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.

 

Two of Lettice’s Embassy Club coterie of bright young things are getting married: Dickie Channon, eldest surviving son of the Marquess of Taunton, and Margot de Virre, only daughter of Lord Charles and Lady Lucie de Virre. Lettice is hosting an exclusive buffet supper party in their honour this evening, which is turning out to be one of the events of the 1921 London Season. Over the last few days, Lettice’s flat has been in upheaval as Edith. Lettice’s maid, and Lettice’s charwoman* Mrs. Boothby have been cleaning the flat thoroughly in preparation for the occasion. Earlier today with the help of a few hired men they moved some of the furnishings in Lettice’s drawing room into the spare bedroom to make space for the hired dance band and for the guests to dance and mingle. Edith’s preserve of the kitchen has been overrun by delivery men, florists and caterers. Yet it has finally all fallen into place perfectly just as a red and white striped marquee is erected by Gunter and Company** over the entrance and the pavement outside.

 

Now we find ourselves in Lettice’s dining room, which has become the focal point for half the party guests as her dining table is given over to a magnificent buffet created by Harrods catering, whilst Dickie stands at one corner, thoroughly enjoying playing the part of barman as he makes cocktails for all his friends.

 

Lettice sighs with satisfaction as she looks around the drawing room and dining room of her flat. Both rooms have a golden glow about them created by a mixture of electric light and candlelight and the fug of cigarette smoke. The rooms are populated with London society’s glittering young people, nicknamed “bright young things” by the newspapers. Men in white tie and tails with a smattering of daring souls wearing dinner jackets chatter animatedly and dance with ladies in beautifully coloured evening gowns with loose bodices, sashes and irregular and handkerchief hems. Jewels wink at throats, on fingers, dangling from ears and in carefully coiffed and finger waved hair, illuminated by the brilliant lighting. Bugle beads glitter as gowns gently wash about the figures of their wearers as they move. Everywhere gay chatter about the Season and the upcoming wedding of Margot and Dickie fills the air, the joyous sound mixing with the lively jazz quartet who play syncopated tunes lustily in a corner of Lettice’s drawing room.

 

“Dubonnet and gin?” Dickie asks Lettice as she stands by the buffet and picks up a biscuit lightly smeared with salmon mousse.

 

“Oh you are a brick, Dickie!” Lettice enthuses, popping the dainty morsel into her mouth. Accepting the reddish gold cocktail from him she adds, “But really, this is your party. You should be out there, socialising with Margot, not standing here making cocktails for everyone.”

 

“Why should I bother going out there to socialise,” he waves his hand across the crowded room to the edge of the makeshift dancefloor where his fiancée stands in a beautiful ankle length silver georgette gown studded in silver sequins, surrounded by a small clutch of equally elegant young guests. “When they all have to come to me for drinks.”

 

“Ahhh,” Lettice titters as she sips her cocktail. “So there is method in your madness, Dickie.”

 

“Isn’t there always, Lettice?” he laughs. “Now, you are technically hostess of this bash. Go out there and dazzle everyone.” Then he stops and adds, “Well, not quite everyone.” And he blows a kiss to his fiancée whose eye he has caught from across the crowded room.

 

“Alright Dickie,” Lettice laughs and she saunters off into the crowd, pausing to smile and say hullo and accept the compliments of her many guests.

 

Suddenly she spots a beautiful woman in a pale pink beaded gown with dark finger waved hair framing her peaches and cream complexion standing docilely by the dancefloor watching the stream of passing couples dancing past in each other’s arms. She seems distant and remote, even a little sad, and far removed from the frenetic energy and jolly bonhomie about her. Excusing herself from the couple who are addressing her, Lettice slips over to her.

 

“Hullo Elizabeth***!” Lettice embraces her warmly. “I wasn’t sure if you were going to come along tonight considering everything that’s happened.”

 

“I wasn’t sure myself, Lettice.” Elizabeth replies, a warm smile revealing a slightly crooked set of teeth. “But I couldn’t let Dickie and Margot down.” Then she adds quickly as an afterthought, “Or you, darling Lettice.”

 

“Well, I’m glad you’ve come. How are you feeling?”

 

“A little battered and bruised emotionally.” Elizabeth admits with a lilt of sadness. “But one mustn’t complain.”

 

“I still don’t understand why you said no to his marriage proposal. I thought you loved Bertie****.”

 

“I did.” Elizabeth remarks before correcting herself. “I do! But I’m afraid that if I said yes to him, I’d never, never again be able to be free to think, speak and act as I feel I really ought to. Besides,” she adds conspiratorially, glancing about her before continuing. “His mother terrifies me.”

 

“She terrifies all of us,” Lettice laughs lighty as she waves her hand gaily about the room. “Now, what you need to pick you up and forget your heartache is one of these.” She points to the glass in her hand.

 

“What is it?” Elizabeth asks, eyeing Lettice’s glass and sniffing its contents with suspicion.

 

“A Dubonnet and gin. Dickie will make you one. Go and ask him.” Lettice grasps Elizabeth by the shoulder and sends her toddling across to Dickie as he stands behind a line of bottles and a beautiful arrangement of roses.

 

“Lettice!” Margot suddenly calls from across the room, beckoning her over enthusiastically. “Lettice, darling!”

 

Squeezing between small clusters of well-dressed guests drinking and eating or leaving the dance floor, Lettice makes her way over to her friend.

 

“Hullo Margot, darling! Are you having a fabulous time?”

 

“Fabulous isn’t enough of a word to describe it, darling!” she replies with eyes shimmering with excitement and joy. “Such a thrilling bash! I can’t thank you enough!”

 

“Yes Lettice,” a deep male voice adds from behind her. “You certainly do know how to throw a party!”

 

“Lord de Virre!” Lettice exclaims, spinning around. “Oh! I didn’t know you’d arrived. Now, who can I introduce you to?”

 

“No-one my dear. My beautiful daughter has been doing an ample job of introducing me to so many people that already this old man cannot remember who is whom.”

 

“Never old!” Lettice scolds, hitting his arm playfully as she curls her own through the crook in his. “Then if I can’t introduce to anyone, perhaps I can entreat you into eating something.”

 

“Now that I won’t refuse, Lettice.”

 

Lettice and Margot guide Lord de Virre across the crowded dining room to the buffet table weighed down with delicious savoury petit fours, vol-au-vents, caviar, dips, cheese and pâte and pasties. Glasses full, partially drained and empty are scattered amidst the silver trays and china plates.

 

“Champagne, Sir?” Dickie calls out.

 

“Good show Dickie!” laughs Lord de Virre over the noise of the party. “Playing barman tonight, are we?”

 

“It’s the best role to play at a party, Sir.” He passes Lord de Virre a flute of sparkling champagne poured from the bottle wedged into a silver ice bucket.

 

Behind him Lettice spies Elizabeth with a Dubonnet and gin in her glove clad hand. Lettice catches her eye and discreetly raises her glass, which Elizabeth returns with a gentle smile.

 

“Now Lettice, darling,” Margot enthuses as she selects a dainty petit four. “Daddy has just reminded me of an idea we had a few weeks ago, which I meant to ask you about, but between all Gerald’s dress fittings and other arrangements for the wedding,” She flaps her hand about, the diamonds in her engagement ring sparkling in the light. “Well, I completely forgot.”

 

Lettice tries not to smile as she feels the gentlest of squeezes from Lord de Virre’s arm and remembers the conversation that she and he had some weeks ago in his study. “What is it?” She glances between Margot and her father, pretending not to know what is coming.

 

“Well, Daddy suggested… I mean… I was wondering…”

 

“Yes, Margot darling?”

 

“Well, you know how the Marquess is giving us that house in Cornwall?”

 

“Yes! Chi an… an…?”

 

“Chi an Treth!” Dickie calls out helpfully.

 

“Yes!” Margot concurs. “Beach House! Well, it hasn’t been lived in for ever such a long time, and it’s a bit old fashioned. Daddy is kindly organising for it to be electrified, re-plumbed and have it connected to the Penzance telephone exchange for us.” Margot pauses. “And… well he and… we… that is to say that I thought…”

 

“Yes?” Lettice coaxes with lowered lids as she takes a gentle sip of her Dubonnet and gin.

 

“Well, we… Dickie and I that is… well we rather hoped that you might consider fixing up a couple of rooms for us. Would you? I would just so dearly love a room or two decorated by you! Dickie even thinks that his father can pull some strings and get you an article in Country Life if you do?”

 

“Oh Margot!” Lettice exclaims, releasing her grip on Lord de Virre and depositing her glass on the table she flings her arms about her friend’s neck. “I’d love to!”

 

Lettice suddenly feels a gentle poking of fingers into the small of her back. Letting go of Margot, she stands back and looks at her, remembering the lines Lord de Virre asked her to come up with and rehearse upon agreeing to Margot’s request.

 

“Of course, I can’t do it straight away, you understand. You know I’m currently mid-way through Miss Ward’s flat in Pimlico.”

 

“Oh that’s alright,” Margot beams. “The modernisation isn’t finished yet, so we won’t even be going down there to inspect the place until after our honeymoon.”

 

Lettice feels Lord de Virre’s prodding in her back again.

 

“And I won’t do it for free, Margot. I have already given you a wedding gift. I’m a businesswoman now.”

 

“Oh, well that’s just the thing,” Margot exclaims, clasping her hands in delight. “Daddy has kindly agreed to pay for it all.”

 

Lettice looks up at Lord de Virre. He looks back at her seriously, but she can see a smile tweaking the edges of his mouth, trying to create a cheeky smile. She tries to keep up the pretence that she didn’t already know that Margot was going to ask her to redecorate for her and Dickie as she says, “Really Lord de Virre? All of it? That’s very generous of you.”

 

“Not a bit of it, Lettice. This is a good, sound business transaction. You may send your quotes to me for consideration,” He ennunciates the last word carefully to stress its importance, more for Margot’s sake than Lettice’s. “Once you have seen the rooms as they are now.”

 

“Thank you Lord de Virre,” Lettice replies. “Well Margot, I suppose that settles it then!”

 

“Oh Dickie!” Margot exclaims, scuttling over to her fiancée. “She said yes!”

 

“Who did, darling?” Dickie asks as he adds crème de menthe to colour his Fallen Angel cocktail a pale green.

 

“What do you mean, who?” Margot hits his arm jokingly as she sways excitedly from side to side. “Lettice of course!” She looks back over to her friend standing alongside her father. “She’s agreed to decorate for us.”

 

“Oh, jolly good show!” Dickie smiles. “Thanks awfully Lettice, darling! Now you’re the brick!”

 

“Always Dickie!” Lettice laughs back.

 

“Listen Dickie!” Margot gasps. “The band is playing ‘Dancing Time’*****! Come away from the bar and dance with me.”

 

“You’d best not refuse her, my boy!” teases Lord de Virre. “It’s madness if you try. I never could!”

 

The happily engaged couple hurry across the room, hand in hand, slipping between clusters of guests before disappearing into the crowd on the dancefloor as the music from the band soars above the burble of the crowd and the clink of glasses.

 

“So, we finally have an official arrangement, Miss Chetwynd?” Lord de Virre says discreetly as he raises his glass towards Lettice.

 

“I think we do, Lord de Virre.” Lettice smiles and clinks her glass with his as they toast their arrangement formally. “Your offer is simply too good to refuse.”

 

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

 

**Gunter and Company were London caterers and ball furnishers with shops in Berkley Square, Sloane Street, Lowndes Street and New Bond Street. They began as Gunter’s Tea Shop at 7 and 8 Berley Square 1757 where it remained until 1956 as the business grew and opened different premises. In the nineteenth and twentieth centuries Gunter's became a fashionable light eatery in Mayfair, notable for its ices and sorbets. Gunter's was considered to be the wedding cake makers du jour and in 1889, made the bride cake for the marriage of Queen Victoria’s granddaughter, Princess Louise of Wales. Even after the tea shop finally closed, the catering business carried on until the mid 1970s.

 

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

 

****Prince Albert, Duke of York, known by the diminutive “Bertie” to the family and close friends, was the second son of George V. Not only did Bertie propose to Elizabeth in 1921, but also in March 1922 after she was a bridesmaid at the wedding of Albert’s sister, Princess Mary to Viscount Lascelles. Elizabeth refused him a second time, yet undaunted Bertie pursued the girl who had stolen his heart. Finally, in January 1923 she agreed to marry him in spite of her misgivings about royal life.

 

*****’Dancing Time’ was a popular song in Britain in 1921 with words by George Grossmith Jr. and music by Jerome Kern.

 

This rather splendid buffet of delicious savoury treats might look real to you, but in fact the whole scene is made up on 1:12 scale miniatures from my miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

On Lettice’s black japanned dining table delicious canapés are ready to be consumed by party guests. The plate of sandwiches, the silver tray of biscuits and the bowls of dips, most of the savoury petite fours on the silver tray furthest from the camera and the silver tray of Cornish pasties were made in England by hand from clay by former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight. Her work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination. The cheese selection on the tray closest to the camera were made by hand by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering, as are the empty champagne glasses all of which are made of hand blown glass. The bowl of caviar was made by Karen Lady Bug Miniatures in England.

 

The tray that the caviar is sitting on and the champagne bucket are made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The bottle of Deutz and Geldermann champagne. It is an artisan miniatures and made of glass and has real foil wrapped around its neck. It was made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. Several of the other bottles of mixers in the foreground are also made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The bottle of Gordon’s Dry Gin, the bottle of Crème de Menthe, Cinzano, Campari and Martini are also 1:12 artisan miniatures, made of real glass, and came from a specialist stockist in Sydney. Gordon's London Dry Gin was developed by Alexander Gordon, a Londoner of Scots descent. He opened a distillery in the Southwark area in 1769, later moving in 1786 to Clerkenwell. The Special London Dry Gin he developed proved successful, and its recipe remains unchanged to this day. The top markets for Gordon's are (in descending order) the United Kingdom, the United States and Greece. Gordon's has been the United Kingdom’s number one gin since the late Nineteenth century. It is the world's best-selling London dry gin. Crème de menthe (French for "mint cream") is a sweet, mint-flavored alcoholic beverage. Crème de menthe is an ingredient in several cocktails popular in the 1920s, such as the Grasshopper and the Stinger. It is also served as a digestif. Cinzano vermouths date back to 1757 and the Turin herbal shop of two brothers, Giovanni Giacomo and Carlo Stefano Cinzano, who created a new "vermouth rosso" (red vermouth) using "aromatic plants from the Italian Alps in a recipe which is still secret to this day. Campari is an Italian alcoholic liqueur, considered an apéritif. It is obtained from the infusion of herbs and fruit (including chinotto and cascarilla) in alcohol and water. It is a bitters, characterised by its dark red colour.

 

The vase of red roses on the dining table and the vase of yellow lilies on the Art Deco console are beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium. Also 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. ‘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 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.

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 north-west from Cavendish Mews, across Marylebone, past Regent’s Park, the London Zoo and Lords Cricket Ground to the affluent and leafy residential streets of nearby St. John’s Wood. It is here that Lettice’s Embassy Club coterie friends Minnie Palmerston and her husband Charles reside in a neatly painted two storey early Victorian townhouse on Acacia Road that formerly belonged to Charles Palmerston’s maternal grandparents, Lord and Lady Arundel.

 

Having taken her future sister-in-law, Arabella Tyrwhitt, to her old childhood chum and best friend Gerald Bruton’s couturier in Grosvenor Street Soho for her initial wedding dress consultation, Lettice has left the two together to discuss designs whilst she visits Minnie in St John’s Wood. Minnie, a highly strung socialite, has redecorated her dining room in a style not to her husband’s taste, or so she was told by Minnie over a luncheon Lettice hosted for Arabella last week. Known for her melodrama, Lettice quietly ponders whether it really is as awful as Minnie implies as she pays the taxi driver the fare from Soho to St John’s Wood and alights the blue vehicle onto the street.

 

The day is bright and sunny, and the street is quiet with only the occasional bark of a dog and the distant rumble of traffic from busy Finchley Road in the distance as Lettice strides across the road and walks up the eight steps that lead up to Minnie’s black painted front door. She depresses the doorbell which echoes through the long hallway inside and waits. Moments later, there is the thud of Minnie’s hurried footsteps as she flings open the door dramatically.

 

“Lettice darling!” she cries, standing in the doorway in a beautiful may green day dress which compliments her red hair and green eyes, with cascades of green and black bugle beads tumbling down the front. “Come in! Come in!” she beckons her friend with enthusiastic waves which make the green, black and gold bangles on her wrist jangle noisily.

 

“Minnie.” Lettice leans in for a whispery kiss on the cheek as she steps across the threshold and follows Minnie’s indications and steps into a drawing room off the hallway, the room filled with diffused light from a large twelve pane window that looks out onto the street. Looking around her, she quickly takes in the overstuffed cream satin settees, nests of occasional tables, clusters of pictures in gilt frames in every conceivable space on the William Morris style papered walls and the potted parlour palms. “Oh yes,” she remarks as she removes her green gloves. “I do see what you mean. Very Edwardian.”

 

“Isn’t it ghastly, Lettice darling?” Minnie asks as she steps into the drawing room. “Here let me take your, umbrella, coat and hat.” She helps her friend shrug off her forest green coat and takes her rather artistic beret with its long tassel. “I think Lady Arundel could walk in here and not find a thing out of place!”

 

“It could be worse,” Lettice remarks, looking up at the crystal chandelier suspended from the ceiling high above. “It could be decorated in high Victorian style and lit with gasoliers*.”

 

“True darling.” Minnie calls from the hallway where she hangs up Lettice’s things on a heavy Victorian coatrack. “But you have yet to see my dining room faux pas.”

 

“Now Minnie, no matter what I say, I want no histrionics today like we had over luncheon last week,” Lettice chides her friend with a wagging finger. “Poor Bella didn’t know where to look.”

 

“Oh I am sorry.” Minnie apologises. “Coming from the country, she probably isn’t used to our London ways.”

 

“Your emotional outbursts have nothing whatsoever to do with London ways, so don’t go foisting it off.” Lettice replies, cocking one of her delicately plucked eyebrows at her friend.

 

“You sound just like Gladys.” Minnie says.

 

“Well, I hope I’m not as shrill sounding as her,” Lettice replies with a chuckle.

 

“And how is the beautiful bride-to-be?”

 

“Happily ensconced with Gerald in his Soho atelier, no doubt talking about all the finer details of the dream wedding frock I have already heard about from dear Bella.”

 

“She seems quite lovely, Lettice darling.”

 

“Oh, I adore Bella.” Lettice agrees with a wave of her hand. “Given we grew up running in and out of each other’s houses, living on neighbouring properties, it was inevitable that she would marry one of my brothers, or Lally or I marry one of Bella’s brothers. I’m just glad that it wasn’t the latter. All Bella’s brothers, whilst charming, take after their grandfather, and he was not a handsome man. Bella has her mother’s delicate and pretty genes and she and Leslie are well suited. They both love the country, and as you know from luncheon last week, Bella likes the county social round. As Pater says, Bella will one day make a wonderful chatelaine of Glynes**, supporting Leslie as a dutiful wife, hosting important county social functions like the Hunt Ball, opening fetes and awarding prizes at cattle shows.”

 

“How does Lady Sadie feel about her usurper?”

 

“Oh Mater loves Bella as much as we all do.” Lettice replies breezily. “Of course, Pater doesn’t dare express his appreciation quite so volubly in front of Mater, but I’m sure she is silently thinking the same thing, not that she would ever share that with any of us. No, the problem will be if Pater decides to pop his mortal clogs before she does. I don’t know how happy she will be to hand over the mantle of lady of the manor to her daughter-in-law, even if she does love her.”

 

“Well, let’s hope we don’t have to worry about that for a good while yet.” Minnie says soothingly.

 

“Indeed yes!” agrees Lettice. “Now, show me this dread dining room of yours, Minnie darling. I’m famished, and I’m intrigued to see just how much of a faux pas it really is.”

 

“Come right this way, interior decorator to all the great and good of this great country of ours,” Minnie says rather grandly as she walks towards a door that leads from the drawing room to the next room. Suddenly she pauses, clasping the brass doorknob in her hand and turns back to Lettice who has trailed behind her. “Prepare yourself my dear for l’horreur!” And she flings the door open.

 

Minnie and Lettice walk into the townhouse’s dining room, which like the adjoining drawing room has a high ceiling. Lettice is surprised that after the grandeur of the drawing room, it’s a much smaller room, perhaps more suited for intimate dining rather than a large banquet. She glances around and quickly takes in the mixture of old and new. An Edwardian dining setting in Queen Anne style fills the majority of the space, whilst a late Victorian sideboard and spare carver chairs press against the wall. To either side of the new Art Deco gas fireplace stand two modern stands on which sit rather old fashioned urns. Modernist paintings in bold colours hang on the walls, but Lettice can barely see them for the bold wallpaper of red poppies against a black background with green and white geometric patterns.

 

“Oh I see.” Lettice remarks, neither enthusiastically nor critically, but in a rather neutral way.

 

Lettice walks around the dining table on which stands a Georgian Revival tea set with steam snaking from the spot of the pot, a small carafe of water and glassware, crockery and cutlery for two at the head of the table. She stands before the Streamline Moderne fireplace surround and runs an elegant hand over one of the bold red blooms, feeling the slightly raised pattern. She sighs as she contemplates what she sees.

 

“Do you think it looks like something out of Maida Vale, Lettice darling?” Minnie asks hesitantly.

 

For a moment, Lettice doesn’t answer as she traces one of the green lines towards the gilt edge of a frame holding a painting of a tiger. “Tyger Tyger burning bright***,” she murmurs the beginning of the William Blake poem.

 

“Yes,” Minnie acknowledges her friend with a sigh of pleasure. “He’s rather glorious, isn’t he?”

 

“He is,” Lettice agrees. “However his gloriousness is diminished somewhat by the wallpaper which draws away attention from him, and the red fox.” She points to a larger canvas hanging over the sideboard.

 

“So you do think it’s middle-class Maida Vale then.” Minnie pronounces in a downhearted fashion.

 

“No, I don’t.” Lettice clarifies, turning around and placing a comforting hand on the slumped left shoulder of her friend. “And I think it was very unkind of Charles to say so. The wallpaper is beautiful, Minnie. It just doesn’t suit this room.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Well, this is quite an intimate room: taller with these high ceilings, rather than wide. This wallpaper would suit a longer room with low ceilings, where expanses of this pattern could be exposed uninterrupted.”

 

“Like a mansion flat?”

 

“Exactly, Minnie! I did something similar for the moving picture actress, Wanetta Ward last year. She had a long, exposed wall and the bold pattern I used worked beautifully. And this wallpaer does nothing to show off yours and Charles’ beautiful paintings. It detracts rather than enhances. The paintings and the wallpaper vie for attention. Think about the National Gallery, or the Tate Gallery****. When you see pictures hanging on the wall, what do you notice about the surrounding to the painting?”

 

Minnie thinks for a moment, screwing up her pert nose with its dusting of freckles. “Well, I can’t say I’ve ever actually noticed the walls, Lettice darling.”

 

“Correct again, Minnie. No-one thinks about the walls because you’re not meant to. Your focus is meant to be on the paintings.”

 

“So you think I should strip the walls and paint them? Is that what you’re saying?”

 

“Well, you could, Minnie.” Lettice replies. “Or you could paint the walls and decorate the upper edge with a nice frieze paper.”

 

“Then it really would look like Maida Vale.” Minnie argues. “Only people who can’t afford wallpaper get friezes hung.”

 

Lettice considers her friend’s remark for a moment. “Mmm… yes, you’re quite right Minnie. Well, Jeffrey and Company***** do stock a range of beautiful papers in vibrant colours with pattern embossed into them. They look very luxurious.”

 

“Oh!” Minnie clasps her hands in delight. “I do like the sound of that! What colour would suit this room do you think?”

 

“Oh I should imagine a nice warm red or orange to go with this.” Lettice taps the top of the tiled fireplace surround. “And that colour range would also compliment your polished floors.”

 

“And I could get black japanned furniture like you, Lettice darling! I do like your chairs.”

 

“Oh no.” Lettice shakes her head. “Black japanned furniture is fine, but not my chairs. They are far too low for this room. You need an equivalent high backed chair.” She reaches out and pats one of the dining chairs. “Lady Arundel chose these well as they echo the height of the room. Perhaps if you had something high backed padded with a complimentary fabric to the paper: say red or orange.”

 

“Oh Lettice you are so clever!” enthuses Minnie. “When can you start.”

 

“Don’t you want to ask Charles before you go spending his money on redecorating, Minnie?” Lettice laughs. “Surely he’ll want a say.”

 

“Oh Charles told me today when I reminded him that you were coming for luncheon before he left for the office, that he’ll happily pay for anything you recommend, or better yet your services. So you don’t need to worry on that account.”

 

“Well, I would have to finish Dickie and Margot’s.” Lettice tempers.

 

“Oh, of course.” Minnie agrees.

 

“Well, I don’t have another redecorating assignment after them, so let me contemplate it.”

 

“I’ll go and get luncheon whilst you contemplate.” Minnie exclaims with a clap of her hands before scuttling away through a second door to the left of the fireplace.

 

With her exuberant friend gone, Lettice looks around the dining room, contemplating what she has suggested, picturing what embossed wallpaper in a rich red or vibrant orange would look like as a backdrop for the paintings. “Pity.” she muses as she again runs her hands over the stylised poppies in the pattern on the wall. Turning around she looks across the room. “Sorry Lady Arundel,” she remarks, tapping the top of the nearest dining chair again. “But it looks like your granddaughter-in-law wants to modernise.

 

“I’m afraid it’s Cook’s afternoon off today,” Minnie says apologetically as she walks back through the door through which she went, carrying a tray of tomato, ham and cucumber sandwiches. “So we’ll have to settle for these.” Looking down at the plate of appetising sandwich triangles as she places them on the dining table’s surface she adds. “I do hope she remembered not to make tongue****** ones. She should remember that I can’t stand cold tongue.”

 

Lettice peers at the fillings of bright red tomato, vivid green cucumber, and pink ham. “I think we’ll be safe.”

 

“Well, there’s half a trifle left over for dessert just in case they aren’t nice.” Minnie adds hopefully.

 

Lettice is suddenly struck by something. “Minnie?” she asks. “Minnie, why are you carrying the tray? And come to think of it, why did you answer the door? Where is Gladys?”

 

Minnie blushes, her pale skin and smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose reddening. “She handed in her immediate notice the week before last.”

 

“Oh no! Not another one Minnie?”

 

“She said she couldn’t work for a woman who had such histrionics as I do, and she’s gone back to Manchester.”

 

“Oh Minnie!” Lettice shakes her head dolefully.

 

“See! I told you, you sounded like Gladys, Lettice. I’ve been getting by with the tweeny*******, but Cook grumbles, so I can’t keep pinching her. That’s why I’m so grateful you gave me that telephone number for that domestic employment agency in Westminster. I’ve a new maid starting next week. Her name’s Siobhan, so I figured that she can’t complain about my histrionics as she’d be used to them, being Irish.”

 

“Well, let’s hope so Minnie.” Lettice chuckles as she pulls out her dining chair and takes her seat. “I can’t keep up with the revolving door of maids that come in and out of this house. How long have you been here for now?”

 

“Seven months or thereabout.” Minnie replies vaguely as she takes her own seat in the chair at the head of the dining table.

 

“And how many maids have you had in that time?”

 

“Nine.” Minnie replies with a guilty gulp.

 

“No wonder Charles feels his club is better suited to entertain prospective business associates.” Lettice shakes her head disapprovingly. “A tweeny waiting table.”

 

“Well hopefully, with Siobhan starting next week, and you agreeing to redecorate my dining room faux pas,” She looks around the room with glittering, excited eyes, as she imagines the possibilities. “Charles will be happy to start entertaining here.” She pauses and thinks for a moment. “You will won’t you?”

 

“Will I what, Minnie?”

 

“You will redecorate my dining room, won’t you?”

 

Lettice reaches around Minnie’s teacup and squeezes her friend’s hand comfortingly. “Of course I will. I’ll come up with some ideas of what I think might suit this room and then I’ll show you and Charles. Charles has to have some input, even if he has told you that you that I have carte blanche when it comes to redecorating.”

 

*A gasolier is a chandelier with gas burners rather than light bulbs or candles.

 

**Glynes is the grand Georgian family seat of the Chetwynds in Wiltshire, and the home of Lettice’s parents, the presiding Viscount and Countess of Wrexham and the heir, their eldest son Leslie.

 

***”The Tyger” is a poem by English poet William Blake, published in 1794 as part of his “Songs of Experience” collection and rising to prominence in the romantic period of the mid Nineteenth Century. The poem explores and questions Christian religious paradigms prevalent in late 18th century and early 19th century England, discussing God's intention and motivation for creating both the tiger and the lamb. Tiger is written as Tyger in the poem as William Blake favoured old English spellings.

  

****In 1892 the site of a former prison, the Millbank Penitentiary, was chosen for the new National Gallery of British Art, which would be under the Directorship of the National Gallery at Trafalgar Square. The prison, used as the departure point for sending convicts to Australia, had been demolished in 1890. Sidney R.J. Smith was chosen as the architect for the new gallery. His design is the core building that we see today, a grand porticoed entranceway and central dome which resembles a temple. The statue of Britannia with a lion and a unicorn on top of the pediment at the Millbank entrance emphasised its function as a gallery of British art. The gallery opened its doors to the public in 1897, displaying 245 works in eight rooms from British artists dating back to 1790. In 1932, the gallery officially adopted the name Tate Gallery, by which it had popularly been known as since its opening. In 1937, the new Duveen Sculpture Galleries opened. Funded by Lord Duveen and designed by John Russell Pope, Romaine-Walker and Gilbert Jenkins, these two 300 feet long barrel-vaulted galleries were the first public galleries in England designed specifically for the display of sculpture. By this point, electric lighting had also been installed in all the rooms enabling the gallery to stay open until 5pm whatever the weather. In 1955, Tate Gallery became wholly independent from the National Gallery.

  

*****Jeffrey and Company was an English producer of fine wallpapers that operated between 1836 and the mid 1930s. Based at 64 Essex Road in London, the firm worked with a variety of designers who were active in the aesthetic and arts and crafts movements, such as E.W. Godwin, William Morris, and Walter Crane. Jeffrey and Cmpany’s success is often credited to Metford Warner, who became the company’s chief proprietor in 1871. Under his direction the firm became one of the most lucrative and influential wallpaper manufacturers in Europe. The company clarified that wallpaper should not be reserved for use solely in mansions, but should be available for rooms in the homes of the emerging upper-middle class.

  

******Beef tongue (also known as neat's tongue or ox tongue) is a cut of beef made of the tongue of a cow. It can be boiled, pickled, roasted or braised in sauce. It is found in many national cuisines, and is used for taco fillings in Mexico and for open-faced sandwiches in the United States.

 

*******A tweeny is a between maid, who works in the kitchen as well as above stairs, assisting at least two other members of a domestic staff.

 

This rather bright dining room is perhaps a little different to what you might think, for it is made up entirely of pieces from my 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures collection, some pieces from my own childhood.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The Queen Anne dining table, chairs and sideboard were all given to me as birthday and Christmas presents when I was a child.

 

The three prong Art Deco style candelabra in the sideboard is an artisan piece made of sterling silver. Although unsigned, the piece was made in England by an unknown artist. The vase of flowers to the left of the candelabra is beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium. The carafe to the right of the candelabra is another artisan piece made of hand spun glass. I acquired it as a teenager from a high street dollhouse stockist.

 

The ornately hand painted ginger jar is one of a pair and comes from Melody Jane Dollhouse Suppliers in Britain. The tall stand on which the ginger jar stands was made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq.

 

The paintings on the walls are 1:12 artisan pieces made by Amber’s Miniatures in the United States. The stylised floral and geometric shape Art Deco wallpaper is a real Art Deco design which I have sourced and had printed in high quality onto A3 sheets of paper.

 

On the dining table the tray of sandwiches are made of polymer clay. Made in England by hand by former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight they are very realistic with even the bread slices having a bread like consistency look. Her work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination. The water carafe came from the same high street stockist as the carafe on the sideboard. The Art Deco dinner set is part of a much larger set I acquired from a dollhouse suppliers in Shanghai. The Georgian Revival silver tea set on its tray I acquired from Smallskale Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

The Streamline Moderne pottery tile fireplace surround I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dollhouse Shop in the United Kingdom.

We make a living by what we get, we make a life by what we give.

Sir Winston Churchill

British politician (1874 - 1965)

  

Fox Lake, Wisconsin

070813

  

© Copyright 2013 MEA Images, Merle E. Arbeen, All Rights Reserved. If you would like to copy this, please feel free to contact me through my FlickrMail, Facebook, or Yahoo email account. Thank you.

 

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

This photograph has achieved the following highest awards:

 

Super Six, The Academy

 

InfiniteXposure, Level 7 VIOLET, (19)

 

Frame It! Level 5 (5)

 

Challenge Club Champion

 

DSLR Autofocus, Hall of Fame (5)

 

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.

 

After a busy morning working at her desk, writing a list of some final tweaks to her friend Margot Channon’s interior designs for her Regency country house ‘Chi an Treth’, Lettice prepares to curl up in one of her armchairs and enjoy her latest library book from Boots*, a new romance, when the telephone rings noisily on the occasional table beside her.

 

BBBBRRRINGGG!

 

Edith, Lettice’s maid, is putting glassware back into the cocktail cabinet in the adjoining dining room and looks up anxiously. “That infernal contraption!” she mutters to herself. Edith hates answering the telephone. It’s one of the few jobs in her position that she wishes she didn’t have to do. Whenever she has to answer it, which is quite often considering how frequently her mistress is out and about, there is usually some uppity caller at the other end of the phone, whose toffee-nosed accent only seems to sharpen when they realise they are speaking to ‘the hired help’ as they abruptly demand Lettice’s whereabouts.

 

BBBBRRRINGGG!

 

“Oh pooh!” Lettice cries. “And just as I was getting comfortable.”

 

BBBBRRRINGGG!

 

“This had better not be Mr. Fulton telling me that the lorry of furnishings and hangings and papers bound for ‘Chi an Treth’ has broken down between London and Penzance.” she grumbles.

 

The silver and Bakelite telephone continues to trill loudly as Lettice brushes herself down and picks up the receiver.

 

“Mayfair 432,” she answers without the slightest trace of irritation in her very best telephone voice.

 

The line crackles for a moment before a clipped, upper-class male voice drifts down the line to the receiver at Lettice’s ear. “May I speak to Miss Chetwynd, please.”

 

“Yes, this is Miss Chetwynd speaking,” Lettice replies.

 

“Darling!” the unfamiliar male voice exclaims.

 

Lettice reddens at the familiarity of the term and nearly drops the receiver in shock. “May I ask who is calling, please?”

 

“Darling Lettice, it’s me,” the stranger on the end of the line says with a chuckle. When there is silence in response, he adds, “It’s Selwyn.”

 

“Oh Selwyn!” Lettice gasps in sudden recognition, and sits up abruptly in her seat, her face going from trepidation to a beaming smile, her eyes sparking with happiness.

 

Edith in the dining room, having put the glasses back into the cocktail cabinet makes to go, but Lettice waves her free left hand excitedly and beckons her maid over. Edith sighs but walks over reluctantly. As soon as she is within reach, Lettice reaches out and clasps her hand, encouraging her to stay, and refusing to let her go. She sighs again. Looking around the room she feels awkward as she overhears whisps of the conversation. She would much rather return to the kitchen and start cleaning the lidded serving dishes with Silvo silver paste, which is what she would be doing if her mistress hadn’t grabbed her as if her life depended on it.

 

“Darling Lettice, I’m going to be up in London for a few days.” Selwyn announces cheerily.

 

“When, Selwyn?” Lettice asks, almost too afraid to breathe.

 

“Next week,” he elucidates. “Tuesday and Wednesday. I have the designs of a house I’ve been commissioned to build for an artist couple in Hampstead.”

 

“How thrilling, Selwyn!” Lettice’s grip tightens around both the telephone receiver and Edith’s hand.

 

“Yes.” he says with a light laugh. “They’re quite progressive with their desires for designs on a new home. I was rather chuffed when they asked me to design it for them. So, I thought I’d also run a few errands whilst I’m in town. I’ll be staying at the Saville Club** whilst I’m up from the country.”

 

“Oh, so you’ll be quite close by then!” Lettice looks excitedly up at Edith, who awkwardly tries to evade her mistress’ eyes.

 

“Indeed yes. Just around the corner, really. I didn’t want Mummy and Daddy to open the London house just for a few days”

 

“No, I suppose that is wise.”

 

“And I was thinking that whilst I was in town, we might fulfil those plans that we made at the Hunt Ball.

 

“Plans Selwyn?” Lettice queries, a smile teasing up Lettice’s pale and full pink lips.

 

Edith cannot help herself and turns her head back and stares, open mouthed, in astonishment at her mistress’ obvious attempt to be coy. Ever since she returned from Wiltshire after the Hunt Ball Lettice has done nothing but talk about the handsome young Selwyn Spencely, son of the Duke of Walmsford, who was an old childhood friend whom she hadn’t seen in years. The way she spoke, the man danced like a dream and swept her off her feet that evening. Edith narrows her eyes and shakes her head at Lettice.

 

“Don’t you remember, darling girl, or had you had too much champagne?” His light-hearted chuckle emanates from his end of the line. “We planned to catch up when I was next in town if you were free.” He pauses for a moment and aside from a faint crackle down the line there is a palpable silence tinged with excitement and anticipation. “That is, assuming you’d still like to, of course, Lettice darling.”

 

Lettice pauses for a moment, giving her maid’s hand another squeeze before swallowing. “Oh yes, I should like that very much, Selwyn.” She winks at her maid cheekily. “What days did you say you would be in town again?”

 

“Tuesday and Wednesday. I was hoping you might be free for luncheon, or perhaps a cocktail?”

 

Lettice takes a deep breath before replying, “Well, I’ll just have to consult my diary. I’ve just sent some furniture down to Penzance for the house down there I’ve ben commissioned to redecorate.”

 

“Oh yes, I remember: your friends, the Channons.”

 

“You do have a good memory, Selwyn.”

 

“Well,” he pauses and chuckles, only this time a little awkwardly. “There are quite a few things I remember about you at the Hunt Ball.”

 

Lettice smile broadens on her lips as she feels a flush fill her cheeks and redden her neck. “And we still have so much to catch up on about what we’ve been doing over the last fifteen years since we were children together.”

 

“Yes,” Selwyn replies. “So, are you free on Tuesday or Wednesday, my dear Lettice?”

 

“Well, let me just check my diary, Selwyn.”

 

Lettice deposits the receiver on the surface of the black japanned table next to her novel and her cooling cup of tea. She reaches out and snatched as Edith’s other hand handing limply by her side and squeezes it as tightly as the other. She cannot help herself and let’s a quick little squeak escape her lips as she smiles up at her maid, who for all her attempts to be discreet cannot help but smile back. Lettice waits for a few more moments. Finally, when she thinks enough time has passed, she releases Edith’s left hand. The maid flicks her fingers back and forth, making sure the circulation her mistress cut off is restored to her digits.

 

Picking up the receiver Lettice says, “You happen to be in luck, Mr. Spencely. I am free for luncheon on Wednesday.”

 

“Oh hoorah!” Selwyn exclaims in delight. “Marvellous! I thought we might go to the Hotel Cecil*** for luncheon.”

 

“Oh no!” Lettice protests in return. “Everyone I know will be there!”

 

“You’d rather go to the Lyons Corner House**** on Tottenham Court Road?” Selwyn laughs good naturedly. “I’m sure no-one would know us there.”

 

Lettice sighs. “It’s not that I don’t want to be seen with you, Selwyn.”

 

“Then what?”

 

“I’m sure you’ll think me mad, but I can assure you that Mater has spies in her friends and their friends and acquaintances, who are only too happy to report what her youngest wayward daughter and her flatter friends are up to. I know I wouldn’t enjoy luncheon with you if I was forever wondering whether someone was watching us and planning on reporting every thing we do and every word we utter back to her before the day is out.”

 

This time when Selwyn laughs, it is a big, jolly guffaw.

 

“Don’t laugh at me, Selwyn, please! I know I sound quite mad, but it’s true.”

 

“Oh I’m sorry, Lettice darling. I know you aren’t mad. My mother does exactly the same and keeps tabs on all her children, so I know what it’s like. Now, if you told me that the potted palms in the Cecil reported back to your mother, well then, I would have to question your mental state.”

 

This time the pair of them laugh together, Lettice’s filled with relief.

 

“So, if the Cecil isn’t suitable this time, where do you suggest, my dear?”

 

Lettice thinks for a moment. “What about the Metropole*****?”

 

“I can’t say I’ve been there since the war.”

 

“Oh it’s very luxurious and the food is divine. I went there not long ago with a client of mine.”

 

“And it’s safe from your Mother’s spies?”

 

“Well,” Lettice admits. “Nowhere is that impenetrable, however we are less likely to find ladies dining there as we would at the Cecil, and those that are, are probably more inclined to be interested in politics and affairs of state rather than who is dining around them.”

 

“I’ll see if I can book us a discreet table, then, my darling girl.”

 

“If you would, Selwyn.”

 

“Shall we say one o’clock then, my angel?”

 

“Yes.” Lettice agrees. “Your angel…” she ruminates.

 

“I’m sorry Lettice. I didn’t mean to be so intimate,” Selwyn stutters hurriedly. “I apologise.”

 

“Oh please don’t, Selwyn!” Lettice assures him. “I was just thinking how lovely that sounds: to be your angel.”

 

“So, shall we say one then on Wednesday,” he pauses. “My angel?”

 

“Yes, one o’clock in the foyer of the Metropole Hotel. I shall see you then.”

 

“And I shall be counting the minutes until then, my angel.”

 

“Goodbye, dear Selwyn. Until then.”

 

“Goodbye my angel, until then.”

 

Lettice replaces the Bakelite receiver into the chrome cradle of the telephone.

 

“Well!” Lettice gasps with excitement. “You’ll never guess who that was, Edith!”

 

“I’m quite sure I couldn’t say, Miss.” Edith says with a downwards, disapproving look, hating having to be subjected to her mistress’ private telephone call.

 

“It was Selwyn Spencely! You’ll never guess what’s he’s gone and done, Edith!”

 

“I’m positive I’d never guess, Miss.” Edith replies, casting her eyes to the white painted ceiling.

 

“He’s taking me to luncheon at the Metropole on Wednesday!”

 

Lettice screams and jumps up and down, her long string of glass bugle beads jangling about in front of her as she wraps her arms dramatically around Edith’s neck and starts spinning her around. Edith stumbles and breaks away from her giddy mistress.

 

“Miss! Miss!” she chides. “Calm yourself and stop that jumping, or I’ll have Mrs. Clifford’s maid from downstairs up here in a trice, complaining about the light fixtures shaking, or plaster dust ending up in old Mrs. Clifford’s lunch.”

 

“Oh pooh old Mrs. Clifford and her luncheon!” Lettice laughs as she reaches out for her maid and starts dancing around with her again. “I’m gong to have luncheon on Wednesday with dreamy Selwyn Spencely, the most eligible and handsome young man in London!”

 

*Boots the chemist was established in 1849, by John Boot. After his father's death in 1860, Jesse Boot, aged 10, helped his mother run the family's herbal medicine shop in Nottingham, which was incorporated as Boot and Co. Ltd in 1883, becoming Boots Pure Drug Company Ltd in 1888. In 1920, Jesse Boot sold the company to the American United Drug Company. However, because of deteriorating economic circumstances in North America Boots was sold back into British hands in 1933. The grandson of the founder, John Boot, who inherited the title Baron Trent from his father, headed the company. The Boots Pure Drug Company name was changed to The Boots Company Limited in 1971. Between 1898 and 1966, many branches of Boots incorporated a lending library department, known as Boots Book-Lovers' Library.

 

**The Savile Club is a traditional London gentlemen's club founded in 1868, many of whose members have a common interest in the arts. Located in fashionable and historically significant Mayfair, its membership, past and present, include many prominent names.

 

***The Hotel Cecil was a grand hotel built 1890–96 between the Thames Embankment and the Strand in London, England. It was named after Cecil House, a mansion belonging to the Cecil family, which occupied the site in the Seventeenth Century. The hotel was the largest in Europe when it opened, with more than eight hundred rooms. The proprietor, Jabez Balfour, later went bankrupt and was sentenced to 14 years in prison. The Royal Air Force was formed and had its first headquarters here in the former Hotel Cecil in 1918. During the 1920s, it was one of the most fashionable hotels in London and was filled with flappers and young men, representing the spirit of the Jazz Age. The hotel was largely demolished in 1930, and Shell Mex House now stands on its site.

 

****Built by the Salmons and Glucksteins, a German-Jewish immigrant family based in London, J. Lyons and Company opened their first teashop in Piccadilly in 1894. From 1909 they developed this into a chain of teashops. The waitresses that worked in them were commonly known as Nippies as they were forever on their feet, nipping in and out of serving tables. The company also ran high class restaurants, founding the Trocadero in 1895, and hotels including the Strand Palace, opened in 1909, the Regent Palace, opened in 1915, and the Cumberland Hotel, opened in 1933, all in London. The last Lyon’s Corner House, in the Strand closed in 1977.

 

*****Now known as the Corinthia Hotel, the Metropole Hotel is located at the corner of Northumberland Avenue and Whitehall Place in central London on a triangular site between the Thames Embankment and Trafalgar Square. Built in 1883 it functioned as an hotel between 1885 until World War I when, located so close to the Palace of Westminster and Whitehall, it was requisitioned by the government. It reopened after the war with a luxurious new interior and continued to operate until 1936 when the government requisitioned it again whilst they redeveloped buildings at Whitehall Gardens. They kept using it in the lead up to the Second World War. After the war it continued to be used by government departments until 2004. In 2007 it reopened as the luxurious Corinthia Hotel.

 

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

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The black Bakelite and silver telephone is a 1:12 miniature of a model introduced around 1919. It is two centimetres wide and two centimetres high. The receiver can be removed from the cradle, and the curling chord does stretch out.

 

The vase of yellow roses and lilies on the Art Deco occasional table is beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium.

 

Lettice’s tea cup and saucer is part of a beautiful artisan set featuring a rather avant-garde Art Deco Royal Doulton design from the Edwardian era.

 

Lettice’s romantic novel is a 1:12 size miniature made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Most of the books I own that he has made may be opened to reveal authentic printed interiors. In some cases, you can even read the words, depending upon the size of the print! I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection, but so little of his real artistry is seen because the books that he specialised in making are usually closed, sitting on shelves or closed on desks and table surfaces. This novel is one of the rarer exceptions and it has been designed not to be opened. Nevertheless, the cover is beautifully illustrated. What might amaze you even more is that all Ken Blythe’s books are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make this a miniature artisan piece. Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago, as well as through his estate via his daughter and son-in-law. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter. I hope that you enjoy this peek at just one of hundreds of his books that I own, and that it makes you smile with its sheer whimsy!

 

Lettice’s drawing room is furnished with beautiful J.B.M. miniatures. To the left of the photograph is a Chippendale cabinet which has been hand decorated with chinoiserie designs. It also features very ornate metalwork hinges and locks. The Art Deco tub chair upholstered in white embossed fabric is made of black japanned wood and has a removable cushion, just like its life sized equivalent.

 

The Chinese folding screen in the background I bought at an antiques and junk market when I was about ten. I was with my grandparents and a friend of the family and their three children, who were around my age. They all bought toys to bring home and play with, and I bought a Chinese folding screen to add to my miniatures collection in my curio cabinet at home! It shows you what a unique child I was.

 

In front of the screen on a pedestal table stands a miniature cloisonné vase from the early Twentieth Century which I also bought when I was a child. It came from a curios shop. Cloisonné is an ancient technique for decorating metalwork objects. In recent centuries, vitreous enamel has been used, and inlays of cut gemstones, glass and other materials were also used during older periods. The resulting objects can also be called cloisonné. The decoration is formed by first adding compartments (cloisons in French) to the metal object by soldering or affixing silver or gold wires or thin strips placed on their edges. These remain visible in the finished piece, separating the different compartments of the enamel or inlays, which are often of several colours. Cloisonné enamel objects are worked on with enamel powder made into a paste, which then needs to be fired in a kiln. The Japanese produced large quantities from the mid Nineteenth Century, of very high technical quality cloisonné. In Japan cloisonné enamels are known as shippō-yaki (七宝焼). Early centres of cloisonné were Nagoya during the Owari Domain. Companies of renown were the Ando Cloisonné Company. Later centres of renown were Edo and Kyoto. In Kyoto Namikawa became one of the leading companies of Japanese cloisonné.

A Tea for the Tillerman

Acte 3

 

Tea Party Shenanigans

 

The next hour and generous half were spent in a blur of social mixing, handing out and receiving compliments alike.

 

Most of which were genuine. For there were some rather pretty outfits being worn and equally pretty baubles. Ginny held her own against them, while I sometimes felt the pauper.

 

We had made a full circle before finding ourselves at the tea table standing next to mum, as we finally partook of the refreshments now fully laid out.

 

Mum was not much company, however, as the seemingly never-ending stream of guests, making their way in line, stopped to talk with her first.

 

Ginny and I, sharing a knowing look, grabbed ourselves a goblet of red wine each and fled to the sanctuary of the back garden for some relief and solitude over being social butterflies.

 

<<<<<<<<<<

 

Ginny and I go into the garden drinking from our goblets of wine. These were not our first drinks of wine, plus what we had had at the pub, and I’ll admit we were both a bit light-headed and giggly at this point.

 

Cleo, the neighborhood cat, is sunning himself by the small pagoda. Ginny gives me her goblet and bends down to pet the lazy fat bugger who probably last caught a mouse some 3 of his lives ago.

 

As she petted the scoundrel, Ginny’s dangling pendant was dripping in its’ display of brilliant, gloriously fiery cascading sparkles.

 

As I stared at the mesmerizing show of her necklace. I became aware of giggling young girls close at hand.

 

Ginny was still absorbed in petting the loudly purring Cleo, so I went off to find the source. without saying anything to disturb the pairs' bliss.

 

In the very backside of the garden, there is a white wrought iron bench. This was in the area I called the secret garden since it was surrounded by shrubs on the house side. My brother and I played many a game in this area, and in the wooded acres on the other side.

 

That was where I pinpointed that the giggling was coming from.

 

Feeling it was a time to be clandestine, I snuck up and peered through a gap in the shrubs…

 

There were three of them.

 

Twelve-year-old Estella, little Claire, and oddly enough, the “Wood Bead lady”. There was no sign of Mrs. Shannon or Gabrielle.

 

Apparently, the trio was playing a game of keep-away.

 

Claire was running between the other two as they tried to catch her. She was holding the wood beaded necklace that the “Wood Bead Lady” had been wearing. Estella soon captured the squirming tyke and taking the wood beads from her, gave them back to the waiting adult. Then Claire squirmed free and was hoisted up by the “Wood Bead Lady”. Estella then went to the bench, facing away from the pair.

 

“Wood Bead Lady” then put Claire down and pointed out Estella.

 

Giggling, Claire went over to Estella and pulled at her dress, holding her arms up to be held. Estella bent down, her black and white striped taffeta dress shimmering, and picked her up. Claire ran her arms up and hugged Estella.

 

As she did, the little nymph nimbly unhooked the rhinestone necklace and let it fall away from Estella’s throat.

 

Indicating she wanted down, she ran back behind Estella, scooped up the necklace from the grass, and went to the waiting “Wood Bead Lady” who pick her up, tickling the squealing child.

 

An odd game I thought, but at least the lady was keeping the toddler (and Estella)out of mischief.

 

I debated going back to gather Ginny and show her for a laugh, when I realized a sudden, undeniable urge, to go potty was making me tingle.

 

I slinked away, not wishing to disturb the happily playing group.

 

I go back and see that Ginny is still sitting on the pagodas’ steps petting Cleo.

 

I hailed her.

 

“Hey luv, I need to freshen up”

 

Ginny, sitting comfortably, hesitatingly asks if I need her to come along.

 

I laugh, coming up alongside the steps.

 

“No. I'm a big girl now...

 

I pick up her now empty goblet and walk away, saying…

 

“I’ll bring us back some refills”

 

I whip back around, giving Ginny and smirking eye…

 

“You just stay here and play with your pussy.”

 

Giggling, I dodged the pebble she threw at me, and lifting my skirt with my free hand, scurried off as quick as my heeled shoes would let me.

  

Heading back onto the green of the party area, I was soon waylaid by one of the guests, Cassie, who was a friend of Ginny’s mum.

 

I had not realized she was coming, for it was her first time here at one of our teas.

 

She was smashing in the looks department. Her long brown hair was tied in the back with a fancy pleat. Cassie was wearing a midnight black taffeta high-necked top with 3/4 length sleeves. A gold pleated satin skirl fell swirling from her waistline.

 

She was strikingly wearing a lovely gold necklace set with real diamonds and garnets that lay sparking along her downy soft top’s neckline, a very pretty thing I thought it was. Matching drop earrings, bracelets and rings completed the show.

 

After greeting her( shaking my leg in discomfort) she coincidentally asked me where the ladies' room was.

 

We had some rentals set up behind a hedge near the house for the guests, so I offered to lead her there.

 

Reaching them, Cassie asked me if Ginny was here today. Answering yes, I told Cassie where I had left her, giving her quick directions before apologizing that I really had a pressing errand. And that I would meet her there.

 

I circled the house, entering by the front door. In my room, I opened the drawer where I kept the case for my better jewellery. Lifting the lid, I pulled off both my rings, undid the bracelet, and laid them all inside. Making it to my bathroom in the nick of time.

 

I was in there, indisposed, for a long while.

 

Once I was finally through I freshened my makeup and headed back through the kitchen. Weaving my way amongst noisily working caterers.

 

Just outside the back door, I was intercepted by mum, who was still by the tables, calling me over.

 

She asked me to locate the reading glasses that she had left in the sunroom.

 

I go to the sun room searching, finally finding them by Papa’s wet bar.

 

Smirking to myself, I poured a shot of ginger brandy, and happily downed it.

 

Feeling rather warm inside, I picked up the errant reading glasses.

 

As I picked them up I could see out the long side windows Mrs. Shannon talking to some friends. Gabrielle was with her, the necklace glistening. I did not see Estella.

 

A silly game they had been playing I remember thinking to myself.

 

I scurry back outside, handed mum her readers, and listened in polity after she introduced me to the ladies with whom was chatting.

 

I broke away, snatched up full goblets of wine, and began my journey through the gauntlet of guests to collect Ginny.

 

It was then I remembered I had left my rings and bracelet inside my open jewellery case. I hesitated going back for them before deciding not to, I had left Ginny alone long enough.

 

It was then I spied Claire being carried by her new friend, the “Wood Bead Lady”, followed by that sly Estella.

 

They were approaching a 30-something lady, standing alone like she was waiting for the return of friends.

 

She was winningly wearing a long, very sleek, very tight, purple silk sleeveless dress that appeared to have been poured over her figure.

 

Claire was set down as the two ladies began chatting, with Estrella standing off to one side listening in.

 

As I passed I saw out of the corner of my eye that Claire had reached up her arms and the lady in purple silk was bending over to pick her up. The sapphire and diamond gemstones of the crescent moon-shaped silvery necklace she wore around her throat rippled flashily in the sunlight.

 

I passed them without a second thought, my mind focused on not spilling wine, as I made my way to rejoin Ginny.

 

I reached the pagoda where I had left her but found it deserted. Not even Cleo remained.

 

I went to the secret garden area, but it too was now void of anyone.

 

I started to walk the long way around the gardens trying to find where Ginny had gotten off too.

 

I had just passed one of the trimmed hedges when a hand is placed on my shoulder and I hear Ginny's voice from behind me, and see her arm reaching for one of the wine goblets I was holding

  

“Lost my pussy, didn’t I luv, then lost you ?” She giggled in my ear as she came up along sides me.

 

“Got bored waiting for you to come back, didn’t I? Been looking for you.” She said to me as a way of explanation.

 

We stand there drinking our wine as we watch the moving crowd of guests spread out upon the green lawn. Sun shining up in a cloudless blue sky. A perfect day.

 

“Lovely wine this “ Ginny said.

 

I turned to her smiling, meaning to ask if Cassie had found her.

 

But she had read my mind apparently, for she started to tell me that she had seen her mum’s friend, Cassie, holding Claire, talking to the odd lady we had met, the one wearing that turban. I didn’t want to interrupt them, you can guess why. So we will have to seek her out later…. What’s the matter?”

 

Ginny stopped her story, seeing the look on my face.

 

For, as I had faced Ginny, I had frozen, not really hearing My friend's words.

 

I brushed my fingers upon the vacant front of Ginny’s dress, just above the rhinestone dragons' clutching claw.

 

“Ginny, Where's your necklace?”

 

Eyes opening wide in horror, her hand shoots to her bare neck, feeling in vain around her throat.

 

“Buggers, it’s bloody gone!”

 

Next up the last Acte 4

 

A Most Curious Conclusion

 

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

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

 

Today however we are northwest of Lettice’s flat, in the working-class London suburb of Harlesden where Edith, Lettice’s maid, is paying a call on her parents on her day off. Edith’s father, George, works at the McVitie and Price biscuit factory in Harlesden, and her mother, Ada, takes in laundry at home. They live in a small, two storey brick terrace house which opens out directly onto the street, and is far removed from the grandeur of Lettice’s flat, but has always been a cosy and welcoming home for Edith.

 

Edith is sitting at her usual perch on a tall ladderback chair drawn up to the round table, worn and scarred by years of heavy use, that dominates the cluttered, old fashioned kitchen, as Ada prepares a Christmas cake whilst her daughter regales her with tales from Cavendish Mews, her unusually liberated upper-class employer and her eccentric coterie of friends.

 

“And then he just swept me up, right where I stood,” Edith explains. “And spun me around in the most awkward waltz I think I’ve ever danced, Mum!”

 

“What? With the roses still in his arms?” Ada stops stirring the thick, shiny mixture in her large white mixing bowl as she looks at her daughter with incredulity.

 

“And the champagne!” Edith giggles, raising her hand to her mouth as she does.

 

“Well!” the older woman gasps. “I’d never expect such odd behaviour from a gentleman! You did say he’s a proper gentleman?” she queries as an afterthought.

 

“Oh yes, Mum!” Edith assures her. “Mr. Brunton is a proper gentleman: rather theatrical and prone to posturing, but a gentleman, nevertheless. He and Miss Lettice grew up together on neighbouring estates in Wiltshire. His father is a sir or lord or some such.”

 

“Well, that’s alright then.” Ada sighs and starts stirring the sticky mixture with her big metal spoon again. “Mind you, there are plenty who claim to be gentlemen with their smart clothes and silvery tongues who are nothing of the sort.” She pauses again withdrawing the spoon from her mixture and pointing it at her daughter, the mixture dripping off it back into the bowl as she wags it at Edith. “Don’t you ever let your head get turned by one of those toffs, Edith. Whether he’s a gentleman or not, he’s still just a man under it all, and well, we all know that men are always out to chase pretty girls.” She lowers her eyes as a blush flushes her face with embarrassment. “And once he gets what he wants, he’ll drop you like a hot potato fresh from the oven. No gentleman ever married a maid so far as I can tell, ‘cept in those romance books you read.”

 

“Oh Mum! You don’t have to worry about me being around Mr. Bruton.” Edith starts spinning the well worn enamel canister marked ‘flour’ distractedly. “He’s far more interested in the frocks he makes for debutantes and going out to dinner with Miss Lettice than to take an interest in me. I’m just the maid who serves drinks and dinner and hangs his coat.”

 

“But I do worry about you Edith. You’re still only a young girl. Working on your own for a flapper,” She utters the last word with some distaste. “And living under her roof, well, you could be exposed anything for all I know! Now, I do know Miss Chetwynd is good to you, and pays you well, and I’m glad of that. Nevertheless, those flappers seem eccentric and always full of odd ideas and up to mischief.”

 

“Oh, that’s just what you read in the newspapers, Mum. I think the columnists of those stories sensationalise the tales they tell to try and sell more copies.”

 

“Nevertheless, sensationalist or not, those writers have to base some things on truth, so it can’t all be porky pies*!”

 

“Well, you read the articles from The Tattler that I gave you, showing all the photos from Miss Lettice’s cocktail party for Mr. and Mrs. Channon, didn’t you Mum?” When Ada nods her head affirmatively, Edith continues. “Well, that was all true, so you know that whilst Miss Lettice and her friends might be a bit eccentric, she’s still a respectable lady, as well as a flapper.”

 

Ada frowns and shakes her head a little, giving her daughter a questioning look as she observes her sitting across the table from her. “Stop playing with my cannisters and make yourself useful, Edith. I need some more fruit in this Christmas cake batter. Will you cut me some orange and lemon slices, please?”

 

“Yes Mum.”

 

Edith obeys her mother and dutifully gets up from her seat, yet the way she rises appears different to Ada’s sharp observation to the way she used to stand up. It seems elegant, yet affected somehow, with sloping shoulders and a languid head. Every week she notices small changes in Edith: a broader vocabulary and a general improvement in the smartness of her appearance which she likes, yet also an independent boldness and a questioning manner that she thinks unseemly in a young girl, especially one in service. Ada quietly wonders whether her daughter’s current employer will spoil her for any other position Edith may wish to acquire in the future. Edith’s last position with Mrs. Plaistow in Pimlico might have been harder work for a lesser wage, but at least she didn’t come home on her day off with her head turned by the glamour of American moving picture stars and society ladies who have influence over their futures. Girls like Edith have few choices in life, and Ada hopes her daughter doesn’t forget it.

 

“Anyway, enough about me, Mum,” Edith stands at the chopping board next to her mother, takes up Ada’s kitchen knife and starts to slice thin slivers from an orange. “What news of Bert? Have you heard from him?”

 

“Yes, your brother sent a postcard from Melbourne. It’s just up on the mantle.” Ada motions to the shelf above the kitchen range. “Read it.”

 

“It’s hard to imagine Bert on the other side of the world.”

 

“I’m just glad he’s only working as a steward on a passenger liner now, rather than in the navy, and that we aren’t at war anymore.”

 

“Oh I’m glad of that too, Mum.” Edith falls silent as she thinks of her own lost love, Bert the postman, and then quickly blinks away the tears briming in her eyes that threaten to spill over.

 

Determined not to be caught crying, Edith turns and wipes her hands, sticky with orange juice, on the yellow tea towel hanging from the rail beneath the mantle before picking up a postcard featuring a painted photograph of the Federal Parliament House in Melbourne**. She turns it over and reads aloud, “Leaving Melbourne on the Demonsthenes*** on Wednesday. First class dining saloon.” Edith looks over at her mother and smiles. “First class dining saloon! That’s a step up for Bert, Mum!” she remarks before continuing to read aloud. “Sailing home via Capetown. Arrive London twenty third of December.”

 

“Yes, he’ll be back in time for Christmas!” Ada beams as she dips her finger into the mix in the bowl, removing it and tasting the Christmas cake batter. She considers the flavour for a moment before shaking some cinnamon from the red box in front of her into the bowl. “Your Dad and I are so happy! We’ll have our Christmas present.”

 

“And what’s that, Mum?” Edith replaces the postcard on the mantle before turning back to the chopping board where she continues to cut thin slivers of orange.

 

“Having you both home for Christmas, of course!” Ada replies happily.

 

“So, you can use the cottage ware teapot I bought you from the Caledonian Markets****, then Mum.” Edith remarks playfully.

 

“Oh, I don’t know about that, Edith.” the older woman defends as she empties a tin of preserved red cherries into her Christmas cake batter. “It’s much too good to use.”

 

“But you promised, Mum!” Edith whines.

 

“I most certainly did not, Edith!” Ada retorts scoffingly.

 

“Yes you did, Mum!” her daughter responds. “Right here in this very kitchen, the day I gave it to you!” Edith stops cutting the orange, puts down the knife and folds her arms akimbo. “You told me that you’d use it on Christmas Day when Bert and I were home.”

 

Ada stops mixing the batter, puts her hands on her ample hips and stares at her daughter. “Your memory is far too good for remembering incidental things, Edith!”

 

Edith smiles. “I know, Mum.” She picks up a few slices of orange an continues, “Oranges?”

 

*Porky pies is Cockney rhyming slang for lies.

 

**Located on Spring Street on the edge of the Hoddle Grid, Melbourne’s Parliament House’s grand colonnaded front dominates the vista up Bourke Street. Designed by British Army officer and Colonial Engineer, Commissioner of Public Works and politician in colonial Victoria, Major-General Hon. Charles Pasley, construction began in 1855, and the first stage was officially opened the following year, with various sections completed over the following decades; it has never been completed, and the planned dome is one of the most well known unbuilt features of Melbourne. Between 1901 and 1927, it served as the meeting place of the Parliament of Australia, during the period when Melbourne was the temporary national capital.

 

***The SS Demosthenes was a British steam ocean liner and refrigerated cargo ship which ran scheduled services between London and Australia via Cape Town. It stopped at ports including those in Sydney and Melbourne. She was launched in 1911 in Ireland for the Aberdeen Line and scrapped in 1931 in England. In the First World War she was an Allied troop ship.

 

**** The original Caledonian Market, renown for antiques, buried treasure and junk, was situated in in a wide cobblestoned area just off the Caledonian Road in Islington in 1921 when this story is set. Opened in 1855 by Prince Albert, and originally called the Metropolitan Meat Markets, it was supplementary to the Smithfield Meat Market. Arranged in a rectangle, the market was dominated by a forty six metre central clock tower. By the early Twentieth Century, with the diminishing trade in live animals, a bric-a-brac market developed and flourished there until after the Second World War when it moved to Bermondsey, south of the Thames, where it flourishes today. The Islington site was developed in 1967 into the Market Estate and an open green space called Caledonian Park. All that remains of the original Caledonian Markets is the wonderful Victorian clock tower.

 

This cluttered, yet cheerful domestic scene is not all it seems to be at first glance, for it is made up of part of my 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures collection. Some pieces come from my own childhood. Other items I acquired as an adult through specialist online dealers and artists who specialise in 1:12 miniatures.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

Ada’s kitchen table is covered with most of the ingredients needed to make a Christmas cake: red cherries, orange and lemon peel, raisins, flour, baking powder, brandy, cinnamon, eggs and sugar.

 

The bowl of Christmas cake batter, complete with red cherries, was made by hand of polymer clay by former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight. Her work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination.

 

On the chopping board and the table you will see two lemons and four oranges. The lemons and oranges are vintage 1:12 artisan pieces that have come from Kathleen Knight’s Dollhouse Shop in England. The attention to detail on these is amazing! You will see the stubs in the skin were the stalk once attached them to the tree, but even more amazing is that, if you look very closely, you will see the rough pitting that you find in the skins of real oranges and lemons! The orange and lemon slices on the chopping board come from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering, England. The orange slices in particular are so small and so fine. They are cut from long canes like some boiled sweets are but are much smaller in size!

 

The kitchen knife on the chopping board with its inlaid handle and sharpened blade comes from English miniatures specialist Doreen Jeffries Small Wonders Miniature store.

 

The rather worn and beaten looking enamelled cannisters, which match the bread tin on the Welsh dresser in the background, are painted in the typical domestic Art Deco design and kitchen colours of the 1920s, cream and green. Aged on purpose, these artisan pieces also came from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

The tin of My Lady red cherries came from Shepherds Miniatures in the United Kingdom, as does the tin of Bird’s Golden Raising Powder (an old name for baking powder). Bird’s were best known for making custard and Bird’s Custard is still a common household name, although they produced other desserts beyond custard, including the blancmange. Bird’s Custard was first formulated and first cooked by Alfred Bird in 1837 at his chemist shop in Birmingham. He developed the recipe because his wife was allergic to eggs, the key ingredient used to thicken traditional custard. The Birds continued to serve real custard to dinner guests, until one evening when the egg-free custard was served instead, either by accident or design. The dessert was so well received by the other diners that Alfred Bird put the recipe into wider production. John Monkhouse (1862–1938) was a prosperous Methodist businessman who co-founded Monk and Glass, which made custard powder and jelly. Monk and Glass custard was made in Clerkenwell and sold in the home market, and exported to the Empire and to America. They acquired by its rival Bird’s Custard in the early Twentieth Century.

 

The Tate and Lyall sugar packet was acquired from Jonesy’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom. In 1859 Henry Tate went into partnership with John Wright, a sugar refiner based at Manesty Lane, Liverpool. Their partnership ended in 1869 and John’s two sons, Alfred and Edwin joined the business forming Henry Tate and Sons. A new refinery in Love Lane, Liverpool was opened in 1872. In 1921 Henry Tate and Sons and Abram Lyle and Sons merged, between them refining around fifty percent of the UK’s sugar. A tactical merger, this new company would then become a coherent force on the sugar market in anticipation of competition from foreign sugar returning to its pre-war strength. Tate and Lyle are perhaps best known for producing Lyle’s Golden Syrup and Lyle’s Golden Treacle.

 

The eggs in the bowl with the whisk are 1:12 artisan miniatures with amazing attention to detail which I have had since I acquired them as a teenager from a high street stockist.

 

The box of cinnamon was made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire.

 

In the background you can see Ada’s dark Welsh dresser cluttered with household items. Like Ada’s table and the Windsor chair, I have had the dresser since I was a child. The shelves of the dresser have different patterned crockery and silver pots on them which have come from different miniature stockists both in Australia and the United Kingdom and the worn Art Deco tea canister and bread box that match the canisters on the table. There are also tins of various foods which would have been household staples in the 1920s when canning and preservation revolutinised domestic cookery. Amongst other foods on the dresser are a box of Typhoo Tea, a box of Bisto Gravy, a jar of Marmite, a jar of Bovril and some Oxo stock cubes. All these items are 1:12 size artisan miniatures made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire, with great attention to detail paid to their labels and the shapes of their jars and cans.

 

In 1863, William Sumner published ‘A Popular Treatise on Tea’ as a by-product of the first trade missions to China from London. In 1870, William and his son John Sumner founded a pharmacy/grocery business in Birmingham. William's grandson, John Sumner Jr. (born in 1856), took over the running of the business in the 1900s. Following comments from his sister on the calming effects of tea fannings, in 1903, John Jr. decided to create a new tea that he could sell in his shop. He named in Typhoo Tea. The name Typhoo comes from the Chinese word for "doctor". Typhoo began making tea bags in 1967. In 1978, production was moved from Birmingham to Moreton on the Wirral peninsula of Cheshire. Typhoo Tea is still a household name in Britain to this day.

 

The first Bisto product, in 1908, was a meat-flavoured gravy powder, which rapidly became a bestseller in Britain. It was added to gravies to give a richer taste and aroma. Invented by Messrs Roberts and Patterson, it was named "Bisto" because it "Browns, Seasons and Thickens in One". Bisto Gravy is still a household name in Britain and Ireland today, and the brand is currently owned by Premier Foods.

 

Bovril is the trademarked name of a thick and salty meat extract paste similar to a yeast extract, developed in the 1870s by John Lawson Johnston. It is sold in a distinctive bulbous jar, and as cubes and granules. Bovril is owned and distributed by Unilever UK. Its appearance is similar to Marmite and Vegemite. Bovril can be made into a drink ("beef tea") by diluting with hot water or, less commonly, with milk. It can be used as a flavouring for soups, broth, stews or porridge, or as a spread, especially on toast in a similar fashion to Marmite and Vegemite

 

Marmite is a food spread made from yeast extract which although considered remarkably English, was in fact invented by German scientist Justus von Liebig although it was originally made in the United Kingdom. It is a by-product of beer brewing and is currently produced by British company Unilever. The product is notable as a vegan source of B vitamins, including supplemental vitamin B. Marmite is a sticky, dark brown paste with a distinctive, salty, powerful flavour. This distinctive taste is represented in the marketing slogan: "Love it or hate it." Such is its prominence in British popular culture that the product's name is often used as a metaphor for something that is an acquired taste or tends to polarise opinion.

 

Oxo is a brand of food products, including stock cubes, herbs and spices, dried gravy, and yeast extract. The original product was the beef stock cube, and the company now also markets chicken and other flavour cubes, including versions with Chinese and Indian spices. The cubes are broken up and used as flavouring in meals or gravy or dissolved into boiling water to produce a bouillon. Oxo produced their first cubes in 1910 and further increased Oxo's popularity.

 

The large kitchen range in the background is a 1:12 miniature replica of the coal fed Phoenix Kitchen Range. A mid-Victorian model, it has hinged opening doors, hanging bars above the stove and a little bass hot water tap (used in the days before plumbed hot water).

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 north across London, away from Cavendish Mews and Mayfair, past Primrose Hill, Chalk Farm and Belsize Park to the leafy green surrounds of Hampstead Heath*, for today it is Easter Monday, and every Easter Monday or Bank Holiday a fair** is held on the Heath. The beautiful green space in northern London has been transformed from its usual lush and quiet self and it is now alive with a throng of London’s citizenry: rich and poor, young and old, lower-class and middle-class all intermingling and enjoying themselves on fairground rides, laughing at free entertainments, having their fortunes told and eating delicious holiday treats.

 

Seated on a park bench in a relatively quiet part of the Heath, Edith sits in the dappled sunlight of Autumn beneath a Cypress pine. The weather has been remarkably warm for this time of year, and much to her delight, today is no exception. She sighs contentedly as she removes her purple rose and black feather hand decorated straw hat from her head and allows the sun to fall upon her glossy chestnut tresses, which she has washed and tried to style in a modish way with her long hair held in a loose chignon at the back of her neck, curling softly around her ears, giving the impression of a pageboy bob. Patting the loose bun at the back of her neck where she can feel a small amount of perspiration gathering, she ponders again whether she should have her girlish length cut off in favour of the cropped style that seems to have gripped so many young women around London. Then she pictures her mother’s disappointed and disapproving face and quickly puts the idea at the back of her mind. She listens to the distant screams and cries of joyful people riding the mechanical swinging gondolas, the Ferris wheel and the merry-go-round, and to the closer sounds of leaves crushed under foot and giggled intimacies as young couples find a private place in the bushes to kiss and embrace, away from the prying eyes of the throng.

 

“Here we are then, Edith,” comes the familiar voice of Willison’s the Grocer’s delivery boy and Edith’s new beau, Frank Leadbetter, resounding happily over the hubbub of human chatter, laughter and the distant trill of fairground music. “One serving of the best quality chips that Hampstead Heath has to offer!”

 

Opening her eyes, Edith looks up at her young man’s happy face smiling down at her, as he hands her a crumpled bundle of newspaper, already showing little greasy spots where the oil from the chips held within the parcel is seeping through.

 

“Oh, thanks Frank!” Edith replies gratefully, reaching up and taking her parcel eagerly from his outstretched hand.

 

Moving over on the bench to make room for him, Edith heart leaps a little in her chest as Frank slips in next to her, his thigh pressed in his Sunday best suit trousers pressed up against hers clad in her plum coloured frock. The newspaper crumples noisily as they both pull at the pages of yesterday’s London tabloids to reveal nests of golden yellow hot chips, sending forth aromatic steam that quickly permeates the air around them.

 

“We better eat these quick,” Frank says with a chuckle, a cheeky smile and a wink as he adjusts his straw boater with its natty striped grosgrain ribbon on his head. “Or else we’ll find ourselves with a hundred new friends we didn’t know we had.”

 

“You don’t have to tell me twice, Frank,” Edith replies happily. “I’m famished after all the rides we’ve been on.”

 

“Which was your favourite, Edith?” Frank asks, preparing to make a mental note of it as he bites into a crisp hot chip, gasping as the fluffy hot potato inside burns his tongue.

 

Edith doesn’t reply at first, chewing her first hot chip blissfully as she contemplates her answer. “The merry-go-round, I think.” she answers at length.

 

“What? Not the swinging gondola?”

 

“Oh no, Frank!” Edith puts her hand to her chest and quickly swallows her mouthful of hot chip. “They ride up so high! I think if I’d ever been on a boat in my life, I should be sick from it. I don’t know how my brother does it.”

 

“Big boats don’t ride up and down on the waves like that you know, Edith.”

 

“How’d you know that, Frank Leadbetter? Have you ever been on one before?”

 

“Well, no,” Frank admits awkwardly. “But I have been on a rowboat on the Crystal Palace boating lake.***” he adds hurriedly in an effort to defend himself. “And that didn’t ride the waves like the mechanical gondola did.”

 

“A rowboat’s not a big boat, Frank!” Edith scoffs with a gentle smile. “Not like the ones I’m talking about that my brother sails to Australia on. He says that for the most part they are pretty smooth, but that if they get caught in stormy weather the boat rolls about like toy boats do on a pond. They have the tables and chairs nailed down to the floor so they don’t fly about everywhere in bad weather.”

 

“Well, I guess he’d know better than me then.” Frank concedes. “What does your brother do on his big boat, Edith?”

 

“He’s a dining saloon steward.” Edith replies proudly before greedily eating another long golden hot chip. “He got promoted to first class dining steward two voyages ago. So, what with him being promoted and my Dad becoming a line manager at McVities, the Watsfords seem to be going up in the world.”

 

“You’ll be too fancy for the likes of me soon, Edith,” Frank laughs good naturedly.

 

“Oh get away with you, Frank Leadbetter!” Edith giggles, sticking him playfully in the ribs with her elbow.

 

The pair eat some more of their hot chips in the beautiful spring sunshine before Frank asks, “Would you ever want to go on one of those big boats, Edith?”

 

“Why would I, Frank?” She looks at him thoughtfully.

 

“Well, you know, go places.” he elucidates as he chews contemplatively on a few chips.

 

“Where would I go?”

 

“I don’t know, Paris maybe.”

 

“Why on earth would I go to Paris, Frank?” Edith asks, giving him a doubtful glance before eating another chip.

 

“Well, don’t all you girls want to go to Paris?”

 

Edith looks at Frank earnestly. “I don’t know about all girls, Frank, but this girl is perfectly happy keeping her feet firmly in England!” She nods emphatically. “No Paris for me, thank you very much.” She rubs her greasy fingers on the edge of her newspaper parcel. “There isn’t anything I can’t find or buy here that I should need to go to Paris to get.”

 

“Well, I’m glad to hear that Edith, because I don’t want to be anywhere but where you are.”

 

“Oh Frank!” Edith blushes, raising her hand to her flushed cheek. “I think that’s the nicest thing a chap’s ever said to me before.”

 

“Oh,” Frank utters disappointedly. “Had a few chaps vie for your affections before, have you?” Then he smiles broadly to show that he is only teasing her.

 

Sticking her chin upwards in an aloof way that is as equally teasing as Frank’s cheeky smile, the young girl replies, “A lady is entitled to her secrets. Don’t go fishing for what you shouldn’t be asking for, Frank Leadbetter!”

 

The pair fall into silence again as they continue to eat their hot chip feast. Through the trees they hear the distant smattering of far away applause as a free entertainment of some kind comes to an end. A bell rings out indicating that someone has hit the strongman’s bell and won a prize. A child screams unhappily, no doubt as a result of either a smack for being naughty or for being pulled away begrudgingly from the entertainments by their parents. Behind them, the leaves on the Cypress pine shiver and rustle in the sunlight and a muffled pair of giggles break out, indicating the presence of young lovers in the undergrowth. Frank glances awkwardly at Edith and finds her glancing at him equally uncomfortably, yet when they see one another’s looks and lock eyes, they start laughing.

 

“Where would you want to go, Frank?” Edith asks at length.

 

“You mean, aside from the bushes with you, Edith?” he laughs in reply.

 

“Oh, you are awful, Frank!” Edith snatches up her green leather handbag and hits his arm playfully with it, before returning it to where it hangs from the bench’s arm beneath the brim of her straw hat. “I’m being serious.”

 

“So was I.” Frank retorts, blushing.

 

Edith smirks. “You’ll just have to wait for that, won’t you Frank? You know I’m not that kind of girl. When you’ve got a ring on my finger, then we can…” She doesn’t complete her sentence, but nods knowingly to the slightly trembling bushes about them.

 

“Steady on Edith! We’ve only just started walking out together.”

 

“Well, don’t suggest anything else then Frank, if you aren’t prepared to wait.” Edith smiles. “No, I meant where would you like to travel? Do you want to go to Paris?”

 

“Not me, Edith. Paris isn’t my sort of place, I don’t think.”

 

“Well how do you know that, if you’ve never been there?”

 

“Well, I know it’s full of foreigners, and I don’t hold with foreigners****. No, a nice holiday to the Lake District will suit me just fine. I told you, the only place I want to be is with you.”

 

“Well that suits me just fine, Frank.” Edith replies as she picks up her black straw hat and puts it back on her head. Looking down in her lap she glances at the newspaper spread out across it, now devoid of any chips, with only crumbs of batter and traces of oil smearing the print. She looks at Frank’s lap and sees that he has also finished his chip feast. “Because now that we’ve eaten our chips, I’d like to go for a stroll to walk them off. Shall we?”

 

Frank leans over and takes the newspaper from her lap and screws it up with his own. Standing up and doffing his straw boater with one hand, he bows and offers his hand to Edith with a winning smile. “Shall we then, Miss Watsford?”

 

Taking his hand and rising up, she replies, “With pleasure Mr. Leadbetter.”

 

“Hhhmmm…” Frank ruminates aloud. “Edith Leadbetter. That has quite a nice ring to it.”

 

Edith smiles at the thought as she snuggles into Frank’s side.

 

And leaving the newspaper balled on the seat of the wooden bench, the pair walk away arm in arm as happily as two young lovers walking out together could be, meandering back towards the fun of the Easter Monday fair on Hampstead Heath.

 

*Hampstead Heath (locally known simply as the Heath) is a large, ancient London heath, covering 320 hectares (790 acres). This grassy public space sits astride a sandy ridge, one of the highest points in London, running from Hampstead to Highgate, which rests on a band of London Clay. The heath is rambling and hilly, embracing ponds, recent and ancient woodlands, a lido, playgrounds, and a training track, and it adjoins the former stately home of Kenwood House and its estate. The south-east part of the heath is Parliament Hill, from which the view over London is protected by law.

 

**Fairs have been held on Hampstead Heath since the mid 1800s, covering vast areas of East Heath to Spaniard’s Road. Before that, there had been fairs at Flask Walk in Hampstead since the 17th century, and another flourished in West End until it was shut down for rowdiness in 1820. The popularity of the fairs on the Heath exploded after 1871 when, just after the Hampstead Heath Act, the Bank Holidays Act created four public days’ rest. The Heath’s Bank Holiday fairs regularly attracted upward of 30,000 people at the August holiday, and 50,000 on Whit Mondays. Attendance records were broken when an estimated 200,000 people descended on the Heath one Easter Monday!

 

***Crystal Palace is an area in south London, named after the Crystal Palace Exhibition building, which stood in the area from 1854 until it was destroyed by fire in 1936. Approximately seven miles south-east of Charing Cross, it includes one of the highest points in London, at 367 feet, offering views over the capital. In the 1922 when this story is set, the Crystal Palace complex was used for exhibitions and entertainments and was still surrounded by a public park. Alongside the great wrought iron and glass structure was a large boating lake.

 

****The idea of being suspicious about foreigners was not an uncommon thing by people of all classes in England before the Second World War. Being the centre of the British Empire that ruled a quarter of the globe, the common ethos amongst the British people was that no-one was better than the English and foreigners with their different foods, ways of dress, customs and ideas were to be taught the British way and were viewed with suspicion and in some cases, hostility.

 

Although it may look life-sized to you, this idyllic scene is in fact comprised of pieces from my miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

Edith’s black dyed straw hat with purple roses and black feathers was made by an unknown artisan. 1:12 size miniature hats made to such exacting standards of quality and realism are often far more expensive than real hats are. When you think that it would sit comfortably on the tip of your index finger, yet it could cost in excess of $150.00 or £100.00, it is an extravagance. American artists seem to have the monopoly on this skill and some of the hats that I have seen or acquired over the years are remarkable. This hat is part of a larger collection I bought from an American miniature collector Marilyn Bickel. The green handbag, handmade from soft leather I also from her collection.

 

Made of polymer clay glazed to look oily and stuck to miniature newspaper print, the two servings of golden hot chips on the bench were made in England by hand by former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight. Her work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination.

 

The setting for this scene is my front garden, and the tree behind the bench is a slow growing miniature conifer. I am not sure what variety it is, but it is a Cypress pine.

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 is the 11th of November: Armistice Day*, and like so many of the citizenry of London, both Lettice and her maid, Edith, have addended the remembrance service at the Cenotaph** on Whitehall in Westminster. Only three years since the cessation of hostilities, the service caused an outpouring of grief amongst those who lost someone in the Great War. As the pair enter through the front door of Lettice’s flat together, Edith goes to walk through the service door back to the kitchen.

 

“Do you mind awfully, Edith,” Lettice asks quietly. “If we don’t stand on ceremony just at the moment?”

 

“Miss?” Edith queries, looking oddly at her mistress who looks a father forlorn figure standing in the vestibule in spite of her stylish black sheath coat with fur trim and elegant purple felt hat adorned with flowers.

 

Lettice looks up at Edith, her eyes red from having shed tears for the lost. “I know it isn’t conventional, but would you care to join me in the drawing room for a glass of sherry?” She smiles hopefully. “I could do with the company.”

 

“Of course, Miss,” Edith replies awkwardly, obviously uncomfortable at the idea of being treated as an equal by her mistress. “If that’s what you wish.”

 

Lettice leads the way into the drawing room. “Please sit.” She indicates, like the gracious society hostess she has been raised to be, to one of her white upholstered Art Deco tub chairs with a vague wave before walking into the adjoining dining room where she opens the black japanned cocktail cabinet and withdraws a faceted decanter of sherry and two small sherry glasses. Returning to the drawing room she places them on the low table between the two chairs and pours a little golden amber liquid first into Edith’s glass and then her own.

 

Edith perches nervously upon the edge of her seat, self-conscious about her second hand Petticoat Lane*** three quarter length coat and self-decorated black straw hat, which look smart when she is in her parent’s kitchen in Harlesden, but feel shabby to her amidst the refined elegance of Lettice’s Mayfair drawing room. As Lettice shrugs off her own coat and throws it carelessly onto the Chippendale chair by the china cabinet, Edith smooths her coat across her knees nervously.

 

“Please do feel free to take your hat off, Edith.” Lettice remarks as she unpins her own from her head and places it on the black japanned table next to the sherry decanter.

 

“Yes Miss.” Edith replies deferentially, withdrawing the long hat pin from her own hat, allowing her to remove it and place it upon the stool next to her.

 

Lettice takes up her glass and quietly sips her beverage before remarking, “It was so sad, wasn’t it Edith?”

 

“Well, it wasn’t that long ago that we were still at war with the Kaiser, Miss.” Edith gently picks up her glass and takes a very small sip.

 

“Yes, only three years.” Lettice muses. “Although in some ways I feel like the pre-war world was a lifetime ago. Don’t you Edith?”

 

“Me Miss?” Edith nearly chokes on her mouthful of sherry, surprised to be asked her opinion by her employer. She ponders the question for a moment before replying, “Not really Miss. Days like today make me feel like I’m still living in the shadow of the war.”

 

“But the world is moving on, and things are different. The world seems to move at a faster pace.”

 

“It certainly does, Miss.”

 

“And is perhaps more unsettled than its pre-war self was.” Lettice muses, licking her lips.

 

“The war shook down the order of things, Miss.”

 

“Yes,” Lettice agrees. “As women, we have more emancipation now than we did before the war. Even you, Edith, with your more conservative views of our place in the world, cannot complain about your new-found freedoms.”

 

Edith feels a blush fill her cheeks. “Well, I must confess, that’s true to a degree. My friend Hilda and I can go to the Palais de Danse**** without a chaperone now.”

 

“We proved that we’re not the weaker sex, taking men’s jobs and doing difficult work like nursing during the war.”

 

“Did you nurse during the war, Miss?”

 

“Yes. Part of Glynes***** was converted to a convalescent home for soldiers injured on the front, whilst we lived in the remainder.”

 

“Oh, you must have seen some terrible things, Miss.” Edith gasps.

 

“I suppose so.” Lettice says dismissively. Her face clouds for a moment as she contemplates the maimed men wheeled around the hallways and gardens of her childhood home over those few terrible years of the war, missing arms, legs, even part of their faces. Then she remembers the men who looked perfectly healthy and normal, but who screamed like banshees in the night or cowered beneath their beds like babies at the slamming of a door. Shellshock was what the Glynes village doctor and the matron from London had called it. She blinks the memories away quickly before she starts to cry. She takes another sip of her sherry and then smiles across at Edith. “I try not to think about it now.”

 

“These were a good idea.” Edith tugs at the bright red cotton poppy****** pinned to her lapel, a blue ribbon trailing from it upon which is written ‘British Legion Remembrance Day’. “I feel like I’m doing my bit for the veterans, widows and orphans of the war, even if it only cost a few pence.”

 

“Yes,” Lettice smiles at her maid. “Wasn’t that so poignant and moving?”

 

“The men and women queuing up to leave floral tributes at the Cenotaph, do you mean, Miss?”

 

“Yes.” Lettice replies wistfully. “The women especially. So many women.” Her voice trails off.

 

“So many people lost someone.” Edith says, falling silent for a moment as she sips some more of her sherry. “Did you lose anyone, Miss?”

 

“Me?” Lettice asks. “No. My eldest brother, Leslie, held a desk job here in Whitehall during the war, and my other brother, Lionel, was involved in strategic movements in France, or some such, which kept him well away from the front.” She puts her glass down on the coffee table. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if my father didn’t have something to do with that.”

 

“But you lost friends?”

 

“Oh yes Edith, so many friends. My mother is hosting her first Hunt Ball since before the war after Christmas, and I suspect she is finding it much more difficult to fill the room with eligible young men for me than she did when my elder sister had come out into society.” She studies her maid for a moment. “Did you?”

 

“Lose friends, Miss? Yes, ever so many.” She nods sagely.

 

“No. I mean, did you lose someone special?”

 

“Well my brother Bert served in the navy, but he came home alright,” Edith pauses and takes a larger sip of sherry in an effort to quell the emotions building within her chest. “But now you mention it Miss, yes, there was someone special I lost.”

 

“A beau?” Lettice asks. She quietly feels ashamed that she knows so little about her maid’s personal life. She knows she has parents who live in Harlesden, but this is the first that she has heard of a brother, and she never considered that Edith might have had a sweetheart at some stage in her life.

 

Edith drains her glass before placing it down with a slightly shaky hand on the table. “His name was Bert too.”

 

“Oh! I’m so sorry Edith!” Lettice gasps, her eyes widening. “I… I had no idea.”

 

“Oh, you weren’t to know, Miss.” Edith assures her employer as she blinks to keep her tears at bay. “My mum says I shouldn’t talk about him as there’s no point crying over the past. What’s done is done.” She sniffs. “Perhaps she’s right.”

 

“Do you have a photo of him?” Lettice asks, intrigued by her discovery about Edith’s past.

 

“Yes, I carried it with me today. I carry him wherever I go.” Edith reaches down and picks up her small green handbag off the floor and opens it. She fumbles through its contents, finally settling on what she is looking for. “This is Bert.”

 

Edith hands a slightly dog-eared sepia studio portrait of a rather handsome looking young man in a suit to Lettice. Carefully taking the photograph between her elegant fingers, Lettice stares down at the image before her. Although he is sitting stiffly and was possibly ill at ease dressed in his Sunday best when the photograph was taken, it cannot hide the kindness in his eyes, or the cheeky smirk that plays at the corners of his mouth. She suspects he might have been what Bramley, her father’s butler, would call “rather a lad”. His youthful face implies that he was no more than twenty when his likeness was taken. She chews the inside of her cheek as she tries to imagine what he must have sounded like.

 

“Bert was a postman. That’s how I met him.” Edith smiles sadly as she looks over at the photograph of Bert in Lettice’s hands. “He used to deliver mail in our street. We never had much post, but he’d find an excuse to stop if he saw me. This was before I had my first live-in post as a maid, so I was still at home.” She chuckles. “He even confessed to me that he used to come down our street even if he had no letters to deliver, just in the hope that he’d catch a glimpse of me and stop for a chat.”

 

“How old were you?” Lettice fills Edith’s glass again and then tops up her own.

 

Edith takes up her glass. “I was fourteen and he was eighteen. Mum said we were both too young to be tethering ourselves to one another, what with all our lives ahead of us, especially as Mum had started making enquiries about live-in posts for me after I’d cut my teeth skivvying for mean old Widow Hounslow for a year. His mum wasn’t too keen on him courting me either. She had expectations of Bert. She always felt that being employed in a steady job with the post office, he could make a successful career for himself, and could do better than a local girl with a dad who baked biscuits and a mum who laundered clothes. But we didn’t care. Bert fancied me, and I fancied him, and that was all that mattered to us.” She blinks back more tears, but cannot stop a few from spilling from her eyes and running down her cheeks. She opens her handbag again and withdraws a small white handkerchief, neatly embroidered with her initials in violet thread, and dabs her cheeks. “Then the war came, and Bert took the King’s shilling*******, like so many young men his age,” Edith sighs and sniffs again. “So that was that.”

 

Lettice pauses a moment, glass to her lips, before she asks, “How…er… how did…?”

 

“He died at the Battle of Passchendaele, Miss. He only had another year of the war to go, silly blighter. I always told him to keep his head down, but I suppose he was only following his captain’s orders. They all were.”

 

The pair of women fall silent, the air thick between them with unspoken words and unanswered questions.

 

“I read his name on the list of casualties posted up outside the post office,” Edith continues. “There’s irony for you.” She pauses and then looks directly into Lettice’s face. “His mother didn’t even have the courtesy to come and tell me herself. She disliked me so much, she let me read it on the high street where I broke down in tears and made a scene of myself in public, to my shame.”

 

“No, not to your shame, Edith!” Lettice assuages. “It’s only natural that you should cry over the loss of your sweetheart.”

 

“I just wish she’d told me. I would have cried in private at home. I could have maintained my dignity.” Edith blushes red with shame. “All those women and girls around me, looking piteously at me, whispering “she’s one… she’s lost someone” before turning away.”

 

“Didn’t any of them help you?”

 

“Mrs. Carraway, our neighbour two doors down, had just been at the fishmongers, having heard a roumour that there was some plaice to be had, and she saw me all distraught. She took me home to Mum.”

 

“Oh that’s awful, Edith.” Lettice reaches out her hand to her maid’s, but Edith withdraws it out of reach, uncomfortable with the familiarity and the sense of pity. Lettice pretends to have been reaching for her hat to cover her clumsy faux pas and toys distractedly with a lavender silk flower on its brim, tugging at the petals. “What a terrible thing to go through.”

 

Lettice pushes the photograph back across the table to Edith, who reaches down and picks it up. Without looking at it, she slips it back into her purse.

 

“Don’t you have a frame for that?” Lettice asks kindly. “It’s a shame to see the edges getting tattered.

 

“I wanted one, but like I said, Mum said there is no point carrying on about the past, so even though I wanted to, I never did.” She pats her handbag. “Still, it’s safe enough in here.”

 

Lettice nods and takes up her glass again.

 

“Now if you don’t mind, Miss,” Edith remarks, clearing her throat and sniffing once more. “I should really get on with my work.” She stands and picks up her hat, mustering her dignity. “I have lunch to prepare, and it won’t make itself.”

 

“Yes,” Lettice replies, looking up. “Yes of course. Well, thank you for sitting with me, Edith. And thank you for…”

 

Her sentence is cut short by Edith as she replies. “Oh, that’s quite alright, Miss. I hope you are feeling better.”

 

“I feel a little better now, Edith. I think I might just sit here and read for a little, recollect my thoughts, before luncheon.”

 

“Then I best be getting back to the kitchen, Miss.”

 

Lettice watches as Edith walks quickly around the tub chairs, following her with her eyes as she makes her way through the dining room and through the green baize door into the servery and the kitchen. She sighs as she sinks back into her chair, quite stunned by the revelations of her maid. The silence of the room is only broken by the gentle ticking of the clock on the mantle and the distant thrum of London traffic along Regent Street. And then she hears it: the quiet sobs of her poor maid, maintaining her dignity by crying for her lost love in private.

 

Lettice picks up her glass again and takes another sip. How lucky she considers herself to be to not have been engaged either before, or during the war, for it saved her so much heartache.

 

*Armistice Day or Remembrance Day is a memorial day observed in Commonwealth member states since the end of the First World War to honour armed forces members who have died in the line of duty. It falls on the 11th of November every year. Remembrance Day is marked at eleven o’clock (the time that the armistice was declared) with a minute’s silence to honour the fallen. Following a tradition inaugurated by King George V in 1919, the day is also marked by war remembrances in many non-Commonwealth countries.

 

**The Cenotaph is a war memorial on Whitehall in London. Its origin is in a temporary structure erected for a peace parade following the end of the First World War, and after an outpouring of national sentiment it was replaced in 1920 by a permanent structure designed by famous British architect Sir Edwin Lutyens (1969 – 1944) and designated the United Kingdom's official national war memorial.

 

***Petticoat Lane Market is a fashion and clothing market in Spitalfields, London. It consists of two adjacent street markets. Wentworth Street Market and Middlesex Street Market. Originally populated by Huguenots fleeing persecution in France, Spitalfields became a center for weaving, embroidery and dying. From 1882, a wave of Jewish immigrants fleeing persecution in eastern Europe settled in the area and Spitalfields then became the true heart of the clothing manufacturing district of London. 'The Lane' was always renowned for the 'patter' and showmanship of the market traders. It was also known for being a haven for the unsavoury characters of London’s underworld and was rife with prostitutes during the late Victorian era. Unpopular with the authorities, as it was largely unregulated and in some sense illegal, as recently as the 1930s, police cars and fire engines were driven down ‘The Lane’, with alarm bells ringing, to disrupt the market.

 

****The Hammersmith Palais de Danse, in its last years simply named Hammersmith Palais, was a dance hall and entertainment venue in Hammersmith, London, England that operated from 1919 until 2007. It was the first palais de danse to be built in Britain.

 

*****Glynes is the grand Georgian family seat of the Chetwynds in Wiltshire, and the home of Lettice’s parents, the presiding Viscount and Countess of Wrexham and the heir, their eldest son Leslie.

 

******The remembrance poppy is an artificial flower worn in some countries to commemorate their military personnel who died in war. Veterans' associations exchange poppies for charitable donations used to give financial, social and emotional support to members and veterans of the armed forces. Inspired by the war poem "In Flanders Fields", and promoted by Moina Michael, they were first used near the end of Great War to commemorate British Empire and United States military casualties of the war. French national Madame Guérin (1878 – 1961), known fondly as “The Poppy Lady from France”, established the first "Poppy Days" in 1921 to raise funds for veterans, widows, orphans, liberty bonds, and charities such as the Red Cross. Today, the remembrance poppy is mainly used in the United Kingdom and the Commonwealth, where it has been trademarked by veterans' associations for fundraising. In these countries, small remembrance poppies are often worn on clothing leading up to Remembrance Day/Armistice Day, and poppy wreaths are often laid at war memorials. In Australia and New Zealand, they are also worn on Anzac Day.

 

*******To take the King’s shilling means to enlist in the army. The saying derives from a shilling whose acceptance by a recruit from a recruiting officer constituted until 1879 a binding enlistment in the British army —used when the British monarch is a king.

 

This upper-class domestic scene is different to what you may think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

Lettice’s purple toque covered in silk flowers and lace, which sits on the coffee table is made by Miss Amelia’s Miniatures in the Canary Islands. It is an artisan miniature made just like a real hat, right down to a tag in the inside of the crown to show where the back of the hat is! 1:12 size miniature hats made to such exacting standards of quality and realism are often far more expensive than real hats are. When you think that it would sit comfortably on the tip of your index finger, yet it could cost in excess of $150.00 or £100.00, it is an extravagance. American artists seem to have the monopoly on this skill and some of the hats that I have seen or acquired over the years are remarkable. Miss Amelia is an exception to the rule coming from Spain, but like her American counterparts, her millinery creations are superb. Like a real fashion house, all her hats have names. This hat is called “Shona”. Edith’s black dyed straw hat with purple roses and black feathers was made by an unknown artisan. I acquired it as part of a larger collection I bought from an American miniature collector, Marilyn Bickel.

 

The photograph of Bert on the table was produced by Little Things of Interest Miniatures in America. It is a 1:12 miniature replica of a real photograph, printed on photographic quality paper and remarkably detailed for something so small.

 

The vase of red roses on the Art Deco occasional table are beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium. The vase on the mantlepiece was made by Limoges porcelain in 1950s. It is stamped with a small green Limoges mark to the bottom. I found it along with two others in an overcrowded cabinet at the Mill Markets in Geelong. The vase is filled with hand made pink roses produced by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. Beautifully Handmade Miniatures also produced the hand made green glass comport on the coffee table, which is made from genuinely hand blown glass.

 

Lettice’s drawing room is furnished with beautiful J.B.M. miniatures. The Art Deco tub chairs are of black japanned wood and have removable cushions, just like their life sized examples. To the left of the fireplace is a Hepplewhite drop-drawer bureau and chair of black japanned wood which has been hand painted with chinoiserie designs, even down the legs and inside the bureau. The chair set has a rattan seat, which has also been hand woven. To the right of the fireplace is a Chippendale cabinet which has also been decorated with chinoiserie designs. It also features very ornate metalwork hinges and locks.

 

On the top of the Hepplewhite bureau stand three real miniature photos in frames including an Edwardian silver frame, a Victorian brass frame and an Art Deco blue Bakelite and glass frame.

 

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

 

On the left hand side of the mantle is an Art Deco metal clock hand painted with wonderful detail by British miniature artisan Victoria Fasken.

 

In the middle of the mantle is a miniature artisan hand painted Art Deco statue on a “marble” plinth. Made by Warwick Miniatures in England, it is a 1:12 copy of the “Theban Dancer” sculpture created by Claire-Jeanne-Roberte Colinet in 1925.

 

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

Inle Lake

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

 

It is the day after Lettice’s exclusive buffet supper party for two of her Embassy Club coterie of bright young things who are getting married: Dickie Channon, eldest surviving son of the Marquess of Taunton, and Margot de Virre, only daughter of Lord Charles and Lady Lucie de Virre. The soirée in their honour was a glittering success and will go down as one of the events of the 1921 London Season according to the Tattler’s society pages correspondent who busily scribbled notes about all the great and good of the land who were present and what they were wearing, whilst a photographer from the London magazine captured the guests in all their glittering finery.

 

The day has been spent setting the Mayfair flat back to rights and Lettice’s maid, Edith, with the help of Mrs. Boothby, Lettice’s charwoman* and one of Mrs. Boothby’s friends, Jackie, have swept and polished, scrubbed and cleaned, whilst Gunter and Company’s** men have restored the furnishings to where they were before the drawing room was turned into a ballroom and the dining room into a buffet.

 

It's after midnight in the up-to-date modern kitchen and silence envelops the flat. Outside only the occasional drone of a taxi dropping late night revellers home, or the hiss of two fighting cats somewhere on the moonlight rooftops outside breaks the evening quiet. Edith has washed all the glasses, crockery and silverware from dinner and after such a busy day of work she should be tired and sleeping soundly like Lettice is, but instead she is still full of excitement from the previous evening as she sits at the deal kitchen table and thinks about all the beautiful people to whom she served drinks.

 

Her mistress looked beautiful in a powder blue silk georgette gown designed by her childhood friend Gerald Bruton who has his own dress shop in Grosvenor Street. Margot wore a stunning low waisted gown of silver satin. However, it was another guest at the party, Lady Diana Cooper *** who really caught Edith’s eye. With a neat, short chignon of waves and curls woven around a bandeau of diamonds, she wore a stunning blue gown of layer upon diaphanous layer of handkerchief point Lanvin blue silk taffeta which Edith knows from her mistress’ cast-off fashion magazines to be a ‘robe de style’**** with a full skirt supported by a wire hoop underneath the fabric. Pinned to the waist was a large pink satin rose with a slightly smaller one sewn to the right shoulder.

 

“Oh,” Edith sighs as she picks up a jam fancy biscuit from the Delftware plate in front of her and takes a bite. “How I should love to be reminded of that gown forever.”

 

As she munches on the biscuit and takes a sip of tea from her teacup, Edith suddenly has an idea. One of her pleasures in her spare time is to collect articles on the latest styles of clothes and hair from Lettice’s old magazines and paste them into scrapbooks. Her current scrapbook has a blank first page which she has kept for something special. Now she knows what that something special is.

 

Slipping quietly out into the drawing room of the flat, Edith fossicks carefully through the Chippendale gilded black japanned chinoiserie cabinet next to the fireplace and withdraws her mistress’ box of watercolours which she takes back to the kitchen. Going into her own little bedroom off the kitchen she withdraws a pack of coloured pencils from her chest of drawers and snatches up her scrapbook from its surface where it sits upright behind her sewing box, leaning against the floral papered wall. Returning to the kitchen she sets everything out on the table.

 

“Come on now girl,” Edith mutters encouragingly to herself as she takes up a grey lead pencil. “Let’s put that memory of yours to the test and see if we can’t get it out on paper.”

 

The pencil tip scratches across the paper as Edith’s hand moves deftly over the page. She starts to hum ‘After the Ball is Over’*****. Soon the figure of a woman emerges on the page with a short chignon dancing gaily with one arm out and another crossed over her chest. The room remains silent except for the tick of the clock, Edith’s soft humming and the sound of pencil against paper as the dress quickly takes form, with its cascades of layers billowing out over the model’s legs, the gown daringly showing her calves, just as Viscountess Norwich had when she danced with her handsome husband and other friends at the party.

 

“Not bad,” Edith says as she finishes her sketch. “Not bad at all. Now for some colour.”

 

She goes to the kitchen cupboard where she keeps the old Victorian jugs that Lettice uses for water when she is doing watercolour sketching and withdraws the smallest jug. Filling it with some water she goes back to her seat. She looks guiltily at her mistress’ watercolours resting atop the scrapbook.

 

“Well,” Edith reasons. “My schoolteachers all said I had artistic flair.” She sighs. “And if I were as lucky as Miss Lettice, I’d have had a tutor to teach me art, or maybe even have gone to the Slade School of Fine Art. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind me using her paints just this one time.”

 

She releases a sigh of pleasure as she mixes the vibrant robin’s egg blue shade of the gown and begins to paint her sketched figure. The colour lightens as she reaches the hem, matching the stockings on her model. Adding more colour to the pool of blue she then defines the shoes. Rinsing the brush in the jug she waits until the blue paint is dry before adding the rose madder of the silk rose on the shoulder and sleeve, and blonde hair to match her own shade to her figure. Making notes about Lettice’s party in the margins around the edge of her picture, Edith waits until the watercolour is dry. Taking up her colour pencils she adds detail, highlights of colour and shading to her sketch, totally oblivious of the time as the hands on the kitchen clock pass one o’clock, all the while humming happily away.

 

“There!” Edith remarks at last, satisfied with her creation. “Perhaps I could give Mr. Bruton a run for his money.” She chuckles to herself at the thought. “Now I shall have Lady Cooper’s gown forever.”

 

As she starts to pack up the watercolours, pencils, sketchbook and tea things she continues to hum ‘After the Ball is Over’, her body swaying to the tune as she imagines herself dancing at a party in the beautiful gown she had just created from memory on paper.

 

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

 

**Gunter and Company were London caterers and ball furnishers with shops in Berkley Square, Sloane Street, Lowndes Street and New Bond Street. They began as Gunter’s Tea Shop at 7 and 8 Berley Square 1757 where it remained until 1956 as the business grew and opened different premises. In the nineteenth and twentieth centuries Gunter's became a fashionable light eatery in Mayfair, notable for its ices and sorbets. Gunter's was considered to be the wedding cake makers du jour and in 1889, made the bride cake for the marriage of Queen Victoria’s granddaughter, Princess Louise of Wales. Even after the tea shop finally closed, the catering business carried on until the mid 1970s.

 

***Born Lady Diana Manners, Diana Olivia Winifred Maud Cooper, Viscountess Norwich was an English aristocrat who was a famously glamorous social figure in London and Paris. As a young woman, she moved in a celebrated group of intellectuals known as the Coterie, most of whom were killed in the First World War. She married Duff Cooper in 1919. In her prime, she had the widespread reputation as the most beautiful young woman in England, and appeared in countless profiles, photographs and articles in newspapers and magazines. She was a film actress in the early 1920s and both she and her husband were very good friends with Edward VIII and were guests of his on a 1936 yacht cruise of the Adriatic which famously caused his affair with Wallis Simpson to become public knowledge.

 

****The ‘robe de style’ was introduced by French couturier Jeanne Lanvin around 1915. It consisted of a basque bodice with a broad neckline and an oval bouffant skirt supported by built in wire hoops. Reminiscent of the Spanish infanta-style dresses of the Seventeenth Century and the panniered robe à la française of the Eighteenth Century they were made of fabric in a solid colour, particularly a deep shade of robin’s egg blue which became known as Lanvin blue, and were ornamented with concentrated bursts of embroidery, ribbons or ornamental silk flowers.

 

*****’After the Ball is Over’ was a popular 1891 song written by Charles K. Harris.

 

Believe it or not Edith’s sketch and her scrapbook as well as all the items around them are perhaps not quite as they appear, for all of them are 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures from my miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

Edith’s scrapbook is a 1:12 size miniature made by the British miniature artisan Ken Blythe. Most of the books I own that he has made may be opened to reveal authentic printed interiors. In some cases, you can even read the words, depending upon the size of the print! I have quite a large representation of Ken Blythe’s work in my collection, but so little of his real artistry is seen because the books that he specialised in making are usually closed, sitting on shelves or closed on desks and table surfaces. Therefore, it is a pleasure to give you a glimpse inside this wonderful scrapbook from the 1920s which contains sketches, photographs and article clippings. Even the paper has been given the appearance of wrinkling as happens when glue is applied to cheap pulp paper. To give you an idea of the work that has gone into this scrapbook, it contains twelve double sided pages of scrapbook articles, pictures, sketches and photographs and measures forty millimetres in height and thirty millimetres in width and is only three millimetres thick. What might amaze you even more is that all Ken Blythe’s opening books are authentically replicated 1:12 scale miniatures of real volumes. To create something so authentic to the original in such detail and so clearly, really does make this a miniature artisan piece. Ken Blythe’s work is highly sought after by miniaturists around the world today and command high prices at auction for such tiny pieces, particularly now that he is no longer alive. I was fortunate enough to acquire pieces from Ken Blythe prior to his death about four years ago. His legacy will live on with me and in my photography which I hope will please his daughter. I hope that you enjoy this peek at just one of hundreds of his books that I own, and that it makes you smile with its sheer whimsy!

 

The watercolour paint set, brushes, and Limoges style jugs (two of a set of three) come from Melody Jane Dolls’ House. So too do the pencils, which are one millimetre wide and two centimetres long.

 

The Huntley and Palmer’s Family Circle Biscuits tin containing a replica selection of biscuits is also a 1:12 artisan piece. Huntley and Palmers is a British firm of biscuit makers originally based in Reading, Berkshire. The company created one of the world’s first global brands and ran what was once the world’s largest biscuit factory. Over the years, the company was also known as J. Huntley and Son and Huntley and Palmer. Huntley and Palmer were renown for their ‘superior reading biscuits’ which they promoted in different varieties for different occasions, including at breakfast time. The design on the tin originates from the 1920s, but continued much later due to its popularity. The biscuits on the plate are 1:12 scale artisan pieces. The jam fancy is made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering, whilst the chocolate chip biscuit has been made in England by hand from clay by former chef turned miniature artisan, Frances Knight. Her work is incredibly detailed and realistic, and she says that she draws her inspiration from her years as a chef and her imagination.

 

The tea cosy, which fits snugly over a white porcelain teapot, has been hand knitted in fine lemon, blue and violet wool. It comes easily off and off and can be as easily put back on as a real tea cosy on a real teapot. It comes from a specialist miniatures stockist in England.

 

The Deftware cup, saucer and milk jug are part of a 1:12 size miniature porcelain dinner set which I acquired from a private collection of 1:12 miniatures in Holland.

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.

 

It's a quarter past eight and Lettice is still happy asleep in her bed, buried beneath a thick and soft counterpane of embroidered oriental satin brocade, whilst the rest of Mayfair is slowly awakening in the houses and flats around her. Her peaceful slumbers are rudely interrupted by a peremptory knock on her boudoir door.

 

“Morning Miss.” Edith, Lettice’s maid, says brightly as she pops her head around the white painted panelled door as she opens it.

 

Lettice grunts – a most unladylike reaction – as she starts to wake up, disorientated, wondering for just a moment where she is before realising that she is in her own bed in Cavendish Mews. Sitting up in bed she winces as Edith draws the curtains back along their railing, flooding the room with a light, which whilst anaemic, is still painful to her eyes as the adjust.

 

“It looks like it’s going to be a showery and overcast day today, Miss.” Edith says with seriousness as she looks out of the window onto the street below. “None too good for that charity event you are going to today.”

 

“Charity event?” Lettice queries, rubbing the sleep from her sore eyes and exhaling through her nose. “What,” She yawns, not bothering to stifle it and stretches her arms. “What charity event, Edith?”

 

“That theatrical one you are going to with Mr. Bruton in Regent’s Park, Miss.” Edith replies, walking across the floor of her mistress’ bedroom, snatching discarded lingerie and stockings from the floor as she goes as she opens the door to the adjoining bathroom.

 

“Oh that!” Lettice answers. “The Theatrical Garden Party isn’t until next week, Edith.”

 

“Oh, I thought it was today, Miss.” The maid lifts the upholstered lid on a wicker laundry basket just inside the bathroom door and deposits Lettice’s lacy undergarments and stockings into it. “I must have my weeks confused.” She emerges and goes to one of Lettice’s polished wardrobes where she withdraws a pale pink bed jacket trimmed in marabou feathers from its wooden hanger.

 

“No, the Actors’ Orphanage Garden Party* is definitely next week, Edith,” Lettice says aloud to assure herself as much as her maid as she allows Edith to drape the bed jacket around her shoulders. She sighs and looks out at the grey day that peeps through the window. “Thank goodness. We’d hate for it to be a wash-out. Last year drew such crowds.”

 

Edith goes back to the open bedroom door and disappears momentarily into the hallway before returning with Lettice’s breakfast tray.

 

Punching and fluffing her pillows behind her to her satisfaction, Lettice nestles into her nest as she sits up properly in bed and allows her maid to place the tray across her lap. She looks down approvingly at the slice of golden toast in the middle of the pretty floral plate, the egg in the matching egg cup and the pot of tea with steam rising from the spout. She goes to lift the lid of the silver preserve pot.

 

“Marmalade, Miss.” Edith elucidates.

 

“Very good, Edith.”

 

“You… err… finished the last of the Glynes plum and raspberry conserve yesterday, Miss.”

 

“Did I?” Lettice remarks, withdrawing her napkin from underneath the plate and draping it across her front. “Oh well, all good things must come to an end, mustn’t they, Edith?”

 

“I couldn’t say, Miss.” Edith replies, her mouth forming into a slim line on her face as she keeps quiet about what she considers to be an extravagant amount of jam that Lettice applies to her toast every morning. In her opinion her mistress may as well forgo the toast altogether and eat the jam directly from the pot with a spoon. “The marmalade is shop bought, Miss.”

 

“Is it? Oh well, never mind.” Lettice answers as she takes up a spoon and begins to dollop the rich gelatinous golden orange marmalade onto her slice of toast. “I’ll fetch some more conserve from Mater and Pater next time I’m back in Wiltshire.” She takes the knife and spreads the thick layer across the toast before cutting the slice in half with crunching strokes. “Any post yet, Edith?”

 

“Some tradesmen’s correspondence and a larger envelope without a return address on it, Miss.”

 

“That will be a begging letter,” Lettice points the knife at her maid, slicing the air with it. “Put them on my desk will you. I’ll see to them when I get up.”

 

“Yes Miss.” Edith bobs a curtsey and goes to withdraw, yet just as she is about to close the bedroom door she glances at something on the console table outside. “Oh, and there is this, Miss, which I should think you’ll want to see.”

 

Lettice looks down the length of the room to where Edith holds up a copy of Country Life** in the doorway. She gasps. “Oh hoorah! Bring it here this instant, Edith!” She holds out her arms, twiddling her fingers anxiously.

 

“Yes Miss.” Edith bobs a curtsey and brings the crisp magazine to her mistress’ bedside.

 

“What page is it on, Edith?” Lettice asks, grasping the folded pages from her maid and opening it before her, over the top of her breakfast tray.

 

“I couldn’t say, Miss.” Edith replies, her intonation reflecting the mild outrage she feels at being asked such a question. “As if I would go through your personal mail, Miss.” Even though she has done just as Lettice has suggested and found and skimmed the article on Lettice’s redecoration of ‘Chi an Treth’, there is no need for her to know.

 

“Oh of course you haven’t, Edith. I’m sorry” Lettice apologises, lowering the magazine and looking up at her maid with remorse in her blue eyes. “Forgive me?”

 

“Of course, Miss.”

 

“I’m so grateful to have a maid who doesn’t pry.”

 

“Yes Miss.” Edith answers with a smug smile. “Will that be all, Miss.”

 

“Yes, yes, Edith!” Lettice answers with a dismissive flip of her right hand as she lets go of half the copy of Country Life which drapes across her breakfast, narrowly avoiding being smeared with marmalade. “I should be finished in about a half hour and then you can clean up.”

 

“Very good, Miss.”

 

Once Edith has retreated and closed the door behind her, Lettice foists the breakfast tray from her lap onto the empty left half of the bed, the crockery and cutlery protesting noisily at being thrust so forcefully from her. Drawing her knees up, she rests the latest edition of Country Life on her thighs and turns to the contents page, scanning the list of articles and editorials. “Aha!” she gasps triumphantly upon finding it.

 

Flipping through the pages past other houses of note quicky, the paper rustles beneath her fingers until she reaches the editorial she wants. Taking a deep breath she begins to read quietly aloud to herself, “Country homes and gardens old and new. ‘Chi an Treth’, Cornwall, the seat of Mr. R. Channon.” She skims the first section of the editorial which explains how Dickie and Margot were gifted their country house, but pauses at the first two photographs beneath it. She smiles with satisfaction at the first one which shows the top of the demi-lune table that she painted by hand and then worried wasn’t going to meet Margot’s approval. The image beside it shows the stylish mirror topped Art Deco console table she installed beneath the portrait of the beautiful and tragic Miss Rosevear, flanked by two statues she acquired from Mr. Chilvers at the Portland Gallery. “A perfect balance of old and new.” she reads aloud from the caption below the photograph before allowing herself to release the pent-up breath she has been holding in her chest. Those few words consisting of twenty-six characters is enough to tell her that anything else she reads in Henry Tipping’s*** article will be sure to be favourable about her interior designs for the Channon’s Regency country house.

 

Looking across the gutter between the left-hand page and the right she reads, “in the capable hands of Miss Lettice Chetwynd, who has applied her tasteful Modern Classical Revival style.”

 

Lettice’s eyes stray to the large photograph of Dickie and Margot’s redecorated drawing room. She chuckles to herself, the action causing the corners of her mouth to curl up in a smile as she remembers her conversation with Margot in the week following the Country Life photo shoot at ‘Chi an Treth’. Margot complained bitterly about having to tidy the place up for Mr. Tipping and his crew, even though it was her housekeeper, Mrs. Trevethan, who really did the tidying up. Margot moaned about having to hide her novels like skeletons in the closet, and how Mr. Tipping tinkered around the rooms, moving small things like clocks and photos, whilst removing others for what he called photographic effect. Margot said that when it came to shifting Dickie’s pile of newspapers from the pouffe by the fireplace, his friendship with Mr. Tipping nearly came to an end. Gifted with a sense of drama, Lettice knew that Margot was over exaggerating this point, but she could imagine that having a photography crew traipsing through your newly decorated rooms would be somewhat of an inconvenience and more than a little irritating. Margot did however concede that the Country Life crew brought a magnificent array of flowers which they filled every conceivable space with when photographing, and then left behind for her pleasure upon their decampment.

 

“Miss Chetwynd’s treatment of the drawing room exemplifies a comfortable mixture of old and new furnishings to create a welcoming and contemporary room that is sympathetic to the original features.” Lettice reads. Dropping the pages onto her thighs, she smiles with unbridled delight at the complimentary way with which Mr. Tipping describes her interiors.

 

“Wait until Mater reads this,” she thinks smugly, remembering her request of the Country Life office to supply an advanced copy of the magazine to her parent’s home as well as her own once it was published. “Now she will have to take my interior decorating business seriously.”

 

As if on cue, the black and silver Bakelite telephone by her bedside begins to trill noisily. She looks at it, her eyes alive with excitement. Usually, it is Edith’s job to answer the telephone, one of her most hated duties in her position as Lettice’s maid. Lettice is amused by her hatred of ‘that infernal contraption’. However, today after reading what she has in the Country Life article about ‘Chi an Treth’ she feels magnanimous and picks up the receiver on the third shrill ring.

 

“Mayfair 432,” she answers with a happy lilt in her voice. A distant deep male voice speaks down the line. “Pappa! What an unexpected pleasure at this time of the morning. I would have thought you’d be out on estate business with Leslie at this time.” She smiles to herself and bites the inside of her lower lip in excitement and anticipation. “I do hope nothing is wrong, Pappa.” she adds cheekily. She listens. “Oh really? Did she? Whatever was the matter for Mamma to call you to her boudoir like that?” She listens again, her eyes crinkling at the corners in sheer delight as she listens, luxuriating in her moment of triumph. “Oh that!” She laughs feigning nonchalance as she curls the spiral cord of the telephone receiver around her left index finger. “You know Pappa, with all the excitement of preparing for Elizabeth’s**** up and coming wedding to the Duke of York and decorating Charles and Minnie Palmerston’s dining room, you know I had quite forgotten all about it.” She listens again. “Yes, yes, I had. I mean, it was so long ago when I decorated Dickie and Margot’s. You and Mamma did approve of me doing it considering that Dickie is the Marquess of Taunton’s son, didn’t you?” she asks teasingly. Her father’s voice, disembodied somewhere between London and Wiltshire booms bombastically down the line. “Well yes I can, Pappa. I’ll have to check my diary, but I think I could arrange to come down to Glynes at short notice,” She pauses. “Only that suits you, of course.” She listens again. “Yes, yes very well. I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve booked a ticket which train I’ll be on.” There is more male burbling along the line. “Alright. Goodbye Pappa. I’ll see you soon.” She hangs up the phone.

 

There is a quiet knock at the bedroom door.

 

“Is everything alright, Miss?” Edith opens it and pops her head around.

 

“So much for a maid who doesn’t pry.” Lettice says with arched eyebrows, making Edith blush at the remark. “Yes, everything is fine, but,” She throws the comforter back and swivels herself around on the mattress, revealing her white lace brassier beneath her open bed jacket and her silk crepe de chine step ins as she stretches her legs out of the bed. “There has been a change of plans. I shall have to forego breakfast this morning. I need you to pack me an overnight valise, Edith. I’m off to Glynes for an evening stay. I just need to ring the Victoria Station booking office and arrange a ticket.”

 

“To Glynes, Miss!” Edith gasps. “Whatever for?”

 

Holding up the copy of Country Life, Lettice says, still with arched eyebrows, and a knowing, but not unfriendly smile. “I think you know only too well, Edith.”

 

*The Actors' Orphanage was started in 1896 and established as the Actors' Orphanage Fund in 1912. The fund continues but the orphanage closed in 1958. The charity was started in 1896 by "Kittie" Carson and Mrs Clement Scott. The first building was in Croydon. It was established as the Actors' Orphanage Fund in 1912. In 1915 the Orphanage moved to Langley Hall at Langley (was in Buckinghamshire - now in Berkshire). The orphanage was both a home and a school to approximately sixty children. At ages fifteen to seventeen pupils sat the School Leaving Certificate of Cambridge University and if ten subjects were taken, to Matriculation. Over the years many from the theatrical profession gave time and money to the running of the Orphanage. They also threw large garden parties in Regents Park with rides and entertainment from famous people in the theatrical profession to help raise funds. These events were highly patronised, drawing the biggest crowds between 1920 and 1925. Past presidents of the Orphanage included Sir Gerald du Maurier, Noël Coward, Laurence Olivier and Richard Attenborough.

 

**Country Life is a British weekly perfect-bound glossy magazine that is a quintessential English magazine founded in 1897, providing readers with a weekly dose of architecture, gardens and interiors. It was based in London at 110 Southwark Street until March 2016, when it became based in Farnborough, Hampshire. The frontispiece of each issue usually features a portrait photograph of a young woman of society, or, on occasion, a man of society.

 

***Henry Tipping (1855 – 1933) was a French-born British writer on country houses and gardens, garden designer in his own right, and Architectural Editor of the British periodical Country Life for seventeen years between 1907 and 1910 and 1916 and 1933. After his appointment to that position in 1907, he became recognised as one of the leading authorities on the history, architecture, furnishings and gardens of country houses in Britain. In 1927, he became a member of the first committee of the Gardens of England and Wales Scheme, later known as the National Gardens Scheme.

 

****Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon, as she was known at the beginning of 1923 when this story is set, went on to become Queen of the United Kingdom and the Dominions from 1936 to 1952 as the wife of King George VI. Whilst still Duke of York, Prince Albert initially proposed to Elizabeth in 1921, but she turned him down, being "afraid never, never again to be free to think, speak and act as I feel I really ought to". He proposed again in 1922 after Elizabeth was part of his sister, Mary the Princess Royal’s, wedding party, but she refused him again. On Saturday, January 13th, 1923, Prince Albert went for a walk with Elizabeth at the Bowes-Lyon home at St Paul’s, Walden Bury and proposed for a third and final time. This time she said yes. The wedding took place on April 26, 1923 at Westminster Abbey.

 

This editorial from the pages of country life complete with photographs may look real to you, but if you look carefully at the elegantly appointed drawing room with its modish Art Deco furnishings you will find that they are made up with pieces from my 1:12 miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in the photographs in this article include:

 

On the coffee table sits a rounded bowl made from hand spun glass, which has been made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The ornamental glass bon-bon dish and other glass vases are also made from hand spun glass and were made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures, as are all the roses in the photographs.

 

The Statue of the nude Art Nouveau woman on the right-hand pedestal to the right at the back is based on a real statue and is made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. It has been hand painted by me.

 

The glass topped demilune table in the background is a hand made miniature artisan piece, which sadly is unsigned. On its surface, made of real glass are decanters of whiskey and port and a cranberry glass soda syphon made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering in England. The silver Regency tea caddy is made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland.

 

The wedding photo in the silver frame on the mantlepiece and the photos in frames on the demilune table behind the armchair are real photos, produced to high standards in 1:12 size on photographic paper by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The frame comes from Melody Jane’s Doll House Suppliers.

 

The Georgian style demilune table behind and to the right of the armchair is an artisan miniature from Lady Mile Miniatures in the United Kingdom. Painted white and then aged, it has been hand painted with a Georgian style design on its surface.

 

The copy of Country Life on the pouffe was made by me.

 

The eau-de-nil suite consisting of armchairs, sofa and pouffe are all made of excellent quality fabric, and are very well made, as is the coffee table with its small drawer beneath the tabletop. All these pieces were made as a set by high-end miniatures manufacturer Jiayi Miniatures.

 

The Regency gilt swan pedestals and round tables are made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq.

 

The fireplace is made of plaster, and comes from Kathleen Knight’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

The stylised Art Deco fire screen is made using thinly laser cut wood, made by Pat’s Miniatures in England.

 

The paintings around the ‘Chi an Treth’ drawing room in their gilded frames are 1:12 artisan pieces made by V.H. Miniatures and Marie Makes Miniatures in the United Kingdom and geometric Art Deco wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, which inspired the whole “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series. The Geometrically patterned Art Deco carpet on the floor comes from a miniatures specialist store on E-Bay.

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 slightly north of Cavendish Mews to London’s busy shopping precinct along Oxford Street, where ladies flock to window shop, browse department stores and shops and to take tea with their friends. With the Christmas rush of 1921 behind them, the large plate glass windows have been stripped of their tinsel garlands and metallic cardboard stars, and displays are turning to the new fashions and must have possessions of 1922. Oxford Street is still busy with shoppers as Lettice walks up it dressed in a smart navy blue coat of velvet with a lustrous mink fur trim and matching hat, and the road congested with London’s signature red buses, taxis and private traffic. Yet neither the road nor the footpath are as crowded as they were when she found Edith, her maid’s, Christmas gift in Boots the Chemist, and for that she is grateful. Her louis heels click along the concrete footpath as she takes purposeful and measured footsteps towards her destination, the salon of her milliner Madame Gwendolyn which is situated above all the hubbub of shoppers and London office workers on the first floor of a tall and ornate Victorian building.

 

Lettice breathes a sigh of relief as she walks through the wood and plate glass door of the salon, simply marked with the name Gwendolyn in elegant gilt copperplate lettering, leaving behind the chug of belching double deckers, the toot of horns, the rumble of motorcar engines and the droning buzz of female chatter. The faint fragrance of a mixture of expensive scents from Madame Gewndolyn’s other clientele envelops her, dismissing the soot and fumes of the world outside as the quiet sinks in. Lettice always feels calmer in Madame’s salon, tastefully decked out in an Edwardian version of Regency with finely striped papers and upholstery.

 

“Good afternoon Miss Chetwynd,” the female receptionist greets Lettice politely in well enunciated tones, rising from her desk, showing off her smart outfit of a crisp white shirtwaister* with goffered lace detailing and a navy skirt. “Your timing, as ever, is perfect.” She smiles as she walks over and without asking, takes the coat from Lettice’s shirking shoulders.

 

“Thank you Roslyn,” Lettice acknowledges her assistance. As she goes to take Lettice’s white lace parasol, Lettice stops the young receptionist. “No thank you. I need this for my consultation.”

 

If taken aback by Lettice’s unusual refusal to relinquish her parasol, Roslyn doesn’t show it as she simply smiles politely and says, “Madame is expecting you. Please do come through.”

 

The two women walk across the polished floor of the foyer covered in expensive rugs that their feet sink into, until they stop before an inner set of double doors. Roslyn’s polite rap is greeted by a commanding “come” from the other side.

 

“Miss Chetwynd, Madame,” Roslyn announces as she opens the door inwards, leading Lettice into a salon, similarly furbished as the foyer which is filled with an array of beautiful hats elegantly on display.

 

“Ah, Miss Chetwynd,” Madame Gwendolyn says in the same clearly enunciated syllables as her receptionist, with a broad smile on her lips. “How do you do.”

 

“How do you do, Madame.” she replies as Roslyn retreats the way she came, closing the doors silently behind her.

 

Madame Gwendolyn smile broadens as she notices Lettice’s blue velvet toque with the mink trim which she made to match the coat now hanging in the wardrobe behind Roslyn’s desk in the foyer. Then it fades as her eye falls upon Lettice’s parasol in her client’s left hand. “Oh Miss Chetwynd, I’m so sorry Roslyn didn’t,” and she reaches out to take it from her hand.

 

“Oh no! No Madame,” Lettice assures the middle-aged milliner. “Roslyn went to take it from me, but I said no. We will need it for our appointment you see.”

 

“Oh,” Madame Gwendolyn’s expertly plucked and shaped brow arches ever so slightly. “Very well. Won’t you please take a seat, Miss Chetwynd.” She indicates to two Edwardian Arts and Crafts chairs carefully reupholstered in cream Regency stripe fabric to match the wallpaper hanging in the salon.

 

Lettice selects the one to her right and hangs the parasol over its arm before gracefully lowering herself into the seat and placing her snakeskin handbag at her side. As she does so, Roslyn slips back into the room bearing a tray on which sits tea making implements for one, which she carefully places on the small table next to a few recent fashion magazines, easily in Lettice’s range.

 

Once Roslyn obsequiously retreats again, Madame Gwendolyn says, “Now, I believe you may have come about a new hat for The Princess Royal’s wedding*. Is that so, Miss Chetwynd?”

 

“You are well informed, Madame.” Lettice replies, glancing down at her knee as she speaks.

 

Madame Gwendolyn smiles again, taking up a leatherbound notebook. “How delightful for you to be in attendance.”

 

“Well, we are well acquainted, Madame,” Lettice answers dismissively.

 

“Of course! Of course.” the older woman replies, her back stiffening as she raises her pale and elegant hands in defence. “Now, might I enquire as to who will be making your frock for the occasion?”

 

“Yes. Mr. Gerald Bruton of Grosvenor Street.”

 

“Ah. Excellent! Excellent.” Madame replies like a toady as she jots Gerald’s name in her book. “And the fabrics, Miss Chetwynd?”

 

“Oyster satin with pearl buttons and a guipure lace** Peter Pan collar***.”

 

“Excellent! Excellent!” Madame Gwendolyn repeats again, noting the details down. “White gloves, or grey?”

 

“Grey.”

 

The woman closes her notebook firmly, leaving it in her lap. “Well, I’m quite sure we can make something most suitable for the royal occasion to match your ensemble.”

 

The milliner rises and puts her notebook aside. Whilst she looks about her salon for possibilities, Lettice pours herself tea from the delicate hydrangea patterned pot on the table.

 

“Now, I could easily create something similar to this, in a soft grey, Miss Chetwynd.” Madame Gwendolyn returns with a beautiful picture hat of pale pink covered in a carefully crafted whorl of ostrich feathers.

 

“Hhhmmm…” Lettice considers.

 

“Or, this could easily be adapted to match your outfit, Miss Chetwynd,” she indicates to a more cloche shaped hat of white and black dyed straw with black ribboning. “By replacing the ribbon with a grey one. I also have some delightful pearl appliques that would add a beautiful touch of royal elegance to it.”

 

“Perhaps,” Lettice replies noncommittally with her head slightly cocked.

 

As she watches Madame Gwendolyn scurry across the salon and fetch a peach coloured wide brimmed hat with a band of silk flowers about the brim with an aigrette of cream lace, her thoughts drift back to the day the previous June when she and her dear Embassy Club coterie friend Margot were walking down Oxford Street, not too far from where she sits now. They had been discussing the Islington Studios**** moving picture starlet Wanetta Ward, whom Lettice had agreed to take on as a new customer, as well as Margot’s wedding plans. Ascot Week***** was fast approaching and Selfridges had a window display featuring four rather stylish hats, every bit as comparable in quality to those being shown to her by the toadying milliner before her at a fraction of the cost. Margot had laughed at Lettice when she had suggested that perhaps she should have worn a Selfridges hat to Royal Ascot, rather than the creation Madame Gwendolyn made her. Yet her hat from Madame Gwendolyn at twelve guineas was far from a roaring success in the fashion stakes. In fact, she had heard a fashion correspondent from the Tattler whispering a little too loudly that it might even have been a little old fashioned: a touch pre-war.

 

“Miss Chetwynd? Miss Chetwynd?” Madame Gwendolyn’s somewhat urgent calls press into her consciousness, breaking Lettice’s train of thought.

 

Lettice looks up into the face of the milliner with her upswept hairdo a mixture of pre-war Edwardian style mixed with modern Marcelling******. The woman is holding up a cream straw cloche decorated with pink silk flowers and an aigrette of ostrich plumes curled in on themselves.

 

“I think this one is most becoming. Don’t you think so, Miss Chetwynd? It would frame your face and hair so well. And, for you, because it is only the reworking of the decoration,” the older woman adds with a sly smile. “A bargain if I may say so, at only nine guineas.” She smiles in an oily way as she presses the hat closer to Lettice. “What do you think, Miss Chetwynd?”

 

Lettice looks blankly at Madame Gwendolyn for a moment before replying. “What I think, Madame, is I should like to give your suggestions some consideration.”

 

The milliner’s face drops, as do her arms as she lowers the hat until it hangs loosely in front of her knees in her defeated hands. “I… I don’t understand, Miss Chetwynd.” she manages to say in startled disbelief.

 

“Oh,” Lettice replies. “Haven’t I made myself clear, Madame? I’m not entirely convinced about any of the hats you have shown me. I don’t know if any of them will match my costume and parasol. I think they all look a little…”

 

“A little?” the older woman prompts.

 

“A little old fashioned. A little pre-war was how your hat for me for Royal Ascot last year was described. I want to look my very best. After all, this is a royal wedding.” She takes a final sip of her tea and then stands, picking up her purse and parasol. “So, I should like to consider my choices before deciding whether to accept one or not.”

 

As Lettice starts to walk across the salon floor, Madame Gwendolyn stutters, “Per… perhaps Miss Chetwynd… Perhaps you’d care to suggest your own ideas. I’m very open to a client’s ide…”

 

Lettice stops and turns abruptly to the milliner, cutting her sentence off. “Madame,” she says, a definite haughtiness growing in her gait, causing her shoulders to edge back almost imperceptibly and for her neck to arch. “If I had wanted to design my own hat, I would have made it myself, rather than come to you and pay you handsomely for it.”

 

“Oh, of course not Miss Chetwynd. How very careless of me to even suggest…. Such… such a gaffe! Please forgive me.”

 

“Really Madame, there is no need to apologise like some spineless, obsequious servant. I’d simply like time to consider what you’ve shown me, versus say, what Harry Selfridge has to offer.”

 

“Mr. Selfridge?” Madame Gwendolyn ponders, her eyes widening in surprise.

 

“Yes. He has a wonderful array of hats, many Paris models in the latest styles, in his millinery department, perhaps more suited to the more modern woman of today than the,” Lettice glances back at the hats on display in the salon. “The society matron. You really should take a look, Madame. You might see where the future of hats sits.”

 

Lettice pulls open the doors of the salon and walks purposefully out into the foyer, where Roslyn is busily scanning a copy of Elite Styles, cutting out images of hats with a pair of scissors behind her desk. She quickly gets up when she sees Lettice and her employer come out.

 

“Leaving so soon, Miss Chetwynd?” she asks, and without having to wait for an answer, turns to the white painted built in wardrobe behind her, opens it and withdraws Lettice’s coat.

 

As Lettice steps back into Oxford Street and is enveloped by its discordant cacophony of noise and potpourri of smells, she sighs and walks back the way she came with the measured steps of a viscount’s daughter. As she reaches the full length plate glass windows of Selfridge’s department store, she pauses when she sees two young women around her age, both obviously typists, secretaries or some other kind of office workers, scuttle up to the windows. Dressed in smart black coats and matching small brimmed straw hats with Marcelled hair in fashionable bobs, they look the epitome of the new and independent woman. They laugh lightly and point excitedly at things they see displayed in the department store window. Then, they agree and both scurry away and through the revolving doors of Selfridges.

 

“Why should I have my hats made at Madame Gwendolyn’s, just because Mamma does?” she asks no-one in particular, her quiet utterance smothered and swept away into the noisy hubbub around her.

 

She walks to the window, only to discover that it is full of hats, advertised as newly in from Paris.

 

“Oh, why not, then?” Lettice says, straightening her shoulders with conviction.

 

She follows the two office girls and steps through the revolving doors of Selfridges department store.

 

Contrary to popular belief, fashion at the beginning of the Roaring 20s did not feature the iconic cloche hat as a commonly worn head covering. Although invented by French milliner Caroline Reboux in 1908, the cloche hat did not start to gain popularity until 1922, so in early 1922 when this story is set, picture hats, a hangover from the pre-war years, were still de rigueur in fashionable society. Although nowhere near as wide, heavy, voluminous or as ornate as the hats worn by women between the turn of the Twentieth Century and the Great War, the picture hats of the 1920s were still wide brimmed, although they were generally made of straw or some lightweight fabric and were decorated with a more restrained touch. For somewhere as socially important as Princess Mary’s 1922 wedding, a matching hat, parasol, handbag or reticule and gloves to go with a lady’s chosen frock were essential.

 

*Mary, Princess Royal and Countess of Harewood (1897 – 1965), was the only daughter of King George V and Queen Mary. She was the sister of Kings Edward VIII and George VI, and aunt of Queen Elizabeth II. She married Viscount Lascelles on the 28th of February 1922 in a ceremony held at Westminster Abbey. The bride was only 24 years old, whilst the groom was 39. There is much conjecture that the marriage was an unhappy one, but their children dispute this and say it was a very happy marriage based upon mutual respect. The wedding was filmed by Pathé News and was the first royal wedding to be featured in fashion magazines, including Vogue.

 

**Guipure lace is a delicate fabric made by twisting and braiding the threads to craft incredible designs that wows the eye. Guipure lace fabrics distinguish themselves from other types of lace by connecting the designs using bars or subtle plaits instead of setting them on a net.

 

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

 

****Islington Studios, often known as Gainsborough Studios, were a British film studio located on the south bank of the Regent's Canal, in Poole Street, Hoxton in Shoreditch, London which began operation in 1919. By 1920 they had a two stage studio. It is here that Alfred Hitchcock made his entrée into films.

 

*****Royal Ascot Week is the major social calendar event held in June every year at Ascot Racecourse in Berkshire. It was founded in 1711 by Queen Anne and is attended every year by the reigning British monarch and members of the Royal Family. The event is grand and showy, with men in grey morning dress and silk toppers and ladies in their best summer frocks and most elaborate hats.

 

******Marcelling is a hair styling technique in which hot curling tongs are used to induce a curl into the hair. Its appearance was similar to that of a finger wave but it is created using a different method. Marcelled hair was a popular style for women's hair in the 1920s, often in conjunction with a bob cut. For those women who had longer hair, it was common to tie the hair at the nape of the neck and pin it above the ear with a stylish hair pin or flower. One famous wearer was American entertainer, Josephine Baker.

 

This enclave of luxurious millinary may appear real to you, however it is fashioned entirely of 1:12 miniatures from my collection. Some of the items in this tableau are amongst the very first pieces I ever received as a young child.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The cream straw hat second from the left with pink roses has single stands of ostrich feathers adorning it that have been hand curled. The yellow straw hat on the far right of the photo is decorated with ornamental flowers and organza. The maker for these is unknown, but they are part of a larger collection I bought from an American miniature collector Marilyn Bickel. The peach coloured hat with the flowers around the brim and the net aigrette second from the right, and the pink feather covered hat on the far left of the picture came from a seller on E-Bay. The black straw hat with the yellow trim and rose reflected in the mirror and the white straw hait with the black trim in the foreground were made by Mrs. Denton of Muffin Lodge in the United Kingdom. 1:12 size miniature hats made to such exacting standards of quality and realism are often far more expensive than real hats are. When you think that it would sit comfortably on the tip of your index finger, yet it could cost in excess of $150.00 or £100.00, it is an extravagance. American artists seem to have the monopoly on this skill and some of the hats that I have seen or acquired over the years are remarkable.

 

The wooden hat blocks on which the hats are displayed also came from American miniature collector Marilyn Bickel.

 

The dressing table set, consisting of tray, mirror and two brushes were made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, but were hand painted with wonderful detail by British miniature artisan Victoria Fasken, sold through Kathleen Knight’s Dollhouse Shop in England.

 

Lettice’s snakeskin handbag with its gold clasp and chain comes from Doreen Jeffries’ Small Wonders Miniature Shop in the United Kingdom. Lettice’s umbrella is a 1:12 artisan piece made of white satin and lace with a tiny cream bow. It has a hooked metal handle.

 

The Elite Styles magazine from 1922 sitting on the table was made by hand by Petite Gite Miniatures in the United States.

 

The blue hydrangea tea set came from a miniatures stockist on E-Bay.

 

The two Edwardian fashion plates hanging on the wall come from Melody Jane’s Doll House Suppliers in England.

 

The vintage mirror with its hand carved wooden frame was acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dollhouse Shop in England.

 

The two chairs, the tea table and the stands upon which two of the hats are displayed are all made by the high-end miniature furniture manufacturer, Bespaq.

 

The Regency sideboard I have had since I was around six or seven, having been given it as either a birthday or Christmas gift.

 

The cream Georgian pattern carpet on the floor comes from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in England. The Regency stripe 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.

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.

 

Two of Lettice’s Embassy Club coterie of bright young things are getting married: Dickie Channon, eldest surviving son of the Marquess of Taunton, and Margot de Virre, only daughter of Lord Charles and Lady Lucie de Virre. Lettice is hosting an exclusive buffet supper party in their honour this evening, which is turning out to be one of the events of the 1921 London Season. Over the last few days, Lettice’s flat has been in upheaval as Edith, Lettice’s maid, and Lettice’s charwoman* Mrs. Boothby have been cleaning the flat thoroughly in preparation for the occasion. Earlier today with the help of a few hired men they moved some of the furnishings in Lettice’s drawing room into the spare bedroom to make space for a hired dance band and for the guests to dance and mingle. Edith’s preserve of the kitchen has been overrun by delivery men, florists and caterers. Throughout all of this upheaval, Lettice has fled to Margot’s parents’ house in Hans Crescent in nearby Belgravia, only returning just as a red and white striped marquee is erected by Gunter and Company** over the entrance and the pavement outside.

 

Now we find ourselves in Lettice’s dressing room where she and Margot sit at Lettice’s Regency dressing table making last minute adjustments and choices to their eveningwear. The surface of the dressing table is littered with jewellery and perfume bottles as the two excited girls chat, whilst Margot’s fiancée, Dickie, whips up the latest cocktails for them at the makeshift bar on Lettice’s dining table down the hall in the flat’s dining room.

 

“Oh Lettice, I’m so nervous!” Margot confides, clasping her friend’s hands.

 

“Good heavens why, darling?” Lettice looks across at her friend in concern as she feels the tremble in her dainty fingers wrapped around her own. She notices her pale face. “You aren’t having second thoughts, are you?”

 

“About the party?”

 

“About Dickie!”

 

“Goodness no, darling!” Margot clutches her bare throat with her hand, the diamonds in her engagement ring winking brightly. “About him I have never been so sure. He’s always been the one for me, darling. You of all people should know that!”

 

“Then what, Margot darling?”

 

“Well, this party!”

 

“What on earth do you mean? Its going to be a thrilling bash.” Lettice soothes. “I’ve hired this divine little jazz quartet to play dance music for us. All our friends are on the guest list, and they are all coming. It will be just like being at the Embassy Club, only it will be here instead.” She waves her arms generously around her. “What’s to be nervous about?”

 

“Oh, it just all seems so formal.”

 

“Formal?”

 

“Yes,” Margot goes on. “So grown up. I mean it’s one thing to see your names printed together in the papers, yet it’s quite another to have a party thrown in honour of your engagement as you step out into society as an engaged couple. I’m not used to being the centre of attention.”

 

“Well, you’ll have to get used to it, at least for a little while.” Lettice smiles as she hangs a necklace of sparkling diamonds from her jewellery casket about her neck, allowing them to cascade down the front of her powder blue silk georgette gown designed and made for her by Gerald. She sighs with satisfaction at the effect before addressing Margot again. “Think of this as a rehearsal for your wedding day.”

 

Margot gulps.

 

“Only tonight,” Lettice continues wagging a finger in the air. “You can drink as much as you like.”

 

The pair are interrupted by a loud knocking on the door before it suddenly opens, and Dickie pokes his head around it. The sound of the jazz band tuning up in Lettice’s drawing room pours into the room.

 

“Get out!” Lettice cries, jumping up from her seat and flapping her hands at Dickie. “You aren’t supposed to see the bride yet! It’s bad luck!”

 

“That’s on the wedding day you silly goose!” Dickie laughs.

 

“Don’t bother us now, Dickie,” Lettice continues, leaning against the doorframe and then glancing at Margot’s anxious face reflected in the looking glass of her dressing table. “We’re fixing something.”

 

“Oh, secret women’s business, is it?” he whispers conspiratorially with a cheeky smile.

 

“Something like that,” Lettice says breezily. “Margot just has a case of centre stage jitters.”

 

Dickie face clouds over. He frowns in concern and presses on the door.

 

“She’ll be fine.” Lettice assures him, pressing hard against the pressure she can feel from his side of the door. “I just need a few more minutes with her. Alright darling?”

 

“Well,” Dickie says a little doubtfully. “Only if you’re sure. But don’t be too long.” He glances at Lettice’s pretty green onyx Art Deco clock on her dressing table. “The guests will be arriving shortly.”

 

“We won’t be, Dickie.” she assures him as she presses a little more forcefully on the door.

 

“Well,” he remarks brightly in an effort to settle his fiancée’s nerves. “I’d only come down here to see if you two ladies fancied a special Dickie Channon pre-cocktail party cocktail?”

 

“Oh yes!” Lettice enthuses. “That sounds divine, darling! I’ll have a Dubonnet and gin. What will you have Margot, darling?”

 

“I’ll have a Bee’s Knees, thank you Dickie.” she replies with a less than enthusiastic lilt to her quiet voice.

 

The furrows on Dickie’s brow deepen as he glances between Margot and Lettice. Lettice raises a finger to silence the concerns he is about to express about Margot, and then she points back down the hallway to the dining room. Dickie’s mouth screws up in concern, and he shakes his head slightly as he withdraws.

 

“See you in a few minutes,” Lettice assures his retreating figure.

 

“He’s cross, isn’t he?” Margot asks as Lettice closes the door again.

 

“No, he’s just concerned is all,” she replies as she resumes her seat. “As am I.”

 

Margot’s stance of slumped shoulders displays her deflated feeling as much as the look in her dark eyes as she glances up at her friend.

 

“Look. How do you ever expect to be the Marchioness of Taunton one day, standing at the end of a long presentation line for a ball that you are hosting, if you can’t greet a few guests now?”

 

“I never wanted to be the future Marchioness of Taunton, just Mrs. Dickie Channon.”

 

“Well,” Lettice places a consoling hand on the bare shoulder of her friend. “The two come hand-in-hand, Margot darling, so you have to accept it, come what may.”

 

Lettice suddenly thinks of something and starts fossicking around in the drawers of her dressing table. She pulls open the right-hand drawer and pulls out some lemon yellow kid gloves and a pretty white bead necklace which sparkles in the light as she lays it on the dressing table top.

 

“What on earth are you doing, darling?” Margot asks Lettice.

 

Dropping a bright blue bead necklace on the surface of the dressing table next, Lettice makes a disgruntled noise and then reaches for the brass drawer pull of the left-hand drawer.

 

“I’m going to share something with you Margot. Something very special. I wasn’t going to, because it’s mine, and no-one else we know has it. However, it may give you the confidence you need for tonight to have something beautiful that nobody else does.”

 

She drags open the left hand drawer. Its runners protest loudly with a squeaking groan. Beads and chains spew forth as she does, spilling over the edge of the drawer.

 

“Ahh! Here it is!” Lettice cries triumphantly.

 

She withdraws a small eau-de-nil box with black writing on it. Opening it she takes out a stylish bevelled green glass Art Deco bottle which she places on the surface of her dressing table amidst pieces of her jewellery.

 

“What is it?” Margot looks on intrigued, a bemused smile playing upon her lips.

 

“I picked this up when I was last in Paris. I visited a little maison de couture on the rue Cambon. It was owned and run by a remarkable woman named Coco Chanel. She used to own a small boutique in Deauville and her clothes are remarkably simple and stylish. It’s simply called Chanel Number 5.***”

 

Margot picks up the scent bottle in both her elegant hands with undisguised reverence.

 

“Like her clothes, and even the perfume’s name, it is simple, yet unique. I’ve never smelt anything quite like it.”

 

“Oh its divine!” Margot enthuses as she removes the stopper and inhales deeply. ‘Like champagne and jasmine!”

 

“She wasn’t going to sell it to me as she only had the bottle on the counter for her own use, but I begged her after smelling it. No-one else at the party will be wearing this, so why don’t you Margot?”

 

“Really Lettice?”

 

“Yes,” Lettice smiles. “I’ll wear something else. It will be your scent of confidence for this evening.”

 

“Oh thank you darling.” Margot replies humbly. “This scent makes me feel better already.”

 

“Good!” Lettice sighs happily. “Then dab it on and let’s go. The first guests will be here soon, and it will be bad form not to be ready to greet them.”

 

“You’re right Lettice!” Margot agrees, sounding cheerier and more confident.

 

“Besides, Dickie will have made those cocktails for us now.”

 

Margot dabs her neck and wrists with scent from the Chanel Number 5. bottle with the round glass stopper whilst Lettice applies some Habanita****. The two gaze at themselves in Lettice’s looking glass, giving themselves a final check. Lettice with her blonde finger waved chignon and pale blue gown looks the opposite to Margot with her dark waves and silver gown, yet both look beautiful. Suitably satisfied with their appearances, they step away from the dressing table, walk out of Lettice’s dressing room and walk down the hallway to join Dickie who offers them both their cocktail of choice.

 

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

 

**Gunter and Company were London caterers and ball furnishers with shops in Berkley Square, Sloane Street, Lowndes Street and New Bond Street. They began as Gunter’s Tea Shop at 7 and 8 Berley Square 1757 where it remained until 1956 as the business grew and opened different premises. In the nineteenth and twentieth centuries Gunter's became a fashionable light eatery in Mayfair, notable for its ices and sorbets. Gunter's was considered to be the wedding cake makers du jour and in 1889, made the bride cake for the marriage of Queen Victoria’s granddaughter, Princess Louise of Wales. Even after the tea shop finally closed, the catering business carried on until the mid 1970s.

 

***Chanel Number 5. was launched in 1921. Coco Chanel wanted to launch a scent for the new, modern woman she embodied. She loved the scent of soap and freshly-scrubbed skin; Chanel’s mother was a laundrywoman and market stall-holder, though when she died, the young Gabrielle was sent to live with Cistercian nuns at Aubazine. When it came to creating her signature scent, though, freshness was all-important. While holidaying with her lover, Grand Duke Dimitri Pavlovich, she heard tell of a Grasse-based perfumer called Ernest Beaux, who’d been the perfumer darling of the Russian royal family. Over several months, he produced a series of 10 samples to show to ‘Mademoiselle’. They were numbered one to five, and 20 to 24. She picked No. 5

 

****Molinard Habanita was launched in 1921. Molinard say that Habanita was the first women’s fragrance to strongly feature vetiver as an ingredient – something hitherto reserved for men, commenting that ‘Habanita’s innovative style was eagerly embraced by the garçonnes – France’s flappers – and soon became Molinard’s runaway success and an icon in the history of French perfume.’ Originaly conceived as a scent for cigarettes – inserted via glass rods or to sprinkle from a sachet – women had begun sprinkling themselves with it instead, and Molinard eventually released it as a personal fragrance.

 

This rather beautiful, if slightly messy boudoir scene may be a little different to what you might think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures from my collection. Some pieces in this scene come from my own childhood, whilst other items in this tableau I acquired as a teenager and as an adult through specialist doll shops, online dealers and artists who specialise in making 1:12 miniatures.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

Central to this story is the bottle of Chanel Number 5. which stands on the dressing table. It is made of very thinly cut green glass. It, and its accompanying box peeping out of the drawer were made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire.

 

Lettice’s Regency dressing table was given to me as part of a Christmas present when I was around ten years old. Made of walnut, it features a real bevelled mirror, a central well for makeup, two working drawers and a faux marble column down each side below the drawers.

 

The same Christmas I was given the Regency dressing table, I was also given a three piece gilt pewter dressing table set consisting of comb, hairbrush and hand mirror, the latter featuring a real piece of mirror set into it. Like the dressing table, these small pieces have survived the tests of time and survived without being lost, even though they are tiny.

 

Even smaller than the gilt dressing table set pieces are the tiny pieces of jewellery on the left-hand side of the dressing table. Amongst the smallest pieces I have in my collection, the gold bangle, pearl and gold brooch and gold and amethyst brooch, along with the ‘diamond’ necklace behind the Chanel perfume bottle, the purple bead necklace hanging from the left-hand drawer and the blue bead necklace to the right of the dressing table’s well, I acquired as part of an artisan jewellery box from a specialist doll house supplier when I was a teenager. Amazingly, they too have not become lost over the passing years since I bought them.

 

Lettice’s Art Deco beaded jewellery casket on the left-hand side of the picture is a handmade artisan piece. All the peary pale blue beads are individually attached and the casket has a black velvet lining. It was made by Pat’s World of Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

To the right of Lettice’s jewellery casket is an ornamental green jar filled with hatpins. The jar is made from a single large glass Art Deco bead, whilst each hatpin is made from either a nickel or brass plate pin with beads for ornamental heads. They were made by Karen Lady Bug Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

There is a selection of sparkling perfume bottles on Lettice’s dressing table and in its well which are handmade by an English artisan for the Little Green Workshop. Made of cut coloured crystals set in a gilt metal frames or using vintage cut glass beads they look so elegant and terribly luxurious.

 

The container of Snowfire Cold Cream standing next to the Chanel perfume bottle was supplied by Shepherd’s Miniatures in the United Kingdom. Exactly like its life size counterpart, it features a very Art Deco design on its lid with geometric patterns in traditionally popular colours of the 1920s with the silhouette of a woman at the top. It is only nine millimetres in diameter and three millimetres in depth. Snowfire was a brand created by F.W. Hampshire and Company, who had a works in Sinfin Lane in Derby. The firm manufactured Snowfire ointment, Zubes (cough sweets) ice cream powder, wafers and cornets; Jubes (fruit sweets covered in sugar). Later it made ointment (for burns) and sweetening tablets. The company was eventually merged with Reckitt Toiletry Products in the 1960s.

 

Lettice’s little green Art Deco boudoir clock is a 1:12 artisan miniature made by Hall’s Miniature Clocks, supplied through Doreen Jeffries Small Wonders Miniatures in England. Made of resin with a green onyx marble effect, it has been gilded by hand and contains a beautifully detailed face beneath a miniature glass cover.

 

Also from Doreen Jeffries’ Small Wonders Miniatures in the United Kingdom are the pale yellow gloves sticking out of the right-hand drawer. Artisan pieces, they are made of kid leather with a fine white braid trim and are so light and soft.

 

The 1920s beaded headdress standing on the wooden hatstand was made by Mrs. Denton of Muffin Lodge in the United Kingdom. You might just notice that it has a single feather aigrette sticking out of it on the right-hand side, held in place by a faceted sequin.

 

The painting you can see hanging in the wall is an artisan miniature of an Elizabethan woman in a gilt frame, made my Marie Makes Miniatures.

 

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.

dear friends!! as the new year begins, i offer this wish from the generous fishes: that you swim fearlessly in the ocean of this life, moving fluidly and spontaneously from moment to moment... that you find friendship, well-being, and meaning on your journeys...

 

may all travelers find joy!!

 

love and best wishes,

jeanne

 

scanned, assembled and altered image, december 31, 2006

  

Song birds pause momentarily to scrunch on seeds left by another park patron.

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

 

Today however we are not in Lettice’s flat. Instead, we have followed Lettice south-west, through the neighbouring borough of Belgravia to the smart London suburb of Pimlico and its rows of cream and white painted Regency terraces. However, Lettice is not standing before one of these, but before a smart red brick Edwardian set of three storey flats on Rochester Row. Looking up, Lettice admires the red and white banding details of the building, macabrely known after the Great War as ‘blood ‘n’ bandages’ stripes. The beautiful façade features bay windows and balconies with ornate Art Nouveau cast iron balustrades. One of them is now the residence of recently arrived American film actress Wanetta Ward.

 

Approaching the front door Lettice sees the newly minted shiny brass plaque amongst those of the residents with Wanetta’s name emblazoned on it in neat, yet bold, engraved letters. She pushes open the heavy black painted front door with the leadlight windows and walks into the deserted communal foyer and takes the stairs up to flat number four, her louis heels echoing loudly throughout the cavernous space illuminated by a lightwell three floors above. Stopping on the first floor landing before a door painted a uniform black, but without the leadlight, bearing the number four in polished brass, she presses the doorbell.

 

From deep within the flat the sound of a bell echoes hollowly, implying what Lettice hopes – that the flat is now empty of its previous resident’s possessions. She waits, but when no-one comes to open the door, she presses the doorbell for longer. Once again, the bell echoes mournfully from deep within the flat behind the closed door. Finally, a pair of shuffling footsteps can be heard along with indecipherable muttering and a familiar fruity cough as the latch turns.

 

“Mrs. Boothby!” Lettice exclaims, coming face-to-face with her charwoman* as the old Cockney woman opens the door to the flat.

 

“Well, as I live an’ breave!” she exclaims in return with a broad and toothy smile. “If it ain’t Miss Lettice! G’mornin’ mum!” She bobs a curtsey. “You must be ‘ere to see Miss Ward. C’mon in.”

 

Lettice walks through the door held open by Mrs. Boothby and steps into a well proportioned vestibule devoid of furnishings, but with traces of where furniture and paintings once were by way of tell-tale shadows and outlines on the floor and walls.

 

“Come this way, mum. She’s just through ‘ere in the drawin’ room.” Mrs. Boothby says, leading the way, her low heeled shoes slapping across the parquetry floors.

 

“But how is it that you are here, Mrs. Boothby?” Lettice asks in bewilderment.

 

“Well, you know ‘ow I ‘as me friend Jackie, what cleans for you when I’s sick?” Lettice nods pointlessly to the back of the old woman’s head, but she continues as if sensing it through the rear of her skull. “Well, she got this cleanin’ job to tidy up after the last man up an’ left, and couldn’t do it on ‘er own, so she asked me to ‘elp. So ere I is, and we is just in ‘ere.”

 

The pair walk through a door into a light filled room devoid of furniture except for an old chair without its cushioned seat and two rather imposing built-in bookshelves either side of an old white plaster fireplace. A second charwoman is busy sweeping up the broken fragments of an old blue and white bowl with her dustpan and broom and depositing them into an old wooden crate that must once have held apples according to the label. The room is silent, but for the sound of sweeping and the clatter of crockery shards, and the sounds echo throughout the empty space. In the world outside Lettice can hear the clatter of horses hooves and the purr of a motor cars from street below. Lettice immediately spots Wanetta’s lucky pink hat covered in silk flowers hanging off the back of the solitary chair and her brass handled walking stick that she uses for affect leaning against it. And there, silhouetted against the light pouring through the bay window overlooking Rochester Row stands the elegant and statuesque figure of Wanetta Ward, the morning highlighting the edges of her hair in auburn.

 

“S’cuse me mum, I’s gotta get back to me dustin’.” Mrs. Boothby says as she goes over to the fireplace and picks up a feather duster.

 

“Miss Chetwynd, darling!” Miss Ward exclaims with delight, spinning elegantly around and striding towards Lettice with open arms.

 

Lettice allows herself somewhat awkwardly to be enveloped by the American’s overly familiar perfumed embrace. Dressed in a smart black suit, Lettice notices the accents of pink that match Wanetta’s lucky hat on the collar of her jacket and the hem of her calf length skirt.

 

“How do you do Miss Ward.”

 

“Oh, just tickety-boo**, I think you British say.” Miss Ward enthuses. “Except you’re still calling me Miss Ward, and not Wanetta, like I told you to.” She wags a grey glove clad finger at Lettice.

 

“I think,” Lettice remarks, carefully choosing her words but speaking firmly. “That would add a certain… overfamiliarity to our professional relationship. I’m sure you’ll agree.”

 

“Oh you British are such stuffed shirts***,” Miss Ward flaps her arms dismissively at Lettice. “But have it your own way. So,” She spins around, stretching out her arms expansively in a dramatic pose. “What do you think?”

 

Lettice looks around at the spacious room. “It’s very elegantly proportioned from what I’ve seen so far.”

 

“So, do you think it will suit a young up-and-coming film star?”

 

“I take it the screen test went well then, Miss Ward?” Lettice smiles at her hostess.

 

“Meet Islington Studio’s**** newest actress!” the American woman exclaims with a cocked manicured eyebrow as her painted pink lips curl in a proud smile.

 

“Congratulations Miss Ward! That’s wonderful news!”

 

“Thank you, darling. I play my first part next week.”

 

“Excellent! I shall look forward to hearing more as the weeks go by.”

 

“You mean?” Miss Ward gasps, clasping her hands in hope. “You’ll take me on?”

 

“I think so, Miss Ward.” Lettice replies. “It will be quite fun to have a completely clean slate to work with.”

 

“Oh, you darling, darling girl!” Miss Ward jumps up and down on the balls of her feet in delight.

 

Mrs. Boothby’s friend Jackie looks up from her floor polishing and discreetly shakes her head at the American woman’s dramatic outburst.

 

“Miss Ward, tell me about the treatment you were hoping for in here.” Lettice asks, looking around at the old fashioned flocked wallpaper.

 

Miss Ward starts to stalk around the room. “Now, I want colour, darling! My favourite colour is yellow, so I was thinking yellow vases, lamps, glassware, that sort of stuff.”

 

“I see,” Lettice listens attentively, nodding. “I can see if my Italian contacts can find some nice Murano glass for you.”

 

“Excellent! Excellent!” The American claps her painted fingers in delight. Gesticulating energetically around the room to imaginary tables and pedestals she adds, “And remember, I want oriental too!”

 

“I have an excellent merchant right here in London who imports the most wonderful items from the far east. You might even find you possess a little piece of Shanghai, Miss Ward.”

 

“Sounds perfect, darling! Now, I was thinking that with these bookcases pulled out, this will make a wonderful wall for vibrantly coloured wallpaper.” She stretches her arms dramatically in two wide arcs, as if representing the daring colour that she envisages in her mind. “Something with a bold pattern.”

 

“And how does your new landlord feel about you having these bookshelves removed?”

 

“Oh! Captain Llewellyn? He won’t mind, so long as I smile prettily and bat my eyelashes enough.” the American woman giggles.

 

“That’s not Captain Wynn Llewellyn, by chance, is it Miss Ward?”

 

“Why yes darling!” She beams another of her bright smiles. “Do you know him?”

 

“Yes, Miss Ward. He’s a family friend.”

 

“Gosh! What a small world!”

 

“Too right it is!” pipes up Mrs. Boothby from in front of the bookshelves she is busily dusting, whilst carefully eavesdropping on every word in the conversation between the two ladies. “She knows me ‘n all!”

 

“You do?” Miss Ward gives the old charwoman a doubtful look and then Lettice a questioning one.

 

“Mrs. Boothby cleans for me every week, Miss Ward.” Lettice elucidates.

 

The American nods. “Well, a girl like you must know everyone there is to know in London, darling.”

 

Lettice blushes at the candid remark and looks away, hiding her embarrassment whilst she composes herself. “Well, at least in this case I know your landlord, so there shouldn’t be any trouble with removing the bookshelves. Now, I must say that with such wonderful light in here, I really do think you’ll need some white to offset the bold colours you want.”

 

“White?” Miss Ward whines. “But I just said I want colour. No white!” She pouts her lips petulantly, which silently Lettice admits gives her a smouldering look which perhaps explains how she succeeded with her screen test. “White is so… so… white, and boring.”

 

“It won’t be boring the way I use it, Miss Ward, I can assure you.” Lettice wanders over to the fireplace, carefully and politely avoiding the area that Mrs. Boothby’s friend Jackie just polished. Picking up a small white vase sitting on the mantlepiece she continues, “You need something to temper bright colours. If I am to be your interior designer, Miss Ward, you are going to have to trust my judgement.” She turns the vase over in her hands thoughtfully. “I promise you that I won’t lead you astray.”

 

“Alright,” Miss Ward replies, looking doubtfully at Lettice. “But not too much white.”

 

“With bold colours and patterns, dark furnishings, some golden yellow elements and white accents as I suggest, your flat will exude elegance and the exoticism of the orient,” Lettice purrs reassuringly, replacing the vase on the mantlepiece. “Just as you desire.”

 

“Well…”

 

“Where will you be staying whilst your flat is redecorated, Miss Ward?” Lettice boldly speaks over Miss Ward, swiftly crushing any disagreement.

 

“At the Metropole***** near the Embankment.”

 

“Excellent. What I will do is create some sketches for you with my ideas for your interiors and then we can meet at the Metropole for tea, in say a week or so. Then you can see my vision and you may pass your judgement.”

 

“Very well, darling.” the American woman replies meekly.

 

“Wonderful!” Lettice smiles happily. “Now, you’d best show me around the rest of the flat so I can envision what it could look like. It’s quite inspiring, you know!”

 

“Then please, step this way and I’ll show you my future boudoir.” Miss Ward says, suddenly regaining her confidence and sense of drama. Purposefully, she strides towards the drawing room door, indicating for Lettice to follow her with a flourishing wave that is fit for a rising film star with the world at her feet.

 

As Lettice moves to join her newest client on a tour of the rest of the flat, she stops short and turns back.

 

“Oh Mrs. Boothby.”

 

“Yes mum?” the old Cockney woman asks.

 

“Please don’t dispose of that vase. Just leave it on the mantlepiece if you would.” She points across the room to the vase sitting forlornly. “I have plans for it.” she muses quietly.

 

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

 

**Believed to date from British colonial rule in India, and related to the Hindi expression “tickee babu”, meaning something like “everything's alright, sir”, “tickety-boo” means “everything is fine”. It was a common slang phrase that was popular in the 1920s.

 

***The phrase “stuffed shirt” refers to a person who is pompous, inflexible or conservative.

 

****Islington Studios, often known as Gainsborough Studios, were a British film studio located on the south bank of the Regent's Canal, in Poole Street, Hoxton in Shoreditch, London which began operation in 1919. By 1920 they had a two stage studio. It is here that Alfred Hitchcock made his entrée into films.

 

***** Now known as the Corinthia Hotel, the Metropole Hotel is located at the corner of Northumberland Avenue and Whitehall Place in central London on a triangular site between the Thames Embankment and Trafalgar Square. Built in 1883 it functioned as an hotel between 1885 until World War I when, located so close to the Palace of Westminster and Whitehall, it was requisitioned by the government. It reopened after the war with a luxurious new interior and continued to operate until 1936 when the government requisitioned it again whilst they redeveloped buildings at Whitehall Gardens. They kept using it in the lead up to the Second World War. After the war it continued to be used by government departments until 2004. In 2007 it reopened as the luxurious Corinthia Hotel.

 

Although this may appear to be a real room, this is in fact made up with 1:12 miniatures from my miniatures collection.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The Chippendale dining room chair is a very special piece. Part of a dining setting for six, it came from the Petite Elite Miniature Museum, later rededicated as the Carol and Barry Kaye Museum of Miniatures, which ran between 1992 and 2012 on Los Angeles’ bustling Wiltshire Boulevard. One of the chairs still has a sticker under its cushion identifying from which room of which dollhouse it came. The Petite Elite Miniature Museum specialised in exquisite and high end 1:12 miniatures. The chair is taken from a real Chippendale design.

 

Wanetta’s lucky pink hat covered in silk flowers, which hangs of the back of the chair on the right is made by Miss Amelia’s Miniatures in the Canary Islands. It is an artisan miniature made just like a real hat, right down to a tag in the inside of the crown to show where the back of the hat is! 1:12 size miniature hats made to such exacting standards of quality and realism are often far more expensive than real hats are. When you think that it would sit comfortably on the tip of your index finger, yet it could cost in excess of $150.00 or £100.00, it is an extravagance. American artists seem to have the monopoly on this skill and some of the hats that I have seen or acquired over the years are remarkable. Miss Amelia is an exception to the rule coming from Spain, but like her American counterparts, her millinery creations are superb. Like a real fashion house, all her hats have names. This pink raw silk flower covered hat is called “Lilith”. Wanetta’s walking stick, made of ebonized wood with a real metal knob was made by the Little Green Workshop in England.

 

In front of the basket is a can of Vim with stylised Art Deco packaging and some Kleeneze floor polish. Vim was a common cleaning agent, used in any Edwardian household. Vim scouring powder was created by William Hesketh Lever (1st Viscount Leverhulme) and introduced to the market in 1904. It was produced at Port Sunlight in Wirrel, Merseyside, a model village built by Lever Brothers for the workers of their factories which produced the popular soap brands Lux, Lifebuoy and Sunlight. Kleeneze is a homeware company started in Hanham, Bristol. The company's founder, Harry Crook, had emigrated to the United States with his family several years earlier, and whilst there joined Fuller Brush as a sales representative. He returned to Bristol several years later, and started a business making brushes and floor polish which were sold door-to-door by salesmen. Technically Kleeneze didn’t start until 1923, which is two years after this story is set. I couldn’t resist including it, as I doubt I will ever be able to photograph it as a main part of any other tableaux. Thus, I hope you will forgive me for this indulgence.

 

In the basket is a second can of Vim with slightly older packaging, some Zebo grate polish and a can of Brasso. Zebo (or originally Zebra) Grate Polish was a substance launched in 1890 by Reckitts to polish the grate to a gleam using a mixture that consisted of pure black graphite finely ground, carbon black, a binding agent and a solvent to keep it fluid for application with a cloth or more commonly newspaper. Brasso Metal Polish is a British all-purpose metal cleaning product introduced to market in 1905 by Reckitt and Sons, who also produced Silvo, which was used specifically for cleaning silver, silver plate and EPNS.

 

The tin buckets, wooden apple box, basket, mop, brush, pan and birchwood broom are all artisan made miniatures that I have acquired in more recent years. Sadly, the broken bowl is a result of an accident, which is unusual for me. When this bowl arrived it was wrapped in a small sealable plastic bag which slipped from my fingers and the blue and white porcelain bowl shattered on my slate kitchen floor where I unpack my parcels! I kept it as a reminder to be careful when unpacking my miniature treasures. Don’t worry, I have a replacement bowl which I am very careful with.

 

The feather duster on the fireplace mantle I made myself using fledgling feathers (very spring) which I picked up off the lawn one day thinking they would come in handy in my miniatures collection sometime. I bound them with thread to the handle which is made from a fancy ended toothpick!

 

The little white vase on the mantlepiece is mid Victorian and would once have been part of a doll’s tea service. It is Parian Ware. Parian Ware is a type of biscuit porcelain imitating marble. It was developed around 1845 by the Staffordshire pottery manufacturer Mintons, and named after Paros, the Greek island renowned for its fine-textured, white Parian marble, used since antiquity for sculpture. The vase and a matching jug I picked up as part of a job lot at auction some years ago.

 

The Georgian style fireplace I have had since I was a teenager and is made from moulded plaster.

 

The flocked wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend who encouraged me to use it as wallpaper for my 1:12 miniature tableaux.

Beautiful Artist at Bagan

 

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Originally Answered: Do you agree with the statement that "what you see in other people is a reflection of yourself"? Why and why not?

I was brought up with that adage, but it was not correctly explained to me.

 

I was told that, "What you see wrong with others, is wrong about yourself." That's not entirely true, and it created a great deal of distress, because I wondered how bad I was since I saw other people as bad.

 

What the statement really means, is that there is a reason you see or feel things in others. For instance, if you see someone as unsafe, it means you know the difference between safety and danger. <-- that's the reflection.

 

If you see someone as insincere, it means the reflection is that you can sense insincerity because you are, in fact, sincere.

 

Had I understood this growing up, I would not have developed the paranoia I have now. I thought that the reason I didn't trust people was because I was untrustworthy, not because I knew the difference between the truth and a lie.

Research indicates a person’s own behavior is the primary driver of how they treat others

Diana Yates, University of Illinois News Bureau

August 9, 2023

What is selfish behavior? Selfishness is defined as the tendency to act in one's own interests without regard for the impact on others. New research shows that a person’s own behavior is the primary driver of how they treat others during brief, zero-sum-game competitions.

 

Generous people tend to reward generous behavior and selfish individuals often punish generosity and reward selfishness – even when it costs them personally. The study found that an individual’s own generous or selfish deeds carry more weight than the attitudes and behaviors of others.

 

The findings are reported in the journal Cognitive Science.

 

Previous research into this arena of human behavior suggested that social norms are the primary factor guiding a person’s decision-making in competitive scenarios, said Paul Bogdan, a PhD candidate at the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign who led the research in the Beckman Institute for Advanced Science and Technology with U. of I. psychology professors Florin Dolcos and Sanda Dolcos.

 

“The prevailing view before this study was that individuals form expectations based on what they view as typical. If everyone around me is selfish, then I’m going to learn to accept selfishness and behave accordingly,” Bogdan said. “But we show that your judgments of other people’s behavior really depend on how you behave yourself.”

 

To test the factors that guide expectations and drive behavior, the researchers conducted a series of experiments involving the Ultimatum Game, which captures how an individual responds to offers from another player proposing to split a pot of money with them. The game requires the proposer to suggest how much each person receives of a $10 pot. The receiver must decide whether to agree to that split or reject it. If the offer is rejected, neither participant receives any money. Rejection can be seen as a form of punishment, even though it costs both players, the researchers said.

 

Some people tend to be generous – or at least fair – when offering another person a portion of a $10 reward. Others try to take as much of the money as they can, offering lopsided splits that benefit themselves at the expense of their competitors.

 

When on the receiving end of an offer, generous people tend to accept only generous offers, while selfish people are happy with selfish offers – even though the other player’s selfishness hurts them financially, the researchers found. Having the players switch between receiving and proposing offers allowed the team to explore the relationship between a player’s selfish or generous behavior and their evaluation of other players’ offers.

 

Further experiments showed that generous and selfish individuals tend to trust others who behave as they themselves do, regardless of the economic outcome.

 

Sanda Dolcos, Florin Dolcos, Paul Bodgan

In a new study, psychology professors Sanda Dolcos, left, and Florin Dolcos and PhD candidate Paul Bogdan, right, tracked how a person’s own behavior guides their expectations of others’ generosity or selfishness. Photo by L. Brian Stauffer

“Participants will gain more money with a generous person. But a selfish person will prefer to play with someone who behaves as they do,” Bogdan said. “People really like others who are similar to themselves – to a shocking degree.”

 

The team also evaluated data from a previous cross-cultural study that found that individuals sometimes punish others for their selfishness or for their generosity in a collaborative game involving resource sharing. They found that, when deciding whether and how much to punish others, participants were guided primarily by their own behavior and less by the pressure to conform. People who behaved generously tended to punish selfishness and people who put their own welfare first were much more likely to punish generosity – even in situations where one approach was more common than the other.

 

Cultural norms toward self-interest or generosity do influence people, as other studies have found, Florin Dolcos said. “But we are not only observers. This study is showing that we filter information about the world through our own view.”

 

Those individuals whose behavior switched from generous to selfish over time were more likely to punish generosity and reward selfishness – but only after their own behavior changed, the team found.

 

This helps explain the phenomenon of social alignment, for better and for worse, Florin Dolcos said.

 

“You may have groups of selfish people who are more accepting of other selfish people, and in order to be part of that group, newcomers might display the same behavior,” he said.

 

Ultimately, the study finds that a person’s own generous or selfish nature drives their behavior in many arenas of life, Sanda Dolcos said.

 

“This is not just about decision-making,” she said. “It has practical relevance to many types of social interactions and social evaluations.”

 

The paper “Social expectations are primarily rooted in reciprocity: An investigation of fairness, cooperation and trustworthiness” is available online. DOI: 10.1111/cogs.13326

las.illinois.edu/news/2023-08-09/study-finds-people-expec...

  

Kristin Dombek’s The Selfishness of Others begins by introducing three characters. There’s Allison, one of the stars of the MTV reality show My Super Sweet 16. (For her birthday parade, she had an entire block of Atlanta shut down, right in front of a hospital: “They can just go around,” she said.) Next is Tucker Max, the celebrity whose books and blog posts about “getting wasted and sportfucking” made him a hero among pickup artists and men’s rights activists. And then there’s Anders Breivik, who in 2011 killed eight people with a car bomb in Oslo, Norway. After that he proceeded to a summer camp, where he shot and killed 69 more. He would later claim that the massacres were a publicity stunt to promote his 1,500-page manifesto deriding women and Muslims, and featuring pictures of him smiling in Knights Templar costumes.

 

If Breivik seems like an outlier—if the comparison with two relatively harmless figures strikes you as inappropriate—this is intentional. The millennial girl, the bad boyfriend and the murderer: these examples show the range of our obsession with narcissism, a condition we hear more and more about these days. As I write this, half the country is still reeling from the election of a self-absorbed millionaire (or billionaire, if you believe his boasts) whom numerous psychologists have publicly diagnosed as a narcissist, while an online petition calling for the Republican Party to #DiagnoseTrump has been signed by more than thirty-four thousand people.

 

●

 

Dombek begins her own discussion on more personal ground, in the depths of what she calls the “narcisphere.” This is her name for the metastasizing cluster of blogs, vlogs, quizzes and support communities where self-described victims gather to vent and to discuss the behaviors of their personal “narcs.” One website, the Web of Narcissism, quotes Dracula and employs gothic castle imagery; its members, who call themselves “keyboard faeries,” trade recommendations for media about sociopaths and vampires, enacting narc victimhood as a kind of underground subculture. There are many gurus and experts to choose from in the narcisphere, but their advice converges on one remedy. If you find yourself in a relationship with a narcissist—and you’ll know because they withhold care and attention, or do not seem to love you with the exclusivity you deserve—then the only solution is to cut your losses and get out. The narcissist can’t love you, and trying to change them is hopeless.

 

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What’s tempting about this “narciscript,” as Dombek calls it, is that it reduces a complicated situation (e.g. the average relationship) to a heavily weighted binary: Do I continue to extend an imprudent empathy, or do I go cold, the way the other person already has, in the interest of self-preservation? Clearly the latter course is the more “reasonable” one, but the moment I take it—go cold, withdraw, run—is the moment I can no longer safely distinguish my own behavior from the narcissist’s. “The script confirms itself,” Dombek writes, “and the diagnosis and the treatment confound the evidence, until it gets harder and harder” to tell whether the word “narcissism” describes anything at all. This is why, although The Selfishness of Others seems to promise an investigation of whether the “narcissism epidemic” (as it’s been called) is real, the book’s main interest derives from Dombek’s posing of another question, which may shed new light on our urge to #DiagnoseTrump: What’s at stake for us in believing it’s real?

 

Dombek spent the first part of her life in Philadelphia, where she was homeschooled by her parents, affable-sounding Jesus freaks she has described as “long-haired, corduroy-bell-bottom-wearing, antiauthoritarian biblical literalists.” When she was nine her father became sick with a host of terminal illnesses and the family relocated to a farm in Indiana, where they lived with a lot of animals: according to one (maybe exaggerated) list there were “not only about twenty cats and a dog but a half-dozen roving demented geese and two ornery pebble-shit-spewing goats and a couple dozen hysterical hens and a tyrannical rooster named Sam.” After high school Dombek attended Calvin College, a Christian Reformed (Calvinist) school in Grand Rapids, Michigan. She struggled to fit in with her classmates, who had all grown up in suburban neighborhoods.

 

As a freshman, Dombek became politically active in the fight against abortion—a practice she firmly believed, along with her parents and many of her friends, was not only murder but “a first step toward state-run infanticide and euthanasia.” At church, she and her friends watched films of months-old fetuses writhing in pain as machines snapped them apart piece by piece. Dombek would describe the anguish of those images in “The Two Cultures of Life,” her first article for n+1. The essay, which questions the left-right polarization of the abortion issue, contains many of the hallmarks of Dombek’s later work, including her attempt to bypass either-or distinctions by staging an argument on the page, and her insistence on directing empathy toward those viewed as incapable of returning it: the fetus, the animal, the murderer.

 

The year after she participated in an anti-abortion march in Washington, Dombek picked up smoking, started wearing flannel shirts and declared herself a Marxist. But her belief in the importance of empathizing across ideological and (sometimes) ontological boundaries seems to have persisted, along with her certainty that, as she writes in “Two Cultures,” “if it looks like violence, it is.” Studying literature at NYU after college, she emphasized persuading secular people to be “more empathetic toward fundamentalists, even those who conduct or support great atrocities.”

 

Her dissertation, “Shopping for the End of the World,” drew on the ideas of the French philosopher and literary theorist René Girard, who was interested in the ways that violence emerged within social groups. We tend to believe that violence happens when people don’t understand or empathize with one another, but Girard argued, first in Deceit, Desire and the Novel (1961) and later in Things Hidden Since the Foundation of the World (1978), that violence springs just as much from our similarities. We think we desire things and people for their particular qualities but, according to Girard, this is an illusion; all desire is in fact an anticipatory mirroring of the desires of those closest to us. When two people reach for the same thing at once, as they inevitably will, not only are they hurled into conflict over that thing; they are also each confronted with disturbing evidence that their deepest self is little more than a bundle of imitations. Desperate to destroy the bearer of such news, they lash out. And because violence, too, is mimetic, it spreads through the community in a destructive, destabilizing feedback loop.

 

According to Girard, archaic societies developed a stopgap solution to these epidemics of violence: ritual sacrifice. (All archaic societies, apparently: Girard, who based his theory of sacrifice on readings of ancient myth rather than direct anthropological research, had a tendency to overgeneralize.) The group would select a scapegoat, and the selection itself was a significant decision. Ideally, this being—whether human or some other animal—would be enough like the sacrificers themselves that destroying or exiling it would satisfy the sacrificer’s need to banish what they hated. At the same time, the scapegoat needed to seem, or be made to seem, inhuman enough that everyone could safely assume its suffering didn’t count. This is how Dombek’s interest in empathy led her to the narcissist—the being our society often claims is too inhuman to truly suffer.

 

●

 

The first people labeled as narcissists, writes Dombek, were almost exclusively homosexuals and women—and for Freud, who popularized the label, almost all homosexuals and women were narcissists. Beautiful women, whom Freud compared to children and “certain animals which seem not to concern themselves about us,” seemed to him particularly resistant to therapeutic practice. To his mind, the abnormal resistance of these women to transference—love, basically—appeared to be a form of regression. Normal, healthy people start their lives in a similar state of selfish inaccessibility, he reasoned, but eventually they develop the capacity for empathy and love. The narcissist, for Freud, was the person who maintained or returned to this self-sufficiency.

 

Dombek’s criticism of the Freudian interpretation of narcissism draws from another work by Girard. In “Narcissism: The Freudian Myth Demystified by Proust,” Girard compared famous passages from Proust about desire with Freud’s vaguely moralistic theorizing about his desirable patients. The similarities he found were remarkable. Both writers ascribed to their subjects an inhuman autonomy, compared them with children and animals (specifically birds: large birds of prey in Freud’s case, seagulls in Proust’s) and marveled at their indifference to those around them. The difference was that Proust didn’t present his descriptions as true. “There is no such thing as a ‘real,’ objective narcissism for Proust,” Girard writes. It’s just less painful, when someone doesn’t feel about us like we feel about them, to believe that they’re incapable of feeling. What looks to us like someone else’s arrogance, according to this line of thinking, is actually our own inverted neediness.

 

Are these insights about scapegoating and the “narcissistic illusion” (as Girard called it) helpful for understanding today’s “narcissism epidemic”? The claims that narcissism is becoming pathological on the level of the whole culture go back to at least the late Seventies, when Tom Wolfe’s “The Me Decade” (1976) made the cover of New York and Christopher Lasch’s The Culture of Narcissism (1979) became a national best seller. Despite Lasch’s scattershot approach—sections of The Culture of Narcissism are devoted to confessional writing, radical feminism and the use of AstroTurf in sports stadiums—his account of “the new narcissist” remained firmly rooted in psychoanalytic theory: specifically, Dombek notes, that of the analyst Otto Kernberg, who modified Freud’s theory by positing that the narcissist’s performance of self-sufficiency was part of a compensatory attempt to fill a vacuum of self-esteem.

 

Just as Lasch’s book was published, however, scientists began laying the tracks for the more clinical conception of the condition that prevails today. In 1979, two social psychologists developed the Narcissistic Personality Inventory (NPI), a diagnostic tool that reduced Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD) (enshrined in the DSM as a mental illness the next year) to a set of eight traits. The NPI is a forced-choice questionnaire, which means it tests NPD by asking subjects to select from a pair of statements—for example, “Sometimes I tell good stories” or “Everybody likes to hear my stories”—which it then correlates with clinical traits. The resulting numerical score tells you next to nothing about the individual test-taker, not even whether that person is a narcissist (as the test’s creators readily admitted). But it makes it much easier to generalize across large sample sizes.

 

In The Narcissism Epidemic (2009), for instance, social psychologists Jean Twenge and W. Keith Campbell reported that because millennials scored 30 percent higher on the Narcissistic Personality Inventory than ever before, they were likely the most self-involved generation in history. But according to Dombek, the study the book was based on actually only revealed that a “slight majority of students in 2006 answered, on average, one or two more questions in the narcissistic direction than did those in 1986.” Another caveat is that the people surveyed in Twenge and Campbell’s study were not just American college students, but specifically freshman psychology students, participating for course credit—an extremely common form of institutional bias which leads Dombek to wonder how much of popularly reported psychology research “would actually be more accurately framed as an understanding of what young psychology students think about themselves.”

 

The problem is not just that studies using this paradigm mask an absence of real knowledge, although this is a problem. More importantly, by presenting narcissism as a diagnosis with a firm empirical basis, journalists quoting social psychologists often make it seem like a condition someone—or a whole group of someones—just has. For researchers, this sort of shorthand isn’t unusual—it’s more or less how most sciences operate. But such research isn’t usually being cited to support sweeping claims about entire generations, nor to explain the behavior of our bad boyfriends, murderers and politicians.

 

The fact that, with narcissism in particular, such labeling has become so common, speaks in favor of Dombek’s suggestion that the narcissist occupies a special place in our social imagination. For Twenge and Campbell, millennials play the role of arch-villains in a story about our culture’s refusal to grow up. More recently, many of us have focused our attention on a villain who looks very different from a millennial, though we call him the same name we call them. Which makes one wonder what, in this case, is the underlying sameness that we’re hoping to purge.

 

●

 

It’s likely no coincidence that one of the terms commentators often used to describe the political divides of the 2016 presidential campaign—“echo chamber”—brings us back to the Narcissus myth. In the classic version told by Ovid, Echo is a girl who, cursed by Hera, can only speak by repeating what others say. In the forest she falls hopelessly in love with the beautiful Narcissus, but when she tries to embrace him he reacts fearfully, with angry words that she can only whisper back to him; then he abandons her in favor of his own reflection in a dark pool. In our modern rendition, the term “chamber” is supposed to suggest a technological component to the problem, but the basic story is the same. In it, the other side of whatever divide—political, ideological, demographic—is imagined as being trapped in the echo chamber of “fake news” and bias-confirming feeds, while “we” play the role of Echo. We want to communicate, but the only way our voices can carry across the divide is if we repeat exactly what the other side already believes.

 

Although the echo chamber presents itself as a tragic picture, Dombek can help us recognize its flattering features. We, the ones who bemoan being stuck in our chamber, desire earnestly to reach out to the other side. They, the narcissistic ones, refuse to leave their chamber and meet us halfway. Scapegoating has always been an effective political tactic, and it is one Trump used ably, if offensively, during his campaign. But if Dombek and Girard are right that narcissism functions today largely as a scapegoating technique—a way of justifying coldness, maybe even violence, toward the one we label the narcissist—then it is Trump himself who emerges as the ultimate scapegoat, precisely because of his refusal to even pretend to care what his adversaries think.

 

Other presidents, after they win, at least make a show of reaching out; our narcissist-in-chief just keeps insulting us. Apparently he’s seeing other people, or maybe he really does just look into his reflection on TV all day. In any case, a better pretext for our own unapologetic anger and hatred could hardly be imagined. Which is a relief, in a way: all that empathizing can be exhausting.

 

The problem is only that, as Girard believed, scapegoating could never truly end violence or hatred, because, in misidentifying its source, it leads us to think we’re outside the dynamics responsible for it. “The moment you begin to find that the other lacks empathy—when you find him inhuman,” Dombek writes, “is a moment when you can’t feel empathy, either.” We say, this is how things are, fair or not. Either they burn, or we do.

 

thepointmag.com/criticism/the-selfishness-of-others/

Silk Making Old Lady

 

Be the first to kick start your generous support and fund my production with more amazing images!

 

Currently, I'm running a crowd funding activity to initiate my personal 2016 Flickr's Project. Here, I sincerely request each and every kind hearted souls to pay some effort and attention.

 

No limitation, Any Amount and your encouraging comments are welcome.

 

Crowd funding contribution can be simply direct to my PayPal account if you really appreciate and wish my forthcoming photography project to come alive.

Please PayPal your wish amount to : men4r@yahoo.com

 

Email me or public comments below your contribution amount for good records with your comments and at final day, at random, I shall sent out my well taken care canon 6D with full box n accessory during random draw to one thankful contributor as my token of appreciation.

 

Now, I cordially invite and look forward with eagerness a strong pool of unity zealous participants in this fundermental ideology yet sustainable crowd fund raising task.

Basically, the substantial gather amount is achievable with pure passion n love heart in photography and not necessary be filty rich nor famous to help me accomplish raising my long yearning photography career, a sucking heavy expense that been schedules down my photography making journey had inevitably, some circumstances had badly fall short behind racing with time and inability to fulfill as quickly in near future consolidating good fund .

Honestly, with aspiration and hope, I appeal to urge on this media for a strong humanity mandate through good faith of sharing and giving generously on this particular crowd funding excercise to achieve my desire n is not just purely a dread dream , is also flickers first starter own crowds funding strength turning impossible into reality through this pratical raising method that I confidently trust it will turn fruitful from all your small effort participation, every single persistency will result consolidating piling up every little tiny bricks into an ultimate huge strong living castle.

In reality, I have trust and never look down on every single peny efforts that been contributed as helpful means, turning unrealistic dream alive is the goal in crowd funding excercise, No reason any single amount is regard to be too small when the strength of all individual wish gather to fulfill my little desire to make exist and keep alive. .

I sincerely look forward each and every participants who think alike crowds funding methodlogy works here no matter who come forwards with regardless any capital amount input be big or small , please help gather and pool raise my objective target amount as close to USD$10K or either acquisition from donation item list below:

 

1- ideally a high mega pixel Canon 5DS ( can be either new or use ok)

2- Canon 70-200mm F2.8 L IS lens ( can be either new or use ok)

Last but not least, a photography journey of life time for a trip to explore South Island of New Zealand and Africa.

.

My intended schedule may estimate about 1 month round trip self drive traveling down scenic Southern Island of New Zealand for completing the most captivating landscape photography and wander into the big five, the wilderness of untamed Africa nature for my project 2016 before my physical body stamina eventually drain off.

 

During the course, I also welcome sponsor's to provide daily lodging/accommodation, car rental/transportation, Fox Glacier helicopter ride and other logistic funding expenses, provide photographic camera equipments or related accessories .

Kindly forward all sponsors request terms of condition n collaboration details for discussion soon.

 

Great Ocean Drive- the 12 Apostle's

 

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Due to copyright issue, I cannot afford to offer any free image request. Pls kindly consult my sole permission to purchase n use any of my images.You can email me at : men4r@yahoo.com.

 

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Would you believe all this arrived in my mailbox from ONE person?!?! Yet another surprise package from the astoundingly generous Melissa Allen of SnitchesGetStitches fame! This time landing on my doorstep in a box big enough to fit three Sadies and featuring a candy & carnival/circus theme!

 

My hubby damn near had to dig out the smelling salts to revive me! I could have practically filled a bathtub with the goodies that she sent! There was no way in the world it was all going to fit into one picture frame... there's so much missing here... a package of stylish serviettes, a delectable 'Parasite Pals' purse & darling plastic 'Teacups Ride' thingy, etc. This is just a taste of what the MONSTER-SIZED box contained!

 

This girl seriously MAKES ME CRY she is so endlessly thoughtful & sweet! I was just about weeping with joy reading the handwritten note that came with it. Such incredible sentiment expressed. It was the next best thing to receiving Melissa in the mail herself!

 

Melissa you have GOT to stop doing this or you will put me in the grave! :) I heart you so DANG much! You do not know how completely shell-shocked I am, nor how grateful I am to know the bottomless well of kindness that is YOU!

 

Thank you, thank you, thank you, with all my Missy-might! <3

The Generous Briton, Brant Broughton, Lincolnshire. I wonder if they offer free refillable beer?

 

24th January 2019

Instagram

You don’t have to go looking for pictures. The material is generous. You go out and the pictures are staring a tyou.

— Lee Friedlander

 

This image is from my most recent trip to Cuba.

  

This subject of this image was 90 degrees to the left of the previous image from yesterday’s upload. I did nothing more tan our to the right and switch to the camera body that had the 135mm lens on it.

  

So again I say-

  

The most wonderful images, for me. Are the ones that are of interesting plainnesses. The moment between moments on the way from somewhere to somewhere else whist neither moving or standing still. The moments that no-one actually sees as the move through there individual journeys to where ever their somewhere to somewhere else.

  

The power of of wielding the light saber of inertial observance, I.e. the camera allows the inertial observer, I.e. the photographer to be taken by the moment of the fleeting movement of time and freeze it. So we can always travel back to that exact spot and give ourselves the greatest give one can give- a memory.

  

I shot this with the 85mm f/1.2 Nikkor lens. 1/640 of a second ISO 100. Image raw processed in NX Studio and Photoshop CC with the NiK collection by DxO.

  

#Nikon100 #nikonlove #kelbyone #photography #onOne @NikonUSA

#mirrorless #Nikonz6III #135 f/1.8 Nikkor “Plena” #NikonNoFilter #nxstudio #niksoftware #nikonUSA #Epson #nikonusa @NIKONUSA

#wacom #calibrite #onone #sunbounce #fineartphotography #kolarivision @nikonusa

#DxO #iamgenerationimage #iamnikon #B&H #PhotogenicbyBenQ

#nikonLOVE #hoodman #infrared #CUBA #nikonnofilter #nikonambassador

Generously loaned for display at the Washington Auto Show.

Part of large stained glass window at Huntington Gardens in San Marino, California

This is a view using FITS file mosaics generously provided courtesy of Susan Stolovy, with attribution to Rick Arendt and Solange Ramirez for their work in producing the final mosaics. Her team used a processing technique that alleviated some of the saturation issues arising in some of the brighter parts of the mosaic that one might find in the mosaics provided by the Spitzer archive.

 

My take is not necessarily much different than what's already been done, but it is quite a bit less saturated than what you can find on the Spitzer website, and just a bit more of those wispy dust and gas formations can be made out. Anyway, it's nice to work with some data where someone else has already done most of the work.

 

For reference, here is a link to the original version using the same wavelengths on the Spitzer website: www.spitzer.caltech.edu/images/1540-ssc2006-02a-A-Cauldro...

 

Screen: 8.0 µm (IRAC4)

Red: 5.8 µm (IRAC3)

Green: 4.5 µm (IRAC2)

Blue: 3.6 µm (IRAC1)

 

The image is presented in galactic coordinates, with north up in that regard.

A very generous friend decided to gift their beloved friend with a custom wooden unicorn. And I had the opportunity to be in the middle of it all! This was a big undertaking, but definitely a worthwhile project! I also love surprises, so it was fun all around.

 

I learned so many things along the way while making this unicorn. It's amazing how much you don't understand something until you try to make it in 3D, lol. When it was complete, Stella almost couldn't bear to be separated from it, she seemed to have taken quite a liking to this horse :D. I think the two quite suit eachother, if I ever have the chance, I'd like to make another animal just for her; I was thinking of a little cat ;)

 

The surprise unicorn is now with its new owner!

  

Check my Etsy if you're interested in a doll of your own ♥

Gone too soon! These incredibly talented and generous people have lost their battles with cancer. I am sure you could add more Flickr friends to this list. But these are one I knew and loved:

Lisa April 28, 2010

Gigi April 17, 2010

Nacho February 16, 2010

Glenn November 10,2009

 

The Mamas&the Papas sang this:

While I'm far away from you my baby

I know it's hard for you my baby

Because it's hard for me my baby

And the darkest hour is just before dawn

Each night before you go to bed my baby

Whisper a little prayer for me my baby

And tell all the stars above

This is dedicated to the one I love

Life can never be exactly like we want it to be

I can be satisfied just knowing that you love me

There's one thing I want you to do especially for me

And it's something that everybody needs

Each night before you go to bed my baby

Whisper a little prayer for me my baby

And tell all the stars above

This is dedicated to the one I love

Listen and have a look at their photos.

Some of my ABSOLUTE faves from my stash: Windham Feedsack II cherries, Lecien Old New 30s strawberries & floral, Kokka Trefle tiny umbrellas, and Lecien Mrs. March 30s tulips

Photographer : Marshad AlMarshad

Follow Me: @MrshdM

www.mrshd.net

 

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Warning!:

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All Rights Reserved for The Photographer. Any usage of the Picture without permission will cause you legal action.

this is flickr sharpening at its finest.

guughh.

theres like three feet of snow outside:) look at it in comments!

it's grand. but i can't go outside.

www.formspring.me/kaylaaaphoto

please.

 

my pro account expires in a few days... i'm going to die!

and i will not be renewing it unless someone was oh so generous...

A Tea for the Tillerman

Acte 3

 

Tea Party Shenanigans

 

The next hour and generous half were spent in a blur of social mixing, handing out and receiving compliments alike.

 

Most of which were genuine. For there were some rather pretty outfits being worn and equally pretty baubles. Ginny held her own against them, while I sometimes felt the pauper.

 

We had made a full circle before finding ourselves at the tea table standing next to mum, as we finally partook of the refreshments now fully laid out.

 

Mum was not much company, however, as the seemingly never-ending stream of guests, making their way in line, stopped to talk with her first.

 

Ginny and I, sharing a knowing look, grabbed ourselves a goblet of red wine each and fled to the sanctuary of the back garden for some relief and solitude over being social butterflies.

 

<<<<<<<<<<

 

Ginny and I go into the garden drinking from our goblets of wine. These were not our first drinks of wine, plus what we had had at the pub, and I’ll admit we were both a bit light-headed and giggly at this point.

 

Cleo, the neighborhood cat, is sunning himself by the small pagoda. Ginny gives me her goblet and bends down to pet the lazy fat bugger who probably last caught a mouse some 3 of his lives ago.

 

As she petted the scoundrel, Ginny’s dangling pendant was dripping in its’ display of brilliant, gloriously fiery cascading sparkles.

 

As I stared at the mesmerizing show of her necklace. I became aware of giggling young girls close at hand.

 

Ginny was still absorbed in petting the loudly purring Cleo, so I went off to find the source. without saying anything to disturb the pairs' bliss.

 

In the very backside of the garden, there is a white wrought iron bench. This was in the area I called the secret garden since it was surrounded by shrubs on the house side. My brother and I played many a game in this area, and in the wooded acres on the other side.

 

That was where I pinpointed that the giggling was coming from.

 

Feeling it was a time to be clandestine, I snuck up and peered through a gap in the shrubs…

 

There were three of them.

 

Twelve-year-old Estella, little Claire, and oddly enough, the “Wood Bead lady”. There was no sign of Mrs. Shannon or Gabrielle.

 

Apparently, the trio was playing a game of keep-away.

 

Claire was running between the other two as they tried to catch her. She was holding the wood beaded necklace that the “Wood Bead Lady” had been wearing. Estella soon captured the squirming tyke and taking the wood beads from her, gave them back to the waiting adult. Then Claire squirmed free and was hoisted up by the “Wood Bead Lady”. Estella then went to the bench, facing away from the pair.

 

“Wood Bead Lady” then put Claire down and pointed out Estella.

 

Giggling, Claire went over to Estella and pulled at her dress, holding her arms up to be held. Estella bent down, her black and white striped taffeta dress shimmering, and picked her up. Claire ran her arms up and hugged Estella.

 

As she did, the little nymph nimbly unhooked the rhinestone necklace and let it fall away from Estella’s throat.

 

Indicating she wanted down, she ran back behind Estella, scooped up the necklace from the grass, and went to the waiting “Wood Bead Lady” who pick her up, tickling the squealing child.

 

An odd game I thought, but at least the lady was keeping the toddler (and Estella)out of mischief.

 

I debated going back to gather Ginny and show her for a laugh, when I realized a sudden, undeniable urge, to go potty was making me tingle.

 

I slinked away, not wishing to disturb the happily playing group.

 

I go back and see that Ginny is still sitting on the pagodas’ steps petting Cleo.

 

I hailed her.

 

“Hey luv, I need to freshen up”

 

Ginny, sitting comfortably, hesitatingly asks if I need her to come along.

 

I laugh, coming up alongside the steps.

 

“No. I'm a big girl now...

 

I pick up her now empty goblet and walk away, saying…

 

“I’ll bring us back some refills”

 

I whip back around, giving Ginny and smirking eye…

 

“You just stay here and play with your pussy.”

 

Giggling, I dodged the pebble she threw at me, and lifting my skirt with my free hand, scurried off as quick as my heeled shoes would let me.

  

Heading back onto the green of the party area, I was soon waylaid by one of the guests, Cassie, who was a friend of Ginny’s mum.

 

I had not realized she was coming, for it was her first time here at one of our teas.

 

She was smashing in the looks department. Her long brown hair was tied in the back with a fancy pleat. Cassie was wearing a midnight black taffeta high-necked top with 3/4 length sleeves. A gold pleated satin skirl fell swirling from her waistline.

 

She was strikingly wearing a lovely gold necklace set with real diamonds and garnets that lay sparking along her downy soft top’s neckline, a very pretty thing I thought it was. Matching drop earrings, bracelets and rings completed the show.

 

After greeting her( shaking my leg in discomfort) she coincidentally asked me where the ladies' room was.

 

We had some rentals set up behind a hedge near the house for the guests, so I offered to lead her there.

 

Reaching them, Cassie asked me if Ginny was here today. Answering yes, I told Cassie where I had left her, giving her quick directions before apologizing that I really had a pressing errand. And that I would meet her there.

 

I circled the house, entering by the front door. In my room, I opened the drawer where I kept the case for my better jewellery. Lifting the lid, I pulled off both my rings, undid the bracelet, and laid them all inside. Making it to my bathroom in the nick of time.

 

I was in there, indisposed, for a long while.

 

Once I was finally through I freshened my makeup and headed back through the kitchen. Weaving my way amongst noisily working caterers.

 

Just outside the back door, I was intercepted by mum, who was still by the tables, calling me over.

 

She asked me to locate the reading glasses that she had left in the sunroom.

 

I go to the sun room searching, finally finding them by Papa’s wet bar.

 

Smirking to myself, I poured a shot of ginger brandy, and happily downed it.

 

Feeling rather warm inside, I picked up the errant reading glasses.

 

As I picked them up I could see out the long side windows Mrs. Shannon talking to some friends. Gabrielle was with her, the necklace glistening. I did not see Estella.

 

A silly game they had been playing I remember thinking to myself.

 

I scurry back outside, handed mum her readers, and listened in polity after she introduced me to the ladies with whom was chatting.

 

I broke away, snatched up full goblets of wine, and began my journey through the gauntlet of guests to collect Ginny.

 

It was then I remembered I had left my rings and bracelet inside my open jewellery case. I hesitated going back for them before deciding not to, I had left Ginny alone long enough.

 

It was then I spied Claire being carried by her new friend, the “Wood Bead Lady”, followed by that sly Estella.

 

They were approaching a 30-something lady, standing alone like she was waiting for the return of friends.

 

She was winningly wearing a long, very sleek, very tight, purple silk sleeveless dress that appeared to have been poured over her figure.

 

Claire was set down as the two ladies began chatting, with Estrella standing off to one side listening in.

 

As I passed I saw out of the corner of my eye that Claire had reached up her arms and the lady in purple silk was bending over to pick her up. The sapphire and diamond gemstones of the crescent moon-shaped silvery necklace she wore around her throat rippled flashily in the sunlight.

 

I passed them without a second thought, my mind focused on not spilling wine, as I made my way to rejoin Ginny.

 

I reached the pagoda where I had left her but found it deserted. Not even Cleo remained.

 

I went to the secret garden area, but it too was now void of anyone.

 

I started to walk the long way around the gardens trying to find where Ginny had gotten off too.

 

I had just passed one of the trimmed hedges when a hand is placed on my shoulder and I hear Ginny's voice from behind me, and see her arm reaching for one of the wine goblets I was holding

  

“Lost my pussy, didn’t I luv, then lost you ?” She giggled in my ear as she came up along sides me.

 

“Got bored waiting for you to come back, didn’t I? Been looking for you.” She said to me as a way of explanation.

 

We stand there drinking our wine as we watch the moving crowd of guests spread out upon the green lawn. Sun shining up in a cloudless blue sky. A perfect day.

 

“Lovely wine this “ Ginny said.

 

I turned to her smiling, meaning to ask if Cassie had found her.

 

But she had read my mind apparently, for she started to tell me that she had seen her mum’s friend, Cassie, holding Claire, talking to the odd lady we had met, the one wearing that turban. I didn’t want to interrupt them, you can guess why. So we will have to seek her out later…. What’s the matter?”

 

Ginny stopped her story, seeing the look on my face.

 

For, as I had faced Ginny, I had frozen, not really hearing My friend's words.

 

I brushed my fingers upon the vacant front of Ginny’s dress, just above the rhinestone dragons' clutching claw.

 

“Ginny, Where's your necklace?”

 

Eyes opening wide in horror, her hand shoots to her bare neck, feeling in vain around her throat.

 

“Buggers, it’s bloody gone!”

 

Next up the last Acte 4

 

A Most Curious Conclusion

 

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

Rose Anglaise de David Austin

In July, my good friend the incredibly generous and talented Noel Kerns drove down to Austin from Dallas and took me out to the faux ghost town of J Lorraine to break me into shooting again after my first round of chemo.

 

This is a shot I've been visualizing since the first time I shot with Noel. My first attempt didn't work at all, but I'm pretty pleased with the way this one turned out.

 

What you see here is portrait of Noel while he's making an image. He light-painted the scene and I light-painted him as he checked his lcd afterwards. Click here to see the image he made.

 

It's nothing too spectacular, but it's not often you see a photo of someone while they're shooting at such a long exposure. And I kinda like it.

Thank you for your interest in my photography and for your generous offer to use my work for free to promote your book/magazine/website that you use to generate business for yourself. I would love nothing more than to help feed your family while mine goes hungry, because that is just the type of guy I am. Maybe I could feed them the free copy of the book you are offering me. I bet it would be tasty with some salt and pepper. I am also excited for the overwelming exposure that I will be receiving and the vast number of customers that will be directed my way because of that teeny tiny photo credit you tried to bury in the spine of your magazine. I just don't know what to say. You have done so much for me.

 

Now let me tell you the truth.

 

Good Photography is both hard work and expensive due to the price of equipment, the cost of gas, travel, insurance and self promotion. The shot that you have requested that I give you for nothing was taken inside of a 5 second exposure. The results of that 5 second exposure came from 12 road trips taken to the same location, 26 full tanks of gas, a $5,000 camera and priceless dedication to creating a good image and THAT is just the tip of the iceberg. There is no way I could ever calculate with any kind of certainty the amount of time and energy spent getting that one shot.

 

But I can tell you it wasn't freaking FREE!

 

Now with that being said, I would love to send you a HI RES version of the shot you requested. All you need to do is make my car payment this month but don't worry, I would be happy to give you "bill credit" with your payment and would gladly send you a free copy of the cashed check!

  

Ladies and Gentlemen,

 

PLEASE do not give your work away for nothing. Luckily for me I read somewhere very early on that if I priced my work at next to nothing, it would always be worth next to nothing.

 

I have received 7 emails this week requesting the use of my images for free including two companies that each had 2 seperate individuals email me! LOL. The Flickr Free Riders are out in full force. Please do not fall prey to these type of requests. Your work is valuable and if more people took a stand, the companies that NEED our images for their publications would gladly pay a fair price.

 

Remember this post and remind yourself that your work is priceless, until you give it away for free.

The best beast to know is the Beast from the East, the most generous monster of them all. He's got gold a-plenty (no silver, please!) and he likes to share. Anyone care to guess what he's going to do with that 24 Karat gold-plated G36 today? UPDATED: He's giving it away here! toywiz.us/blog/?p=1557

The nature of the missions that G.I. Joe finds itself involved in can have its operatives sent anywhere. After receiving word of gunfire and explosions along a river delta, the Joe team has appropriately dispatched divers to investigate the disturbed waters. On the outside looking in, someone would likely expect a deeper body of water to justify each of these Sailors carrying a generous personal arsenal. But with how ambitious - and arguably unhinged - Cobra's weapons research has become, fortune would justify those who came better prepared...

 

My 60th Anniversary Action Sailor makes his solo debut here! The original box art of the 1960s G.I. Joe sailor featured a deep-sea diver with a combat knife and a bundle of TNT. With Hasbro electing to have its modern-day tribute kitted out in a similar get-up, I suppose it was the look that the project managers considered to be the most "exciting" in the 1960s, and what experts call here in the present, "tacti-cool."

Rose from David Austin.

Background texture from Pareeerica, textures from Boccacino and leslie Nicole (French Kiss).

 

is about the heart"

 

Brighter Lives co-founder, Peter Towle from England, he is having a new challenge, Coast to Coast bike ride on June 9th, from Morecambe to Whitby. He wants to raise awareness and funds to help our children in Honduras. Would you help him? follow his instructions in the poster, thank you so much for helping and sharing!!

www.blchonduras.com

PADDY" "Hullo Everyone! Daddy has very kindly rewarded us generously for our patience whilst he photographed all the pretty Art Nouveau stained glass windows around "The Gables"! He treated us to a high tea of little deadly cakes and tea in the Peacock Room! Thank you very much Daddy!"

 

SCOUT: "Oh yes, thank you Daddy! I don't have a grumbly tummy for the time being." *Rubs his tummy contentedly.*

 

PADDY: "Our high tea was served on beautiful china, and the table was set with silverware and fine linen napery. We feel like very special guests!"

 

SCOUT: "Paddy? Paddy!"

 

PADDY: "Yes Scout?"

 

SCOUT: "Paddy, why do they call this the Peacock Room. There are no peacocks strutting about."

 

PADDY: "Thank goodness for that! Peacocks can be very beautiful, but are quite spiteful and are prone to snapping at little bears in brown felt hats and mackintoshes! The reason why it is called that is because of the beautiful Art Nouveau inspired wallpaper of blue peacocks on the walls."

 

SCOUT: "Oh goodness Paddy! I was looking so closely at all the delicious little deadly cakes on the sideboard over there that I didn't even notice the wallpaper."

 

PADDY: "So is your grumbly tummy suitably sated now Scout?"

 

SCOUT: "Oh yes it is Paddy!"

 

PADDY: "Excellent! Then I shall have the last bit of cake on the plate! Grumbly tummy Daddy! Grumbly tummy!" *Snuffles up the last piece of cake and smiles contentedly.*

 

My Paddington Bear came to live with me in London when I was two years old (many, many years ago). He was hand made by my Great Aunt and he has a chocolate coloured felt hat, the brim of which had to be pinned up by a safety pin to stop it getting in his eyes. The collar of his Macintosh is made of the same felt. He wears wellington boots made from the same red leather used to make the toggles on his mackintosh.

 

He has travelled with me across the world and he and I have had many adventures together over the years. He is a very precious member of my small family.

 

Scout is a recent addition to our little family. He was a gift to Paddy from my friend. He is a Fair Trade Bear hand knitted in Africa. His name comes from the shop my friend found him in: Scout House. He tells me that life was very different where he came from, and Paddy is helping introduce him to many new experiences. Scout catches on quickly, and has proven to be a cheeky, but very lovable member of our closely knit family.

 

The "The Gables" has a beautiful, light filled tea room which they call the "Peacock Room" because of the beautiful Art Nouveau inspired blue peacock wallpaper they have decorated the room with. It used to be "The Gables" best, or master bedroom and dressing room. Now turned into one room it has a high ceiling featuring Art Nouveau mouldings and several elegant stained glass windows featuring stylised Art Nouveau flowers depicted in a striking combination of blue and gold, and one window full of golden yellow pears. The window of pears has a similar window in the entrance hall.

 

"The Gables" is a substantial villa that sits proudly on leafy Finch Street in the exclusive inner city suburb of East Malvern.

 

Built in 1902 for local property developer Lawrence Alfred Birchnell and his wife Annie, "The Gables" is considered to be one of the most prominent houses in the Gascoigne Estate. The house was designed by Melbourne architect firm Ussher and Kemp in what was the prevailing style of the time, Queen Anne, which is also known as Federation style (named so after Australian Federation in 1901). Ussher and Kemp were renowned for their beautiful and complex Queen Anne houses and they designed at least six other houses in Finch Street alone. "The Gables" remained a private residence for many years. When Lawrence Birchnell sold it, the house was converted into a rooming house. It remained so throughout the tumultuous 1920s until 1930 when it was sold again. The new owners converted "The Gables" into a reception hall for hire for private functions. The first wedding reception was a breakfast held in the formal dining room in 1930, followed by dancing to Melbourne’s first jukebox in the upstairs rooms. Notorious Melbourne gangster Joseph Theodore Leslie "Squizzy" Taylor was reputed to have thrown a twenty-first birthday party for his girlfriend of the day in the main ballroom (what had originally been the house's billiards room). "The Gables" became very famous for its grand birthday parties throughout the 1930s and 1940s. With its easy proximity to the Caulfield Race Course, "The Gables" ran an underground speakeasy and gambling room upstairs and sold beer from the back door during Melbourne’s restrictive era of alcohol not sold after six o'clock at night. Throughout its history, "The Gables" has been a Melbourne icon, celebrating generation after generation of Melbourne’s wedding receptions, parties and balls. Lovingly restored, the atmosphere and charm of "The Gables" have been retained for the future generations.

 

Grand in its proportions, "The Gables" is a sprawling villa that is built of red brick, but its main feature, as the name suggests, is its many ornamented gables. The front façade is dominated by six different sized gables, each supported by ornamental Art Nouveau influenced timber brackets. The front and side of the house is skirted by a wide verandah decorated with wooden balustrades and rounded fretwork. "The Gables" features two grand bay windows and three other large sets of windows along the front facade, all of which feature beautiful and delicate Art Nouveau stained glass of stylised flowers or fruit. Impressive Art Nouveau stained glass windows can also be found around the entrance, which features the quote made quite popular at the time by Australian soprano Nellie Melba "east, west, home's best." Art Nouveau stained glass can be found in all of the principal rooms of the house; both upstairs and down. “The Gables” also features distinctive chimneys and the classic Queen Anne high pitched gable roofs with decorative barge-boards, terra-cotta tiles and ornate capping.

 

As a result of Federation in 1901, it was not unusual to find Australian flora and fauna celebrated in architecture. This is true of "The Gables", which features intricate plaster work and leadlight throughout the mansion showing off Australian gum leaves and flowers. "The Gables" has fifteen beautifully renovated rooms, many of which are traditionally decorated, including beautiful chandeliers, ornate restored wood and tile fireplaces, leadlight windows, parquetry flooring, sixteen foot ceilings and a sweeping staircase. The drawing room still also features the original leadlight conservatory "The Gables" boasted when it was first built.

 

"The Gables", set on an acre of land, still retains many of the original trees, including the original hedge and two enormous cypress trees in the front. The garden was designed by William Guilfoyle, the master landscape architect of the Royal Botanical Gardens, and "The Gables" still retains much of it original structure. It features a rose-covered gazebo, a pond and fountain, as well as the tallest Norfolk Island pine in the area, which can be seen from some of the tallest skyscrapers in the Melbourne CBD.

 

Henry Hardie Kemp was born in Lancashire in 1859 and designed many other fine homes around Melbourne, particularly in Kew, including his own home “Held Lawn” (1913). He also designed the APA Building in Elizabeth Street in 1889 (demolished in 1980) and the Melbourne Assembly Hall on Collins Street between 1914 and 1915. He died in Melbourne in 1946.

 

Beverley Ussher was born in Melbourne in 1868 and designed homes and commercial buildings around Melbourne, as well as homes in the country. He designed "Milliara" (John Whiting house) in Toorak, in 1895 (since demolished) and "Blackwood Homestead" in Western Australia. He died in 1908.

 

Beverley Ussher and Henry Kemp formed a partnership in 1899, which lasted until Beverley's death in 1908. Their last building design together was the Professional Chambers building in Collins Street in 1908. Both men had strong Arts and Crafts commitments, and both had been in partnerships before forming their own. The practice specialised in domestic work and their houses epitomize the Marseilles-tiled Queen Anne Federation style houses characteristic of Melbourne, and considered now to be a truly distinctive Australian genre. Their designs use red bricks, terracotta tiles and casement windows, avoid applied ornamentation and develop substantial timber details. The picturesque character of the houses results from a conscious attempt to express externally with gables, dormers, bays, roof axes, and chimneys, the functional variety of rooms within. The iconic Federation houses by Beverley Ussher and Henry Kemp did not appear until 1892-4. Then, several of those appeared in Malvern, Canterbury and Kew.

 

Queen Anne style was mostly a residential style inspired by the Arts and Crafts movement in England, but also encompassed some of the more stylised elements of Art Nouveau, which gave it an more decorative look. Queen Anne style was most popular around the time of Federation. With complex roofline structures and undulating facades, many Queen Anne houses fell out of fashion at the beginning of the modern era, and were demolished.

   

Divided reverse. Letter very generously translated by Nettenscheider, written sometime around 7.9.1914 and sent to the author's family, c/ -Herr Martin Bartelmann in Stemwarde, near Hamburg. Postage cancelled at Rendsburg on that date.

 

Wiki:-

 

"The 213th Reserve Infantry Regiment was raised in the Prussian Province of Schleswig-Holstein. As part of the 46th Reserve Division, R.I.R. Nr. 213 fought on the Western Front, entering the line in October along the Yser and remaining there until April 1915, when it went into the fight for Ypres. The division remained in the Yser region until September 1916.."

 

______________________________________________

Notes:

 

Reserve-Infanterie-Regiment Nr. 213 (+MG.-Zug)

 

Aufgestellt in Rendsburg (R.Stb., I. v. Ers.-Btl./I.R.Nr. 85), Schleswig (II. v. Ers.-Btl. /I.R.Nr. 84) und Flensburg (III. v. Ers.-Btl./Füs.R.Nr. 86). Insgesamt waren es 100 % Gediente.

Unterstellung:46. Res.Div.

Kommandeur:Oberst z. D. Ottmer (Bez.-Kdr. Flensburg)

 

I.:Major a. D. v. Loefen

II.:Major z. D. Charisius (Bez.-Offz. Altona)

III.:Major z. D. v. Lüderitz (Bez.-Offz. III Hamburg)

 

Verluste:2170 Offz., Uffz. und Mannschaften.

 

Robert Kaufman generously donated a charm pack for each member of participating chapters in the Modern Quilt Guild to use for a challenge project of our choosing.

 

The NOVA Modern Quilt Guild selected the Bright palate (http://www.robertkaufman.com/pre-cut/konareg_cotton_solids_bright_palette1/) to work with and each of us made one or more mini quilts (29"x29" to 45"x45"). The members were allowed to add fabric from their stash as long as the charms remained the stars of the show. The quilts will be donated to the INOVA Fairfax Children's Hospital NICU.

 

This quilt was created by me