Rouge et Noir
View allAll Photos Tagged embarrassment
Once upon a time there was a girl who started work very early in the morning. She had to be on the job by 4am and so, on good days, she got up at 3 and washed and had breakfast and made her lunch and got out the door by 3:45.
Of course there were also not so good days. Some days she slept till 3:30... or even 3:45... and then it was to hell with breakfast and washing and lunch and everything else.
She'd grab whatever clothing on the floor was closest and, without even turning on the light... bolt out the door, hair askew, shoelaces flying, rubbing grit from her eyes as she backed out the driveway.
It wasn't so bad. She could usually find a few minutes to wash and brush her teeth in the bathroom. And no one much cared what she looked like for work. And things were pretty much fine.
And then the funny thing happened.
The girl was sitting at her desk, having lunch, halfway through her shift. She was chatting with some colleagues, laughing, kibbitzing... typical workplace downtime stuff... and sitting with her legs crossed, swinging her foot... as was her nervous habit.
As she finished her last bite of sandwich, she felt an odd sensation... an odd shifting in the leg of her jeans. She looked down just in time to see a pair of panties shake themselves loose and hang from the toe of her still-swinging shoe... in plain sight of everyone.
Of course they were not pretty panties. Oh no. They were granny pants. Big-ass thick old cotton drawers with stretched out elastic and frayed bits around the legs. There they were, big as life, swinging from the girl's foot. As conversation continued around her.
She pushed her empty lunch bag off her desk to the floor and, bending with a quiet "Oops," scooped up both the bag and the panties and rolled them into a smallish ball.
Conversation continued around her. People dispersed with their coffee and newspapers.
No one had noticed a thing.
And the girl should not have been surprised.
We all think our problems, our embarrassments, our weaknesses are so big and glaring that the world must be focused on them. No, it's not. People have their own problems. Most of what we suffer is silent and invisible.
That's the way it should be.
I've never seen a Red-shouldered Hawk do what this one did today. It came down from the top of the tree, obviously with prey in its sights, right in front of a group of photographers. It then hovered right in front of us for seconds, landing on the bannister adjacent to the group, then flew back to the trees but landed upside down on a branch before taking off in embarrassment a few seconds later. Happy Thanksgiving everyone!
. . . Finally winter is officially here, so Point Betsie can be true to it's nature, and display winter without embarrassment! Another snow squall rolls in off Lake Michigan while the icing of everything in sight continues on. This includes photographers!
Have a great Pre-Christmas week Facebook, Flickr, and 500px friends!
Blush
A reddening of the face, especially from modesty, embarrassment, or shame.
It's a Begonia Flower, with a heart ;-)))
Texture by Paul Grand www.flickr.com/photos/63263430@N00/
Featured on Explore 12/18/2008
I know I was blocked by her a couple of months ago! So I could never tell her how guilty I feel of how I treated her!
I made the worst crime possible by anyone in SL and that is I forgot that a real life person with feelings and emotions was behind their avatar!
I bumped into her but she never knew I was in front of her as she never TP'ed away!
If you know her or think you do please do not tag, for two reasons!
1) I do not want to cause her further hurt or embarrassment
2) You maybe wrong which is worse!
Any tags I will remove!
or of the traveler who enters a strange country. Most photographers would feel a certain embarrassment in admitting publicly that they carried within them a sense of wonder, yet without it they would not produce the work they do, whatever their particular field. It is the gift of seeing the life around them clearly and vividly, as something that is exciting in its own right. It is an innate gift, varying in intensity with the individual’s temperament and environment.
Bill Brandt
"Camera in London", The Focal Press, London 1948
HSS!! Peace Now!
rose, little theater rose garden, raleigh, north carolina
It’s an embarrassment to be English in Europe for obvious reasons, so for the last few days I have been in Morocco pretending to be French.
While they were able to surpass my shots with ease, no one was a match for my titles. So most may have fallen victim to second-hand embarrassment. 😂
This shows around 10 mm of a grater by the way.
One of my attempts at the "Macro Mondays" theme "Made of metal".
Shot with a Nikon "LS-3510AF 50 mm F 3.5" (scanner) lens on a Canon EOS R5.
34:52 - Choose your favourite poem and try to represent a line of it visually.
I don't have a favourite poem, but as I have written a lot of poetry, I thought I would use one of mine.
words are difficult
things to swallow
transparent
huge
and choking…
I can think
into the air
but the communication wires
shake with electricity
and break…
I can feel
and you might grasp
halfway
what my lips
are trying to say
but can’t…
I can speak
but my tongue
confuses things extremely
unruly creature!
and you turn
in embarrassment
at something that should have
reached you…
I can touch
in hope
that inner reachings
might become attached…
because
words are difficult
things to swallow…
Les pierres nous racontent l'Histoire. Balivernes !
La pierre s'en fiche pas mal de l'Histoire, elle ne fait pas d'histoires, elle se contente de voir le soleil, la pluie et toutes autres sortes de choses en intemporelles intempéries. La mousse elle supporte bien et s'en accommode, mais ce qu'elle n'aime pas c'est l'arbre qui avec une belle forme d'audace et de sans-gêne vient parfois la bousculer.
Stones tell us history. Nonsense!
The stone doesn't give a damn about history, it doesn't make a fuss, it just sees the sun, the rain and all other sorts of things in timeless bad weather. The moss supports it well and adapts to it, but what it does not like is the tree which, with a beautiful form of audacity and without embarrassment, sometimes jostles it.
“We’re often afraid of looking at our shadow because we want to avoid the shame or embarrassment that comes along with admitting mistakes.” – Marianne Williamson
This is the last of four images I'm posting in sequence from a tremendous morning back in September. All are of the same scene, looking down from near the top of Mam Tor across the Hope Valley (Derbyshire, England) during a temperature inversion when a sea of fog was lapping against the hills. Sunrise was at 6:50, so they span the blue hour to the point at which the post-sunrise light started to get a little harsher.
If you get a touch of déjà vu, that's because you really have seen a couple of them before. One was on my stream for about 36 hours before I stupidly, and in total error, erased it... doh!...another I more recently deleted as I've decided I now want them all together and in order as a record of the transition. Not good etiquette to post-erase-repost, but there you go. I'll conquer my embarrassment, no doubt :-)
Very best wishes for the New Year to all Flickr Friends. Hope you all have excellent snapping in 2017!
Alas, I have no more rare warbler photos, or even any rare migrant photos left that are worth posting. I briefly touched upon the idea of posting some Prairie Warbler shots that I got last month, but they were total embarrassment. So, here is a consolation Heron!
Don't worry though, I haven't given up on those migrants yet. This weekend I'll definitely try to chase anything that shows up within my county, and see if I can get up to Marin or something too. As for now though, I think today will be the day that I'll just have to accept that I'm not Digital Plume Hunter, and don't have an endless number of awesome warbler photos to post forever.
good birding,
The richness of the soil still wet from the previous days rain, The lush greens of the trees, the glorious hues reflected against the clouds and atmospheric fog and the mist slowly rolling across the water. All of this unfolding before me yet there is a stillness reflected not only in the water but in my mind. Another reminder that everyday is a blessing.
… où il y a de la chaîne.
French pun => There’s no need to stand on ceremony <=
Where there is some embarrassment (chain), there is no pleasure.
Pffff
Bilbao : Musée maritime
Challenge sur Flickr : 62 : objet / panoramic
“Corporate secrets bouncing around a computer system thats open to the world? Hey, that’s fair game and they deserve the embarrassment of its discovery. But using this knowledge to line your pockets or, worse, using insider knowledge to get the information and then calling that hacking is an affront to any of us who hack for the sake of learning.”
― Emmanuel Goldstein, Dear Hacker: Letters to the Editor of 2600
I didn't make it today ... looked pretty overcast when I did prise the eyes open.
But last year Dandy and I celebrated the occasion.
Great how he always seem to be there when needed. Especially as we were the only ones there.
(Oh! To my embarrassment I just found out that Summer Solstice this year was the 20th June. But, luckily, that does not alter the celebration above, which was 2007. Whew!)
Shame is a powerful emotion for some of us. The realization that you have lost control of your own life could be depressing or liberating. There are actually three choices. Do you let it keep you down? Do you embrace your newly realized status? Or do you refuse the path chosen for you and change course? What do you choose when your own home no longer seems like a safe haven?
How does she sleep?
🎵 Home is Anywhere You Hang Your Head 🎶
Home is Anywhere You Hang Your Head - Elvis Costello and the Attractions (1986), Blood and Chocolates, Elvis Costello
Here comes Mr. Misery
He's tearing out his hair again
He's crying over her again
He's standing in the super-market shouting at the customers
Here comes Mr. Misery
He'll never be any good with a mouth full of gold and blood
He's contemplating murder again
He must be in love
But you know she doesn't want you
But you can't seem to get it in your head
Oh and you can't sleep at night
And she haunts you when you go to bed
When you're tired of talking and you can't drink it down
So you hang around and drown instead
Home isn't where it used to be
Home is anywhere you hang your head . . .
Picture taken at home.
*Working Towards a Better World
SALON.COM
www.salon.com/2015/08/06/donald_trump_is_america_why_the_...
Thank you for your kind visit. Have a wonderful and beautiful day! xo❤️
The sister statue in Vik
One of the Voyage sculptures (the other in Iceland) looking out to The Deep.
Ties which survived the bitter Cod War and intense economic rivalry over fishing are to be marked by an unusual Yorkshire expedition to Iceland.
The Lord Mayor of Hull, whose deep sea trawlers were the main UK victim of the 1970s dispute, is hoping to secure a bronze replacement for a 'friendship statue' which given to the city in 2006 by the Icelandic fishing community of Vik-i-Myrdal.
To Hull's embarrassment and shame, the statue was stolen in July by presumed scrap metal thieve.211
© Leanne Boulton, All Rights Reserved
Street photography from Glasgow, Scotland.
Previously unpublished shot from February 2018.
Wishing you all a fantastic weekend of photography. Stay safe and keep clicking those shutters!
photography is a moment of embarrassment and a lifetime of pleasure :-)
Tony Benn
Chimney Rock Trail, Ghost Ranch, Abiquiu, New Mexico
This is a dog that accompanies its owner to the cafeteria everyday that I used to frequent. He is always by his masters side whilst curiously observing passersby on the street.
Ever since the worldwide lockdown the demand of pets have tremendously increased all over. Sadly, as the world is beginning to open up large number of pets are being neglected, as their owners are back to their usual selfish ways without a care for the adopted pets, environment, society and the list goes on.
An embarrassment to the human race. What would they do with the next lockdown just around the corner ?
Brighton
April, 2021
.
Yesterday's fantastic clouds continued all the way to sunset.
Decided to take this one to the very edge of being able to look myself in the mirror as the description of the sliders sunday group says. And even then, I'm just peeking around the side of the mirror.
This is a pano created from 8 portrait orientation shots, hand blended in Ps. Each layer had to have its own color balance adjustment layer with lots of sliding. I'm always amazed that even with the camera set on manual everything, how differently the sensor will render hues from one shot to another, moving only millimeters from one to another.
After all that, the layers were merged up and that was copied. I used a technique from a youtube video by Calvin Hollywood to create a more dodge burned look.
(I know, Calvin Hollywood?)
It involves vivid light mode, inverting, blurring, merging down, changing blend modes, copying to accentuate effects. I had to write down the method due to my oh so wonderful memory.
Then into Nik Viveza for spot sliding using control points.
And some isolated dodging, burning, adjustments using luminosity based channels and masks.
And that's how you get to the point where you can look yourself in the mirror after editing, but only with one eye, and that eye squinting in embarrassment.
La Liberté éclairant le monde, the goddess of liberty has been standing on Liberty Island enlightening the world since 1886. With the exception of not stepping up sooner when German leadership lost their minds in the late 1930's and not fishing or cutting bait in Vietnam I've been proud to live here, I still believe our constitution is an example of how laws not men rule the world, until now. I'll skip the rhetoric and or debate and just say that I can not wait for our current administration to be gone. I just hope we still have something left when they are done mucking it up. He's an outright embarrassment.
You have all the luck Mr Bond.....
“The world is like a reverse casino. In a casino, if you gamble long enough, you’re certainly going to lose. But in the real world, where the only thing you’re gambling is, say, your time or your embarrassment, then the more stuff you do, the more you give luck a chance to find you.” – Scott Adams
Occasionally, a Green Heron will launch itself into the water to go after a fish beyond its reach from the perch, but rare is the unintended fall from grace. Rarer still, this one didn't even come up with a catch, thus doubling its embarrassment. On Horsepen Bayou.
The sweet and mellow voice of Karen Carpenter contrasts with the not so sweet or mellow weather on Milford Sound. This images was taken just as a huge wave hit the back of the boat, soaking me and the camera, bringing smug smiles from those inside in the cabin.
It was worth a few seconds of embarrassment and getting wet for though ;-)
The King is being asked whether he preferred to pay inheritance tax or, alternatively, let the idea of private property go and return land, palaces, art work, jewels and horses back to the State. Fuji X-E2.
On the Shoreline East, a decrepit embarrassment of a train. An absolute embarrassment for the “richest” country in the world. But it is cheap. Joe Manchin aught to ride it one day. Meanwhile the Build Back Better bill should mean new and more frequent trains. 😀
When you get embarrassed in front of the person you love.....
In these difficult times, recalling the cute little moments when we first fell in love, is good for the soul...try it ;-)
“Most things in life are moments of pleasure and a lifetime of embarrassment; photography is a moment of embarrassment and a lifetime of pleasure.” – ~Tony Benn~
Enjoy a peaceful and tender evening everyone!
"Won't somebody tell me where is love?
I know when I see her face,
She will soon replace the pain that I've uncovered.
Where is Love?
And why does it hurt so much?
And will I measure up if I get to hold her?
The angel on my shoulder.
You can be disheartened,
Made a fool again.
You can't see the future,
And who knows how this ends.
Now I hear you calling,
The dance has just begun.
Head and heals I'm falling are you gonna be the one?....."
This is the third of four images I'm posting in sequence from a tremendous morning back in September. All are of the same scene, looking down from near the top of Mam Tor across the Hope Valley (Derbyshire, England) during a temperature inversion when a sea of fog was lapping against the hills. Sunrise was at 6:50, so they span the blue hour to the point at which the post-sunrise light started to get a little harsher.
If you get a touch of déjà vu, that's because you really have seen a couple of them before. One was on my stream for about 36 hours before I stupidly, and in total error, erased it... doh!...another I more recently deleted as I've decided I now want them all together and in order as a record of the transition. Not good etiquette to post-erase-repost, but there you go. I'll conquer my embarrassment, no doubt :-)
Very best wishes for the New Year to all Flickr Friends. Hope you all have excellent snapping in 2017!
Clearing Storm, Evening. © Copyright 2022 G Dan Mitchell.
Summer thunder storm clouds clear at sunset above the Sierra Nevada crest, Yosemite National Park.
Photographic prospects seem to be distributed across a sort of bell curve. Most of the time the opportunities are fine and interesting, and it is possible to make decent photographs from what you find. Occasionally I find myself at one of the sharp ends of the curve. When at the end where nothing much seems to be happening, I remind myself that I’m storing up karma for those moments when the opposite happens. And if you are out there enough, these unbelievable moments will happen from time to time — and they are enough to keep you coming back.
This was a truly memorable evening that provided an embarrassment of visual riches. Soon after this trip, I came up with a series of four photographs in landscape orientation that traced the astonishing evolution of the light from late afternoon through dusk. Four seemed like plenty at the time, so I left the rest behind — some of which would normally have been keepers. This is one of those, made when I briefly shifted the camera to portrait orientation.
G Dan Mitchell is a California photographer and visual opportunist. His book, “California’s Fall Color: A Photographer’s Guide to Autumn in the Sierra” is available from Heyday Books, Amazon, and directly from G Dan Mitchell.
Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.
Today, Lettice is entertaining the world famous British concert pianist, Sylvia Fordyce in her well appointed her Cavendish Mews drawing room. Lettice met Sylvia at a private audience after a performance at the Royal Albert Hall*. Sylvia is the long-time friend of Lettice’s fiancée, Sir John Nettleford-Hughes and his widowed sister Clementine (known preferably now by the more cosmopolitan Clemance) Pontefract, the latter of whom Sylvia has known since they were both eighteen. Lettice, Sir John and Clemance were invited to join Sylvia in her dressing room after her Schumann and Brahms concert. After a brief chat with Sir John (whom she refers to as Nettie, using the nickname only his closest friends use) and Clemance, Sylvia had her personal secretary, Atlanta, show them out so that she could discuss “business” with Lettice. Anxious that like so many others, Sylvia would try to talk Lettice out of marrying Sir John, who is old enough to be her father and known for his philandering and not so discreet dalliances with pretty chorus girls of Lettice’s age and younger, Lettice was surprised when Sylvia admitted that when she said that she wanted to discuss business, that was what she genuinely meant. Sylvia owns a small country property just outside of Belchamp St Paul** on which she had a secluded little house she calls ‘The Nest’ built not so long ago by architect Sydney Castle***: a house she had decorated by society interior designer Syrie Maugham****. However, unhappy with Mrs. Maugham’s passion for shades of white, Sylvia wanted Lettice to inject some colour into the drawing room of her country retreat by painting a feature wall for her. Thus, she invited Lettice to motor up to Essex with her for an overnight stay at the conclusion of her concert series at The Hall to see the room for herself, and perhaps get some ideas as to what and how she might paint it. Lettice agreed to Sylvia’s commission, and originally had the idea of painting flowers on the wall, reflecting the newly planted cottage garden outside the large drawing room windows of ‘The Nest’. However, after hearing the story of Sylvia’s life – a sad story throughout which, up until more recent years, she had felt like a bird trapped in a cage, Lettice has opted to paint the wall with stylised feathers, expressing the freedom to fly and soar that Sylvia’s later life has given her the ability to do. Delighted with the outcome of her new feature wall, Sylvia has come to Cavendish Mews today to pay the remainder of her bill in full, a result not always so easily come by, by some of Lettice’s previous wealthy clients.
Just as Edith, Lettice’s maid, is arranging one of her light and fluffy sponge onto a white gilt edged plate in the kitchen to serve to Lettice and her guest, she hears the mechanical buzz of the Cavendish Mews servant’s call bell. Glancing up she notices the circle for the front door has changed from black to red, indicating that it is the front door bell that has rung.
“Oh blast.” she mutters. “Just as I’m about to serve cake too.”
Quickly whipping off the stained apron she is wearing which has splashes of cream and strawberry juice from decorating the cake, she hurries from the kitchen into the public area of the flat via a door in the scullery adjoining the kitchen, snatching up a clean apron from a hook by the door as she goes. Quickly fastening the freshly laundered apron over her blue and white striped calico print morning uniform as she walks into the entrance hall.
The front door buzzer goes again, sounding noisily, filling the atmosphere with a jarring echo.
“Edith?” Lettice’s voice calls from the drawing room where she is sitting with Sylvia.
“On my way, Miss!” Edith assures her mistress in a harried tone as she hurries across the think Chinese silk carpet to the front door. “I’m coming, alright. I’m coming.” mutters Edith irritably to herself as she makes her way toward the front door with rushed footsteps. “Keep your hair on****.”
She pats her cap and the hairpins holding her blonde waves neatly in place as she goes, hoping that she looks presentable as she opens the front door.
“It’s only little me, dear Lettice.” Gerald simpers as he walks into the drawing room where Lettice sits in her usual black japanned, rounded back, while upholstered tup armchair next to the telephone, whilst Sylvia Fordyce lounges languidly in the one opposite.
“Oh Gerald! What a lovely surprise!” Lettice says, standing up, the lilt in her voice cheerful, but the look in her sparkling blue eyes murderous as she glances at Gerald. “I… I thought I told you I was entertaining Miss Fordyce is afternoon.”
“Oh, you may well have,” he answers, lightly tapping the side of his head beneath the brim of his straw boater absently. “But silly me, it must have completely slipped my mind. I’m so sorry!” His words are apologetic, and his behaviour contrite, but there is a mischievous hazel tinted glint in his own dark brown eyes, and a cheeky curl upturning the corner of his mouth as she speaks that betrays his true thoughts. “It’s only a fleeting visit. I merely came by to drop off a little something for you.” He holds out a small parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine towards Lettice.
For the moment, Gerald politely ignores Sylvia’s dark sloe eyed stare as she remains draped languidly in her armchair, her long fingers steepled in front of her chest. He can feel her silently appraising his well-cut navy blue blazer with glinting gold buttons, his pressed white trousers with a crisp crease down the middle at both the front and back, his natty yet at the same time slightly foppish blue and white striped tie with a matching pocket square*****, his bold red carnation boutonnière****** and his stylish straw boater.
“Oh Gerald! Lettice says, accepting the gift. “You shouldn’t have.”
“Oh,” Gerald retorts, waving his hand dismissively. “It’s nothing really, just a new scarf in silk I had printed with one of my designs in Lyon. I had a few made up, but I wanted you to the be first to have one, of course. They are very much your colours, my dear Lettice.”
“Ahh!” exclaims Sylvia, suddenly breaking her languid pose and leaning forward in her seat, looking up at Gerald with great interest as her red painted mouth hangs open in anticipation, her tongue pressed to the base of her mouth behind her slightly discoloured teeth. “So, this is the wunderkind******* Gerald Bruton, of whom I have read so much about in The Lady******** as he takes the London fashion scene by storm.”
“Oh! Where are my matters!” Lettice remarks, quickly putting Gerald’s unopened parcel aside. “Sylvia darling, may I introduce Mr. Gerald Bruton, Grosvenor Street couturier, and my oldest, dearest and sometimes,” She pauses for effect. “My most frustrating chum from childhood. Gerald darling, may I introduce Miss Sylvia Fordyce, the world famous British concert pianist.”
“And you latest client… and hopefully new friend.” Sylvia adds with a smile.
It is only then that Gerald allows himself to truly take his attention away from Lettice and focus upon her guest. Wearing an over-sized chocolate brown velvet cloche, Sylvia’s black dyed sharp bob pokes out from beneath it, framing her striking, angular face which is caked with a thick layer of white makeup. Her lips are painted a bright red, which appears even more garish against the white of her face paint, just as the darkness of her glittering eyes are intensified by her white, almost ethereal, pallor. She wears no necklace, nor any earrings that Gerald can discern beneath the bottom of her cloche. In fact, her only piece of jewellery is a large aquamarine and diamond cluster ring on the left middle finger on her elegant pianist’s right hand. However, being the only piece of ornamentation she wears, it makes the ring, already a striking piece in its own right, even more so as it sparkles and winks beneath the electric light of Lettice’s chandelier overhead. Her outfit is simple and stripped back: a white satin blouse accessorised with a black and white cheque silk scarf tied in a loose and artistic style, and a long column like skirt in black, beneath the hem of which poke the pointed toes of a pair of high heeled black patent leather boots. Far from being conventionally beautiful, the pianist has captured the power of dressing to make her presence unignorable, and she wears her cultivated look with unabashed pride.
“Miss Fordyce needs no introduction.” Gerald enthuses as he bends down and raises Sylvia’s elegant hand, kissing it gently just above the sparkling cluster ring. “Enchanté.” he breathes in French.
“Charmante,” Sylvia replies with an enigmatic smile, bowing her head slightly as she slowly withdraws her hand from Gerald’s, enjoying the attention her is lavishing upon her. “I could say the same about you, Mr. Bruton, for Lettice speaks of you fondly, and often. I believe that it is you I have to thank for our clever Lettice finishing my feature wall. She has just been telling me that when her inspiration or energy was flagging whilst she was painting it, you spurned her on to complete it. I’m most grateful.”
“I did my best, Miss Fordyce.” Gerald replies, his cheeks flushing red at Sylvia’s compliment. “Lettice is,” He turns his head away from Sylvia and focuses upon his best friend. “A remarkable artist, and highly skilled.”
“Oh Gerald!” Lettice gasps.
“It sounds like you are also her biggest champion, my dear Mr. Bruton.” Sylvia opines.
“But,” Gerald goes on. “She doesn’t have the faith in her own abilities that she should.” He returns his attentions to Sylvia. “I’m sure you agree, Miss Fordyce.”
“Indeed I do, Mr. Bruton. Your friend is highly accomplished, and I was just telling our clever Lettice how delighted I am with my new feature wall.”
“I think it is very beautiful too, Miss Fordyce. You are most fortunate.” Gerald replies.
Without saying anything, Lettice gently puts her hand on Gerald’s forearm.
“Well!” Gerald says, clearing his throat a little awkwardly, taking Lettice’s silent hint in his stride. “I did say that this was only a fleeting visit. I really should be off.” He looks at Lettice with a meaningful look. “I’ve been here enough times to show myself out, whilst you entertain your guest. I do hope you like the scarf.”
“Oh really?” Sylvia interjects rising elegantly from her seat, the fabric of her outfit draping down over her slender frame like shivering water. “Must you go?” She turns her head to Lettice. “Must he go, Lettice darling? Your maid was fetching us cake wasn’t she? Surely there is enough for three?” She turns back to Gerald. “Please, Mr. Bruton. I’d so love you to stay! Darling Lettice and I have finished up the tedious part of my visit, settling my account, and we were just prattling away idly, weren’t we Lettice darling? Besides, I would value your opinion, since you are an arbiter of fashion, Mr. Bruton. Please?” She pouts her scarlet painted lips, which even in a plumped up form still have a slender look about them. “Please!”
“Well I…” Gerald looks between Sylvia and Lettice. “I suppose I could tarry for a short while. I don’t have to be at my next appointment just yet, and I do so love Edith’s sponges, which she has told me she has made for you, Miss Fordyce.”
“Oh Gerald!” Lettice laughs. “Please drop the pretence and save yourself the embarrassment. Bring that chair over and join us.” She indicates with a sweeping gesture to the black japanned Chippendale chair, upholstered in silver and blue Art Deco fabric, which whilst unorthodox with such clashing styles , works under Lettice’s clever eye for design. “I’ll tell Edith we’re a trio now.” She steps over and depresses the servants’ call button by the fireplace, the buzzer echoing in the service area of the flat.
“Thank you, Lettice.” Gerald says gratefully as he takes off his straw boater and places it on one of Lettice’s black japanned side tables before drawing up the chair she has indicated to the coffee table and takes a seat.
“Did Cyril put you up to this?” Lettice asks him, mentioning Gerald’s young, fey and more overtly homosexual lover who lives in a boarding house for theatrical types in Putney with Gerald’s friend Harriet Milford, who designs hats in addition to running her rather dramatic boarding house. “Turning up on my doorstep, knowing that Miss Fordyce would be here?”
“Well...” Gerald says, blushing red as he speaks.
“I knew you hadn’t forgotten that I told you Miss Fordyce was visiting today!” Lettice wags a finger at Gerald. “It isn’t like you to forget a date, even if it isn’t one of your own.”
“Who is Cyril, Mr. Bruton?” Sylvia asks, intrigued as she resumes her languid stance in her tub chair again.
“Cyril is my… my friend, Miss Fordyce.” Gerald pipes up quickly. “He’s… he’s an oboist who plays in the West End theatres, and like me,” He bushes even deeper. “He is a very big fan of yours, Miss Fordyce.”
“A friend.” Sylvia muses, looking Gerald up and down knowingly, but keeping her impressions to herself behind her heavily painted face, only smiling politely in acknowledgement of Gerald.
“When I told him that I was going with Lettice to stay at your very lovely little country retreat in Essex, he was more than a little jealous.”
“Was he indeed?” Sylvia chuckles indulgently.
Just at that moment, Edith walks into the drawing room.
“You rang, Miss?” Edith says, bobbing a polite curtsey.
“Yes Edith.” Lettice replies. “Mr. Bruton is staying now, so it will be tea for three now, if you can manage it.”
“Of course Miss.” Edith replies. “May I take your hat, Mr. Bruton.”
“Thank you Edith.” he says, passing her his straw boater. “I do like your delicious sponge cake, Edith.” Gerald compliments the young girl.
“Thank you, Sir.” Edith replies, blushing as she basks momentarily in Gerald’s compliment before bobbing another quick curtsey to the assembled company and retreating back into the dining room and through the green baize door, back into the service area of the flat.
“Even if my figure suffers for it.” Gerald adds, turning his attentions back to Sylvia.
“Such high praise for your cook, Lettice darling.” Sylvia says with her expertly plucked black eyebrows arching high over her eyes. “I am in for a treat!”
“Edith is an excellent cook when it comes to cakes, Sylvia darling, so I asked her to bake her speciality today, a cream filled strawberry sponge cake.”
“Goodness!” Sylvia gasps. “No wonder your figure suffers, Mr. Bruton, at the sound of such extravagance. I myself,” She raises a hand to her throat. “Do not suffer the same problem. As a performer, I have far too much frenetic energy to burn.”
“And you do it with such theatricality,” Gerald enthuses.
“Why thank you, Mr. Bruton.” Sylvia says, smiling indulgently as she does. “Such a lovely compliment.”
“Oh Gerald!” Lettice giggles. “I do believe you are quite smitten with Sylvia.”
“Don’t be cheeky…” Gerald goes to call Lettice by her most hated childhood pet name, ‘Lettuce Leaf’, but being the presence of the pianist he so admires, and wanting to maintain a good impression, he swallows awkwardly and finishes a little lamely, “Lettice.”
Sylvia laughs heartily. “You two do know each other well, don’t you, Lettice darling? You have a way between you that seems very comfortable. Have you known Mr. Bruton all your life?”
“Yes.” Lettice replies.
“I’m just a little older than Lettice, and we grew up on neighbouring estates in Wiltshire,” Gerald goes on. “And all of Lettice’s siblings, with the exception of her beast of a brother Lionel, are much older that we are, and my own brother Roland is a few years my senior and never had time for me.”
“So we just ended up playing together, didn’t we Gerald?”
“We did, Lettice.”
“And so, we became the best of chums and have stayed as such ever since.”
“How utterly delightful!” Sylvia opines with a clap of her hands. “But please, do go on about your friend, Cyril, Mr. Bruton. I love the West End theatre scene, and attend whenever my schedule allows. We theatrical types must support one another and stick together. Perhaps I’ve seen, or rather heard, your young oboist friend in a show?”
“Well, Cyril was performing in Julian Wylie’s********* revue, ‘Better Days’********** at the Hippodrome***********, but it’s just finished, so he is between engagements at the moment.”
“I see.” Sylvia replies, nodding and staring deeply into Gerald’s eyes.
“You… err, you wanted to ask me something about fashion, I believe, Miss Fordyce?” Gerald asks, feeling uncomfortable under Sylvia’s inscrutable stare.
“I did, Mr. Bruton!” Sylvia replies animatedly, releasing Gerald from her scrutiny. “Thank you for reminding me. Being the arbiter and setter of current London fashion trends that you are…”
“Oh, I don’t know if I’d go quite that far, Miss Fordyce.” Gerald chuckles, blushing yet again.
“Nonsense! Mr. Bruton!” Sylvia scoffs. “False modesty doesn’t suit you any more than it does darling Lettice, and,” She wags her index finger admonishingly at him, the cluster of diamonds and aquamarines on the finger next to it glinting and gleaming in the light. “It’s no good for business. Did you not design this divine frock for Lettice?”
Gerald turns to face Lettice, although he has no need to, as he recognised the rose and marone silk georgette knife pleated frock, the same one she wore when she first arrived at ‘The Nest’ with Sylvia when she went to look at the wall her hostess wanted redecorated, as being one of his own designs for Lettice the moment he laid eyes on her upon walking into the drawing room. “Indeed it is, Miss Fordyce.”
“Then I stand by what I say, Mr. Bruton. You have an eye for colour and cut, style and panache, and you create things that flatter your customers.”
“Well, Lettice is a special case, Miss Fordyce. As you’ve heard, she is my best friend, and she has always been so supportive of my frock making, ever since I first began. She’s something of a muse to me.”
“Muse or not, if you couldn’t design frocks, had no style or awareness of colour, poor Lettice might be wearing something that makes her look perfectly hideous at the moment. Although,” She turns and ponders over Lettice sitting comfortably in her armchair. “I do think that would be very hard to do, since she is so lithe and lovely.”
“We concur in that opinion, Miss Fordyce.” Gerald agrees.
“However, I stand by what I said before, you are an arbiter of fashion, and your creations are influencing what London women are wearing. So, I wanted to ask you, what is your opinion on,” She stands up suddenly, and spreads her legs slightly, the movement causing the black fabric of what Gerald had thought was a dress to reveal itself as being a pair of roomy Oxford bags************. “Women wearing trousers?”
Lettice immediately sees this as being a test for Gerald, as to whether Sylvia, who doesn’t suffer fools or people who don’t tend to share her opinion, will want to invite him to join her exclusive coterie of friends, as she has Lettice. Lettice sits forward slightly in her seat, causing an almost imperceptible widening of her guest’s eyes opposite her, the change, and slight flash in her eyes as she stares at Gerald causing Lettice to sit back in her seat.
Without batting an eyelid, Gerald replies firmly. “I always admired Paul Poiret************* for introducing wide legged trousers for women in 1910. I thought it a pity that they only caught on amongst the most avant-garde and daring of his clients.”
Lettice releases the pent-up breath she has silently been holding, sighing with relief, knowing by the subtle curl in Sylvia’s red streak of a mouth that she is pleased with Gerald’s response.
“And when do you think it will be commonplace to see trousers for women in London shops, Mr. Bruton?” Sylvia goes on, placing her hands in a stance of defiance on her hips. “Currently I have to travel to Berlin to get mine.” She kicks up her right heel a little, making her slacks billow for a moment before falling back down elegantly against her legs.
“Ahh, that is a very good question, Miss Fordyce.” Gerald replies. “If I had my way, they would be readily available for all women to wear. However…”
“However?” Sylvia asks.
“However, the English are conservative by nature, Miss Fordyce, and women wearing trousers would be too shocking for their taste, at least currently. London is not Paris, or Berlin, madam.”
At that moment, the conversation is broken by the sound of china rattling against silver, as Edith pushes open the green baize door leading from the scullery to the dining room carrying a large silver tray laden with Lettice’s best Art Deco Royal Doulton ‘Falling Leaves’ tea set, cups, saucers and plates to match, and one of her beautiful strawberry sponge cakes. The trio watch, transfixed as she slowly walks across the dining room and into the drawing room carrying the tray, which looks far to heavy for a girl as dainty as Edith. They observe in silence as she lowers the tray onto the low, black japanned coffee table, before rising and bobbing a curtsy to her mistress.
“Will there be anything else, Miss?” Edith asks, aware of the attention and curiosity she has created with her presence, but determined not to let it impact her polite and calm manner.
“No, thank you, Edith.” Lettice replies politely. “However, I’ll be sure to call if we need anything else.”
“Very good, Miss.” She bobs another curtsey and quickly retreats back to the kitchen.
“Yes,” Sylvia says quietly with a sigh as she watches Edith’s retreating figure disappear back through the green baize door. “The idea of women wearing trousers does seem to be too unpalatable for so much of the British population. Take your maid, for example, Lettice darling. Both times I have visited you here at Cavendish Mews, she cannot help but look aghast at my outlandish roomy trousers, her horror as plain as the nose on her face!”
“Oh Sylvia, darling!” Lettice protests, as she begins to unpack the tray and set up the teacups onto saucers. “That isn’t fair to poor Edith!”
“Whyever not, Lettice darling?” Sylvia retorts. “Surely it would be more practical for her to do her job, were she to wear trousers than some calico frock like she is wearing now. She should find the idea of me wearing trousers exciting, not abhorrent!”
“That may well be, Miss Fordyce, but she’ll never wear them.” Gerald replies.
“How ridiculous! I ask again, whyever not?” Sylvia asks again, throwing her hands up in the air in exasperation.
“Because Edith is what is known as a good girl.” Lettice elucidates. “She was brought up by her parents: a factory worker and a laundress I believe, to have moral scruples.”
“Moral scruples!” Sylvia scoffs dismissively.
“Where she comes from, Sylvia darling, women are servants, wives or mothers. They don’t rune businesses. They aren’t concert pianists. And they certainly don’t wear trousers.”
“She’ll never wear them, Miss Fordyce,” Gerald agrees. “Never!”
“And you, Mr. Bruton?” Sylvia asks with a cunning smile.
“Me, Miss Fordyce?”
“Would you be willing to make trousers for women, even if it would shock some parts of London society?”
“Well, as a matter-of-fact, Miss Fordyce,” Gerald says with a conspiratorial smile and a twinkle in his eyes. “I happen to be in the process of designing a range of beach pyjamas************* at the moment.”
“Beach pyjamas?” Sylvia asks, licking her lips with excitement. “What are they?”
“Well, rather like the name suggests, it’s a pair of wide-legged trousers with a matching blouse, made from colourful, brightly patterned cotton fabrics, similar to what you might wear to bed.”
“I don’t wear anything to bed, Mr. Bruton.” Sylvia replies with a throaty chuckle.
“Sylvia!” Lettice admonishes her guest as Gerald blushes red.
“Please pardon my lack of moral scruples, Mr. Bruton.” Sylvia says teasingly. “Perhaps I should take a leaf from your maid, Lettice darling.” She then continues, “Do go on about your beach pyjamas, Mr. Bruton! They sound positively delicious!” Sylvia murmurs.
“They are all the rage in Deauville.” Gerald goes on.
“Deauville is hardly Bournemouth, Brighton or Lyme Regis.” Lettice counters as she removes Edith’s cake from the tray.
“I just need an exponent of them who would be brave enough and willing to wear them.” Gerald defends.
“Maybe.” Lettice mutters doubtfully.
“Could they be made of silk or satin, Mr. Bruton?” Sylvia asks, sitting up, her eyes twinkling darkly.
“Of course, Miss Fordyce. In fact, they lend themselves to being made of something so deliciously extravagant.”
“Surely you aren’t suggesting you’d be Gerald’s proponent and wear beach pyjamas, Sylvia darling?” Lettice asks.
“Well why not, Lettice darling?” Sylvia counters her friend. “You know me well enough by now to know I don’t give a fig what people think! I am my own woman.” She pats her chest proudly. “Besides,” she adds with a throaty chuckle. “I’d enjoy nothing more than shocking those ghastly prudish Edwardian matrons sitting in their deckchairs along the pier at Bognor Regis*************** as I parade before them in a pair of Mr. Bruton’s beach pyjamas!” She pauses. “Made of satin, of course!”
“Of course, Miss Fordyce.” Gerald agrees, quickly getting swept up in the promise of the idea.
“Excellent!” Sylvia laughs. “What jolly fun!”
“Rather!” Gerald agrees, growing excited at the thought. “Jolly good show, Miss Fordyce!”
“Do you know what, Mr. Bruton?” Sylvia asks, as she accepts a cup of freshly poured tea from her hostess. “I’ve just had the most marvellous idea! I was saying to Lettice here, just before you arrived, how I was thinking of throwing a small soirée at ‘The Nest’ with a few like-minded friends: musicians, artists and the like,” She gesticulates about her as if demonstrating who the people’s professions might be. “To celebrate the completion of my fabulous Lettice Chetwynd original feature wall, and for me to be able to show it off to a few of my dearest friends.”
“That sounds splendid, Miss Fordyce.” Gerald says.
“Well I was just thinking, why don’t you join us? Lettice will have a familiar face beyond mine and Nettie’s to look at.”
“Nettie?” Gerald queries.
“It’s John’s pet name given him by Clemance and a select group of close friends.” Lettice pipes up as she hands Gerald his teacup. “But please don’t you call him that, Gerald darling!” she implores. “I don’t think I could take it seriously, coming from you.”
“Have no fear, Lettice darling!” Gerald chuckles. “I don’t think I could come at calling Sir John that, even if you wanted me too.” He screws up his nose in a mixture of perplexity and distaste. “Nettie…. Nettie.” He shakes his head.
“You could bring your… friend,” Sylvia goes on, her eyebrows arching over her eyes before she gives Gerald a cheeky and conspiratorial wink. “Cyril. Playing the oboe, he’s a musician after all, so he’d be in good company, and you did say just before that he was a trifle jealous of you getting to visit ‘The Nest’ without him.”
“That really is most generous of you, Miss Fordyce!” Gerald exclaims.
“Oh, my offer doesn’t come for free.” Sylvia’s dark eyes widen and sparkle in the light of the room. “There are strings attached to my invitation. I’m an artist, Mr. Bruton. I can’t afford to be that altruistic. No. I’d do you a trade. You and Cyril may come for a weekend at ‘The Nest’ and enjoy my company, and my largess, in return for a pair of your delicious sounding beach pyjamas, in satin! Deal?” she holds out her right hand, rather like an American businessman.
Gerald feels awkward as he mimics Sylvia, but he reaches out and shakes her hand. “Deal.”
*The Royal Albert Hall is a concert hall on the northern edge of South Kensington in London, built in the style of an ancient amphitheatre. Since the hall's opening by Queen Victoria in 1871, the world's leading artists from many performance genres have appeared on its stage. It is the venue for the BBC Proms concerts, which have been held there every summer since 1941.
**Belchamp St Paul is a village and civil parish in the Braintree district of Essex, England. The village is five miles west of Sudbury, Suffolk, and 23 miles northeast of the county town, Chelmsford.
***Sydney Ernest Castle was born in Battersea in July 1883. He trained with H. W. Edwards, a surveyor and worked as chief assistant to Arthur Jessop Hardwick (1867 - 1948) before establishing his own practice in London in 1908. From 1908 to 1918 he was in partnership with Gerald Warren (1881-1936) as Castle & Warren. He worked on St. George's Hill Estate in Weybridge, Surrey with Walter George Tarrant (1875-1942). Castle was elected a Fellow of the Royal Institute of British Architects (FRIBA) in 1925. He designed many buildings, including the Christian Association building in Clapham, a school in Balham and a private hotel in the Old Brompton Road, as well as many private residences throughout Britain. His firm’s address in 1926, when this story is set was 40, Albemarle Street, Piccadilly. He died in Wandsworth in March 1955.
****Syrie Maugham was a leading British interior decorator of the 1920s and 1930s and best known for popularizing rooms decorated entirely in shades of white. She was the wife of English playwright and novelist William Somerset Maugham.
****Meaning to keep calm and be patient, the earliest occurrence of the phrase “to keep your hair on” is recorded in The Entr’acte magazine in London in 1873, which mentioned that at the Winchester, a London music hall, an artist named Ted Callingham sang “Roving Joe” and “Keep Your Hair On”, two very laughable comic songs. A year later in 1874, it was being used commonly amongst the working classes. It is generally said that the phrase is based on the image of pulling one’s hair out in exasperation, anger or frustration, however some connect it to an earlier phrase from the Eighteenth Century “pulling off one’s wig” which refers to irascible and aged gentlemen, “when mad with passion,” have been known not only to curse and swear, but to tear their wigs from their heads, and to trample them under their feet, or to throw them into the fire.
*****A pocket square is a decorative square of fabric, typically silk or linen, that is displayed in the breast pocket of a jacket or suit. It serves as a fashion accessory to add a touch of style and visual interest to an outfit. Pocket squares can be folded in various ways, and the fabric is often chosen to complement or contrast with the rest of the attire. The exact origins of the pocket square are open to debate, but many believe they began in Ancient Egypt and Greece. These white fabric squares originally served practical purposes, such as maintaining cleanliness or deterring smells. Men would store them out of sight, only pulling them out when needed. Over time, pocket squares became a fashion statement and status symbol. Wealthy men would purchase brightly coloured fabrics, especially in bold red hues, to stand out from the crowd. They also often had infused scents to block unwanted smells. Throughout the Eighteenth Century, the popularity of pocket squares spread across Europe, even making their way into royal outfits. Pocket squares remained popular throughout the Eighteenth Century, but they truly evolved into the modern accessory we know today in the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries.
******A boutonnière is a floral decoration, typically a single flower or bud, worn on the lapel of a tuxedo or suit jacket. While worn frequently in the past to distinguish a gentleman from a common labourer, boutonnières are now usually reserved for special occasions for which formal wear is standard, such as at balls and weddings.
*******The term "wunderkind," meaning a child prodigy or someone who achieves exceptional success at a young age, was invented in the late Nineteenth Century. Specifically, the first documented use in English dates back to 1891, with the term being borrowed from German, where it had been in use earlier.
********The Lady was a British women's magazine. It published its first issue on 19 February 1885 and was in continuous publication until its last issue in April 2025, at which time it was the longest-running women's magazine in Britain. Based in London, it was particularly notable for its classified advertisements for domestic service and child care; it also has extensive listings of holiday properties. It still has an online presence which offers a classified advertisements, jobs board and recruitment service.
*********Julian Wylie (1878 – 1934), originally Julian Ulrich Samuelson Metzenberg, was a British theatrical agent and producer. He began as an accountant and took an interest in entertainment through his brothers, Lauri Wylie and G. B. Samuelson. About 1910, he became the business manager and agent of David Devant, an illusionist, then took on other clients, and formed a partnership with James W. Tate. By the end of his life, he was known as the 'King of Pantomime'.
**********Julian Wylie’s last revue at the London Hippodrome was ‘Better Days’ in 1925. Comprising 19 scenes, Better Days had a try-out at the Liverpool Empire from 9th March 1925 before its debut at the London Hippodrome on 19th March 1925. The stars of the first edition of Better Days were Maisie Gay, Stanley Lupino, Madge Elliott, Connie Emerald with Ruth French and Anatole Wiltzak. The production had the usual Wylie flourish and touch with the dances and ensembles arranged by Edward Dolly and all the gowns and costumes designed by Dolly Tree. The modern gowns were created by Peron and Florence Henry and the costumes by Alias, Clarkson and Betty S. Roberts. ‘Better Days’, only ran for 135 performances and closed in early June, proving to be the last of Wylie’s run of productions at the London Hippodrome.
***********The Hippodrome is a building on the corner of Cranbourn Street and Charing Cross Road in the City of Westminster, London. The name was used for many different theatres and music halls, of which the London Hippodrome is one of only a few survivors. Hippodrome is an archaic word referring to places that host horse races and other forms of equestrian entertainment. The London Hippodrome was opened in 1900. It was designed by Frank Matcham for Moss Empires chaired by Edward Moss and built for £250,000.00 as a hippodrome for circus and variety performances. The venue gave its first show on 15 January 1900, a music hall revue entitled "Giddy Ostend" with Little Tich. The conductor was Georges Jacobi. In 1909, it was reconstructed by Matcham as a music-hall and variety theatre with 1340 seats in stalls, mezzanine, gallery and upper gallery levels. It was here that in 1910 Tchaikovsky's ‘Swan Lake’ received its English première in the form of Act 2 with Olga Preobajinska as the Swan Queen. The Hippodrome hosted the first official jazz gig in the United Kingdom, by the Original Dixieland Jazz Band, in 1919.
************Oxford bags were a loose-fitting baggy form of trousers favoured by members of the University of Oxford, especially undergraduates, in England from the mid-1920s to around the 1950s. The style had a more general influence outside the university, including in America, but has been somewhat out of fashion since then. It is sometimes said that the style originated from a ban in 1924 on the wearing of plus fours by Oxford (and Cambridge) undergraduates at lectures. The bagginess allegedly allowed plus fours to be hidden underneath – but the argument is undermined by the fact that the trousers (especially in the early years) were not sufficiently voluminous for this to be done with any success. The original trousers were 22–23 inches (56–58 cm) in circumference at the bottoms but became increasingly larger to 44 inches (110 cm) or more, possibly due to a misunderstanding of the measurement as the width rather than circumference.
*************Paul Poiret was a French fashion designer, a master couturier during the first two decades of the 20th century. He was the founder of his namesake haute couture house. Poiret established his own house in 1903. In his first years as an independent couturier, he broke with established conventions of dressmaking and subverted other ones. In 1903, he dismissed the petticoat, and later, in 1906, he did the same with the corset. Poiret made his name with his controversial kimono coat and similar, loose-fitting designs created specifically for an uncorseted, slim figure. Poiret designed flamboyant window displays and threw sensational parties to draw attention to his work. His instinct for marketing and branding was unmatched by any other Parisian designer, although the pioneering fashion shows of the British-based Lucile (Lady Lucy Duff Gordon) had already attracted tremendous publicity. In 1909, he was so famous, Margot Asquith, wife of British prime minister H. H. Asquith, invited him to show his designs at 10 Downing Street. The cheapest garment at the exhibition was thirty guineas, double the annual salary of a scullery maid. Jeanne Margaine-Lacroix presented wide-legged trousers for women in 1910, some months before Poiret, who took credit for being the first to introduce the style.
*************Beach pyjamas, which generally consisted of a pair of wide-legged trousers and a jacket of matching fabric, first gained popularity in the years immediately following the Great War, with evidence pointing to the early 1920s, specifically at European seaside resorts like Deauville in France. It is thought that French fashion designer, Coco Chanel, was also an early proponent of this style.
**************Deauville is a seaside resort on the Côte Fleurie of France’s Normandy region. An upper-class holiday destination since the 1800s, it’s known for its grand casino, golf courses, horse races and American Film Festival. Its wide, sandy beach is backed by Les Planches, a 1920s boardwalk with bathing cabins. The town has chic boutiques, elegant belle epoque villas and half-timbered buildings. As the closest seaside resort to Paris, Deauville is one of the most notable seaside resorts in France. The city and its region of the Côte Fleurie (Flowery Coast) have long been home to the French upper class's seaside houses and is often referred to as the Parisian Riviera.
***************Bognor Regis, also known as Bognor, is a town and seaside resort in West Sussex on the south coast of England, fifty-six miles south-west of London, twenty-four miles west of Brighton, six miles south-east of Chichester and sixteen miles east of Portsmouth. A seaside resort was developed by Sir Richard Hotham in the late Eighteenth Century on what was a sand and gravel, undeveloped coastline. It has been claimed that Hotham and his new resort are portrayed in Jane Austen's unfinished novel ‘Sanditon’. The resort grew slowly in the first half of the Nineteenth Century but grew rapidly following the coming of the railway in 1864.
This 1920s upper-class domestic scene is different to what you may think, for it is made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures including items from my own childhood.
Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:
Lettice’s tea set sitting on the coffee table is a beautiful artisan set featuring a rather avant-garde Art Deco Royal Doulton design from the Edwardian era. The very realistic looking chocolate sponge cake topped with creamy icing and strawberries has been made from polymer clay and was made by Karen Ladybug Miniatures in the United Kingdom. The green tinged bowl behind the tea set is made of glass and has been made by hand by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. Made by the Little Green Workshop who specialise in high-end artisan miniatures, the black leather diary with the silver clasp is actually bound and has pages inside. The silver pen with the pearl end is also from the Little Green Workshop.
The black Bakelite and silver telephone is a 1:12 miniature of a model introduced around 1919. It is two centimetres wide and two centimetres high. The receiver can be removed from the cradle, and the curling chord does stretch out. The vase of yellow tiger lilies and daisies on the Art Deco occasional table is beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium. The vase of roses and lilies in the tall white vase on the table to the right of the photo was also made by hand, by Falcon Miniatures who are renowned for their realistic 1:12 size miniatures.
Lettice’s drawing room is furnished with beautiful J.B.M. miniatures. The black japanned wooden chair is a Chippendale design and has been upholstered with modern and stylish Art Deco fabric. The mirror backed back japanned china cabinet is Chippendale too. On its glass shelves sit pieces of miniature Limoges porcelain including jugs, teacups and saucers, many of which I have had since I was a child.
To the left of the Chippendale chair stands a blanc de chine Chinese porcelain vase, and next to it, a Chinese screen. The Chinese folding screen I bought at an antiques and junk market when I was about ten. I was with my grandparents and a friend of the family and their three children, who were around my age. They all bought toys to bring home and play with, and I bought a Chinese folding screen to add to my miniatures collection in my curio cabinet at home! It shows you what a unique child I was.
The painting in the gilt frame is made by Amber’s Miniatures in America. The carpet beneath the furniture is a copy of a popular 1920s style Chinese silk rug. The geometric Art Deco wallpaper is beautiful hand impressed paper given to me by a friend, which inspired the whole “Cavendish Mews – Lettice Chetwynd” series.
Strange artifacts and creatures we see in these ancient woods.
This one, in Tollymore Forest, Northern Ireland, she's having a rest against the tree. Shortly after this shot, I stepped on a flat rock to appreciate the view of a bridge over the river and not knowing the rock was algae covered and like oil, I slipped on it, landing belly-down and on top of my camera. Luckily nothing broken and not hurt, apart from my embarrassment.
To stir up the Christmas mood, i'm sharing my favorite Christmas song (with some embarrassment 😊).
What's your favorite Christmas song? 'Guilty Pleasures' are welcome! :-)
Redding · Tröckener Kecks
🎵
Dutch Lyrics :
Redding
Alsof het nooit gebeurd was
Dat hij op de fiets naar huis
Otis Redding voor haar zong
Dat hij beefde bij haar kus
Alsof het nooit gebeurd was
Het leek allemaal voorbij
Ze leefden nog wel samen
Maar meer als broer en zus
Ze zag er stralend uit
Voor het kerstdiner
Met een of andere kerel
Die ze onlangs had ontmoet
Hij had haar uit staan schelden
En was woedend weggegaan
Hij drinkt om niet te denken
Aan wat zij vanavond doet
De sneeuw valt
Het wordt een mooie kerst dit jaar
Alsof er niets gebeurd is
De sneeuw bedekt de stad
Nog nooit was het zo stil als nu
Nu zij hier zit
Dan klinkt in de verte
Een haast vergeten lied
Wat vals en schor gezongen
Maar zij weet beter kan hij niet
De sneeuw valt
Het wordt een mooie kerst dit jaar
The little girl refuses to walk.
Despite her mom pulling her hands, she refuses to budge. She had seen a beautiful doll displayed in the store and she wants it.
Her mom console and assures her, they will buy it on another day but she was not listening to any of it. She begins to throw tantrums on the street outside the store, oblivious to the pain in her mom's eyes and the embarrassment on her mom's face. Her mom, at her wits ends..decides to slowly walk away.. her back facing the girl. She keeps walking away slowly but surely..leaving her.
A sudden fear shook the little girl. Reality sinks in. Her mom is abandoning her..crying...wailing...she runs towards her mom. Pulling...tugging at her mom's hand with pleading eyes questioning how could her mom think about leaving her.
Her little broken heart over the doll, is nothing compared to losing her mom. Her mom, look into the little girl's eyes(there were tears in her mom's eyes)..smiles and pick her up. Carries her in her arms and slowly make their way to the bus stop for their trip home.
That was the lesson she was subtly taught. She could not comprehend at such a young age, why her mom did not want to buy the doll for her. Lest does she understands until much later that life is not really that simple as an adult. At such a young age, she could not understand the concept of being poor..
But she understands now, the immense pain her mom must have gone through, that moment...that day...years ago..
The US Administration does not represent most Americans. This recent trip abroad was simply an astonishing embarrassment. Every day in multiple ways really. Let's hope that the threat to pull out of the Paris Agreement is just one more of the lies and empty threats and promises that these people vomit on the world daily.
Hope you have a wonderful Thursday.
"Theology is like sculpture, depth-theology like music. Theology is in the books; depth-theology is in the hearts. The former is doctrine; the latter an event. Theologies divide us; depth-theology unites us." The cognitive emotions of embarrassment, indebtedness, a sense of mystery, and wonder could lead to shared celebration before God."
--Edward K. Kaplan, Spiritual Radical: Abraham Joshua Heschel in America, 1940-1972
Oh Lord, won't you buy me a mercy dispense
♪♫ Janis Joplin ♪♫
Jahrelang hatte ich mich gefragt, was zum Teufel das sein könnte: Ein Gnadenspender. Ich wusste, was Barmherzigkeit ist, und ich fand etwas über Dinge heraus, auf die man verzichten konnte. Aber wie kann man Barmherzigkeit austeilen? Wer ist ein Gnadenspender? Ist es ein Priester? Ein Guru?
Ich habe einen amerikanischen Bürger gefragt, was er davon hält. Er verstand nicht und fragte nach einem Grund für meine Frage. Ich fing an, den Refrain von Janis zu singen, und der Typ wurde einfach verrückt. Hörfehler und schlechte Übersetzungen verdoppeln Ihre Verlegenheit, das sage ich Ihnen, Jungs und Mädels.
Years and years I had asked myself what the heck could it be: A mercy dispense. I knew what mercy was and I found out something about things that could be dispensed. But how to dispense mercy? Who is a mercy dispenser? Is it a priest? A Guru?
I asked an American citizen what he thought. He did not understand and asked for a reason of my question. I began to sing Janis' chorus and the guy just went mad.
Mishearing and bad translation is doubling your embarrassment, I tell you boys and girls.
Zitat aus | quote by www.kissthisguy.com
St William’s College was built in 1465 for York Minster’s Chantry Priests, a community of around 24, known as fellows, who received advance payments for praying for the souls of their deceased benefactors. The fellows’ behaviour, which often included drunkenness, had previously brought embarrassment for the Archbishop of York, and he deemed they should have their own residence.
The Grade I listed building is named after William Fitzherbert, Archbishop of York (1143 – 1147), who was canonized in 1226. He was the nephew of King Stephen and great-grandson of William the Conqueror.
Henry VI granted a licence for the proposed college in 1457. Due to delays brought about by the Wars of the Roses, the building was postponed but was eventually established after Edward IV granted a renewed licence in 1461 with work commencing in 1465.
The timber-framed building is situated in College Street, to which it gave its name, adjacent to the Minster and was in use by the Chantry Priests until the 16th century. From thereon and into the 17th century, St William’s was divided up into flats rented to some of York’s more affluent residents.
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Kneeling doesn’t really come easily to me, I feel a sort of embarrassment. Why? Probably because of the critical, rational, atheistic bit that is part of me as well.
-Etty Hillesum, Etty, The Letters and Diaries of Etty Hillesum (09/24/41)
There is a diffference between hardy and hard. It is often forgotten nowadays.[…] I shall never grow hard nor shall have any need to.
-Etty Hillesum, Etty, The Letters and Diaries of Etty Hillesum (7/28/42)
A couple of weeks ago I introduced you to Romeo and Juliet. Two love -struck ducks that have been inseparable for a number of years. Yesterday, on my stroll down to the local lake, I saw Juliet (green bill) all on her own. Romeo (white duck) was no-where to be found. I have never seen them more than about 1 foot apart. I searched for them around the lake. He was no-where to be found. I was so upset to think of Juliet pining away without her mate.
I awoke at 3 am in a cold sweat worrying about their fate. I woke up my dearly beloved, and told him how worried I was. He suggested that Romeo had flown off with a better looking duck. Ducks can fly he reminded me. No way I thought. They are inseparable. His next suggestion was that a fox took him. This did not help me get back to sleep.
First thing this morning, I went down to the lake to see if I could find him. There was Juliet, all alone, seemingly distraught. A lady came along with her bag full of bread to feed the ducks. I told her of the sad tale, trying not to get all weepy without much success.Then, all of a sudden, there was splashing at the back of the lake and out fly the loved-up ducks frantically trying to get to the lady with the bread. I was so relieved.
It was then, with some embarrassment that I realised that there are two green-billed ducks and the one I thought was Juliet, has always been on its own. The real Romeo and Juliet must have been hiding somewhere yesterday, perhaps in their love-nest, getting ready for this Spring's announcement.
So Here's to You Romeo and Juliet. May you never be apart.
My bounty is as boundless as the sea,
My love as deep; the more I give to thee,
The more I have, for both are infinite.”
― William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet
Hopefully I will get a good nights sleep tonight!