View allAll Photos Tagged Exasperated
High above the streets of Metropolis, Superman floats gracefully above the city. People bustling to and from their destinations, Cars honking at bikers in the road, steam rearing from manhole covers. Birds fluttered atop the skyscrapers, cooing as they greeted one another.
He can hear it all. The brake pads on an old taxi down on 11th Ave, a mother soothing her child after a long afternoon nap seven blocks away. Even the sound of exasperated breathing, from a shop owner hiding under his checkout counter. He could hear feet shuffling, a few murmured demands, a cash drawer open... and the sound of a slide being cocked back over a loaded gun!
He could hear the gun fire, as he instantly flew it's direction! Seconds later he was outside the small store, it was as if time was slowed. Superman floated in gracefully as the bullet trudged closer and closer to the shop owner. Superman landed softly, stepping through the doorway, a hooded gunman was aiming towards a cowering older man, a bullet was mid-flight between the gun and the man's heart. Superman walked calmly up to the heated projectile. Reaching out, he plucked it from the air without the slightest hesitation.
Time returned to normal as he turned to the shop keeper, “It's okay now” He spoke sternly, giving a small smile. “Are you hurt?”
“Uh gee uh... wow...no, I guess” The owner stuttered in a loss for words. His tense body relaxed significantly as Superman turned to the gunman. He was barely legal to own that weapon, Eighteen, maybe Nineteen.
He stood there stiff, still aiming straight at the store counter where superman stood, but shock cascaded over his face. He lowered the gun slowly, and began to cry.
“I'm so sorry...” tears welled up as the boy dropped the firearm “Superman, I'm sorry...”
“I'm not the one you should be apologizing to, Son” Superman said taking a step back letting the two characters see eye to eye once more. Silence fell onto the room, their heartbeats slowed.
“Com'ere,” Superman gestured with an open arm, inviting him to the counter. The boy shuffled under his arm and hugged Superman tightly. “My Mom... she's sick...” The boy sniffled, “I just want to help her...” He looked up to Superman, then over to the Shopkeeper “I'm... I'm sorry.” The boy emptied his pockets of wadded Twenty's and two rolls of quarters.
“My wife...” The shopkeeper said, stepping closer “She knows a doctor. She could get her to take a look at your Mom...”
Superman grinned subtly as the boy released the vice-grip from around his waist to lean against the counter to talk with the shop owner. The three talked for what felt like hours. Later, an officer came by at Superman's request to take the boy home.
Before leaving, Superman took the boy's handgun from the floor and crushed it into the size of a golf ball, tossing it into a trash bin as he exited the shop. He slowly floated back into the sky, and the sounds of Metropolis found his ears once again. He smiled. No one got hurt today.
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Okay, let's set the tone...
www.youtube.com/watch?v=EngKxF3Cqh4
Oh man, it feels like I'm the last kid on the block to get this fig! Adam's Indestructible Hero is a fantastic figure!
Superman is far overdue for a new look, seeing as the first, and only time Lego had made a Superman fig was from 2011. The planned N52 costume from The Lego Batman 3 video game never saw the light of day, and I was pretty bummed about that. So obviously when Phoenix Customs announced their figure based on Jim Lee's design, I would be an idiot not to buy one :P
This fig also came with a starched cape with an 'S' symbol printed on the back, but for artistic purposes I left it out, substituting a sponge-y cape to give this photo just a bit more fluidity with the invisible breeze I image when I look at these photos.
Also, thinking about it now, this could almost be a sister piece to Gotham in Red... flic.kr/p/FfLKRJ
Oh and like always, there is a bunch of cool bonus stuff over on my Patreon, including some different set-ups to the fig and the lightning, and a side by side comparison of the original photograph to the completed image you're seeing here :)
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If you think this photograph is worth at least a dollar, check out my Patreon to see early photography, behind the scenes images, and WIPs of upcoming projects!
I had this on my Flickr before but the photo was a scan from a mag..
This one's better so I've re-posted it. ...
This was done just outside St Pancras station in 1992.
It was Christmas. I had no outline planned and half the paint I'd ponced off Skore and co down the Wag club earlier that night (I told em I was going yard after the club and could they donate a few spits and crumbs of the old spuitverf-as the Dutch call it) Hence armed with no outline and a bag of colours that I didnt choose Im pretty happy with how this came out.
It took about 3 hours to sketch and fill in then I had to sit for almost 2 hours waiting for the sun to come up so I could outlne, as having no paper-sketch and a mad fill in 'Id completely lost the original sketch up. This was all exasperated by the fact that a lot of the cans I got from the chaps had paint all over em and in the darkness of the lay-up I didnt even know what half the colours I was using were. In the end I just made some of it up and put the final sketch anywhere. I reckon it works. Just!
Royal Mail train! Property of the Queen! Should I have painted it?
Yes of course I should have and if she disagrees can I suggest that maybe she needs to get out more often.
Hans Multscher (Leutkirch im Allgäu, c. 1400 - Ulma, 1467) - The Birth of Christ - altar of Wurzach (1437) - Gemäldegalerie Berlin
Multscher fu un pioniere nell'introdurre in Germania, importandolo dalla Borgogna e Paesi Bassi, il realismo fiammingo che sostituì il weicher Stil, lo "stile morbido", astratto e idealizzato, tipico dell'arte tardo gotica locale. Nei pannelli dipinti dell'altare di Wurzach, del 1437, il suo stile realista lo porta ad esasperare la bruttezza dei personaggi per sottolineare accenti di carattere, personalità o atteggiamento.
Multscher was a pioneer in introducing into Germany, importing it from Burgundy and the Netherlands, the Flemish realism that replaced the weicher Stil, the "soft style", abstract and idealized, typical of local late Gothic art. In the painted panels of the altar of Wurzach, dated 1437, his realist style leads him to exasperate the ugliness of the characters to emphasize accents of character, personality or attitude.
One full picture.
One 16.9 Crop
Then Three the Above, the Centre and the Lower Crops.
I did not reach for the highest reaches of the sky in Above so I made One more crop.
1 of 6 – Full Frame
2 of 6 – 16.9 Crop
3 of 6 – 16.9 Above Crop
4 of 6 – 16.9 Above Crop
5 of 6 – 16.9 Above Crop
⁕⁕⁕6 of 6 – 16.9 Ultimate Sky Crop⁕⁕⁕
The crops are technically all in and from the Full Frame. The Crops are me sharing some things that I see in the Full Frame and enjoy looking at and sharing. It might be too much similar, same and more and more so for others, but I hope to be looking at these images when I am older, weaker and less able. My gentle adventures to this scenic spot might be just the tonic that I need then, it is tonic right now as I edit these pictures and load them. It could be that in years to come I am completely exasperated with loading the same scene when maybe I could have been recording and loading other scenes and so enjoying more memories from more places? Right now this what I happy with.
The beautiful Pentland Hills Regional Park forms the superb skyline in this photograph.
Nature created all of the drama presented here and science and art made the exposure and the framing that is given so dramatically here by me.
When this image popped up on the screen I was confident that I had a record of the passing wonders that were delighting even as they deftly delicate dwindled before my eyes. Here the passing of light and the return of the dark was both absorbing, enthralling and enchanting. I was drawn into the scene as I photographed it and it drew me in further and further in as I altered and attempted exposures. The viewer and especially the recorder, the witness if you will becomes a part of the changeable scene feeling a prediction and an expectation of the elemental interplay til there is a belonging into the exchange that when eventually broken is a waking from an involved moment, a small encounter of a world within this world. Picture taking and making can be a Yoga exercise a communication with the scene and an appreciation of the seeming elemental metamorphosis, a time of something like first a loosing and then a finding of a self with a divine understanding whether that be any and every position you take on the potential of such.
© PHH Sykes 2023
phhsykes@gmail.com
Pentland Hills. The Regional Park...
Canmore - Upperside Limekiln, South
He was only around for a couple of weeks so here is one last photograph of my albino Rook. In various folk-lores it is generally held that black birds were originally white. In Greek myth, a white Raven told Apollo (the patron of Augurs, including Ravens) that his lover Coronis had been unfaithful. In his rage, Apollo slew his lover Coronis, but then in remorse "he blacked the Raven o'er, and bid him prate in his white plumes no more" (Addison's translation of Ovid's Metamorphoses). Incidentally the Ancient Greek name for the Latinised Coronis (Κορωνίς) means curved and has the same root as the Greek word for crow (Korone), named for its curved beak, and persists in the scientific name for Carrion Crow (Corvus corone).
There is also a Christian folk-lore tale from the Tyrol relating that Christ went to a stream where some (white) Ravens were bathing. He asked them to allow him to drink but they rudely kept on splashing and ignoring him. So Christ said "Ungrateful birds! Proud you may be of your beauty, but your feathers, now so snowy white, shall become black and remain so till the judgement Day" (from CE Hare; Bird Lore 1952).
I will be amazed if anyone recognises which TV show my title comes from. It is from a 1960s American TV show called "Combat!" and White Rook was the radio call sign for Sgt "Chip" Saunders. en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Combat!
One final thing. I almost called this photo "Stone the Crows!" an expression regularly used by comedian Tony Hancock. But it apparently originates from an actual event which happened in the late 1800s, just south of Roebourne in Western Australia. A teenager who was part of the original settlement there was becoming exasperated with the flies and the heat and in a moment of temper he picked up a stone to throw at a crow. As he was about to throw the stone, he stopped in his tracks because the stone was too heavy for its size. On inspection the stone contained a large proportion of gold. The term "stone the crows" traditionally translates to, "well how about that".
Today WAH are visiting I Found This
I found this today on our dog walk.. Apparently it's a thing here that if you are upset, angry, irate, annoyed, vexed, exasperated, irked, piqued, resentful , incensed, fuming or just just pissed off with someone you write down all your gripes about them on a plate and then go and smash it somewhere. What pisses me off is that they smash it and leave the pieces for someone else to clear up........ I won't be writing anything on a plate.
Evaporate, exasperate
Watch the world with swivel hand
We're hanging on a wire
Cigaretes, nicorettes
Life's addications father stress
But who can make it better
Oh-ho-ho!
Watch me rise
Oh-ho-ho!
Synchronized
Take me high
Space age hero
Pain
Take the strain
Go insane
Like a monkey in a cage
Melting in a fire
Picture taken, BW and texture by me .Bling bling added by Habaneros.
emart-emmanuellebaudry.e-monsite.com/
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Une bulle,
Une plume,
Une lune.
Ses cratères,
Quel caractère !
Elle m'exaspère.
E.B.
A bubble,
A mumble,
A moon hole.
Its craters,
What character!
She exasperates me.
E.B.
If you're a, oh, let's just say, a Dutch photographer who visits SoCal for the first time, you will be enthralled to see so many iconic palm trees. Everywhere you go you'll see rows of really tall bendy ones lining streets or clumped groomed groups as landscape accents or solo trees just sticking up out of no where off in the distance. By the time you've made your second or third (or seventh) visit here you'll find you are getting more than a bit exasperated that they seem to show up in EVERY dang photo you take, either front-and-center, semi-hiding in the background, sneeking unexpectedly into a reflection, or just appearing as some stoopid silhouette shadow in that kick-ass shot you just took (thinking it was palm-tree-free). SoCal palm trees... so ubiquitous indeed.
But, you know what? I've lived here all my life and I simply don't notice them anymore.
“Fathers, do not exasperate your children; instead, bring them up in the training and instruction of the Lord.”- Ephesians 6:4
Please don't save to your computer or use this image on websites, blogs or other media without my explicit permission. © All rights reserved.
the experience of walking to a place without humans only to have human & dog walk into frame out of nOwhere.. sub threshold exasperated irritability melts into acceptance & laughter while dog lingers to watch me & wag on. then scream 'thank gob i wasn't naked hAhAha'
learning from visual reminders to shut my goddamn mouth
One of my absolute favorite photos to date. This was New Years Eve, 2023. I was racing the sunset down the Kennebec River after a few small river lighthouses, then trying to find a place to park the car. All of the coastal area in Phippsburg is private beach or vacation homes with no trespassing signs, making it nearly impossible to get a view like this.
The clouds were low and thick, with the sun funneling between them and the surface of the sea. A few minutes prior, the side of Seguin Island had been lit up orange for a short moment, and I was becoming exasperated as the more intense colors flew past, with nowhere to safely leave the car. I finally discarded any fear of a ticket, parking along the road under a NO PARKING sign. Digging frantically through the cases in the trunk, I mounted the 200-500mm lens on the body and slapped it on the tripod before darting for a small gap in the dune fence. In my rush I hadn't noticed that where the slats had been removed, the wire was still there. I hit the tripwire, going down. My body was thankful it was mostly sand, but there's no way I didn't get grains inside the lens. I don't think I stopped moving to pick myself up and my rig up, before running through the brush onto the beach and setting up in the harder wet sand. There were two families walking in the surf, hundreds of yards away, nobody to witness my clumsy break-in to their private beach. The best colors were gone buy a few minutes, but I still feel like I'm right there when I look at this photo set. It means the world to me.
"Seguin Light is a lighthouse on Seguin Island, in the Gulf of Maine south of the mouth of the Kennebec River, Maine. Established in 1795, it is the second-oldest of Maine's coastal lighthouses, and the only lighthouse in the state housing a first-order Fresnel lens. With its light at 180 feet (55 m) above mean sea-level, the present tower, built in 1857, is its highest of the state's lighthouses. Automated in 1985, the buildings of the light station are now operated as a museum property by a non-profit organization, and are seasonally open to the public via scheduled ferry from Popham Beach in Phippsburg. The light was listed on the National Register of Historic Places as Seguin Island Light Station in 1977.
Description and history
Seguin Island is a 64-acre (26 ha) island located about two nautical miles south of Fort Popham in southernmost Phippsburg. The light station is located at the island's highest point, and includes the lighthouse itself, the keeper's house, fog signal building, a small oilhouse, and a tramway for bringing supplies from the shore to the site. The tower is built of cut granite blocks, and is 53 feet (16 m) tall and 16 feet (4.9 m) in diameter at the base. The keeper's house is built of brick, and is 1+1⁄2 stories in height with a gabled roof; it now houses a museum and shop. The oilhouse and fog signal building are also brick. The tramway consists of wooden rails mounted on timber piles.
The light station was established in 1795, in response to a petition by Massachusetts authorities (Maine then being part of Massachusetts). The first tower was a wood-frame structure completed in 1797. It was replaced in 1820 by a stone tower, which was replaced by the present tower in 1857. Most of the extant structures on the island also date from the 1857 construction period. It is the highest lighthouse on the Maine coast and has the only first order Fresnel lens currently used in the state." (Wikipedia)
PLEASE, NO GRAPHICS, BADGES, OR AWARDS IN COMMENTS. They will be deleted.
I bought this dress from a place called The Pyramid Collection, last year, online. I really liked the design. It's the first time I've worn it due to my ills. It's also a tie back, which a really like and I think it's really cute! It probably would go well with opaque colored tights or leggings as well.
I might post another photo or two before I go under the knife and how I feel. It's been a crazy life for quite awhile. I wish I could get this junk behind me soon. It's exasperating to say the least.
Thank you for the love and previous comments and have a great week!! 😃
Sherilyn 💋💕
NOTICE: This photo is copyrighted 2023 by Sherilyn Sands with all rights reserved. No downloading, screen capture or distribution of this photo without my permission. Thanks!
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 have headed south-west across London, away from Cavendish Mews and Mayfair, over Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens to the comfortably affluent Kensington High Street. Here, amidst the two and three storey buildings that line either side of the street stands the elegant Edwardian department store of Derry and Toms*. It is in the café on the top floor, beneath the ornate ceiling with its central domed light well, that Lettice has an assignation with one of her Embassy Club coterie of bright young things**, her dear friend Margot. Margot recently married another of the Embassy Club coterie, Dickie Channon. The newlyweds have been gifted a Recency country “cottage residence” called ‘Chi an Treth’ (Cornish for ‘beach house’) as a wedding gift by the groom’s father, the Marquess of Taunton. Margot, encouraged by her father Lord de Virre who will foot the bill, has commissioned Lettice to redecorate a few of the principal rooms of ‘Chi an Treth’. It is to discuss her ideas for redecoration that Lettice is meeting the newly minted Mrs. Channon for afternoon tea.
The pair sit in a cosy nook at a quiet table for two laid with fine white napery, gilt edged china, glinting silverware and gleaming glassware. The hubbub of quiet and polite, predominantly female, chatter drifts around them, for the spacious café is filled with Edwardian matrons and their daughters or other well-heeled young women all enjoying a fine repast. Many have been shopping in the departments on the floors below their feet. The chatter is punctuated with the sound of cutlery quietly tapping crockery and the clink of glasses as they enjoy what the Derry and Toms Café has to offer.
“Oh, how heavenly, Margot darling!” Lettice sighs as a decadent blackberry tart of glistening fruit topped with a dollop of rich fluffy white cream is deposited in front of both of them by a waitress dressed in a black uniform with a pretty white lace cap and apron.
“Have you truly never been here for afternoon tea, Lettice darling?” Margot asks as the waitress makes a discreet retreat from the table.
“Never.” Lettice acknowledges, shaking out her napkin and draping it across her lap.
“I’ve been coming here ever since I was a child. Mummy used to bring me here as a treat after we’d been shopping downstairs.” Margot smiles at the memory. “That was back when Mummy was fun to be with. Not like now. Where did your mother take you shopping in London?”
“Mater?” Lettice looks queryingly at her friend as she takes up the silver sugar basket from the tray before them and spoons a teaspoon of sugar into her empty cup. “She never took me shopping in London.”
“Never?” Margot asks, shocked.
“Never. You know she hates London. That’s why she seldom comes here, unless she can’t avoid it.” She replaces the sugar basket on the tray with a clunk. “No Mater always orders anything she wants through the Army and Navy Stores*** and has it shipped from Victoria Station on the railways.”
“Let me pour, darling.” Margot says, reaching for the silver teapot which stands behind the coffee pot, out of Lettice’s range. As she pours tea into her friend’s cup, she asks, “Didn’t you tell me you used to come to London and stay with an aunt who was an artist?”
“I did.” Lettice smiles warmly as she remembers the occasional London holiday. “Dear Aunt Eggy lives in Little Venice****.”
“Well that’s just across the park,” Margot points in the general direction of Kensington and Hyde Parks as she replaces the teapot on the tray.
“Well, Aunt Egg never brought me here.” Lettice says smiling, taking up the milk jug and adding a dash of milk to her tea. “No, she is a Pontings***** shopper, and that is where we went for afternoon tea, although usually we went to have tea with one of her many fellow artists or literary friends instead.”
“Your mother would have hated her doing that with you.”
“Oh she did. She loathes Aunt Egg’s bohemian lifestyle and artistic friends.”
“Which is all the more reason why you love her, and her friends,” Margot chuckles conspiratorially..
“Indeed I do, Margot darling!” Lettice joins her friend’s chuckles with her own gentle, slightly naughty laughter.
“Well, since it was always the House of Value that you used to take tea at,” Margot announces, picking up her own cup of coffee and taking a sip from it. “You’ll find afternoon tea here a great treat.”
“I do hope so.” Lettice says as she breaks the pasty of her tart with her knife and fork. It gives way easily, a tumble of blackberries spilling forth, staining the white porcelain of the plate as it does. She lets out a small squeak of pleasure as she takes her first mouthful of luscious blackberries, thin sweet pastry and cream. “Oh this is truly divine, Margot darling!” she enthuses as her eyes drift up towards the ornately painted ceiling above.
“I told you,” Margot replies with self-satisfaction, breaking the pastry of her own tart. “Now, how was the Hunt Ball? I’m so sorry we couldn’t make it after all. The Marquis and Marchioness take precedence I’m afraid.”
“How was dinner with your new in-laws?” Lettice asks, dabbing the edge of her mouth with her napkin, dislodging a few crumbs that scatter down into the folds of her floral crepe de chiné frock.
“Ghastly!” Margot admits. “Positively ghastly! I don’t know how they can live in that awful, dark and drafty pile of old rubble.”
“Cold, was it?”
“Frightfully. All high ceilings and not a decent fire to be had in any of the hearths, not even in our bedroom. No wonder my mother-in-law always looks so grim. That’s what comes of living in a beastly old mausoleum! Her face must be permanently frozen like that because of the north wind blowing through her overstuffed and dark drawing room.” The pair chuckle together at the thought of it. “I’m so glad that Daddy had ‘Chi an Treth’ electrified. You should see all the stains on the ceilings of Taunton Castle from the chandeliers and gasoliers******. Dickie will have to pay for electrification when he becomes the Marquis, and get some proper heating and new plumbing, or we shan’t live there. I mean, who would want to live there when you have a perfectly divine little flat in Pimlico.?” Margot pauses mid thought. “Hang on! This wasn’t supposed to be a conversation about me or dreary old Taunton Castle. I asked you about the Hunt Ball.”
“Well actually, you asked me here to talk about the design ideas I have for ‘Chi an Treth’,” Lettice corrects her friend.
“And to talk about the Hunt Ball,” Margot counters.
“Oh well,” Lettice says, looking down demurely into her lap with a smirk on her face as her cheeks blanch with slight embarrassment. “Since you ask, it was actually much better than I thought it was going to be, what with the likes of Sir John Nettleford-Hughes,” Lettice cringes at the mention of his name. “And Howley Hastings on parade.”
“Who?” Margot asks, her eyes widening.
“Oh that’s just what Gerald and I call Jonty Hastings. As children we locked him in the linen press of Gerald’s house and he howled frightfully to be let out.” Lettice giggles at the thought. “The name just sort of stuck.”
“And?” Margot asks with excitement, holding her fork of blackberry tart midway between her mouth and her plate. “What happened then, if it wasn’t Sir John or Howling Hastings.”
“Howley Hastings.” Lettice corrects her friend. “I ended up meeting Selwyn Spencely, whom I also haven’t seen since we were children.”
“Oh I’ve met him at one of Dickie’s friend’s parties.” Margot announces. “He’s an architect, at least until he takes over from his father as the Duke of Walmsford! I say, he’s quite dishy, darling!”
“He is.” Lettice agrees primly before taking another bite of her tart.
“Oh you are an awful tease, Lettuce darling!” Margot drops her fork back onto her plate with a small clatter. “What happened with him then?”
“Well, nothing much really, Margot darling. I mean, we could hardly do anything much, what with half the county staring at us, not to mention Mater, whom I didn’t dare look at for fear of seeing her anxious look as she watched us like a hawk from her gilded chair. Her sense of excitement was palpable, even from her respectable distance. I could almost feel her breath hot on the back of my neck.”
“How ghastly.”
“True.” Lettice agrees, picking up her cup of tea and taking a sip. “What isn’t ghastly is that we’ve agreed to meet here in town, the next time he’s up in London.”
“And when will that be?” Margot gasps, hanging on Lettice’s every word.
“I don’t quite know, but its sure to be soon. He has my telephone number, so he’ll give me a tinkle when he does.”
“I say!” Margot enthuses with a burst of soft clapping. “How absolutely thrilling, darling!”
“You’re as bad as Mater and Pater, Margot!” Lettice scolds her friend with a tempering hand. “We just said that we’d meet, that’s all.”
“Oh I know,” Margot admits with a guilty look beneath her stylish new russet cloche hat. “But it’s a start. Marriage really is heavenly, Lettice darling. I just want you to be as happy as me!”
“It’s only ‘heavenly’, as you put it, if you marry the right man, like you married Dickie. I don’t know if Selwyn is the right man for me yet.”
“Well then,” Margot says matter-of-factly as she takes a sip of her coffee from her gilt edged cup. “Best you meet him again soon and make up your mind.”
“Now,” Lettice says in a very businesslike tone. “Whilst we’re on the subject of making up minds, I’d like to share my thoughts on what your ‘Chi an Treth’ drawing room might look like.”
“Oh very well, Lettice darling.” Margot says with a deflated sigh, replacing her cup in its saucer. “Only if there isn’t any more to tell.”
“About Selwyn?”
“Well, who else, darling?” Margot replies, exasperated. “You wouldn’t hold out on your very own best friend, would you?”
“Of course I wouldn’t hold out on you, darling!” Lettice raises her elegant hand to her throat in mock shock. “How could you even say such a thing.” Then she smiles, to prove to Margot that she isn’t offended. “But there really is nothing else to tell.”
“But you will tell me, when there is, won’t you?”
“The very moment,” Lettice agrees. Then she pauses and thinks before correcting herself, “Well, perhaps not the very moment, but shortly thereafter.”
Suitably satisfied, Margot settles back into her white padded seat. “Very well, we can talk about ‘Chi an Treth’ then.”
“Finally,” Lettice breathes a sigh of relief, inhaling the sweet fragrance of the pretty pink roses in the vase on the table.
“Well, what were your thoughts?” Margot asks.
“I was thinking, since you want the rooms to be lighter, that perhaps we might paper the walls with the same wallpaper as I have in my flat. It lightened up Cavendish Mews no end.”
“Oh yes, Lettice darling! That would be wonderful. And of course I want all modern furnishings, with a sofa in eau de nil.” Margot says with delight. Waving her hand dismissively she adds, “Get rid of all that ghastly dark old fashioned furniture and replace it with clean, bright lines.”
“But some of that furniture really is quite suitable with clean lines, Margot darling. I really think…”
“No!” Margot folds her arms akimbo. “I won’t have that ghastly old furniture, when Daddy can buy me perfectly good new pieces. I want it to be modern and up-to-date, just like our London flat. Goodness knows enough of the house will have that ghastly dark furniture in it, but not my drawing room or dining room. I want light and brightness.”
“Very well Margot. Brightness and light are what you shall have.”
“Miss Rosevear will look splendid hanging in her gilded frame on the wall of the drawing room with your white wallpaper as a backdrop.”
“Oh, so she is staying at ‘Chi an Treth’ then?”
“Well of course.” Margot replies, her forehead crumpling. “I mean, we brought her back to London with us, but Dickie has only sent her off for authentication, not to be sold. Where else would she go, but back to her home where she belongs?”
“Oh I am glad to hear that, Margot.” Lettice smiles. “Now, about carpets. I thought green and blue like the ocean.”
The pair settle back in their seats and discuss animatedly the plans Lettice has for ‘Chi an Treth’, their happy chatter blending with the other female conversation about the Derry and Toms Café, both happy in each other’s company and enthusiastic about their topic of conversation.
*Derry and Toms was a smart London department store that was founded in 1860 in Kensington High Street. In 1930 a new three storey store was built in Art Deco style, and it was famous for its Roof Garden which opened in 1938. In 1973 the store was closed and became home to Big Biba, which closed in 1975. The site was developed into smaller stores and offices.
**The Bright Young Things, or Bright Young People, was a nickname given by the tabloid press to a group of Bohemian young aristocrats and socialites in 1920s London.
***Army and Navy Stores was a department store group in the United Kingdom, which originated as a co-operative society for military officers and their families during the nineteenth century. The society became a limited liability company in the 1930s and purchased multiple independent department stores during the 1950s and 1960s. In 1973, the Army and Navy Stores group was acquired by House of Fraser. In 2005, the remaining Army and Navy stores (the flagship store located on Victoria Street in London and stores in Camberley, and Chichester) were refurbished and re-branded under the House of Fraser nameplate. House of Fraser itself was acquired by Icelandic investment company, Baugur Group, in late 2006, and then by Sports Direct on the 10 August 2018.
****Little Venice is a 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 forms a triangular shape basin. Many of the buildings in the vicinity are Regency white painted stucco terraced town houses and taller blocks (mansions) in the same style.
*****Pontings was a department store based in Kensington High Street, London and operated from 1863 to 1970. Pontings started out as a small drapery business by Thomas Ponting. Between 1899 and 1901, Pontings replaced their old premises on Kensington High Street with a new building designed by Arthur Sykes, which was completed in two stages and cost them £14,000. The new building had a large basement and four storeys above. Between 1906 and 1908, Kensington Railway Station was rebuilt, and as part of the development a new arcade was built. The Ponting family also purchased many Kensington properties which were later used for rental income throughout the 20th century, netting the family a small fortune. Pontings also purchased the whole of the western side of the arcade before construction had started. However, the expansion of the business and the building programme had seen the company over-extend itself, and in December 1906, Pontings sadly went into liquidation. John Barker and Co., a fellow Kensington department store, purchased the business for £84,000 in April 1907. Pontings continued to operate under its own name with its own buying team and had its own distinctive image, labelling itself as the House of Value. After the First World War, John Barker & Co. expanded, buying the department store between the Barkers store and Pontings, Derry and Toms, in 1920, and also purchasing the freehold of the Pontings site for a total of £78,000. Barkers also added a cafe on Wright's Lane run by its catering subsidiary the Zeeta Company, and refurbished the store in 1923. Pontings finally closed its doors in 1970 after a massive sell off of all its stock. After a short spell as the Kensington Super Store the Ponting’s main building was redeveloped between 1976 and 1978.
******A gasolier is a chandelier with gas burners rather than light bulbs or candles.
For anyone who follows my photostream, you will know that I collect and photograph 1:12 size miniatures, so although it may not necessarily look like it, but this elegant café scene is actually made 1:12 size artisan miniatures from my collection, including a few items from my childhood.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
The silver galleried tray, tea pot, milk jug and sugar basket in the foreground are made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The coffee pot with its ornate handle and engraved body is one of three antique Colonial Craftsman pots I acquired from a seller on E-Bay.
The gilt edged cups, saucers and plates I acquired when I was a teenager from a high street doll house miniatures specialist. They are part of a complete tea set. The glasses, which are hand blown glass were acquired at the same time.
The berry tarts with their whipped cream toppings, which look good enough to eat, were made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering in the United Kingdom. The pink roses were also made by them. The porcelain vase in which they stand was made by M.W. Reutter Porzellanfabrik in Germany, who specialise in making high quality porcelain miniatures.
The two chairs are made by the high-end miniature furniture manufacturer, Bespaq.
The floral paintings hanging in their gilt frames I acquired from two different sellers on E-Bay.
The patterned wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, with the purpose that it be used in the “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.
Please forgive me for revisiting this saga so soon. For the thoughts of that witnessed moment in time which planted a seed for a story, still remains, still ticklingly entices my imagination..
And I think most of us know what a bugger an inkling like that can be...!
And the Chatwick in me had a yearning, actually no, a compelling, need to appease, so to tell the same story in a bit different take on the observed actions of the young lad I called the Hugger Mugger… had to be forthcoming post haste …
And So we Have.....
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
The Importance of paper mache Princesses
Lucidity of Providence
I first noticed the lass whom I came to call the paper mache princess, as she slithered and swished about in the quite devastatingly pretty gown she was so winningly wearing along her youthful, but yet well appointed figure.
The gown was dyed the shade of fresh spring lavender, the satiny material, probably soft as a new borne downy chick, freshly shimmering and glistening as she stunningly exhibited it whilst wriggled in from the serving room.
My fancy was tickled by this, for my Sister had once worn a very similar dress , and I carried quite pleasant memories of the fun we had had shared that particular evening…..
But I only noticed this new lass’s apparel briefly though, for once I had her properly in my sights, her adorning jewels(rhinestone?) totally commanded my full and undivided attention.
For, see in my humbled opinion, it was silly for one so obviously saturnine, so quite gullibly young, to be wearing such shimmering sparklers! Though to truthfully admit, I had no real issues along those lines!
The sparkling jewels consisted of a thin silver plated necklace, matching dangling earrings and a thin bracelet worn around her satin gloved clad wrist.. , all were set with the fiery brilliance of (rhinestone?) diamonds.
Twas a pity someone darkly moody like that would be in possession of jewels so pretty.. She obviously had no inkling or care about em, in my observation of her, she probably could care less that she was wearing them, and probably had whined miserably about putting them on!
A hallowed mockery of all that is truly feminine.
An aloof paper mache princess who deserved to look more of a pauper in me own personal opinion...!
And that thought, I found to be quite enticingly entertaining on a personal level! Admittedly though, at that time, I was finding a great deal of my surroundings to being quite vexing.
But there was also a reason for my interests, for I will have to admit to possessing a bit of a rascally bird like, Magpie keen, interest in all things shiny!
And my curiosities had already been at peek height due to several other observations I had made upon my first arrival at the wedding reception: Including one subject in particular!
First off, the wedding was definitely upscale, and the wealthy Bride had chosen a rather unique venue for her reception.
Located in a rather daringly wrong side of the tracks area. The place was the site of an old brick, eel tinning factory that someone had cunningly restored and was princely offering as a uniquely posh reception venue for those rich enough to pay out the nose for something out of the ordinary. To me it looked like someone had extravagantly decorated up an old slummy red brick alleyway.
And as to why I was there..?
Well my friends, that’d be another whole tale in the tellin....
So, only tellin one tale at a time then......
Anyhows, there I was, dressed up in my best, and starting to do a bit of visually opportunistic prowling about amongst the well heeled guests who were making merry in the venues’ rather dubious surroundings…. When I saw him...
Him, the laddie, a young male of about 13, scampering happily about at the reception hall .
Something about his mannerisms drew my mind to him, so I discreetly asked around.
I soon found out he was the son of a single mother, both the bride’s sister and maid of Honour. So he was pretty much being left to himself, which explained things a bit.
The lad was also obviously across the threshold of young puberty: as was witnessed by some of his antics, not only with the touchy teasing of the younger girls present, but also in the way he was treating certain poshly dressed adult females, especially in sneaking up and giving his darling grandmother hugs from behind.
She though, thought it was cute and just laughed, and squealed happily, “look another drive by hugging”, or “thanks for the warm hugging honey, just lovely”, encouraging to no end the youth to keep his voyeuristic advances up.
But the grandmother was a short lady, his size, and I knew what was going on, even if the silly twit didn’t have a bloody clue.
The Lads arms, as he hugged his grandmother’s warm figure before running off, were brushing just under her perk breasts, molded nicely by the tight fitted mother of the bride gown she was attired in.
I also knew that , along with copping a titillating feel, he was also enjoying the tingling sensation from the slick thicke material of the lengthy, swishing gown the rather youngish ,stylish grandmother was wearing…
I watched, the lad as he performed this trick several times, holding onto the warm sweaty figure of his still perky, grandmother, before I would finally admit to the fact, I was jealous!
Jealous, for she was wearing some rather pretty jewelry of diamonds, real ones too judging by the fiery pinpricks of flashes they was giving off. Grandad must have spent a bloody mint on them.. For an Anniversary or an apology? There laid the rub..
And I would have given anything for a closer gawk at the ladies finer points, if one gets my drift, eh ?
Nudge, nudge... as they say...
It was while watching the lad yet again going and performing his hugger mugger routine from a bar stool, that my I first laid my eyes on the young paper mache princess in the lavender gown and wearing her own set of diamonds( rhinestone?). I don’t know when she had entered the reception’s proverbial stage, but she was one of the last lot to be leaving the room where the food service was laid out.
She was all of 16 years old, probably bitter sweet, and most definitely, caustically, immature!
She was with a second girl, 14 years I would guess, possibly a younger sister, clad in a thin dress of red silk that poured out dancingly below a matching jacket of velvet. She was wearing a glistening set of, faux?, pearls, and a (rhinestone?) brooch on her jacket, the bauble shaped like a colourful humming bird set with coloured gemstones.
They both stopped at the doorway, watching the dance floor with a peaking interest .
The live band had started up, and a group was upon the floor, swishing and swirling about in a quite pretty display of both colour and glitter that was being caught up in the dim incandescent lighting of the olde re-imagined factory.
I allowed my interest to follow this action for a bit, before curiously allowing my eyes to again seek out the pair of lasses.. Sneaking in close by the bar for a better, keener look over as I did so.
When I found them I saw that they had been joined by the huggy strap of a lad. He was standing close to them, and I caught him gingerly sliding his hand up behind the paper mache princess , chubby fingers tentatively rubbing along the waistline of the slick lavender gown being worn so winningly by the vixen of a sixteen year old.
She giggled and turned to him, her eyes giving an “oh, its you” look to the lad. Oblivious to the look, he started talking the pair up, and I saw them both shake their heads no at whatever he must have been suggesting.
Both girls petite earrings’ swaying in the light as their heads moved side to side . The Paper Mache Princess’s inset diamonds of her earrings sparkling madly, while her smaller friends bobbling earrings of Faux pearl gleamed a glistening pure white.
The pair turned dismissively back to the dance floor, and he stared them down from behind their glimmery sleek dresses for a few seconds, before he walked away, head bent down like something of an admonished puppy!
I felt sorry for the young git, red faced, as he was walking away,.
Then I suddenly realized that his course was taking him right past me.
Not sure why at the time, but suddenly I wanted to capture this lad’s attention. For I was Bored and feeling peevishly mused to try and do something to quell those copious desires I had been mulling..!
So I played it by ear... Something which in my profession that I tend to do a lot of!
Now, since, sleight of hand and misdirection are a couple of me talents, I reached into my pocket , thoughtfully fingering one of my ever-present coins of the realm.
As the lad , sad head down, sauntered droopily by me, I caught his attention by dropping a penny.
He obligingly retrieved it for me, and as he handed it back, I turned down my wrist, then took my hand to his ear, appearing to change the penny into a twenty pee piece… Which I handed the coin to the amazed lad for keeps. Thereby also gaining his full and undivided attention.
“Want to see another?” I asked, and he shook his head yes eagerly. I pulled out an also ever-present deck of cards, and had him ruffle them up a bit. Talking it up to him as I did.
The simple card trick would allow me to banter and hopefully my words would thus stoke the id of his sexually driven impulses whilst the ego thoughts in the lad’s head where following the cards. With my intents to flaring up the lad’s super – located in the deep recesses of his mind were certain male thoughts are often guiltily , forcibly, kept alone to themselves.
The first trick was an easy one that had him picking his own card from a group laid out on the bar. It was as I went through the motions, and watching his focus on the cards, I mentioned how pretty I had thought some of the dresses worn by the girls here were.
That opened him up royally...
I soon had him chatting away, eating out of my hand as I told him a subtly suggestive story of my youth, centering around the true enough episode where I had danced with my sister who had been wearing a dress very similar to the one worn by the paper mache princess....
A tid bit of a description that I knew would send his little pubescent desiring mind whirling .
I then, also with casual finesse, asked him quite a few questions about himself, about the reception, and particularly centered around finding out a bit more about the paper mache princess.
He readily came out with the fact that the paper mache princess, the one I had truthfully said was dressed like me sister had been , was nothing more than his cousin. He also volunteered tid bits about her that led me to believe that she could be a bit fey, but liked to pretend and daydream.
He also chimed in that he liked to play games like hide an seek with her and her friend’s, when she allowed him to!
Not playing now I asked? Seeing a light opening up at the end of a certain tunnel of my thoughts.
No he said, she said that she did not want to get dirty, her friend either.. Too interested in acting like proper ladies, dancing and watching, he added sadly..
“Quite boring.. he also added quite drearily ..”
That was all I needed to hear! So, agreeing with the boring part, I drew him close in the confidence of a co-conspirator.
Tells you what kiddo, let me explain how we used to play tag games when I was your cousins age.
I bet she will change her mind to play this version with you today! ( Actually, I know she would have no choice but to play his game once we were done with her!)
Really, he said, his eyes wandering and latching onto the two swaying young vixens, looking them up and down as I spoke.
Certainty ‘Mon garçon’ I said, and began to explain, taking certain inventive liberties with the details to ensure capturing this young man’s burgeoning lusting fantasies !!
I explained that as lads we would play tag by having the crooks steal something, then the person who was robbed would chase us like a copper until we either got away, or placed in “prison”
Cops and robbers see.. ever hear of the game.?
He nodded his head assuredly that of course he knew the game..!
I could also see I had grasped a craving interest within him, so I then happily continued on
“Now, the girls in our group would sometimes dress up and wear ‘cheap’ play jewelry, like your cousin and her friend over there. “ I lied convincingly.
He turned to watch the pair of proper appearing princess wanna-bees, both with eye appealing resplendence in their gowns, jewels and fine frills..
“Then us boys would sneak up and try to distract them, so we could teasingly come away with some of their play jewels without them catching on to what we were on about.
Then we would point out their loss after a bit, and the girls would give chase to us trying get them jewels back !”
He smiles, liking the idea.
I could see he was chewing on my words while still Drooling over the two pretty young lasses and their shiny frocks and ample shimmering jewels.... rather convenient having the real thing in sight when telling my stories I devilishly thought.
I had captivated his interest, and could see that he was earnestly watching his cousin ( whose necklace I should mention, was quite invigoratingly rippling small sparkles of fire around her throat as she was swaying to the music.)
I began with renewed relish, allowing the seed I had planted to grow, by explaining in detail how to draw his pretty lass of a cousin into the “Game”!
Both his and mine!
Using as an example, a story on how I had played this same game I was proposing on, while dancing with me own lavender gown wearing sister for reference. Actually it was a true enough story, only the young lass I had played it out on had not been me sister, and the gown, which most definitely had been soft as a new borne downy chick, had been of a shiny ripe peach colour!
I explained in simple detail how to approach his cousin, and what words would work best in convincing her that a dance was in order.
Then once they were into the dance, I explained in easy detail, the next steps to be taken to ensure his cousin would be a player for the next phase of the game, namely the catchy, touchy, tag part of it.
I could see the laddie was doing quite well, grasping the rudimentary idea of it all. And as he shook his head vigorously yes when I asked if ready. I gently pushed his back, propelling his quite noticeably Horney figure loose towards his innocent victim.
Go get em tiger....
I watched with growing anticipation as the lad moved in, eagerly approached his victim, then again sliding a hand on along her waist, successfully prying and fully capturing his cousins attention away from the dance floor. He started talking affably and I could see her dart a look back to the dancers,then to her 14 year old friend, then finally back to her cousin. Her jewels nicely sparkling in the low lights as she carried out this performance.
Then, bless the faux pearl laden pixie, for as I watched, the paper mache princess’s young friend most advantageously helped out our cause. Chirpily chiming in her two cents worth. saying something excitedly as she tugged at the cousins dress whilst pointing to the lad and the dance floor!
And ‘Bob’s your uncle!’ a few minutes later the pair of them were on that polished wooden dance floor, looking exceptionally cute as a couple, as they danced to a romantic slow tune whose name has since slipped my mind. The young darlings mimicked the adults around them by embracing closely against one another.
I waited and watched with baited breath, so many things could go wrong, and there was no good reason they shouldn’t. I began to think my ideas had been quite folly. Draining my drink, I made my plans for a quick get away to avoid any attention and have to answer rather awkward questions if things went awry.
But they didn’t!
As he had been directed, he bided his time, no hurry.
I watched with baited breath as finally his hand cunningly started the process of snaking up along the back of her sensuous dress, a bit quick perhaps, but maybe his partner was feeling his hormones actively running wild and was responding in kind.
For she had no issues dancing close, and no notice of the shenanigans of the creeping male fingers nimbly reaching up her back. I could see that her own gloved hands were firmly grasping her dance partners waist. The diamonds on her thin bracelet merrily winking back at me!
She seemed so happy, her eyes closed shut as she was into what ever fantasies young sixteen year old paper mache princesses, wearing pretty gowns and flashy jewels, have going on!
But I was also fairly certain that those fantasies of hers did not dwell any where’s near the reality of what was being played out on her in real life at that moment!
I looked around, Nor were any of the adults paying the pair any heed..
Even the Sixteen year old’s young Faux pearl wearing pixie of a friend was watching something away from the dance floor, her own fingers idly playing with the shimmery rhinestone brooch on her velvet jacket as she, with no shyness, was ogling a bloke in a tux snogging with one of the bridesmaids in a secluded corner!
I perked up, setting my empty glass down, casually picking out a handful of pub nuts from a jar at my elbow, I thought, this trick may actually bloody work!!
His fingers finally reached the victim’s primed objective, the one I had suggested, namely the thin gem studded necklace. The pretty jewels that laid flickering around the high, glossy neckline of his victims gown. That fiery necklace had been dangling and moving about with an easy sliding fluidity along down the smooth satin of its’ wearers gown, making it a fairly easy pluck for any amateur’s game!
The gem stones were set in a finely woven silvery chain, there should be no telltale snagging, no matter how jerky the chubby fingers were in making the attempt the lift them!
Obviously I had been thinking this through as I had been carefully watching my pretty paper mache princess. And just as obviously I was now vicariously living those day dreams through the lads antics!
So it was with an unabashed delight, that I watched as his fingers glided along the pretty baubles chain till the necklaces hook in eye clasp was located, and pulled up ever so lightly!
He did fumble a bit with the clasp,( his first time after all) but I saw him carefully peeking over her shoulder for a better look, and using one hand he managed to delicately unhook the two ends on his second attempt.
The fraternal twin ends lay loose there, glimmering for a few seconds, as they hung freely unclasped down her back. His fingers slipped back over her shoulder and slyly lifted a sparkly end up.
He then methodically began to slide the long necklace up along the front of his dance partners rich, lubricious, satin gown! It was easily slipped away, slither inly over her shoulders’ satin sleeve and free fell down behind her back where it dangled for a few precious seconds in his chubby fingers, before the lad secreted the shimmering thing of beauty into his pocket ..
I released my breath not realizing I had been holding it.. He had gotten away with it, pretty as one pleases. His fantasizing, gorgeously dressed cousin, hadn’t a bloody clue as to what had just transpired as she and her glittery necklace were naughtily being parted!
And just as important, no one else had noticed my little hugger mugger in action either!
His victim still had her eyes blissfully closed, and was leaning her head back in what can be best described as dreamy happiness.
Her earrings and bracelet sparkled on, as noticeable in their positions, as the place her necklace had been, now was not!
Her male partners eyes were wide, and darting around. I was worried that he may end up alarming the girl, so I rose, and managed to catch his gaze, and smiled giving a thumbs up. This made him grin, and settling down a bit, grasped his partner close and twirled on.
I smiled, feeling rather excited meself, for watching the lad in action had been like reliving the somewhat similar, long past, incident that I had used as an example, lying to him that I had played the game on me sister!
^^^^^^
Well , they finally finished the dance, it seemed like an eternity, but it was thrilling to try and catch glimpses of the cousins’ now bare neckline!
Finally they broke apart and he walked off with her to the opposite edge of the dance area from where they had started. I held my breath again, but he seemed to inherently realize that as part of the game, he didn’t want her suspicions raised by being quick to leave. God bless his natural budding adult male like deviousness!
When he finally left her and came over , he was grinning ear to ear like some Cheshire Cat.
“Well done lad, you played that brilliantly! Fun Like I said it would be” I praised and questioned?
He nodded , quite pleased with himself, and that pleasure was evident in more places than just his face!!
He most definitely was getting a “titillating feel” for the playing the game. A feeling I could very well understand from me own personal experiences!
I turned him around to face his cousin, his back now to me.
The young paper mache princess was back to aloofly standing, watching, on the outer rim of the dance floor. As we watched, we saw her young friend returning, regaining a position up alongside her
I gripped my hand upon the lads shoulder, speaking into his ear as he conveniently faced away from me..
I explained that he needed to go up and do next ..
Sneak up and hug his cousin from behind( I could tell he liked that!) , then as you tickle her a bit, say something like “now catch the tickle thief” , and then, see that door just off the loo?
He turned his head over to where I was pointing.
I knew that the door was an exit, leading upstairs, then outside to a small park.
“Break away before she can catch you,, and RUN! through that door, then out into the park .”
I turned him back around to face me , I wanted to really drive home the last bit…
I was smiling mischievously in his eyes, which brightened up as he warmed up to the ideas I was planting.
“Then in the woods you can hide and touch tag as she tries to get her necklace back!”, and I tapped his pocket with my free hand, jingling the contents.
“But remember laddie, the trick is not to show her what you took. Make her chase you, and if she finally catches you, make her search you for it, or have her cry Uncle before handing it over!”
“And as she is so occupied, try for an earring or bracelet to keep the game on. Or if her friends is close enough then snatch…..”
But I stopped, I could see all too well in his wide eyed glazed over look, that he had caught onto the gigs gist, and there was no need to say more with out risking my hugger mugger to become too prematurely excited before playing it out.
I looked up over his head to make sure the stage was still set…
I suddenly stiffened....
Ere now, look lad, I think your game is beginning, she is noticing the loss.
We both looked, the young friend of the sixteen-year-old was pointing to the paper mache princess’s bare throat. No need to hear the question.
Then as We both gawked ,the cousins gloved hand shot immediately up to her throat ,fruitlessly feeling around as her face contorted up in a horrifying gasp.
“Now lad I said turning him back around so he was facing the dance floor., quickly toddle up behind and give your cousin that hug to start it off! That’s a good lad!”
“I guarantee you she is going to play into your game now.” I said, sending the words off after him as he scurried stiffly off.
He was definitely carrying off with him a quite “hard” vested interest in the game at hand.
He approached the pair, both of whom were now looking about their feet for the missing necklace.
I saw him readily grasp, then pull up his Cousin into a slippery hug..
She jumped a bit ,alarmed!
But no blaming the sullen looking lass. Worries about her missing necklace combined with someone unexpectantly grasping her from behind, then feeling something hard being pressed up against her, would cause a bit of inherent distress for any poshly attired damsel!
Startled as she was, she stood stiffly in her fast waning shock, as her male cousin whispered into a bejeweled ear, then letting her go, the lad dashed off towards the exit as planned.
The two girls looked at each other questioningly, the pixy was holding her faux pearled necklace, the cousin a hand to her bare throat. They then stared at the fleeing cousin, before, in a shimmering, swishing, fluttering, flurry, taking off after the escaping lad.
I turned away and watched as he disappeared through the exit door by the loo.
The female cousin and her similarity dressed young friend, were following almost upon the lad’s heels, gowns whirling , and they too slipped through the closing door. I, probably for the last time, admired her taunting bracelet, as it flashed and sparkled, while she gripped to hold open the closing exit door..
All three had now disappeared from the venue without anyone a noticing.
I believe free booze, and the length of drinking time that the adult guests had been imbibing played a rather big part in that the trio of escapees were not paid any heed!
Babes in the woods, going beyond the security of the pale. I thought, making my way through the thronging crowd of merry guests .
I headed out towards the main exit located on the opposite side of the building from the restrooms.
Just before taking my permanent leave I looked around the venue again. The dim lighted red brick lined walls of the old ell tinning factory did indeed resemble an olde alleyway. And one can just imagine the types of mischief that would be going on in olde alleyways!
Reaching the outer walk I forced meslf to meander on till I had safely gained some distance, stopping as I came up to a patch of woods.
Where, next to an ancient Wytch Elm tree with its grotesquely reaching branches, started a thin path leading off amongst the trees towards the other side of the olde eel tinning factories building..
I stood there, and after checking around me, Pulled a chrome flask from a vest pocket.
I took a good long swig of ginger brandy in celebration of the moment!
“The path less travelled today mate! .”
Replacing the flask, I reached a hand in my suit coats pocket for me pipe and tobacco, .
Feeling as I did the now cold hardness of the quite genuine, quite expensive, diamond necklace that I had so quite easily lifted from the youths jacket pocket ( pickpocketing - another of my skills)
As I packed my pipe and then cupped my fingers as I struck a match to get it going, I allowed my mind a quick remembrance….
I played out how pretty that young lass had been in her peach satin gown. We both had been around 14 years, socially awkward as youths that age can be.. She had suggested the dancing, and I was amazed at the feel of her in my arms. Never had I felt anything so warm, so incredibly soft. And how sparkling her necklace had been. As we danced, and as I secretly admired her necklace, I remember meself subtly lifting the pretty thing up from her throat. Then it had suddenly unclasped, and I found meself pulling it off from around her throat and stuffing it in a pocket. She had had no clue, and I and me mates had used it’s loss to tease her before giving it back.
It had been a most satisfying newly acquired feeling for me at that age.... Which I had gambled would be the same feelings my young hugger mugger lad would also feel.
With a wry smile I wondered what my hugger mugger lad’s reaction would be as he would finally was made to give back the necklace. And what the overall reaction of the group would be when instead of the paper mache princess’s pricey diamonds in his pocket, he finds the small bits of pub nuts I had switched out with the necklace.
What I would have given to be able to witness that moment in time I thought , as I threw away the match and began puffing smoke from the lit pipe. I imagined what the three youths puzzled, gasping expressions would be like..!
Indeed, whose game had they been playing at?
I wondered if anybody would ever figure it out, or would it remain a mystery?
After a few puffs I looked in the direction of the park.. where I imagined the three were have gleeful adventures, for a bit anyways., and hopefully no further mis adventures...
I gave another long , thoughtful pull at me pipe...
Now, Just down that path would be that very park where at that very moment, a young lady clad in sleek lavender satin and sporting the remains of her dazzling collection of expensively brite sparkling diamonds ,was running about willy nilly in the woods.
Her eye catching gown and glistening, baiting jewels unsuspectingly openly exposed to the wilds outside, and fully unprotected by any observable means...
Not to mention there is also a spare, herself fetchingly attired in red silk and velvet. Herself wearing spiffen faux pearls and a glistening rhinestone hummingbird brooch!
It could very well be like taking away the proverbial candy from silken clad Babes...
Hmmm, a rather treasure trove of an opportunity indeed!
After a few minutes ponderings, I finally Let out an exasperated puff of smoke, as I regrettably shook my head NO..., no teasing my recently bestowed acte of providence, not by this Bloke.... and certainly not this evening !!
One in hand, I scolded meself ..
So, let it be Cheerio, I thought nodding down the side path of the woods towards the park in a solemn’ fare thee well’ salute..
And walking out into the glooming twilight of the evening, strode down the side walk to disappear into the misty aire..
Taking the smoking pipe from me mouth, I began Whistling the tune ...
‘Who put “Bella in the Wytch Elm”?
After all, who does not like coming up across a mystery?
“vade ad victor spolia”
Fini
One full picture.
One 16.9 Crop
Then Three the Above, the Centre and the Lower Crops.
I did not reach for the highest reaches of the sky in Above so I made One more crop.
1 of 6 – Full Frame
2 of 6 – 16.9 Crop
3 of 6 – 16.9 Above Crop
4 of 6 – 16.9 Above Crop
5 of 6 – 16.9 Above Crop
⁕⁕⁕6 of 6 – 16.9 Ultimate Sky Crop⁕⁕⁕
The crops are technically all in and from the Full Frame. The Crops are me sharing some things that I see in the Full Frame and enjoy looking at and sharing. It might be too much similar, same and more and more so for others, but I hope to be looking at these images when I am older, weaker and less able. My gentle adventures to this scenic spot might be just the tonic that I need then, it is tonic right now as I edit these pictures and load them. It could be that in years to come I am completely exasperated with loading the same scene when maybe I could have been recording and loading other scenes and so enjoying more memories from more places? Right now this what I happy with.
The beautiful Pentland Hills Regional Park forms the superb skyline in this photograph.
Nature created all of the drama presented here and science and art made the exposure and the framing that is given so dramatically here by me.
When this image popped up on the screen I was confident that I had a record of the passing wonders that were delighting even as they deftly delicate dwindled before my eyes. Here the passing of light and the return of the dark was both absorbing, enthralling and enchanting. I was drawn into the scene as I photographed it and it drew me in further and further in as I altered and attempted exposures. The viewer and especially the recorder, the witness if you will becomes a part of the changeable scene feeling a prediction and an expectation of the elemental interplay til there is a belonging into the exchange that when eventually broken is a waking from an involved moment, a small encounter of a world within this world. Picture taking and making can be a Yoga exercise a communication with the scene and an appreciation of the seeming elemental metamorphosis, a time of something like first a loosing and then a finding of a self with a divine understanding whether that be any and every position you take on the potential of such.
© PHH Sykes 2023
phhsykes@gmail.com
Pentland Hills. The Regional Park...
Canmore - Upperside Limekiln, South
The Bible is very clear warning both Jews and Christians to stay away from psychics because they are evil and they are an abomination to the Lord. Christians and Jews are not to mess with horoscopes, tarot cards, palm readings, etc
There are many warning both in the Old and New Testaments:
Just 2 of many examples:
* Leviticus 19:31 “Don’t turn to psychics or mediums to get help. That will make you unclean. I am the LORD your God.
* Acts 16:16-19 One day as we were going down to the place of prayer, we met a slave girl who had a spirit that enabled her to tell the future. She earned a lot of money for her masters by telling fortunes. She followed Paul and the rest of us, shouting, “These men are servants of the Most High God, and they have come to tell you how to be saved.” This went on day after day until Paul got so exasperated that he turned and said to the demon within her, “I command you in the name of Jesus Christ to come out of her.” And instantly it left her
Freezer and cooler are full - so out the door the turkey goes. To stay frozen in the snow - where the temperature is hovering at freezing. Unfortunately, for Mitty, the bird is just out of reach. Although, that doesn't deter him from watching it.
Krius surveys the scene—bloodied piano keys and the crumpled body of another piano teacher he hired for her at his feet—then looks back at her, an exasperated smirk tugging at his lips.
"Ah, another one bites the dust, I see," he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You know, darling, at this rate, we’re going to have to learn to play duets ourselves." He lets out a mock sigh, shaking his head. "Though, I must admit, you do have a way of making the music... unforgettable."
She wipes the back of her hand across her mouth, smearing the blood further, her expression turning to a mix of frustration and defensiveness. "I was really trying this time!" she protests, throwing her hands up, still dripping with blood. "He just—he played a wrong note, and I couldn’t help it!"
Her eyes flash with a hint of remorse, though not for the dead pianist. "You know how hard I’ve been practicing...". She pouts slightly as she looks up at him, her hands resting on his sport coat. "I’m never going to get better if you keep hiring these... amateurs."
A tallish mature woman in a conservative business suit signals a power player in Washington, DC.
Based on my most recent GNO experience, that was true.
Lobbyist, non-profit leader, corporate executive, government representative? I've been them all, but never as Nora.
Wow! I was treated very differently as a result. Servers, parking attendants, security guards, and other restaurant diners for example.
Too many experiences to detail here but here is one example:
Negative
Exasperated male car valet assumed I was helpless and incapable of backing into a curbside spot. Aggressive and dismissive IMO.
Positive
Friendly polite female valet later offered me a huge discount for parking. It was a "we women need to stick together" moment. Wow!
The way I'm treated as a woman is so different, it's worthy of a book. Maybe someday.
Don't you think every man should have this life changing experience?
Nora
Nikon D700, 17-35 nikkor lens, lee 0.6 grad, polariser, tripod.
BEM again, taken shortly after the last upload of this scene and in dramatically different light.
So engrossed in shooting was I, that I feel I must have upset another photographer who appeared and looked rather exasperated that I had taken "his spot!" If that was you... then I am sorry, but you really should have come and joined me as the light was great!
Hans Multscher (Leutkirch im Allgäu, c. 1400 - Ulma, 1467) - the resurrection of Christ - altar of Wurzach (1437) - Gemäldegalerie Berlin
Multscher fu un pioniere nell'introdurre in Germania, importandolo dalla Borgogna e Paesi Bassi, il realismo fiammingo che sostituì il weicher Stil, lo "stile morbido", astratto e idealizzato, tipico dell'arte tardo gotica locale. Nei pannelli dipinti dell'altare di Wurzach, del 1437, il suo stile realista lo porta ad esasperare la bruttezza dei personaggi per sottolineare accenti di carattere, personalità o atteggiamento.
Multscher was a pioneer in introducing into Germany, importing it from Burgundy and the Netherlands, the Flemish realism that replaced the weicher Stil, the "soft style", abstract and idealized, typical of local late Gothic art. In the painted panels of the altar of Wurzach, dated 1437, his realist style leads him to exasperate the ugliness of the characters to emphasize accents of character, personality or attitude.
Barn Owl (Tyto alba).
I took a nature walk in a local open space. Right from the start I saw a Coyote but was only able to get a few long range shots. I tried to use some cover to get closer, but as we know they are stealthy and tough to approach. It was quite exasperating. Every time I would crest a hill, it was just sitting there, 200yds away. It would sit for a bit, just staring at me, the trot off. I was near some Eucalyptus trees and turned around and there was this beautiful Barn Owl staring me down. I never did get any decent shots of the Coyote. The Owl was a happy consolation.
Nikon D500, 200-500 f/5.6E ED VR
My wildlife album: www.flickr.com/photos/gotfish_mb/sets/72157604955724732
I was fortunate in finding myself in a VIP area at a NASCAR event in Las Vegas. Part of the festivities involved shutting down Las Vegas Boulevard while NASCAR drivers in their race cars drove down the street and did massive burn-outs in the intersections! One driver, (who will remain anonymous) was too enthusiastic and managed to blow out his rear tire, then drove all the way back to the staging area. In the process, his tire really started to come apart and beat the body panels up a bit. This obviously perturbed mechanic came over to check the damage (behind the wheel well and also behind the tire/wheel assembly) and from his muttering it wasn't hard to make out that he was pretty unhappy about the extracurricular damage.
One night, a poor photographer sat exasperated by his computer. He had a collection of Norway holiday photos open on the screen, and while he quite liked some of the snaps, he thought there was something “missing”. Loading them up into Photoshop, he tugged and pushed at the sliders. He clicked the buttons. He painted on the masks and applied many layers. But still there was something missing. This went on for many days. Seeing his despondent mood, his darling wife prepared him a stiff gin and tonic of her own secret recipe. Having imbibed in a not insignificant number of these magical beverages, the photographer retired to his sleeping chamber and had a fitful night of snow-and-ice infused dreams. Upon the waking hour, he rose from his not-too-restful slumbers and staggered over to his abandoned computer. Photoshop was still open and the Scandinavian images were still stacked on the screen. However, topmost of the pictures was a new on; one that the bleary-eyed photographer did not recognise. Well, did not fully recognise. Certainly, the lake scene was very similar to another photo. But this one contained a mysterious ice-fishing figure. Riffling though his files, the astonished photographer discovered this hunter of Osteichthyes had been photographed on a lake a few miles away a few days previously. Sitting back in his chair, the photographer looked at the composite image and the more he looked the more he liked it. But how had it come into existence? He called his wife over and showed her the photo. “Did you do this?”, he asked. “No”, came the reply. He called his son over. “Did you do this?”, he asked. Again, “No”, came the reply. After many, many hours of long thought, the photographer came to the conclusion that it must have been the magic elves that reside in the hidden parts of the house that had created this image. Deeply indebted to the small people, the photographer decided to repay them as best he could. Every night he left a large glass of gin and tonic beside the computer, and every morning it was mysteriously empty.
And that, my darling wife, is why I need a glass of gin every night. Now, off to the shops you pop. And don’t forget to buy some more tonic, we are running a bit low.
Equipment: Nikon D7000, Nikkor 10-24mm @20mm, ISO 100, F7.1, 1/320sec
Post-production: ask the elves.
On one exasperated day Stripe couldn't stand it any longer and actually yelled back: "I don't know, but there's no time to think about it!"
A little yellow caterpillar he was crawling over gasped: "What did you say?"
"I was just talking to myself," Stripe mumbled. "It really wasn't important - I was just wondering where we're going?"
"You know," Yellow said, "I was wondering that myself but since there's no way to find out I decided it wasn't important." She blushed at how silly that sounded - quickly adding, "No one else seems to worry about where we're going so it must be good." But she blushed again. "How far are we from the top?"
"Stripe answered gravely, "Since we're not at the bottom and we're not at the top, we must be in the middle."
"Oh," said Yellow, and they both began climbing again.
But now Stripe had a new feeling. He felt bad.
He had lost his singlemindedness.
"How can I step on someone I've just talked to?"
Stripe avoided Yellow as much as possible, but one day there she was, blocking the only way up.
"Well, I guess it's either you or me," he said, and stepped squarely on her head.
On the wall walk of the Château du Haut-Koenigsbourg, Alsace, France
Some background information:
The Château du Haut-Koenigsbourg (in German: "Hohkönigsburg") is a medieval castle located in the commune of Orschwiller in the French département of Bas-Rhin in the Alsace region. It lies in the Vosges mountains just five kilometres (3.1 miles) west of the town of Sélestat and about 45 kilometres (28 miles) southwest of the city of Strasbourg. The castle is situated in a strategic area on a rocky spur overlooking the Upper Rhine Plain. Unfortunately, the Upper Rhine Plain, which would usually be visible in the distance, was completely veiled in clouds when we were there.
In 854, the cliff, on which the castle was built later, was in possession of the French Basilica of St Denis and the site of a monastery. It is not known when the first castle was erected. However, in 1147, a castle named "Staufen" was first mentioned in a document, when the monks complained to King Louis VII of France about its unlawful construction by the Hohenstaufen Duke Frederick II of Swabia. By 1192 the castle was called "Kinzburg", which later became "Königsburg" by phonetic change.
In the early 13th century, the fortification passed from the Hohenstaufen family to the dukes of Lorraine, who entrusted it to the Lords of Hohenstein, who held the castle until the 15th century. As the Lords of Hohenstein allowed some robber barons to use the castle as a hideout, and their behaviour began to exasperate the neighbouring rulers, it was occupied by Elector Palatine Frederick I in 1454. In 1462, it was set ablaze by the unified forces of the cities of Colmar, Strasbourg, and Basel.
In 1479, the Habsburg emperor Frederick III granted the castle ruins in fief to the Counts of Thierstein, who rebuilt them with a defensive system suited to the new artillery of the time. When in 1517 the last Thierstein died, the castle became a reverted fief and again came into Habsburg possession in the person of emperor Maximilian I.
In 1633, during the Thirty Years' War, the Imperial castle was besieged by Protestant Swedish forces. After a 52-day siege, the Königsburg was burned and looted by the Swedish troops. For several hundred years it was left unused, and the ruins became overgrown by the forest. Various romantic poets and artists were inspired by the castle ruins during this time.
The ruins had been listed as a monument historique of the Second French Empire since 1862 and were purchased by the township of Sélestat three years later. After the Franco-Prussian War (1870 to 1871) the region was incorporated into the German imperial territory of Alsace-Lorraine, and in 1899 the citizens granted what was left of the castle to the German emperor Wilhelm II.
Wilhelm II wished to create a castle lauding the qualities of Alsace in the Middle Ages and more generally of German civilization stretching from Hohkönigsburg in the west to Marienburg Castle in the east of the German Empire. The management of the restoration of the fortifications was entrusted to the architect Bodo Ebhardt, a proven expert on the reconstruction of medieval castles. Work proceeded from 1900 to 1908. In that year the restored Hohkönigsburg was inaugurated in the presence of the German emperor.
Ebhardt's goal was to rebuild the castle, as close as possible, as it was on the eve of the Thirty Years' War. He relied heavily on historical accounts but, occasionally lacking information, he had to improvise some parts of the stronghold. For example, the keep is now reckoned to be about 14 metres too tall. Wilhelm II also encouraged certain modifications that emphasised a romantic nostalgia for Germanic civilization. For example, the main dining hall has a higher roof than it did in medieval times.
After World War I, the French state confiscated the Château du Haut-Koenigsbourg in accordance with the Treaty of Versailles. In 1940, during the Second World War, Alsace-Lorraine was occupied by Germany and incorporated into the Third Reich. But in February 1945, the allies liberated the area around the Château du Haut-Koenigsbourg. The castle has already been listed since 1862, but only in 1993, it has been classified as a monument historique by the French Ministry of Culture. Today, it is a major tourist site, attracting more than 500,000 visitors per year.
Château du Haut-Koenigsbourg (Haut-Koenigsbourg castle), in Orschwiller, the Bas-Rhin département of Alsace, France.
It is not known when the first castle was built. However, a Burg Staufen (Castrum Estufin) is documented in 1147, when the monks complained to King Louis VII of France about its unlawful construction by the Hohenstaufen Duke Frederick II of Swabia.
In the early thirteenth century, the fortification passed from the Hohenstaufen family to the dukes of Lorraine, who entrusted it to the local Rathsamhausen knightly family and the Lords of Hohenstein, who held the castle until the fifteenth century.
As the Hohensteins allowed some robber barons to use the castle as a hideout, and their behaviour began to exasperate the neighbouring rulers, in 1454 it was occupied by Elector Palatine Frederick I.
In 1479, the Habsburg emperor Frederick III granted the castle ruins to the Counts of Thierstein, who rebuilt them with a defensive system suited to the new artillery of the time. in 1462 was set ablaze by the unified forces of the cities of Colmar, Strasbourg, and Basel.
In 1633, during the Thirty Years' War in which Catholics forces fought Protestants, the Imperial castle was besieged by Protestant Swedish forces. After a 52-day siege, the castle was burned and looted by the Swedish troops. For several hundred years it was left unused, and the ruins became overgrown by the forest. Various romantic poets and artists were inspired by the castle during this time.
The castle was left abandoned until 1899 when it was given to Kaiser Wilhelm II von Hohenzollern by the town of Sélestat. He commissioned the architect Bodo Ebhardt, a specialist in medieval fortifications, to restore the castle. Its renovation satisfied his passion for the Middle Ages, whilst he dreamed of a return to the old German Empire.
The political ambition of this huge renovation project, undertaken at the beginning of the 20th century, was to legitimize the newly forged Hohenzollern imperial dynasty, and create a symbol for the world of the power held by this new empire. Today, the restoration is admired more for its educational potential: although it is not altogether perfect, the result is undeniably authentic.
Information Sources:
Flickr continues to fork around with its coding, changing the way long-established features work, without any notification.
It used to be, even as recently as a few days ago, that if one had a photo back in one's stream, the 'upload date' could be changed, bringing the photo to the top of the stream, and showing it in contacts' 'peoples photos' list. I did that with the photo three back from this one...and contacts saw the photo.
Now, bringing a very old photo forward via the change upload date does NOT present the photo to followers. My photo just before this one is a prime example. (The Kachina photo.)
Flickr is incredibly exasperating for those of us who try to understand the procedures.
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 we are in Lettice’s chic, dining room, which stands adjunct to her equally stylish drawing room. She has decorated it in a restrained Art Deco style with a smattering of antique pieces. It is also a place where she has showcased some prized pieces from the Portman Gallery in Soho including paintings, her silver drinks set and her beloved statue of the ‘Modern Woman’ who presides over the proceedings from the sideboard.
“Luncheon is served, Miss.” Edith, Lettice’s maid, announces in a brave voice, disguising her nerves cooking for Lettice’s father the Sixth Viscount of Wrexham as she drops a respectful curtsey on the threshold between the dining room and the drawing room.
“What’s that?” Viscount Wrexham pipes as he sits up in the Art Deco tub chair by the fire that he has been comfortably installed in for the last hour and a half.
“Luncheon, Pappa.” Lettice replies. “Thank you, Edith.”
“Yes Miss.” Edith replies. She bobs another quick curtsey and wastes no time scurrying back through the green baize door into the relative safety of the kitchen.
“Shall we go through, Pappa?” Lettice asks with a happy smile and an indicating gesture.
The Viscount and his daughter stand up and stroll into the dining room, leaving their empty aperitif glasses on the low coffee table. Lettice takes her place as hostess at the head of the table, whilst her father takes his place to her left.
“What’s this?” the Viscount burbles discontentedly as he looks across the black japanned Art Deco table.
“It looks like luncheon to me, Pappa.” Lettice replies sweetly, aware that her answer will irritate her father. “Edith’s roast chicken. How delicious.”
“I can see that Lettice.” Viscount Wrexham growls. “Don’t be obtuse!”
“Then be more specific, Pappa.”
“To be more specific. Why did that lazy girl just leave it in the middle of the table. Girl! Girl!” he bellows towards the door. “Come here, girl!”
“Pappa!” Lettice exclaims.
Edith hurries back through the door with a harried look on her face. “Yes, Your Lordship?” She makes a quick bob curtsey and gazes down at her fingers folded neatly in front of her.
The Viscount glares firstly at her, then turns silently to glare at the food causing offence on the table.
“Thank you Edith,” Lettice says apologetically in a soothing tone. “His Lordship was mistaken. You may return to your duties.”
“What? I…” the older man splutters, turning his offended gaze to his daughter.
“Pappa.” Lettice places her elegant hand with its manicured nails over her father’s bigger hand and waits until Edith has slipped back through the green baize door like a shadow. “Papa. You’re in London now, not in Wiltshire: in my flat, not in Glynes*. This is luncheon, à la London. And in London, in my flat, we serve ourselves luncheon on informal occasions. Would you carve?” She proffers the carving cutlery to her disgruntled father.
“Well, I suppose someone must, since you see fit to deprive us of a butler,” he mutters.
“Pappa, look around you. I live in a flat, not a mansion. I don’t need a butler. Edith does very well as a cook and maid-of-all-work. And I’d like to keep her, so please stop terrorising her by bellowing at her.”
“What about for a dinner party! Don’t tell me you insult your guests as you do your poor Father by forcing them to serve themselves. You’ll never have a single client if you do.”
“No Pappa,” Lettice sighs in an exasperated fashion. “Edith can wait table as good as any butler.”
“Ptah! What nonsense! A girl waiting table. It’s like the war all over again.”
“Or,” Lettice speaks over her father forcefully to prevent a tirade coming from his lips. “If needs be, I hire extra staff from a domestic agency in Westminster Mamma put me in touch with. It’s the same agency she uses when you both come up to London from Glynes.” She spoons some boiled vegetables onto her plate next to the piece of roast chicken her father placed on it. “Thinking of which, it was lovely of Mamma to send up some orange roses from Glynes.”
“Yes, your Mother has done particularly well with the roses in the greenhouses at Glynes this year. They have protected the blooms from the Wiltshire cold and provided a profusion of flowers.”
“They are beautiful.” Lettice smiles as she looks at the fiery orange blooms in the tall cut crystal vase on the table before her.
“Well, your Mother and I both agree that this London flat of yours, like so much of London, lacks colour. It’s all black and white, just like those Bioscopes** you young people so adore.”
“Nonsense Pappa! My flat has lots of colour. Just look at the art on my walls.”
“Finger paintings!” he snorts derisively as he takes a bite of his chicken. “Your Mother and I agree about that too. Not to mention,” the Viscount pauses, deposits his cutlery onto his plate and turns in his seat to look behind him at the statue of the bronze woman reclining, yet gazing straight at him with a steely gaze. “Ahem.”
“It’s called modern art, Pappa. And she is divine: the embodiment of the New Woman in bronze. Anyway, thankfully my clients happen to like my choice of ‘finger paintings’ and modern sculpture from the Portland Gallery.”
“Aah, yes well,” the Viscount clears his throat and dabs the edges of his mouth with his blue linen napkin. “Thinking of clients. That brings me to the purpose of my visit.”
“Of course. There has to be a reason beyond visiting your beloved youngest daughter just to see to her welfare.”
“Now, don’t be like that Lettice.” He wags a finger admonishingly at her. “Many is the time I’ve come up to town just to have the pleasure of your company over luncheon at Claridge’s. No. No, your Mother, heard from… a friend, ahem.” The older man clears his throat awkwardly. “That you designed some interiors for the wife of that banker, Hatchett: the chorus girl.”
Lettice purposefully lowers her fork. Picking up her glass of red wine she replies, “I did Pappa. What of it?”
“Oh Lettice! Your poor mother and I were hoping that it was just a rumour.”
“Well why shouldn’t I design interiors for her? I’m an interior designer and she needed some rooms redesigning.”
“Lettice! You know perfectly well why. I shouldn’t have to spell it out for you. You aren’t a child anymore. You know your position in society. Be an interior designer by all means, but at least stick to your own class and be a society interior designer, my dear.”
“That doesn’t pay the bills, Pappa.”
The Viscount looks askance at his daughter. “For shame, Lettice!”
“Pappa, I’m a businesswoman now. I must talk about money. At least the Hatchett’s paid for my services.”
“You’re of age now Lettice, and I pay you a damn good allowance that should more than cover your expenses, and maybe even extend to getting a decent butler rather than a maid. Frocks, even the ones you like, can’t be that costly, surely.”
“Pappa, it’s not so much about the money. It’s about the success of my business. I want to do something with my life. I can’t be a successful interior designer if I provide my services at no fee. I’d be a sham!”
“Well what about that cousin of your Mother’s in Fitzroy Square? Cousin Gwendolyn wasn’t it?”
“Pappa, the Duchess of Whitby still hasn’t paid me a third of what she owes for the redesign of her small reception room. I’ve sent her two reminders which she has politely ignored. She is never at home when I visit, and she is evasive to say the least over the telephone.”
“Oh.” the Viscount looks down at his plate. “Well… well, I’ll talk to your Mother about talking to Gwendolyn about that.”
“It would be even better if you did Pappa.” Lettice raises her glass of claret. “She is more inclined to listen to you, as head of the Chetwynd household.”
“Oh, very well Lettice.” he sighs and clinks glasses with his daughter.
“Thank you Pappa!” She leans over and pecks her father on the cheek, sending a flush of colour across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. “You are a brick!”
The two continue to eat their luncheon from Lettice’s gilt blue and white Royal Doulton dinner set in an avant garde Art Deco pattern. For a short while the companionable silence is only broken by the sound of cutlery against crockery.
“Your Mother is right. I never could say no to you, Lettice.”
“You have to have a favourite Pappa.” Lettice smiles happily. “Why shouldn’t it be me?”
“It should be Leslie, as my son and heir.”
“Oh, he’s Mamma’s favourite.” Lettice flaps the remark away with a flick of her left hand. “We all know that. We’ve always known that.”
“Well Lettice, as I said before. Just remember your position in society. Your Mother and I, we’re prepared to tolerate your wish to dabble in this business folly of yours before you settle down and get married, but please be a society interior designer and design for your own class. Be discerning with your choice of clients. Hmmm?” He smiles hopefully at his daughter.
“We’ll see Pappa.” Lettice replies, a smile dancing on her lips as she sips her glass of claret.
*Glynes is the home of the presiding Viscount and Countess of Wrexham, the grand Georgian family seat of the Chetwynds in Wiltshire.
** The Bioscope is an early term for what became by the mid 1920s a motion-picture theatre or cinema. The Bioscope was a hand-driven projector with a low-watt bulb placed behind the reel. Originally a Bioscope show was a music hall and fairground attraction. Mary Pickford was the original Bioscope Girl, so named because of the Bioscope films she starred in during the Great War and early 1920s.
Lettice’s fashionable Mayfair flat dining room is perhaps a little different to what you might think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures I have collected over time.
Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:
The roast chicken, tureens of vegetables and the gravy boat of gravy on the table all came from an English stockist of 1:12 artisan miniatures whom I found on E-Bay. They all look almost good enough to eat. The 1:12 artisan bottle of Pinot Noir is made from glass and the winery on the label is a real winery in France. The bottle was made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The wine and water glasses, carafe of water and the vase are all 1:12 artisan miniatures too, made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering in England. The vase is especially fine. If you look closely you will see that it is decorated with lattices of fine threads of glass to give it a faceted Art Deco look. The orange roses in the vase were also hand made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures. The Art Deco dinner set is part of a much larger set I acquired from a dollhouse suppliers in Shanghai.
In the background on the console table stand some of Lettice’s precious artisan purchases from the Portland Gallery in Soho. The pair of candelabra at either end of the sideboard are sterling silver artisan miniatures from Karen Ladybug Miniatures in England. The silver drinks set, made by artisan Clare Bell at the Clare Bell Brass Works in Maine, in the United States. Each goblet is only one centimetre in height and the decanter at the far end is two- and three-quarter centimetres with the stopper inserted. Lettice’s Art Deco ‘Modern Woman’ figure is actually called ‘Christianne’ and was made and hand painted by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. ‘Christianne’ is based on several Art Deco statues and is typical of bronze and marble statues created at that time for the luxury market in the buoyant 1920s.
Lettice’s dining room is furnished with Town Hall Miniatures furniture, which is renown for their quality. The only exceptions to the room is the Chippendale chinoiserie carver chair and the Art Deco cocktail cabinet (the edge of which just visible on the far right-hand side of the photo) which were made by J.B.M. Miniatures.
The carpet beneath the furniture is a copy of a popular 1920s style Chinese silk rug hand made by Mackay and Gerrish in Sydney, Australia. The paintings on the walls are 1:12 artisan pieces made by Amber’s Miniatures in the United States. 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.
One of those small orange and black Darts or Darters which only live to confuse and exasperate me! On a blade of tall grass after a shower of rain in Minnippi Parkland.
I don't know why I look so exasperated. Or why I still have a Christmas tree in my room in March. Or why my camera has miraculously begun functioning again. Or why the 'p' in pneumonia is silent. Or why there are people called Leslie. I wish my name was Beatrix Potter. When we moved to Florida, my brother changed his name to Landen. I told everyone his real name was David. He got really upset, and I felt horrible. I'm not a very good sister. But I can swim all right, I mean I'm a fair swimmer.
Both of them involve little children, who are always some of life’s best teachers.
As little Deborah sat down to eat dinner with her parents she instinctively reached for her fork. “Please hold on,” her father replied. “We haven’t said grace yet.” This exasperated the girl, who was tired and hungry. “Daddy,” she said with a sigh, “why can’t we just pray once a week? Why do we have to ask for our daily bread every day?”
Her older brother, wiser and eager to set her straight, weighed in before the dad could answer. “You don’t think we want stale bread, do you?” he said.
Inadvertently, that fellow was confirming the importance of regular prayer.
Then there is four-year-old Melinda. Her favorite story was “The Three Little Pigs” which she asked her mom or dad to read every single night before bed. They gladly obliged, but after several months, her father got a bright idea. He recorded the story on tape and told her to simply press “play” before jumping under the covers. She resisted.
“But, honey,” he told her, “you can still hear it.”
“Yes,” she replied, “but I can’t sit in its lap.”
Amazingly, the Creator of the Universe is eager to spend time with you and with me, but the only way we can experience conversation and communion with Him is through personal and corporate prayer.
All of us at Focus on the Family extend our heartfelt thanks to the National Day of Prayer Task Force, led once again by the inspiring Mrs. Shirley Dobson, wife of our founder, Dr. James Dobson. Under her direction and counsel, thousands of prayer events will be occurring all throughout the United States today. We’ll be gathering here at Focus and joined by Dr. Jim Garlow, pastor of Skyline Wesleyan Church in Southern California.
Today is a special celebration, but God’s bread is fresh every day and the Lord’s arms are open wide in welcome.
I’ll close with a prayer that was written by this year’s honorary chairperson, our dear friend, Joni Eareckson Tada:
Almighty God, you are our Mighty Fortress, our refuge and the God in whom we place our trust. As our nation faces great distress and uncertainty, we ask your Holy Spirit to fall afresh upon your people — convict us of sin and inflame within us a passion to pray for our land and its people. Grant the leaders of our country an awareness of their desperate need of wisdom and salvation in You until sin becomes a reproach to all and righteousness exalts this nation.
Protect and defend us against our enemies and may the cause of Christ always prevail in our schools, courts, homes, and churches. Lord God, send a spirit of revival and may it begin in our own hearts.
Remember America, we pray. Remember the foundations on which this country was built. Remember the prayers of our nation’s fathers and mothers, and do not forget us in our time of need.
In the name of our Savior, Jesus Christ, Amen.
Follow me on Twitter @Dalyfocus
HAPPY NEW YEAR from Naples! Just arrived for my first time in here to this beach town in Florida, and here's the view from my room at sunset a few moments after we checked in. How pretty! All the kids wanted to go down to the beach... I was like... hold on a minute chiddin, daddy's gotta take da photos! They made exasperated sounds while I clicked away. I sent them away to each some chocolate! :) I put the chocolate attack up my Snapchat at "treyratcliff" - anyway, here is the view tonight from the rather spectacular Ritz-Carlton in Naples. #Naplesflorida #RCMemories #Beach #Sunset #HappyNewYear @RitzCarlton via Trey Ratcliff on FB at ift.tt/1v05hWZ Snapchat: treyratcliff ift.tt/1qx3iMJ Instagram: treyratcliff ift.tt/1c7s6Uy
“You haven’t posted.” Stan says accusingly.
I sigh. He is my greatest supporter, and he means well. This year in particular he has been urging me to post my photos. Encouraging me when my energy has waned and my interest ebbed. We’ve been working long hours, and I am tired. These days I am always tired. My sleep is disturbed and unfulfilling and my waking moments are heavy with thought. My muses have fled and my creativity is all but used up by the time I finish work.
“Post something!” he says, a little exasperated. “We have thousands of photos, post something. Post one of our India photos.” he says.
“India is hard.” I reply. I am laying on the lounge, trying to relax. I have been sitting in front of a computer all day and I don’t feel like processing any photos.
He doesn’t fully understand that India is hard for me. It clearly marks the time between. The time before when everything was right in the world and the time afterwards when it wasn’t. I have to rewrite those days in my memory, I have to marry up two time lines now. The days I experienced in India have to overlay the events that were happening back home. The ones that were beyond my control. Life changed, and it changed forever. And I can barely look at photos of myself taken prior, the ones where I can see the happiness in my eyes. India, like everything now, has context.
I never had the luxury of processing the holiday itself. The memories are completely overshadowed. India itself takes a lot of processing. It was overwhelming and I never really had a chance to let my experience there settle and take hold in my mind. Now my mind is full. There is no room. And so much of what I saw in India needs to have the story written to accompany the photo.
Writing takes so much out of me now. I have to take myself back there to write, to relive the days so I can summon up the memories. And to do that I have to cross back over. My life split in two. Before. And After.
“India is hard.” I say again. “Its too interwoven with everything else.” I say. “Especially those last days before we flew home, especially Varanasi. My voice lumps in my throat and I can feel my chest tighten with anxiety. Its such a strange sensation for me to feel, and yet I feel it so often now, its like an old friend.
My mind fills with a swirling tableau of images. Of India. Of life and death. Of poverty and riches. I no longer know what to think.
“Well, not India.” he says, in ackowledgement. “But post something.”
I laugh at his tenacity. It is easier for him. He observes from the sidelines. While I am still trying to understand the rules of the game.
I'm no great photographer, so I always take multiple photos just to make sure I've got at least a couple that I consider perfect for posting.
Yes, Daisy often finds that exasperating, but hey...it's my job and I do it my way. Her only job is to look pretty and follow instructions! 😉
But what to do when nearly ALL are winners? 🤔
Yep...just post the lot! 😊
Anyway, Daisy was just heading out the door Saturday to pick up groceries for our cook out...and I had her pose for a few before she left. 💗💗
Ce qui impressionne particulièrement en entrant dans l'église, ce sont les extraordinaires fresques qui la décorent...nous percevons immédiatement pourquoi elle est retenue comme Patrimoine mondial et fut restaurée sous l'égide de l'Unesco à partir de 1972...
Mais au tout début du 19ième s. plus personne ne connaissait l'existence de ces fresques !
Et c'est en effet par hasard qu'un occasionnel « nettoyage » des murs enduits alerta un ouvrier plus attentif (d'autant plus qu'on commençait à cette époque à « découvrir » des fresques « cachées « et à s'y intéresser). Nous sommes en 1860, un artiste liégeois peintre de néo-gothique, Jules HELBIG , (1821-1906) se passionne directement pour la découverte et il entreprend avec les moyens de
l'époque une première mise au jour. Mais, ce sera 70 ans plus tard, en 1934, que la première grande restauration commencera menée par un artiste et archéologue brugeois Camille TULPINCK(1861-1946) ; il commencera par dessiner soigneusement tout ce qui a été trouvé par J. Helbig et tentera de restaurer le plus fidèlement possible les différents personnages en s'aidant des iconographies connues dans le monde de l'art : il est archéologue !
C'est avec l'appui de l'UNESCO que, de 1972 à 1984, Cornelis LEEGENHOEK donnera aux fresques de Sainte Agnès leur splendeur actuelle tout en respectant scrupuleusement l'état initial, sans aucun ajout nouveau.
Au premier plan : Sainte Agathe de Sicile
rès visible, dès l'entrée dans l'église, Agathe montre clairement une résistance de femme aux bourreaux masculins qui la martyrisent plus particulièrement dans sa féminité...peut-on y voir un sous-entendu adressé au Clergé misogyne de l'époque (dont certains « mystiques » comme Jan van Ruysbroek !) ?
Morte en 251, sous la préfecture du romain Quintianus, elle est très rapidement objet d'un culte important en Sicile. Son histoire est édifiante :
Agathe est la plus belle femme de Catania, village au pied de l'Etna. Le préfet de l'île, Quintianus, débauché notoire, entend bien la posséder mais...ni cadeaux, ni menaces ne font céder la pieuse Agathe...
Pour l'humilier et l'enlaidir, l'ordre est donné à ses bourreaux, après de multiples supplices, de lui couper les deux seins (un des seins se trouve à ses pieds)...à plusieurs reprises, un ange serait venu les remettre en place durant la nuit ...Excédé de son obstination, Quintianus donne l'ordre de la placer sur un gril bardé de crochets acérés , scène que l'on voit dans le coin supérieur droit de la fresque. Mais, en mourant, son martyre déchaîne la colère de Dieu et l'Etna entre en éruption ...c'est la panique : le village est menacé ... on ramasse alors le vêtement d'Agathe ( visible sous l'arbre) et on le jette devant la lave qui s'arrête par miracle et épargne Catania.
Encore actuellement, dans le folklore religieux de Sicile, une procession fait la route de paroisse en paroisse, là où sont conservées diverses reliques de sainte Agathe.
What particularly impresses when entering the church are the extraordinary frescoes that decorate it ... we immediately perceive why it is retained as World Heritage and was restored under the auspices of Unesco from 1972 ...
But at the very beginning of the 19th century. nobody knew the existence of these frescoes!
And it is indeed by chance that an occasional "cleaning" of the coated walls alerted a more attentive worker (especially since we were beginning at that time to "discover" "hidden" frescoes and to take an interest in them. ). We are in 1860, a neo-Gothic painter from Liège, Jules HELBIG, (1821-1906) is directly passionate about discovery and he undertakes with the means of
the time a first update. But it will be 70 years later, in 1934, that the first major restoration will begin, led by an artist and archaeologist from Bruges Camille TULPINCK (1861-1946); he will start by carefully drawing everything that has been found by J. Helbig and will try to restore the different characters as faithfully as possible using iconographies known in the art world: he is an archaeologist!
It was with the support of UNESCO that, from 1972 to 1984, Cornelis LEEGENHOEK gave the frescoes of Saint Agnes their current splendor while scrupulously respecting the initial state, without any new additions.
In the foreground: Saint Agatha of Sicily
Very visible, upon entering the church, Agathe clearly shows a woman's resistance to male executioners who martyred her more particularly in her femininity ... can we see an implication addressed to the misogynistic clergy of the time? (including some "mystics" like Jan van Ruysbroek!)?
Died in 251, under the prefecture of the Roman Quintianus, she quickly became the object of an important cult in Sicily. Its story is edifying:
Agathe is the most beautiful woman in Catania, a village at the foot of Mount Etna. The prefect of the island, Quintianus, notorious debauchery, intends to own it but ... neither gifts nor threats make the pious Agatha give way ...
To humiliate and make him ugly, the order is given to his executioners, after multiple tortures, to cut off both breasts (one of the breasts is at his feet) ... on several occasions, an angel would have come put them back in place during the night ... Exasperated by his obstinacy, Quintianus gives the order to place it on a grill covered with sharp hooks, a scene that can be seen in the upper right corner of the fresco. But, by dying, his martyrdom unleashes the wrath of God and Etna erupts ... it is panic: the village is threatened ... we then pick up Agatha's clothing (visible under the tree) and one throws it in front of the lava which stops by miracle and spares Catania.
Still today, in the religious folklore of Sicily, a procession goes from parish to parish, where various relics of Saint Agatha are kept.
And you've just had some kind of mushroom
And your mind is moving low... ← ♫
One side will make you grow taller... on Black
I went through the rigors of a telephone survey today.
thought I'd be a nice person.
conversation: blah blah blah... blah blah more of the same.
then he wanted to know what race I was.
I answered - human race.
he said - that's not on my check list
me - put it under 'other'
it became exasperating so I hung up.
TAGS →
more photos below ↓
☮ + ♥
At last work has started at Moseley to clear the site for the new station, an artists impression made the local news on this very morning 22/03/2021) together with footage of the tree growth being removed.
Hazelwell, Kings Heath, Moseley and Brighton Road stations closed as a temporary wartime measure 27/01/1941, Camp Hill closed 27/06/1941 and Lifford closed 30/09/1940, of these only Hazelwell, Kings Heath and Moseley are to re-open.
The picture is taken from Woodbridge Road looking towards Moseley Tunnel and St Marys Row, the two ramps down to the old station can be see to the right and left.
220031 is working 1M49 the 11.53 Plymouth to Birmingham New Street train.
I apologise for the quality of this image, Woodbridge road is a very busy pedestrian route and the pavement is narrow and protected from the road by railings, the bridge wall is 7 foot high. Pre-Covid I would have just used steps but in fairness to others this was taken with the flip-screen compact held upside down with me flat against the wall, even so there was a few exasperated "huffs" from passers by. I waited until the train had passed Lifford East Junction on RTT, gave it a couple of minutes then just stood with my finger on the button until the lights appeared in the tunnel. I then beat a hasty retreat...
Copyright Geoff Dowling: All rights reserved
EXPLORE #232 June 13, 2008
Art by The Ferrisburgh Artisans Guild in North Ferrisburgh, Vermont
Funny comments anyone? ;-)
A National Monument in Arizona--just a few miles northeast of Flagstaff. Of all the "major" places I visited on my trip, this was the only one that was a revisit--revisited mostly because it wasn't really out-of-the-way, but also because it's beautiful, naturally.
I believe I was 14 when my family stopped here on our way to California (or on our way back--I don't recall for certain). I recall wanting to climb to the top--which you could do then (it's now verboten)--but my parents forbade it for some reason. Perhaps they feared I would fall to my death, though as you can see, "falling" here means tumbling on a bed of cinders with death being highly unlikely. So, instead, I led a band of my siblings (two sisters) on a hike around the base and through a lava field. Though I left the main path, there was still a clear path that we followed. I'm not sure how long we were gone, but my best guess would be 1.5 hours. We returned to find my parents in a tizzy. My mother was particularly upset and began chastising and berating me for getting myself and my two sisters "lost." That we had been "lost" came as a complete surprise to both myself and my sisters, and I insisted that was not the case and was genuinely perplexed. Since we'd never gotten more than a few feet from the path and had returned on it to arrive directly at our camp site--how could that be considered lost? Nonetheless, my Mom, no doubt until the day she died, held steadfast to the belief that we had been lost. I was punished in some small way for my transgression at the time and I quickly learned it was worse than useless to argue against her accusations as my reasoned rebuttals only served to infuriate her more. Over the next 50 years, either she or I would, on rare occasions, mention the "incident" and she remained a bit exasperated by my supposed irresponsibility--though she at least could laugh about it, as could I. :-)
I know there's nothing special about the photograph, but it's a beautiful place, is it not? It would have been better to take this photo in the late afternoon as the "golden hour" would have enhanced the color around the crater's rim.