 2020 as the three Covid-19 pandemic lockdowns struck. The Wiltshire times is still serving the local community both in a paper and an online format with a small team of journalists who passionately believe in the value of good trusted journalism and providing in-depth local news coverage.

 

This 1920s upper-class drawing room is different to what you may think at first glance, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

Central to our story, the “Lovers” painting by Picasso is a 1:12 miniature painted by hand in the style of Picasso by miniature artist Mandy Dawkins of Miniature Dreams in Thrapston. The frame was handmade by her husband John Dawkins.

 

Lettice’s tea set is a beautiful artisan set featuring a rather avant-garde Art Deco Royal Doulton design from the Edwardian era called “Falling Leaves”. The glass comport is made of real glass and was blown by hand is an artisan miniature acquired from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The bunch of red roses to the far left of the image also comes from Beautifully handmade Miniatures.

 

The very realistic floral arrangements around the room are made by hand by the Doll House Emporium in America who specialise in high end miniatures.

 

The Vogue magazine that you see on Lettice’s coffee table is a 1:12 size miniature made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Most of the books I own that he has made may be opened to reveal authentic printed interiors, although this is amongst the exception. In some cases, you can even read the words of the titles, depending upon the size of the print! I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection. What might amaze you even more is that all Ken Blythe’s opening books are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make this a miniature artisan piece. Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter.

 

Sir John’s silver knobbed walking stick is also a 1:12 artisan miniature. The top is sterling silver. It was made by the Little Green Workshop in England who specialise in high end, high quality miniatures.

 

Lettice’s drawing room is furnished with beautiful J.B.M. miniatures. The Art Deco tub chairs are of black japanned wood and have removable cushions, just like their life sized examples. To the left of the fireplace is a Hepplewhite drop-drawer bureau and chair of black japanned wood which has been hand painted with chinoiserie designs, even down the legs and inside the bureau. The Hepplewhite chair has a rattan seat, which has also been hand woven. To the right of the fireplace is a Chippendale cabinet which has also been decorated with chinoiserie designs. It also features very ornate metalwork hinges and locks.

 

On the top of the Hepplewhite bureau stand three real miniature photos in frames including an Edwardian silver frame, a Victorian brass frame and an Art Deco blue Bakelite and glass frame.

 

The fireplace is a 1:12 miniature resin Art Deco fireplace which is flanked by brass accessories including an ash brush with real bristles.

 

The carpet beneath the furniture is a copy of a popular 1920s style Chinese silk rug, and the geometric Art Deco wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, which inspired the whole “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.

If you look closely at the faint and fuzzy centre of this picture, you will find a ghostly galaxy — the not-so-spooky-sounding UDG4 — captured using ESO’s VLT Survey Telescope (VST).

 

UDG stands for ultra-diffuse galaxy: objects as large as the Milky Way but with 100 – 1000 times fewer stars. These galaxies are extremely faint and lack star-forming gas, which makes them appear almost like a fluffy cosmic cloud, or a smudge in space. Their origins remain uncertain, but astronomers speculate that they could be “failed” galaxies that lost their gas supply early in their lifetimes.

 

This image of UDG4 was taken as part of a study from a much larger program, the VST Early-type Galaxy Survey (VEGAS), which aims to investigate very faint structures in galaxy clusters — large groups of many galaxies bound together by gravity. The study, led by Enrichetta Iodice from the Istituto Nazionale di Astrofisica in Italy, has found several UDGs in the Hydra Cluster, but more observations are needed to elucidate their true nature.

 

Given their flimsy appearance, UDGs can be difficult to spot. Nevertheless, the VST, equipped with its OmegaCAM camera, provides exquisite sensitivity to light, allowing astronomers to study such elusive objects.

 

Credit: ESO/Iodice et al.

To Infinity and Beyond: This Is the Afterlife ~

 

Turning inside out, the young shaman falls though a long swirling tunnel formed of his inverted self, his unbodied mouth and eyes agape in a primal rush toward extinction.

 

He accelerates t

hrough a tightly wound vortex that shifts and bends to accommodate his course, always centred in the swirling tube which never touches his falling, disembodied perspective. The tunnel is made of light, and of his own bloodstream, and of all the memories and unremembered details of materiality and personality that made up his life – yet not merely ‘his’ life.

 

Every human, fish, bird, animal, insect, cell and blood corpuscle that has ever lived is there with him, all at once – the dying shaman can feel their bright fear and ecstasy pouring through him as they all rush toward an unseen destination around the curving, translucent bends of the primal vortex. Even though every being dies alone – no matter if a multitude of witnesses is present – the moment of death itself is one great screaming orgasm experienced simultaneously by every one, every single thing that has ever lived – all our eyes and mouths and ganglia agape at the same simultaneous culmination of our material existence.

 

The tunnel is an eternally vivid living record of past events and future dreams, all memories and visions embroidered into the seamless fabric of its swirl – and Ram’yana’s private past and the panoply of his personal memories are displayed most prominently to him, brightly livid episodes which emerge from the tubular walls as he passes. His strongest experiences – the most impressive ones, that imprinted themselves most brightly into the palimpsest of his being – leap out at him in high relief as he turns and twists and falls and flies, a singular eye of consciousness accelerating toward the endless end of the convoluted time tunnel that’s leading him home.

 

As the world we experience slips past us at the periphery of our sensoria, an ongoing tunnel vision moves with us at the extremity of our perceptions, whether dying, dead or alive. Journeying out of the physical plane, outside the material matrix of the world, Ram’yana is beyond time and the ken of time-bound beings; as he leaves four dimensional Timespace and approaches the speed of light everything twists into a tunnel which lengthens fore and aft.

 

He sees his grandfather and grandmother, Mickey Mouse and Pluto, all the dogs and cats and mice and goldfish that shared his boyhood years, the smells of his houses and the flavours of his lovers. He hears the laughter of his kindergarten friends, their bright faces visible all around him singing ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’, while pretty little Abigail jumps over a spinning rope twirled by Gina and Hannah, her long blonde pink-ribboned pigtails rotating around the sides of her head.

 

He holds his mother’s huge hand, grasping her finger through the wooden bars of his bassinet while she sings to him in the sultry evening air. He witnesses the expression of semi-resigned shock on his father’s face during the Cuban missile crisis and again when Kennedy was shot, sees the squashed remains of mosquitoes on the wall above his crib, watches the strange lights moving in the sky while all the neighbours point and speculate, sinks again with a collapsing sandbank on Bondi Beach, swept away with hundreds of panicking faces being pulled out to the deep sea along with him, while hundreds of man-eating sharks are driven off by the beating, splashing oars of desperate lifesavers.

 

He sees his mother’s eyes for the first time all over again and screams at the hard slap on his bottom as he hangs before Doctor Traub’s thick-lensed glasses in the bright, antiseptic birth theatre. His paternal grandmother smiles at him as she leans over and obscures his view of the magnificent giant yellow flowers of the magnolia tree while she wheels him in his pram; he can still smell the cloying fragrance of the flowers. His mother’s mother screams as he holds a dingo puppy up for her inspection and she tumbles over backward in her bedroom, breaking her hip while his eight year old eyes wash the scene away with tears that burn through the illusory years.

 

The Cat in the Hat and the Mighty Thor; the smell and Hungarian accent of alcoholic Uncle Tony, putting him off beer for years with his first taste of bitter ale at the age of six, and the bright laughing face of his babysitter Wendy by the blazing wood fire; the spray of blood when he cut his wrist falling onto a broken bottle at the age of three and the dizzying view from the emergency surgeon’s high private balcony; the first time he kissed a girl and the first time he dreamed of kissing a girl, all bound up together; flying through the sky in a propeller-driven passenger plane, watching circular rainbows following him in the clouds below.

 

White sulphur-crested cockatoos and sparrows circle his yard while kookaburras laugh in the gum trees; the first terrifying time his father holds him up high in the air to place him in the fork of a tree; his first night after he ran away from home, reclining on a beanbag in a Kings Cross commune reading Philip Jose Farmer’s pertinent To Your Scattered Bodies Go – everything is there, each scene and sensation embedded within and revealing a multitude of others. Everything. His dying mind seeks out everything he’s ever experienced, seeking a way back into the womb of living as he falls through something else entirely, riding a rollercoaster beyond the imagination of the most topologically tormented tycoon.

 

As Ram’yana falls he flashes before the eyes of his whole life – as others fall with him, many others, all others, sharing the time tunnel with his self-judging awareness. In the eternity of the Fall everything hidden or repressed is exposed in the Divine Light of clear sight and each being is their own Judge, emerging from the blindfold of their material existence to weigh their own soul on the ineradicable scales of justice and mercy. Conscience is the soul and the soul is immortally, inescapably honest with itself when released from the fetters of self-deceit and delusion.

 

Beyond time, at the singular moment of the great primal rush that is the birth and death canal leading from one world to the next, everyone experiences the same thingat the same time. We all come and go together in a mind-blowing orgasm; dreaming or screaming, laughing or crying, all emotion quails and pales before the rush of unstoppable motion that dwarfs any and every trivial concern.

 

No thought of gods or devils, life or death in the primal scream toward the Light at the end of the tunnel – the only thing that matters is holding onto your headless hat and the wordless regrets felt toward all the people, animals and conscious entities you ever knew deeply, or ever loved – and still love, deeply, tenderly, with a perspective of forgiveness, understanding and compassion never vouchsafed to your flesh-bound, in-coiled, emotion-embroiled mortal personality.

 

Ram is every human who ever lived and died, every fish ever caught in a current to swirl down into lightless depths beyond its control, every bird caught in a whirlwind that flings it to flinders, every animal diving for cover into cloaking vegetation from an inescapable predator, every individual blood corpuscle flinging itself on the way to the crushing pressure at the heart of its warm, pulsating cosmos. As he pours through the end of the world the tunnel twists and whirls, always hiding the point of it all, the point of no return, the heart of the matter, the source of every thing and being – and his mind expands to simultaneously see his spiraling course as a single thread in a vast interwoven image.

 

The tunnel is one thread among myriad drab and colourful strands in a great uncharitable tapestry, an inextricable part of its intricate pattern. The dying shaman follows the course of his life along its undulating strand and sees that his thread rises and falls above and beneath uncountable other interlocking threads, a spectrum of hues and textures in the enormously unfathomable tapestry. As his thread rises above another he is ‘conscious’, while the thread it occludes is ‘dreaming’; where his strand is covered by another thread, his mortal body sleeps and dreams while the other strand lives their waking life. Everyone and everything is there, all at once, simultaneously, lain out and displayed before him with no need for the flow of time to elucidate the infinite multiplicity of being.

 

Turn the tapestry around. The thought comes unbidden and the cloth reverses itself around him in a loopy topological twist; the implicately shared complementary nature of consciousness becomes apparent to his blown mind as he sees himself dreaming the lives of others, and others dreaming through his waking eyes and flesh. The intermingling pathways wind around the curving delineaments of their divine co-creation, which turns into itself like a Moebius strip until the beginning of one thread seamlessly winds into the end of another. The falcon is the hunter is the arrow is the feather is the truth. All is alive and whole; nothing is partial or frayed.

 

The tapestry is vast, but he’s able to follow his individuated thread through the colourful patterns and sees that the enormous conglomeration of dreams and lives is incomplete – not completed by the path of the single thread that is his experience of existence, rising from the tapestry to enter him as him. At the same timeless moment, Ram’yana approaches the plexus of light that is the destiny of all nations, women and men – the future and past of all that are born to fall along with him, minds blown in the blinding light of the immortal portal.

 

An immaculate blazing white-hot sun glows at the end of the tunnel. He can see it ever more clearly through the transparing walls of the vortex, thinning and fading in the face of the overwhelmingly brilliant source and core of existence. Ram sees the arcs of a trans-finite net spreading outward from the source, sees an infinitude of other vortices approaching its plexus from more angles than he can wrap his bodiless head around. They pass through each other in ways that defy and tease his mortal three-dimensionally entrained mind – but the arrangement makes subtle sense to a higher form of his being, trembling on the edge of an unchartable metamorphosis into something so much greater as to be intrinsically unimaginable. Simultaneously, on another level, the individual personality of the shaman approaches its ultimate rebirth and transformation in his flight toward the blinding light of the central sun.

 

The source of all is the hot, bright core and central axis of the centreless multiverse, the eternal end of every tunnel; the maw of a transdimensional creature about to swallow him up, the Infinite Light of God and his own silent heart gently glowing in timeless repose. He flies around a final bend in the dissolving tunnel, surging toward the arcane net that veils the core – which flares into him as the tunnel widens, opening into the final straight.

 

Ram’yana flashes toward the weave that’s flung to the ends of the cosmos, spreading himself to embrace the Light – and as he reaches it, he encounters the safety net. A web-like sieve is strung across the open maw of All, and as Ram’yana passes though it a great, resounding BOUMMB fills the boundless universe – the sound of one heartbeat, as loud as the boom that eternally creates the unborn, ever-living universe; the sound of Shiva’s eye opening and of one hand clapping.

 

Before your time, he hears and feels, not ready, not yet – unfinished – and he feels himself shrinking toward an infinitesimally small spot in the multitude of multiverses – back into the weave, where plan net X marks the spot where all things meet in his current-bound primate life.

 

Boumb… Boom…. Boom!

  

That’s why I’m here, writing this to you ‘now’ – the same ‘now’ that you are reading it in, really. I and eye remember it all vividly, not as something to slowly forget or avoid in the unfocused mind’s eye, but as an ongoing experience that is with me now, always, dynamically imprinted. It is with me as it is with you, when you close your eyes and open your memory to see truly through the waters of forgetfulness, to the infinite waters of eternal life.

 

Life and death, sensory wakefulness and supersensory dreaming are the same thing, appearing as the warp and weft of the reversible tapestry of existence. And everyone, each of us, is the whole tapestry, inextricably interwoven – everyone is everyone, and that’s about as close as this constraining corsetry of early third millennium Inglesh needs to get at this point in infinite time – xcept, perhaps, for the most important thing of all -

 

Every one you truly touch and are touched by, in every way, leaves the deepest and most prominent engravings in your heart, mind and soul. What we do unto others is what we do to ourselves – and other living beings are more than mere memory mirrors or handy usable tools. That’s what draws us back for more, and more again – the need to do better by our selves – over and over, until we do it right. Then we get another choice – or another chance to ride the carousel Wheel of Fortune again, if we so choose.

 

The multiple layers of ascendant consciousness are a self-filtering system of co-evolution – a system of slowly developing focus and perspective that leads our awareness to other dimensions, already inextricably interwoven with the relatively ‘familiar’ bounds of our largely unknown but ever-present reality. There’s no dim-witted hierarchy of order-givers or sword-wielding guardians barring the doors of higher perception – the gateway to Heaven on Earth. There’s just you – and me, and all of us, together. We all have our time to shine, and that time is always now.

 

Yet Death is not Dying. In the Bardo spaces between thy flowering carnations of existence, all the bright religious hopes and turgid superstitious terrors await the untrained monkey mind in its ongoing fall toward dissolution or reintegration. The Bardo Realms are entire worlds or pocket universes as apparently solid as the full-blown reality ye imagine around thee, right where thou art sitting, right now. How do ye know thou art alive, not dreaming this experience, right here and now? Do ye think that’s air you’re breathing?

   

A true story

 

By Ram Ayana @ hermetic.blog.com/2012/03/13/to-infinity-and-beyond-this-...