Bold= Stephanie Brown

Italics= Kara Zor-El

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"We fall so that we can learn to pick ourselves up."

 

At least that's what my dad told me. My dad. God I miss him. He may not have been the best but he taught me everything that I know.

 

My eyes burned. I tried to hold in the tears but I couldn't. Tears streamed down my cheeks. I wiped them away. I promised my dad that I would be strong.

 

Everything that I have loved is gone. My mom was lost to drugs, my dad to crime. Then the one person who I loved more than both my mother and father, went missing. Dick Grayson. The tears returned. What happens if you fall to many times? What happens if you aren't strong enough to pick yourself up again?

 

I heard the click of a door.

 

Steph?

 

I wiped my tears again. I didn't want Kara to see me like this.

 

Yeah?

 

It took all of my might not to stutter.

 

I've got something to show you.

 

One second.

 

I hopped onto my motorcycle and took off with Kara riding behind me. She told me the directions. I sped down the streets making sharp turns, weaving in and out of passing cars. When we reached the GCPD I saw a figure clad in green and black.

 

Who are you!

 

The figure didn't reply.

 

I am gonna ask nicely one more time before this gets violent, who are you?

 

Still no reply. The figure reached behind its back and pulled out two katanas and ran towards me.

 

Kara look out!

 

I pushed Kara out of the way and we both just barely dodged the attack.

 

I saw that Kara was holding her arm, she was in pain. I looked closer, she was bleeding. This bitch cut Kara. I didn't think it was possible! Now I was more determined to beat the living crap out of this guy.

 

You want a fight? Come get one!

 

Kara unleashed a barrage of searing hot beams from her eyes. The figure barely dodged them. He threw some shurikens at me. I deflected most of them with my escrimas but two of them hit my shoulder. They penetrated my suit. Kara clutched her arm even harder. I felt a small explosion in my right shoulder. Once the smoke cleared the figure was gone. I pulled what was left of the shurikens out of my arm and slowly walked towards Kara.

 

It's okay champ, I'll get ya back home.

 

I pulled her body onto my motorcycle and rode home.

 

We fall so that we can learn to pick ourselves up,that is why I do what I do. That is why every night i wear this suit. That is why I'm Nightwing.

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Special thanks to DuckBricks for letting me use Nightwing and Dick Grayson. I made the story a little bit longer than it was. I deleted the older one. hope you enjoyed!

-Darman

Wickham Place is the London home of Lord and Lady Southgate, their children and staff. Located in fashionable Belgravia it is a fine Georgian terrace house.

 

Today however, we are not in Wickham Place at all, but are out with Her Ladyship as she and her friend Mrs. Chisholm, another well-heeled resident of Belgravia, enjoy the pleasurable Edwardian pursuit of shopping for the afternoon. They are in the crockery department of Oxford Street’s Marshall and Snelgrove, a grand four-storey Second Empire Revival department store.

 

“What about a nice tea service, Vera?” Mrs. Chisholm suggests as they look at the dizzying array of patterns on display.

 

“That’s what I was thinking, Margaret,” Lady Southgate replies as she runs a gloved finger absentmindedly across the lid of a teapot.

 

“It might also imply that the bride reciprocates by inviting you to afternoon tea.” Mrs. Chisholm added with a firm, knowing nod.

 

“I would expect Kitty to invite me to tea, regardless of whether I give her a tea set or not, Margaret.” Lady Southgate gives her friend a thoughtful look. “I might only be a ‘dollar princess’, and not have the door opened to me by all the great and good of the land, but the future Lady Bethune is my friend.”

 

“Oh of course she is, Vera,” Mrs. Chisholm stuttered. “I didn’t mean… I… I didn’t intend…”

 

“I know you didn’t, dear Margaret. You are my friend too, and I know you wouldn’t want to upset me.”

 

“Oh, I wouldn’t, Vera!”

 

“It’s just not easy, even after seven years, to fit into society here. It never ceases to smart when doors are closed in your face, just because you have the wrong accent, you don’t have the right pedigree courtesy of a four hundred year family lineage and you aren’t afraid to talk about or spend money because you have it.” She suddenly looks wistful as she stares across the china department but sees none of it as her mind drifts. Then she suddenly returns to the present. “And actresses entering society like Kitty, will be grateful for friends like me, who won’t close their doors or turn their backs on her.”

 

“Of course she will, Vera.” Mrs. Chisholm assures her friend with a friendly squeeze to her upper arm. She feels guilty for upsetting her friend and goes on to say. “You are a wonderful friend to Kitty, to me and to ever so many others. You are kind and generous, and if other people can’t see that, well that’s their loss.”

 

“Thank you, Margaret.”

 

“Oh look!” Mrs. Chisholm quickly changes the subject. “What about a lovely Limoges tea set?”

 

Lady Southgate looks at the beautiful set sitting on the Queen Anne style table before them.

 

“Oh no, Margaret! I won’t give her something that I also have. No. That suggests I have no imagination. No.”

 

She looks about and spies a beautiful white tea set and drinks set decorated fashionably with gold Art Nouveau leaves. She wanders over and picks up a goblet.

 

“Ahh, now this might be just the thing!” she sighs.

 

“Shall I have this set boxed and wrapped for you, madam?” an obsequious shop assistant in a frock coat asks as he silently appears at Lady Southgate’s elbow.

 

“See Margaret, not everyone turns their back on me, or my money.” she laughs. “Yes, please have this purchase added to my account, boxed, gift wrapped with the biggest bow you can muster and sent to Wickham Place.”

 

“Your next pleasure, madam?” the shop assistant asks.

 

“Hhhmmm… my next pleasure? Margaret,” a cheeky glint brightens her blue eyes. “Shall we shock the society matrons who patronise this store and take tea in the luncheon rooms?”

 

“Oh, you are wicked Vera!” Mrs. Chisholm chuckles. “I do adore the way you think sometimes.”

 

The pair of well dressed ladies move away with their arms linked in friendship and their heads as close together as their picture hats will allow in conspiratorial conversation, leaving the grey uniformed shop assistant to write up Lady Southgate’s account.

 

This year the FFF+ Group have decided to have a weekly challenge called “Snap Happy”. A different theme chosen by a member of the group each week, and the image is to be posted on the Monday of the week.

 

This week the theme, which incidentally will be the final weekly “Snap Happy” theme before reverting to monthly on the 5th of December, is “anything at all… as long as it is small” which was chosen by me.

 

For anyone who follows my photostream, you will know that I collect and photograph 1:12 size miniatures, so I thought that this slightly different scene, taking us away from domestic interiors to a commercial one was suitable for the challenge when you look at how many tiny objects there are in this tableaux, which took over an hour to construct. The space used is only thirty centimetres in length, twenty centimetres in height and fifteen centimetres in depth, and there are two hundred and forty-two individual items of china in the tableaux.

 

You might think that it looks overly cluttered with objects, but if you look at photographs from the Edwardian period, after the turn of the Twentieth Century, yet before the Great War, which is when the Wickham Place stories are set, you will find an abundance of clutter in Edwardian shops. It was a conscious decision by shopkeepers and owners to market as much and as many goods as they could to the wealthy upper and the middle-classes. As a result, every conceivable space was filled with merchandise, which might have made those more clumsy shoppers feel like the proverbial bull in a china shop! Aristocrats, like Lord Southgate and his American wife continued to live alongside the clutter of accumulated antiques from centuries of family wealth. However the ‘nouveau riche’ and the up-and-coming middle classes who wished to acquire their gentility found department stores like Swan and Edgar, Selfridges, Pontings, Harrods, Peter Robinson, Gamages and Marshall and Snelgrove only too happy to oblige, with floors crammed as full as possible with millions of manufactured items to select from. Why choose between two patterns when you can pick between twenty?

 

Fun things to look for in this tableaux include:

 

There are two hundred and forty-two individual pieces of china in this tableaux from some twenty different dinner sets that I own, all from different sources all around the world, some vintage and antique and others new.

 

Sitting atop the Queen Anne table, which is one of the first pieces of miniature furniture I was ever given at age seven, stands a 1950s Limoges tea set. The tea set consists of teapot, sucrier (lidded sugar bowl), milk jug, hot water jug and six cups and saucers. Each piece is stamped with a small green Limoges mark to the bottom. It is one of three sets I own.

 

The blue and white tea set sitting on the bottom right corner of the top of the glass display cabinet is the smallest tea set I own. Not strictly a 1:12 size miniature, it is Victorian and was made as a doll’s tea service in the 1830s.

 

The blue vase featuring Grecian or Roman characters standing on a pedestal in the foreground is also an antique. Imitating Wedgwood, I bought it and the green jardinière standing to the right of the glass cabinet from an antique auction. Although neither is dated or has makers marks on them, they are Victorian children’s toys and are made of beautiful porcelain. The jardinière’s porcelain is so fine that you can see through it when held to the light.

 

The shelves and cabinets are filled with every kind of porcelain dinnerware an Edwardian lady would need for her finest dinner parties. There are plates, teapots, cups, saucers, sucriers (sugar bowls), gravy boats, soup tureens, coffee pots, jugs, bowls, bakers, demitasse cups, platters, salt and pepper shakers and even vases for her table and sideboard. Sets include imitations of Royal Douton, Chelsea, Royal Albert and Deftware patterns.

 

The apricot jug with red flowers on the bottom shelf of the far left hand cabinet is from a Japanese set made around 1880, whilst the green gilt lidded two handled dish in front of it on the low table is made around 1900 and is in imitation Sèvres style.

 

The miniature Persian rug and runner, also commonplace in Edwardian department stores and up-market shops, are made by hand by Mackay and Gerrish in Sydney.

Sky Vista Pond, Lemmon Valley, Washoe Co, Nevada (April 22nd, 2018). 8. Small suburban pond fringed with cattails and tules

 

Male, in the throes of the comical swollen-neck, tail-up bubbling/stuttering courtship display, beating the water into foam with its big expanded-end bill to the accompaniment of staccato popping noises.

 

More shots of the bubbling display—

www.flickr.com/photos/fugl/28481955388/in/album-721576818...

www.flickr.com/photos/fugl/35185735265/in/album-721576818...

 

More Ruddy Duck photos--

www.flickr.com/photos/fugl/albums/72157681855435076

 

This is me, two years prior to starting serious work on the Jan Johnson sculptures recently posted. I made this shot at Jan's, into a double window, hence the double reflection. Some of the items surrounding me were outside (with me), and some were inside (I think). I processed this to convey a gritty feel, which is entirely appropriate to Jan and the junk piles from which he created his art. I always enjoyed photographing the Barbies, other dolls, and various installations gathering rust in the garden in front of his house and the rain forest out back. So different from my usual nature & wildlife stuff!

 

For your ongoing amusement, here's something my old pal Barry Macleod wrote about me in late 1985. I don't mind being the butt of a joke if the joke is funny; what else are friends for? Barry lived in a cabin on the beach at Tugwell Creek, on Vancouver Island, with a view of Juan de Fuca Strait and the distant Olympic Mountains:

 

"Page arrived from Vancouver later in the evening and took $300 worth of Tugwell photos in the first two days. First time he'd been here in three years and he went wild. Page, Richard and I went for a Christmas day beach walk from Tugwell to Muir Creek. The weather was sunny, blue sky, temperature in the high forties, no Christmas talk, no relatives, God what a day. And Richard and I watched Page wander around with his camera and tripod, stopping here and there, crouching down for a shot of this and that, and we renamed him 'Meander Winkley' thinking this would give his photography career a boost. The name is important. Remember Englebert Humperdink, an obscure second rate lounge singer and when he changed his name it was instant super star. So we thought we could do the same with 'Meander... Winkley.' It's pronounced with a slight hesitation before Meander. Not a stutter. Just a silent skip of a beat. Richard phoned the next morning because there were some otters in the creek outside his cabin that wanted their pictures taken. 'Hello, is... Meander still there?'"

 

Needless to say, I turned down the new name. It was probably my only chance at wealth and fame. Why risk ruining my life?

 

Photographed in Sooke, BC (Canada). Don't use this image on websites, blogs, or other media without explicit permission ©2013 James R. Page - all rights reserved.

I've been playing Code Vein lately (well, stuttering through it more likely; I need an upgrade :| ) and really enjoyed some of the outfits. Figured I'd try something similar. I have my eyes on another one, might give it a go as well.

Photographed June 2022 / Praktina FX 35mm SLR Film Camera with a Carl Zeiss Jena Biotar red T 58mm/2 lens. The film was KENTMERE 400 metered ASA 250 developed in CJT-63 (a catechol + phenidone formula which uses trisodium phosphate as alkali and which also contains triethanolamine). The negative was illuminated on a light table and scanned with a Pentax k3 DSLR and Schneider COMPONON-S 80mm/4 enlarging lens on a helicoid extension tube system. The image was edited on an iPad mini using the Snap Seed application: full frame scan of entire negative area without trimming. By the way here are my thoughts of the Praktina SLR system 1). The viewfinder image is very dark and focussing and composing the image is difficult even with the lens wide open 2) The aperture closing mechanism on the preset lenses like the Biotar used here cause a LOT of camera vibration (the aperture blades bang shut with a wallop and a clunk) 3). All of the cameras i’ve come across (FX or iia) have shutter blinds which are FULL of pinholes and scars in the rubber coating ; these will have to be attended to before use (I sealed them with a couple of coats of PEBEO opaque fabric paint). 4). The film wind mechanism is extremely powerful and you will need to keep a very close eye on the film counter towards the end of the film otherwise it is easy to snap the film off out of the cassette. 5). The slow speeds mechanism will almost certainly need to be cleaned in order that the slow speeds run without ‘stuttering’ : access to this mechanism is via removal of the top plate which is not easy to do and even more difficult and fiddly to put back on. In short unless you really, really, really want to use a Praktina SLR or are getting one for free I would avoid this camera: unlike Ivor Matanle in his book Classic SLR’s I did not find the Praktina System to be a pleasure to use. This camera does not work with the photographer it fights you!

Going back in time a bit here ! More or less the same view as shown in the 2021 and 2022 pictures, and something of a half-way house between them in terms of the site itself. I do remember it like this, although sadly not with North Western vehicles parked there, my interest having only started to emerge five years after their demise. Given that there is one of the Alexander-bodied Bristol RELLs in shot, that dates the photo to probably 1970 or 1971, but I have no definite information.

 

Talking of which - today is a very notable one for North Western aficionados, as it is exactly 50 years since they ceased to exist as a bus operator on March 4 1972, with their operations being taken over by SELNEC and Trent, with Crosville having assumed control of the south Cheshire depots in January 1972. The firm stuttered along as a pure coach operator from Hulme Hall Road for another couple of years, before it morphed into National Travel (North West). The company only ran from 1923 until 1972, so they have now been gone for longer than they were ever there !

 

I am grateful to my good friend Peter Roberts for allowing me to take copies of his slide collection for future use - indeed, he is very keen for them to be shared among a wider audience, so I shall put out some more very soon, starting with a bit of a North Western tribute.

 

so sad to hear about the death/suicide of chris cornell.

 

did those closest to him know he was in such despair? did he try to tell them? anyone? what must he have been feeling? when that was the only choice he saw, i just feel for him...

 

pain is a hard thing to express. and often when people try to share it, those closest to them pull away instead of drawing near.

 

i have been working on a record album and am in the planning/writing stages. i heard this song the other day and while singing along in the car i thought "i am recording this as a cover song," it moves me. then i heard this news tonight.

 

Black Hole Sun (lyrics in part)

 

In my eyes, Indisposed, In disguise as no one knows

Hides the face, Lies the snake in the sun, In my disgrace

 

Boiling heat, Summer stench,

'Neath the black the sky looks dead

Call my name, Through the cream

and I'll hear you Scream again

 

Black hole sun Won't you come, And wash away the rain

Black hole sun, Won't you come, Won't you come

 

Stuttering, Cold and damp

Steal the warm wind, tired friend

Times are gone for honest men

And sometimes Far too long For snakes

 

In my shoes A walking sleep

And my youth I pray to keep

Heaven send Hell away

No one sings Like you Anymore

 

Hang my head Drown my fear

Till you all just Disappear

  

these lyrics have a whole new meaning today, and wow, when we lose someone who shared their heart like this... what a gift.

   

Har har har! See those wilted, withering flowers around me? Thanks to Flickr I had the perfect poison, the sap of their servers! Condensed malfunction! Enhanced stuttering! Mwuahahaha!!

 

The smallwort (Scharbockskraut) lost all green and will sleep until next spring. Those yellow pathces gave me the idea to make a picture with Scarecrow, the last two days with a forced shutdown and tons of malfunction afterwards gave me the idea for the title.

 

Toy Project Day 1395

I worked at a small retail store and they encouraged their employees to dress up for halloween. My store had 6 employees, all women and I was the only guy. Tthe employees came up with a group costume pimp and hoe with me being the pimp. My reaction was why do you all get to have the fun? What if I wanted to be a hooker? To my surprise they said ok you can be a hooker also. My next day off I told my mother about my halloween plans at work. She said oh I got a dress you can use, she then gave me a red leopard print dress with slits up to the hips on both sides and a pair of black thigh high boots. I found a belf at a thrift store that said BAD GIRL and I also picked up a pair of black opaque tights. When I tried everything on I didn’t like what I saw, mainly my gut sticking out the tight dress. I showed my mom and she said I looked good. I showed her my gut problem and she said I got something for that. She brought me a one piece bodice with a built in bra and said here this will suck it in and give you a set of breasts. Halloween day I got up early to get dressed I combed out my hair. I did not need a wig my hair was shoulder length. I was an avid hiker at the time and the sun lightened my hair. So I had long red hair with blond streaks in it. After putting on the tights I go to put on the body suit only to realise it was a thong. I put socks in my bra for boobs and added eye makeup and a pair of girl sunglasses and I was off to work. Before I left my parents wanted a few pics of me got some with my car and others on my dads harleys. When I arrived at work I was getting hit on as soon as I got out of the car. Who could blame him? He saw a hot blond pulling up in a bright red 68 mustang. When I was getting out I heard “Hey there nice mustang you know what they say great curves never go out of style.” I looked at him with a smile and in my male voice I said I agree. His reaction was “Ummmm is that a 65 6 7 8 ?” all while stuttering. I laffed and said its ok man its halloween. When I walked into work my boss was waiting on a customer and she lost her train of thought. She told the customer sorry I got distracted when I seen him the customer said wait is that a guy?? All that day I got hit on by men and women all day I got a few numbers. I was invited to do drag shows at a local club, i was told if you was gay and dressed like that more often you would have guys chasing you. I walked by a couple and I heard the guy said to his girl “Why don't you dress like that for me?” she said back to him ”If I had legs like that I would.” Another guy said to me “I had to see you for myself that was my son hitting on you when you was getting out of your car. He said he didnt know you was a guy until you spoke. He was right about you you do make a good looking woman.” I got a phone call from a former worker she asked me what was I doing. I said working she said” Im at the grocery store and over heard some people saying you have to go to the dollar store and see the hot as f#@k trannie. I knew you was the trannie.” The grocery store was on the other side of town. That was how my day went I was being hit on my boots got filled up with numbers. I even had pictures taken with me and of me. When I got off work a friend of mine pulled up and said get in I want to take you to see my mom. So I seen her family and then her girlfriends family. All had great reactions her mom has an 8x10 of me in her living room to this day. One of the cashiers at work was flirty with me that day she told me the next day she and her friends thought I was hott. She was into guys that crossdress.

 

but go ahead and make an offer

I am, er, rather, Graham is a talented musician and a great friend who I’ve been pleased to know for a long time now. The reason for my stutter is referencing to how him and I were often confused for each other, jokingly I’m sure. Average looking white males, all the same, am I right? But that was years ago. The kid has a beard now! I also got taller. Now it’s almost like we’re unique individuals. Almost.

 

I met Graham in early highschool. I had been coaxed into getting Facebook, and then told I had to have a profile picture. I decided I had to try to be better than everyone else and ended up taking a bunch of selfies (NOTE: BEFORE SELFIES WERE COOL) with lavalamps, glowsticks, fiberoptic lamps, and many other things. The shots got me some attention with friends and I ended up being asked to take photos of a band my friends were in called Fall With Them. Graham was on guitar and vocals. That’s how we met and after that everything fell into place.

 

Eventually Fall With Them disbanded and while it was unfortunate, everyone moved on to new things. One of those things being GDAD which, if you read yesterday’s post you’d know, became Good For Grapes whom I continued to photograph for. I’ve basically been taking photos of Graham for as long as I’ve been a photographer. It never really occurred to me until I wrote that last sentence. It’s an odd thought, though comforting knowing that I’ve had friends who’ve been there throughout my growth as an artist. I’m excited to see what will happen next in our ongoing journey through music and photography.

Despite the fact that I've already adressed this before, with the seeming unending rivalry to be reignited I must chime in. Apparently MGAE & Mattel fans think it's 2005 again & if it is then I need to find my younger self and encourage him to embrace fitness, not to start gossip girl & to buy all the My Scenes he can.

 

I'm not saying one side is even acting better than the other but I AM saying that everyone needs to GROW THE FUCK UP & mind their own business or, at the very least, shut the hell up about because this low brewing bullshit needs to stay in the '00s where it belongs.

The door creaked open inside the warehouse that Riddler was set up in. Even with power returned to the city, the warehouse still creeped Arnold Wesker out.

 

Mad Hatter’s voice echoed through the building, “Hello hello! Does anyone happen to be home, hehe!”

 

Arnold was very afraid now. He had thought that it was Empress Penguin returning, not Riddler and friends.

 

Edward had removed his hat and mask, answering a text from Ivy on his phone before putting it back in his pocket. He noticed that Arnold was alone right away, “Oh, hello Arnold. I haven’t seen you in a bit, only Esmeralda gave me Alex. She said you were busy? Whatever could that mean?”

 

Arnold stuttered and stumbled over his words. He couldn’t find an answer.

 

Black Mask pulled his gun, “Where’s Scarface, Wesker...”

 

“M-Mr. Scarface i-is gone, s-sir...”

 

Mad Hatter sipped his tea, “Deary me, it seems he lost the tiny man who sat upon his arm!”

 

“Y-Yes...M-Ms. Copplepot she...she killed him...”

 

Edward raised an eyebrow to that, and then cooed a bit mockingly, “Oh dear...well, I believe we could always find another Scarface, Arnold...”

 

Arnold was terrified now.

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.

 

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

 

Lettice is now engaged to Sir John Nettleford Hughes. Old enough to be her father, wealthy Sir John, according to London society gossip enjoys dalliances with a string of pretty chorus girls of Lettice’s age and younger. As an eligible man in a aftermath of the Great War when such men are a rare commodity, with a vast family estate in Bedfordshire, houses in Mayfair, Belgravia and Pimlico and Fontengil Park in Wiltshire, quite close to the Glynes estate belonging to her parents, Lettice’s mother, Lady Sadie, invited him as a potential suitor to her 1922 Hunt Ball, which she used as a marriage market for Lettice. Although she did not become engaged to him then, Lettice did reacquaint herself with Sir John at an amusing Friday to Monday long weekend party held by mutual friends Sir John and Lady Gladys Caxton at their Scottish country estate in 1924. To her surprise, Lettice found Sir John’s company rather enjoyable. She then ran into him again later that year at the Portland Gallery’s autumn show in Soho, where she found him yet again to be a pleasant and attentive companion for much of the evening. Sir John also made a proposition to her that night: he offered her his hand in marriage should she ever need it. More like a business arrangement than a marriage proposal, Sir John offered Lettice the opportunity to enjoy the benefits of his large fortune, be chatelain of all his estates and continue to have her interior design business, under the conditions that she agree to provide him with an heir, and that he be allowed to discreetly carry on his affairs in spite of their marriage vows. He even suggested that Lettice might be afforded the opportunity to have her own extra marital liaisons if she were discreet about them. When Lettice’s understanding with Selwyn Spencely, son of the Duke of Walmsford, fell apart, Lettice agreed to Sir John’s proposal. Then, during the General Strike* that almost brought the nation to a standstill, Selwyn and Lettice were reintroduced, and she found out that Selwyn wasn’t engaged to another woman at all, as she was led to believe by Lady Zinnia, and it had all been a fabrication, leaving her in a quandary over what to do: break her engagement with Sir John and marry the man she truly loves and has never stopped loving, or remain engaged to Sir John, preserving his honour and the good name of her own family.

 

Today we are still in Mayfair, and only a short distance from Cavendish Mews, out the front of an imposing Palladian style mansion on the grand thoroughfare of Park Lane, opposite Hyde Park: the London home of the Duke and Duchess of Walmsford, where Lettice was told about Selwyn’s supposed engagement. Selwyn Spencely steps out of his blue London taxi after paying the driver, and with a happy whistle tunefully on his lips, he bounds up the stone steps with light and energetic treads, to the enormous white painted double front doors of the mansion with their black painted knockers. He doesn’t even need to knock as the right of the two doors is opened by a tall and imperious looking bewigged footman** in splendid Eighteenth Century style Walmsford livery.

 

“Welcome home, Your Grace***.” the footman says, bowing his head in deference to Selwyn as he steps aside, ushering him in from the beautiful mid-morning light outside into the cool darkened marble hallway of the house within.

 

“Thank you, Andrews.” Selwyn replies, ceasing his whistling trills as sweeps past the footman and removes his gloves.

 

“I hope you had a pleasant morning, Sir.” the footman goes on, accepting the plum dyed leather gloves from his master and helping him slip out of his creamy summer Burberry macintosh****.

 

“I did, thank you Andrews.” Selwyn replies with a beaming smile.

 

Selwyn has every reason to smile, having just spent the last few hours pleasurably in Lettice’s company at Cavendish Mews, where they enjoyed sharing stories about what has transpired in their lives since Selwyn was sent to Durban, and he particularly enjoyed hearing about how Lady Gladys Caxton had given Lettice’s best and oldest childhood chum the nickname of “Mr. Buttons” in honour of his establishment of his own couture house.

 

“Good morning, Your Grace.” a second, slightly shorter footman says as he slips up quietly next the two men. “Did you have a pleasant visit, this morning?”

 

“Ahh, Poole! I was just telling Andrews here, yes thank you. Now, I should like…” but Selwyn’s voice trails off as he catches a certain glint of distress in the second footman’s eyes. “What is it, Poole? What’s happened?”

 

As if on cue, the sharp and high-pitched rings of a bell sound out twice from one of the rooms upstairs, causing all three men to glance upwards towards the ornate skylights in the dome three storeys above their heads, from which is suspended a grand electrified crystal chandelier hanging from vaulted ceiling.

 

Selwyn glances back at Poole with wild and wide eyes filled with alarm.

 

“Her Grace has returned from Clendon***** unexpectedly, Your Grace.” Poole says with a slightly quavering voice as the unnerved look in his eyes becomes more pronounced. “And she wishes to see you.”

 

“Does she indeed?” Selwyn asks, a shudder running through him as he speaks. “Well, I’ll just freshen…”

 

“Her Grace stated her express wish that she wanted to see you immediately upon your return, Your Grace.” Poole goes on in an apologetic tone.

 

“I see.” Selwyn answers with a deflated sigh. “Very well, Poole. Where is she now?”

 

“Her Grace is in the Chinese Drawing Room, Your Grace.”

 

A few moments later, an older woman dressed in a smart black moiré uniform decorated with elegant black lace panels and faceted jet black buttons, descends the sweeping carpeted spiral staircase with its shining ostentatious silver banisters from the upper floors of the mansion. Her look is serious, made all the more so by her tightly pursed lips and the way her grey waves are severely pinned in place around her head. Her look does not change as she spies Selwyn and she stares at him with a hard look through her dark, beady eyes.

 

“Your Grace.” she says, dropping a low curtsey before Selwyn as she reaches the foot of the stairs. Without waiting for his reply, she continues, “I do hope Andrews and Poole have told you that Her Ladyship is in residence, and that she wishes to see you in the Chinese Drawing Room.” Her piercing stare intensifies. “Immediately!”

 

“Hullo to you too, Mrs. Ketwick.” Selwyn answers the surly housekeeper of the Park Lane property cheerfully, before adding, “Yes, I had a lovely morning out. Thank you for asking.”

 

If his last remark was meant to create a sense of remorse in the old woman, she shows no sign of it, as her tightly pressed lips grow even more so, draining any colour from her phlegmatic face.

 

“Immediately, Your Grace.” is her only reply, as she glances scornfully between Andrews and Poole who flank Selwyn.

 

There is no love lost between Selwyn and his mother’s housekeeper, who is the most hated member of the Duke and Duchess’ retinue of staff by everyone else in the household because of her cold manner, dismissive attitude and cruel treatment of any staff below her in the house’s domestic hierarchy. In fact, the only person who likes Mrs. Ketwick is the Duchess herself, and that is only because she enthusiastically tells Lady Zinnia all the happenings within the household down to the smallest of details, personal private, or otherwise, which means she is not to be trusted.

 

“Yes, Poole just informed me, so please don’t punish him for not coming out onto Park Lane, throwing himself in front of my taxi, and telling me of Her Grace’s wishes even before I had alighted from it, Mrs. Ketwick.”

 

The old woman looks unimpressed.

 

“Poole’s delivery of the message was timely, I can assure you.” Selwyn goes on.

 

Mrs. Ketwick doesn’t reply. Her eyes simply widen slightly as she gives Poole an even harder stare than before, before walking brusquely away down the hall, her heels echoing hard against the polished marble tiles beneath her feet.

 

“Ghastly old trout.” Selwyn says in a low voice to Poole as he chuckles, but the footman does not join in his master’s mirth, causing him to add, “Don’t worry, Poole. I’ll ensure there will be no repercussions for you.”

 

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Poole answers as both he and Andrews release pent up breaths they have been holding. “That would be much appreciated, Sir.”

 

“Right!” Selwyn says with false bravado. “I best get this audience over with, then.”

 

And so saying he bounds up the stairs, taking two steps at a time.

 

The Chinese Drawing Room on the first floor overlooking the rear gardens is one of the more intimate of the lofty reception rooms in the Walmsford mansion, and is far less imposing than the White Drawing Room that Lady Zinnia received Lettice in the day Lettice visited her in answer to her summons. With its interior dating back to when the house was originally built in the Eighteenth Century, the Chinese Drawing Room still has the chinoiserie theme chosen by Henrietta, the first Duchess of Walmsford, with original hand painted wallpaper panels of red camellias on a green background, and a suite of black japanned and gilded Chippendale****** furnishings. Yet even here, Lady Zinnia’s zest for conspicuous consumerism has found a place, with the addition of a pair of black and white antique Italian cameos, two tall silver candlesticks, a couple of Georgian silver tea caddies******* and a Parian ware******** vase to the mantle of the white marble fireplace. When Selwyn enters the room, he sees his mother sitting in a straight backed chinoiserie style Chippendale chair, facing the door, next to an oval tea table set with a dainty floral tea set on a gleaming silver tray.

 

Always in control no matter what her surroundings, Lady Zinnia’s stance is a study of restraint. She looks comfortably seated, but Selwyn knows that everything about her appearance and position is a carefully planned artifice. Arrayed in a hand dyed silk frock running from golden yellow to orange and with fiery red handkerchief points, she oozes wealth, status and most of all, projects power. Lady Zinnia with her unbreakable steely hardness that sends a shiver down her son’s spine as she approaches her, is the one holding court. He knows that she will have questions for him, and that he should be under no illusion that he is in her presence for any other reason than to answer them, although being his son, she will sugar coat it with tea and biscuits and polite chatter before she strikes like a venomous snake, sharply and with precision. Whilst her frock may not soften her look, it does successfully highlight her flawless pale skin. Several strands of perfect creamy white pearls cascade down the front of her outfit, whilst gold, diamond and large pearl droplets hang effortlessly from her lobes. Clusters of diamonds wink amongst her wavy tresses which are all deep blue black, save for the one signature streak of white shooting from her temple and disappearing like a silver trail amongst her darker waves.

 

“Well, if it isn’t my handsome boy.”

 

Selwyn hates how Lady Zinnia always demotes and belittles him by calling him “boy”. Again, it is not a term of endearment from a mother to her son, but more like how Lady Zinnia would command a punkah wallah********* in India, or a waiter at the Savoy**********, and it is intended as a show of her power over him as a subordinate to her.

 

“This is a surprise.” he manages to reply in a strangulated voice.

 

“A pleasant one, I hope, Selwyn dear.” Her well elocuted tones slice the tense atmosphere around her like a knife.

 

“Of course.” he replies with false joviality.

 

His laconic statement is a lie they are both fully aware of, but also inexplicably play along with anyway.

 

Selwyn leans in with his left cheek to Lady Zinnia’s right***********, and kisses the air next to her ear as she carefully makes sure that there is no physical contact between them. Selwyn can almost feel the pale patrician flesh of her cheek retreat with revulsion as his own brushes past it.

 

“Please, do sit down, Selwyn dear.” Lady Zinnia says with a perfect painted smile************ and a sweeping gesture with her left hand as she indicates to the seat drawn up alongside the tea table, positioned opposite to her.

 

She scrutinises him with her cold sapphire chip eyes.

 

“You look pale,” she opines matter-of-factly. “Too many late nights, too much champagne and not enough food, I’ll wager. I’ll speak to Monsieur Devereaux about putting together a proper menu for you, whilst I’m up here. I pay enough for a chef-de-cuisine, the least he can do is feed you properly.”

 

“Actually, I’ve been dining at my club for the most part, or with friends.” Selwyn defends as he takes his seat, the uncomfortable feeling he has in the pit of his stomach growing more pronounced with his close proximity to his mother. “It suits me better as I work at gaining a new architectural commission, now I’m back here in London.”

 

He can smell the familiar scent of the lavender perfume she always wears. It makes him nauseous.

 

“When are you going to give this silly architecture business away, Selwyn?” Lady Zinnia flaps her heavily bejewelled right hand at Selwyn irascibly. “Your father isn’t getting any younger, thank the Lord. You need to at least show at least some passing interest in Clendon estate affairs, now you are home, not running yourself ragged at nightclubs, theatre and dinner engagements up here with all your smart London set.” She slinks back in her chair slightly as she appraises her son once again with her piercing gaze. “One day you will be the next Duke of Walmsford.”

 

“I am perfectly aware of that!” Selwyn quips. “I don’t need you to remind me!”

 

“Don’t be ungrateful, Selwyn!” Lady Zinnia snaps, her eyes flaring with sudden hostility.

 

“I’m not ungrateful.” he defends.

 

“Well,” she goes on more calmly. “As future Lord of the Manor, you owe it to your father, and his tenants to show some interest in estate business, not gallivanting around here drawing pretty houses for the undeserving and ungrateful nouveau riche*************. It’s your duty.”

 

“What brings you up from Clendon?” Selwyn asks in an effort to steer the subject of conversation elsewhere.

 

“Must I have an excuse to see my son and heir?” Lady Zinnia asks in faux shock, spreading her arms wide and shrugging in an elegantly languorous way. “You seem incapable of being torn away from the bright lights of London to sleepy Buckinghamshire, not that it’s very far away.” she chides. “So, if the mountain won't come to Muhammad,” She sighs with irritation, adjusting the sleeve of her frock delicately as she does. “Then Muhammad must go to the mountain*************.”

 

Selwyn screws up his face at his mother, dismissing her scold.

 

“The visit also gives me an excuse to visit Redfern************** whilst I’m up in town. I need a new afternoon frock for the Clendon Annual Autumn Fête. I’m hosting the tombola**************.”

 

“And who are you raising money for this year?”

 

“The Clendon Workhouse***************.” she answers with a fatigued voice. “It seems as though we can sprout the elderly, the infirm, grubby orphans, and the pathetically sick, like my parterre****************** sprouts weeds.”

 

“How very tiring for you.” Selwyn remarks.

 

“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit*******************, Selwyn dear.” Lady Zinnia remarks peevishly with an almost imperceptible shake of her head which make her pearl droplets tremble. “It doesn’t become you.”

 

“Sorry Mummy.” the rebuked Selwyn replies.

 

“Besides His Majesty is hosting a Royal Levée******************** for the Governor of the Bahamas, so your father will arrive tomorrow.” She pauses for a moment. “And don’t call me that.” She raises an elegantly thin finger adorned in precious stones warningly. “Zinnia, if you please, dear! You aren’t a child anymore. You know that we are far beyond all this silly ‘Mummy’ business. You’re a grown man.”

 

“Sorry Mummy.” Selwyn replies, again using the endearment, emphasising it as he says it.

 

“Oh dear!” Lady Zinnia sighs. “Perhaps I was wrong about you being a grown man, my boy. It seems that I must have done something fearfully wrong for you to persist like a petulant child, if you insist on calling me ‘Mummy’ in this fashion.”

 

“No, you haven’t, Zinnia.” Selwyn reverts to addressing his mother by her first name, as is her preference.

 

“That’s better.” she nods, smiling momentarily in approval.

 

“And I’m not behaving like a child, petulant or otherwise, Zinnia.”

 

“Don’t forget, I’ve known you all your life, Selwyn. Who should know you better than you yourself, than I? After all, I raised you.”

 

“Along with a litany of nursemaids and nannies,” Selwyn adds bitterly. “Until you packed me off to boarding school at the earliest opportunity, that is.”

 

“Tsk! Tsk, Selwyn! .” She tuts. “And, very competent those nannies were too. And it was only right that as the future Duke of Walmsford, you attended the same boarding school as your father. I never heard any complaints from you about how you were raised when you were younger. Now what has brought all this silliness on?”

 

Selwyn looks at his mother as she sits unflappably across from him, perfectly poised and presented, and all he wants to do is reach across and slap the smugness that gently curves up the corners of her thin mouth into an almost smirk, from her face. Can she really believe that he can’t be furious with her over what she has done to try and come between he and Lettice? Can she be so incredibly naïve, and so secure within herself that she feels that he can’t know and never will know to what depths she will sink to ensure that he and Lettice can never be together? In addition to catching up with what has transpired in each other’s lives, Lettice shared with Selwyn the news that she received from the Inquiry Agent*********************, Mr. Cookson, that she and Gerald hired to get to the bottom of how the lies about Selwyn’s supposed engagement came about. Now he is fully abreast of what Mr. Cookson has uncovered in Nairobi thus far. Kitty Avendale, the woman he was incorrectly linked to through fraudulent newspaper articles fed to Lettice by Lady Zinnia, is not only not a diamond mine heiress as she claimed to be when Selwyn was introduced to her at the Durban Club**********************, but that the man who did the introducing was none other than Lettice’s errant brother, Lionel, banished to British East Africa*********************** for conduct unbefitting a gentleman. Sources close to him told Mr. Cookson that when Lionel had imbibed a little too much, he spoke of going into partnership with a great English lady with an eye for good business and a heart of flint. There can be no doubt in his mind that the lady of whom Lionel spoke, is none other than his mother, Lady Zinnia. It is as he ruminates this revelation, he hears Lettice’s voice, soft and lovely, cautioning him not to confront Lady Zinnia until Mr. Cookson has absolute proof of the facts at hand. His fists close tightly and his manicured nails************************ gouge into the soft flesh of his palms as he tries not to strike back at his mother and reveal all that Lettice and Gerald have clandestinely uncovered.

 

“Nothing.” Selwyn apologises sulkily. “I’m just feeling a little out of sorts today, Zinnia.”

 

“Come, come, Selwyn. In spite of whatever you might say to the contrary, I know you better than you know yourself. Now what can it be that has you piqued so?” Lady Zinnia enquires politely, peering at Selwyn with her piercing gaze. “Shall I be mother*************************, since you have crowned me with the title thus, whilst I consider my answer?”

 

“Please.” Selwyn replies laconically.

 

Lady Zinnia picks up the dainty porcelain teapot featuring a delicate floral motif painted on it by its gilded handle and pours tea into two matching teacups. Whilst she does, she remains silent, much to Selwyn’s frustration. He doesn’t like his mother’s manipulative games at the best of times, much less now.

 

“Help yourself to sugar and milk, Selwyn dear.” she says as she replaces the teapot on the tray.

 

She smiles like she does when she has the winning card to annihilate other players in a game of bridge, smug, cruel and calculated, as she glances at her son. She removes the lid off the round silver biscuit barrel sitting on the tray alongside the teapot. “Let me give you some biscuits, Selwyn.” she remarks as she places first a lavish vanilla flavoured macaron and places it onto a gilt-edged plate, followed by a chocolate one.

 

“I’m not particularly hungry, Zinnia.” Selwyn defends.

 

“Nonsense Selwyn. You need perking up.” she persists as she hands the plate over to him. “Besides, you know it is rude to refuse your hostess, especially when your hostess, is me.”

 

Selwyn knows Lady Zinnia is toying with his emotions as he accepts the plate from her. His heartrate, already high with anxiety, quickens, and his breaths become just a little shorter and more laboured. Beyond the thunder of his pulsating heart in his ears, he hears Lettice’s voice again cautioning him to be calm, and not leap at Lady Zinnia’s taunts, however bad. He replays her sage words said but a half hour before in the drawing room of Cavendish Mews, as she compared Lady Zinnia to a kitten with a catnip************************** mouse when it comes to Selwyn’s emotions. He winces.

 

“Hhhhmmm…” Lady Zinnia says, at length. “Could it be that your assignation, albeit unplanned, with Miss Chetwynd at that rather dingy volunteer kitchen*************************** in Leicester Square during the General Strike, that has upset you, Selwyn dear?”

 

She smiles with malice at Selwyn as she plays her trump card.

 

Selwyn laughs bitterly and begins to shake his head. “I should have known.” he remarks. “One of your armies of old harridan dowagers has been spying on me for you, has she?”

 

“Selwyn!” Lady Zinnia gasps as she places two biscuits on her own plate and deposits it on the table next to her chair. “I really don’t think the lady in question would appreciate your description of her as a harridan, dear. She’s far from that, but her pecuniary circumstances do play into my desire for a bit of London tittle-tattle whilst I’m snuggled up and minding my own business in the quiet of Buckinghamshire. She just happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

 

“And she just happened to tell you.”

 

“Well of course she did.” Lady Zinnia feigns innocence. “She’s a very dear friend for mine! I’ve known her for years, and she did only mention it in passing when we were chatting, dear.”

 

“Mmmmm…” Selwyn muses knowingly. “Whilst she just happened to be visiting Clendon.”

 

“You know how much I savour playing hostess, Selwyn dear. Any excuse.”

 

Selwyn shakes his head.

 

Undeterred, Lady Zinnia goes on as she raises her teacup to her lips in a vain effort to hide her widening smile of triumph. “I do hope that Miss Chetwynd appraised you of her engagement to Sir John, herself, so you didn’t just hear it second hand or read about it in The Times. There is really nothing better than getting such important news directly from the horse’s mouth. I’m sure you agree.”

 

Selwyn takes a sharp intake of breath. “She did.”

 

“Good.” Lady Zinnia purrs. “Now,” she cautions, putting her teacup aside. “I hope you aren’t planning anything foolish, Selwyn dear. I don’t want you coming between Miss Chetwynd and Sir John. Best left alone, what.”

 

“Ahh!” Selwyn remarks with bitter satisfaction. “And there it is.”

 

“There what is, dear?”

 

“Your reason for being here today.”

 

“No Selwyn. Contrary to your belief in your own self-importance, the world, and my social life, do not revolve around you. I told you already. The King is hosting a levée at St Jame’s Palace later in the week, and your father and I shall be in attendance.”

 

“The real reason, then.” Selwyn corrects. “You’ve come to warn me off Lettice – to make sure that we don’t rekindle our romance.”

 

“I certainly hope you extinguish any thoughts and hopes of that, dear. It’s a good match between Miss Chetwynd and Sir John.” Lady Zinnia answers back without a moment’s hesitation, completely unphased by her son’s accusation. “She can’t complain about such an advantageous match, and if I know Sadie, her mother, she will be beside herself with glee over it! Don’t go sticking your finger in, where it has no place, Selwyn! I’m warning you.”

 

“But you promised, Zinnia!” Selwyn bursts.

 

“Pshaw!” Lady Zinnia scoffs derisively, waving her hand dismissively.

 

Feeling the rage bubbling up inside him, it takes all Selwyn’s restraint not to snap at his mother as he says in a laboured voice, “You promised that, if I went away for a year, a year during which I agreed neither to see, nor correspond with Lettice, that when I came back, if I felt the same way about Lettice, you agreed that you would concede and would allow me to marry her. I…”

 

Lady Zinnia holds up a silencing finger again. “Selwyn. Desist immediately. I haven’t broken that promise.” She smiles. “It is your precious Miss Chetwynd who has broken the pact we made. You cannot marry someone who is engaged to someone else.”

 

“And if she wasn’t?”

 

“It doesn’t signify, Selwyn. She is, and that’s an end to it. The pact is broken by her engagement, so you will now marry someone of my choosing.” She then adds rather cruelly, “Someone far more suitable.”

 

“Why do you dislike Lettice so much, Zinnia?” Selwyn manages to ask. “It can’t stem back to that day when I was a child, and you pulled me out of the hedgerows at Glynes**************************** where I had been playing with Lettice. You always blamed Lettice for that incident. You called her a wild and savage child.”

 

“Good heavens! Did I?” Lady Zinnia gasps before laughing with genuine mirth. “I don’t remember that. Did I really? Do you remember that incident? Good God! I haven’t given it a thought in years: years and years!” She takes up her teacup and sips her tea as she recalls the memory. “That day I went hunting with Viscount Wrexham and the rest of the county’s great and good, and when I came back, I found you playing with Miss Chetwynd, covered in leaves, twigs and mud.” She chuckles. “She was a wild and an unruly child then. A thing of the hedgerows with leaves in her hair and creatures in her pockets. I concede that she has improved with age.” She chuckles again. “What a funny boy you are to be sure, to remember something so ridiculously inconsequential as that! I might have been cross with her for encouraging you to play in the thickets and ditches, but I was probably more cross with you at the time for allowing her to encourage you to participate in such an unsuitable game for a young gentleman. I was ashamed of you. It was up to Cosmo and Sadie to be ashamed of Miss Chetwynd and reprimand her, which, I’m sure they never did. That wild changeling always did have her father wrapped around her little finger.”

 

“Then why?”

 

“Why what, Selwyn dear?” She takes another sip of tea.

 

“Why do you take so against Lettice, Zinnia? Are you being obtuse on purpose, just to irk me?”

 

“I don’t think the girl is entirely unsuitable,” Lady Zinnia concedes, eyeing her son with a fresh look of consideration. “Not that you should take that as an invitation to somehow dissolve the engagement between Miss Chetwynd and Sir John. I would much prefer you to be matched to a more suitable debutante from more notable and aristocratic linage.”

 

“The Chetwynds lineage can be traced back to Tudor times. I remember her father, the Viscount, showed me their family tree, and a viscount is quite a noble title.”

 

“But not as noble as the daughter of a duchess.” Lady Zinnia counters. “And my family can be traced back to the time of the Norman Conquest, and your father’s just after.”

 

“If you disapprove of Lettice and her lineage, as you so obviously do, why did you put me in her way deliberately at her mother’s Hunt Ball back in 22?”

 

“Oh Selwyn, I didn’t do it deliberately! You have the most peculiar ideas. I merely sent you as my emissary, my ambassador. Sadie’s invitation came as something of a surprise to me, after so many years of water beneath both our bridges. I didn’t wish to hurt her feelings by not attending myself, so I sent you as my representative in the hope that that would satisfy her.”

 

“But you must have known that it was a ball held for Lettice to find a suitable match.”

 

“And I thought you would have had more sense of your future position in society, and respect for your Uncle Betrand’s and my well-laid plans to match you with Pamela, than to let an isolated flirtation at a country ball with a flibbertigibbet in a pretty frock turn your head like it did.” Lady Zinnia spits back caustically. “The great romance!” she scoffs. “You are such a tiresome generation, all talking about romance, and marrying for love. Your father and I weren’t in love.”

 

“Yes, and look at how happy your marriage is as a result of that.”

 

“We do the dutiful thing. It works.” she replies matter-of-factly without emotion. “Anyway, it’s not so much a case of disliking the girl, my boy. I actually find her pluck quite endearing, but you have to admit, Selwyn dear, that she isn’t really a suitable match for a future Duke of Walmsford. Still, I suppose a Tudor viscount is better than nothing.”

 

“Then what?” Selwyn asks, exasperated.

 

“Well, as I said, I only sent you as my emissary to support Sadie. I must confess that I never really had a lot of time for the Viscountess. I’d hardly call her my friend: more of a polite, passing acquaintance, like someone you pass by at church every so often. She prattled and gossiped like so many other women of my generation do, about pointless, meaningless things which I find fearfully tiresome.” She sighs heavily. “Ahhh… but I did have time for the Viscount.” she goes on wistfully. “Cosmo was lovely! He was so handsome when he was young. Positively dashing!” Her eyes suddenly sparkle brilliantly with something Selwyn has never seen in them before. “I imagine he still is, in a more mature sort of fashion. He was so very witty, and like me, he believed in the emancipation of women, a cause we both had in common. He wasted his intelligence on someone as blinkered, old fashioned and regressive as Sadie Lansdowne,” She sighs again, this time resignedly. “However, that was the decision he made.”

 

It takes a few moments for Lady Zinnia’s words to sink into his consciousness, a few more to make sense of them and piece the puzzle together, and then a few moments longer still for Selwyn to formulate a response to them.

 

“So, if I understand you correctly, you are refusing to accept Lettice as a suitable bride for me…” he says in an almost breathless and hoarse whisper. “Because Viscount Wrexham refused to marry you, once?”

 

His eyes grow wide even as he utters the words, making them a reality in his consciousness.

 

“Oh, don’t be so ridiculous, Selwyn!” Lady Zinnia scoffs dismissively with a snort. “It wasn’t a marriage proposal. I was married to your father, unhappily, by the time I met Cosmo! No, I merely wanted to have a liaison with him. I fancied him. I was infatuated by him. He was the embodiment of everything your father wasn’t, which made him very desirable. It would have been fun!” Her eyes grow hard and cold like dark sapphire chips again. “But he refused me. He had the audacity to tell me point blank, that afternoon all those years ago when I pulled you out of the thicket, that he was married to Sadie, and he would never be unfaithful to her, not even for me. His refusal of me was what I was really angry about that afternoon, not yours or Miss Chetwynd’s silly childhood antics – although that did not help my grim mood at the time, I’m sure. I felt like the proverbial beautiful and priceless pearl, cast before an ungrateful swine. I was so much more beautiful, vivacious and intelligent than that mindless dowd, Sadie that he’d shackled himself to.”

 

“You are refusing my… my happiness, for the… the sake of your own…” Selwyn manages to splutter. “Your own wounded vanity from… from how many years ago?”

 

“It was my pride that was hurt, not my vanity!” Lady Zinnia snaps. “Do you blame me, after Cosmo refused me when I was at the very pinnacle of my beauty and power?” she defends. “I could have had any man that I chose, through the length and breadth of the kingdom, except the one that I wanted. Because I couldn’t have my heart’s deepest desire then, I’ll be damned before I let you get yours, now.”

 

“Zinnia,” Selwyn says, rising to his feet. “You are perverse.”

 

“There is always pleasure in perversion, Selwyn dear.” Lady Sadie replies, looking up at her son from her seat as she takes her cup to her lips again and drains it of her remaining tea.

 

Selwyn pushes the air around him in disbelief and frustration before raising them to his temples as he starts to cry. In doing so, he knocks the small galleried octagonal table to his left on which his now cooling cup of tea and untouched biscuits sit, sending it toppling over. As it falls, the air thick with emotion around he and his mother is filled by the loud smash of shattering crockery as his cup, saucer and plate hit the parquetry and splinter into thousands of tiny white, painted and gilded shards, scattering amongst the splattering gush of spilled tea and broken macaron pieces that litter the floor.

 

“You will not win!” Selwyn huffs as his face grows red and tears spill down his cheeks. “You will not win! I’ll marry Lettice!” He looks down at her with eyes dark with fury. “Even if I have to wait until you are dead and buried beneath the hard earth.”

 

“That’s a long time coming, dear.” Lady Zinnia purrs, unperturbed. “I’ll make sure of that. And neither your father, nor I, will let you remain unmarried and heirless. You’ll marry who I tell you to, when I tell you to. And that, is an end to it, my boy!”

 

“Never Mummy! I’ll not do it!” Selwyn manages to say.

 

“You’ll never marry her, Selwyn.” His mother begins to laugh, low and slowly at first, before rising in pitch and volume, growing to a maniacal crescendo. “Never!”

 

With all the strength he has left, Selwyn stumbles from the room blindly, and walks directly into Poole as he hurries into the room to see what all the commotion is. Selwyn thrusts him aside roughly and runs away, leaving the household’s second footman startled and dishevelled with his white powdered wig awry and his lace jabot hanging off one of his gilded frock coat buttons.

 

“Ahh, Poole.” Lady Zinna says calmly, as she settles back into her seat with comfort. She sneers at the pieces littering the floor. “Clean up this mess immediately.”

 

“Yes, Your Grace!” Poole replies in a startled fashion as he tries to understand what has just taken place, and quickly turns to go and fetch a dustpan and broom.

 

Just as he turns, Lady Zinnia calls out sweetly, “Oh, and Poole,”

 

He stops in his tracks and turns back. “Yes, Your Grace?”

 

“Tidy yourself up before you dare to show yourself in here again!” she seethes with sudden fury. “I don’t pay you an excellent wage to look slovenly!”

 

“Oh… no… Your Grace.” he manages to stutter back, as self-consciously he reaches up to straighten his wig.

 

“Get out of my sight this instant, you imbecile,” she hisses, before following up with a much louder, “Now!”

 

“Yes, Your Grace!” he gasps, physically jumping in fright. “Err… no, Your Grace.”

 

“Immediately!” Lady Zinnia barks.

 

Without a further moment’s hesitation, the harried footman dashes from the room.

 

Lady Zinnia sighs heavily. “What a waste.” she remarks absent mindedly as she stands and looks down at the broken pieces on the parquet floor again. “A perfectly good tea set ruined.”

 

She then lifts her arms holding her teacup and saucer aloft before throwing them violently to the floor where they shatter just like the other pieces, shards and fragments of porcelain bouncing off the hard surface as it hits it with such force. Taking a step forward, noisily crushing the remnant of the gilded handle of her cup beneath the toe of her shoe, she proceeds to topple the tea table as well. The discordant sound of the teapot, milk jug and sugar bowl colliding with the grey slate hearthstone echoes through the air, followed in quick succession by the dull metallic thud of the ornate silver tray and the silver biscuit barrel hitting the floor.

 

She sighs with satisfaction as she surveys the ruination of the tea set, and smiles at the parquet floor and Persian rug covered in broken china, spilled tea, tealeaves and broken and sopping biscuit pieces.

 

“Be damned if I’ll have Mrs. Ketwick or anyone else below stairs drinking, or profiting from, the family china.”

 

And with elegant poise, as if nothing were out of the ordinary, she walks from the room with the gait of an aristocrat going about her business as usual, in an unhurried fashion.

 

*The General Strike in Britain occurred between May the 3rd and May the 12th, 1926. It was a nine-day nationwide stoppage called by the Trades Union Congress (TUC) to support coal miners facing wage reductions and worsening conditions. Roughly one million, seven hundred thousand workers went on strike, primarily in transport and heavy industry.

 

**In the Victorian and Edwardian eras, domestic servants were a visible sign of financial success. Employing several tall footmen (who often cost more to hire – especially in the inter-war years of the “servant problem” when even short footmen were a rare commodity) showed visitors that the household was prosperous enough to afford luxuries beyond basic necessities. Wealthy and aristocratic employers took pride in having footmen who matched in height and appearance. This ensured the staff blended into a uniform, making them more visually pleasing as a background for the family, functioning more as elegant decoration than just functional help. In previous centuries, footmen had to run alongside coaches to clear obstacles and protect aristocrats from highwaymen, requiring them to be strong and tall. Though this duty became obsolete as roads and transportation improved, the preference for strong, statuesque men remained. When hosting, the first impression a house made was at the front door. A highly presentable, tall footman welcoming guests immediately conveyed a sense of the family's power and grandeur.

 

***As a son of a Duke, and heir to the title, Selwyn would have been addressed by the courtesy title of “Your Grace” as his father would have been addressed. These sorts of courtesy titles are purely honorary and do not confer legal peerage.

 

****Thomas Burberry established Burberry in Basingstoke in 1856 at just twenty-one years old, founded on the principle that clothing should be designed to protect people from the British weather. A few years later in 1879 he invented gaberdine, a breathable wearable and hardwearing fabric that revolutionised rainwear. The Burberry trench coat was invented during the First World War with epaulettes used to suspend military equipment, but in the inter-war years, with the Burberry check registered as a trademark and introduced as lining to their rainwear, it became a luxury brand for the wealthy.

 

*****Clendon is the vast family seat of the Duke and Duchess of Walmsford in Buckinghamshire.

 

******Starting out as a cabinet maker in Yorkshire, Thomas Chippendale went on to become one of the Eighteenth Century’s most fashionable furniture designers. Nearly two hundred and fifty years after his death, the Chippendale name remains a byword for quality, with the brand’s superbly made pieces continuing to grace luxury homes around the world. Thomas Chippendale was born in 1718 in the Yorkshire village of Otley. His family were carpenters and joiners, and so Chippendale may have received an apprenticeship from a family member, but it's possible that he was also apprenticed to a furniture-maker in York. Chippendale eventually went to London, working as both a furniture-maker and designer. By 1754, the self-proclaimed “cabinet- maker and upholsterer” had set up business at 59 to 61 St Martin’s Lane, in the heart of London’s furniture-making district. The premises contained not only Chippendale’s workshops but also a home for his growing family. Employing around 50 craftsmen, Chippendale offered a range of services to his elite clientele, from creating single bespoke items of furniture to designing and installing complete interiors. Around this time, he also published a book of his furniture designs entitled The Gentleman and Cabinet-Maker’s Director. Not only was the book one of the earliest works of its kind in Britain, but it also became highly influential in Europe and America, encouraging a variety of interpretations of the ‘Chippendale’ style and, occasionally, dubious attributions.

 

*******A tea caddy is a dedicated container used to store tea leaves. Designed to protect tea from light, moisture, and air, these receptacles range from modern, airtight tins to the lockable, ornate antique boxes that were highly prized in Europe during the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries. The word "caddy" derives from catty (or kati), a Malay-Chinese unit of weight roughly equivalent to six hundred grams (1.3 lbs), which was the standard measurement used to trade and sell tea. When tea was first introduced to Europe, it was an incredibly expensive, highly sought-after commodity. Because of its steep price, leaves were kept under lock and key by the mistress of the house to prevent theft by household servants. During the Georgian and Victorian eras, tea caddies were status symbols. Master craftsmen designed elegant and elaborate lockable boxes made from luxury materials like mahogany, rosewood, and satinwood, silver, pewter, tortoiseshell, and hand-painted porcelain. Many antique boxes contained multiple lidded compartments (to separate black and green tea) and sometimes a central glass bowl used to blend teas or mix in sugar.

 

********Parian ware is a type of unglazed, matte porcelain developed in the 1840s to imitate carved marble. It was introduced by the English pottery firm Copeland and Garrett, who marketed it as "Statuary Porcelain". Named after the famous white marble from the Greek island of Paros, it allowed Victorian manufacturers to mass-produce affordable, highly detailed sculptures and busts for middle-class homes. It is composed primarily of feldspar and China clay. The high feldspar content makes it melt slightly during firing, giving the finished piece a smooth, self-glazing, satin-like surface. It is generally ivory-white or slightly off-white, closely resembling the texture and opacity of fine-grained marble. It was widely used for small busts of historical figures, mythological figures, pastoral scenes, and decorative vases.

 

*********A punkah wallah was a manual fan operator in the Indian subcontinent, primarily during the colonial era. They were hired to continuously pull a rope attached to a punkah—a large, suspended frame covered in fabric or rattan—to circulate air and provide relief from the brutal summer heat. Operating the fans was demanding labour that relied heavily on India’s pre-existing caste system. Many punkah wallahs belonged to lower castes and were subjected to intense exploitation, earning minimal wages for a long and arduous job lasting long hours. In some elite British households and government offices, employers specifically hired individuals who were deaf to prevent them from overhearing confidential conversations.

 

**********The Savoy Hotel is a luxury hotel located in the Strand in the City of Westminster in central London. Built by the impresario Richard D'Oyly Carte with profits from his Gilbert and Sullivan opera productions, it opened on 6 August 1889. It was the first in the Savoy group of hotels and restaurants owned by Carte's family for over a century. The Savoy was the first hotel in Britain to introduce electric lights throughout the building, electric lifts, bathrooms in most of the lavishly furnished rooms, constant hot and cold running water and many other innovations. Carte hired César Ritz as manager and Auguste Escoffier as chef de cuisine; they established an unprecedented standard of quality in hotel service, entertainment and elegant dining, attracting royalty and other rich and powerful guests and diners. The hotel became Carte's most successful venture. Its bands, Savoy Orpheans and the Savoy Havana Band, became famous. Winston Churchill often took his cabinet to lunch at the hotel. The hotel is now managed by Fairmont Hotels and Resorts. It has been called "London's most famous hotel". It has two hundred and sixty seven guest rooms and panoramic views of the River Thames across Savoy Place and the Thames Embankment. The hotel is a Grade II listed building.

 

***********In England, the standard social greeting is a single "air kiss" on the right cheek. However, depending on the formality of the situation, the relationship, and who is greeting whom, some people may follow through with a kiss on both cheeks (starting right, then left). In 1920s Britain, cheek kissing was not universally practiced by all Britons or in every setting. It was most common amongst close friends, family, and in some middle or upper-middle-class social circles.

 

************A "painted smile" refers to a facial expression that is fake, forced, or drawn on to hide genuine feelings of sadness, distress, or malice. It symbolises emotional concealment, often masking heartbreak or deceit beneath a cheerful exterior.

 

*************Nouveau riche (French for "new rich") describes individuals who have recently acquired wealth within their own lifetime, rather than through familial inheritance. The term is often used disapprovingly to describe those who display their newfound wealth through flashy, ostentatious spending and lack traditional upper-class etiquette

 

**************The famous proverb: "If the mountain won't come to Muhammad, then Muhammad must go to the mountain." means that if a stubborn situation or person refuses to bend to your wishes, you must adapt and take the initiative to solve the problem yourself. This idiom actually didn't come from the Quran or traditional Islamic teachings. It originated as an apocryphal tale popularized in English by philosopher Francis Bacon in his 1625 collection of Essays. According to Bacon's story, the Prophet Muhammad tried to prove his teachings by ordering a nearby hill to come to him. When the hill stayed put, Muhammad didn't get embarrassed; he simply shrugged and said, "If the hill will not come to Mahomet, Mahomet will go to the hill."

 

***************Redfern was a renowned fashion house that operated in both London and Paris during the late Nineteenth and early Twentieth Centuries. Founded in 1855 on the Isle of Wight by John Redfern, the Redfern company began as a tailor specializing in women’s clothing, particularly yachting attire for upper-class women. It gained prominence for its sporty, elegant tailoring, especially during the Victorian and Edwardian eras. Redfern opened branches in London on Bond Street, in Paris, and New York, becoming one of the earliest international haute couture houses. By the 1880s, Redfern was officially designated as Court Dressmaker to Queen Victoria and later to Queen Alexandra and Queen Mary. The brand's prominence faded by the 1930s. While the Paris house closed around 1932, the legacy of Redfern's contributions to modern women's fashion endured in tailoring traditions.

 

****************A tombola is a game of chance or a type of raffle, commonly found at fairs, markets, or charity events. Participants buy tickets and draw them instantly from a spinning drum or container to see if they have won a specific, pre-assigned prize.

 

***************Workhouses still existed in the 1920s, primarily in Britain and Ireland, though their function had changed drastically from earlier Victorian times, which is usually what we think of when we conjure up images of a workhouse. By the 1920s, the traditional workhouse system was in its final stages. Instead of housing able-bodied poor people sent there to work, these institutions mostly accommodated the elderly, infirm, orphans, and the sick. The harsh Victorian-era stigma remained, but the buildings were often rebranded as "Public Assistance Institutions" meant to provide basic shelter for the homeless or destitute. In 1929, the British government passed legislation to officially take the workhouse system out of the hands of the Poor Law guardians. Many of the old workhouse infirmaries and buildings were repurposed and transitioned into municipal hospitals, which would later be absorbed into the UK’s National Health Service (NHS) in 1948.

 

******************A parterre (French for "on the ground") is a formal, level garden characterised by symmetrical, geometric patterns defined by low, clipped evergreen hedges (like boxwood, yew, or privet) and filled with colourful flowers, gravel, or turf. They are traditionally designed to be viewed from an elevated vantage point, such as a terrace or a second-story window.

 

*******************Whilst frequently attributed to Oscar Wilde, the full and often-omitted quote is actually: "Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, but the highest form of intelligence". This duality reflects the debate surrounding sarcasm. Arguments against it highlight that sarcasm is often mean-spirited, relies on contempt, and demands very little genuine cleverness to deploy. Ultimately, like any conversational tool, its value depends on the execution and the audience.

  

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

 

*********************In 1920s England, private investigators were most commonly referred to as Inquiry Agents or Private Inquiry Agents. They were frequently engaged for matters involving surveillance and divorce, with other common terms including private detectives, commercial agents, and private investigators used.

 

**********************The Durban Club was founded in 1854, and is one of South Africa's oldest private members' clubs, located in a stately building on Durban’s Victoria Embankment. The gentlemen of the Quoits Club formally established the Durban Club in 1854. The current building, the third club house in the club’s history, was built in Edwardian Baroque Revival style and is a famous landmark structure, in the city. The building was started in 1900 and completed in 1904. Having passed through the Anglo-Zulu War of 1879, the First (1889) and Second (1899-1902) Anglo-Boer Wars, the Zulu Rebellion (1906), the Great War of 1914-1918 and the Second World War (1939-1945) the Club has hosted more than its fair share of famous people, including George Cato, Prince Louis Napoleon, Thomas Baines, Cathcart Methven, Lord Chelmsford, Sir Garnet Wolseley, General Sir Henry Evelyn Wood V.C., General Sir Redvers Buller V.C., General Lord Roberts V.C, General Sir Robert Baden Powell and Sir Winston Churchill. Prior to 1904, ladies were only permitted in the Club on what were known as “Special Occasions”. By the 1920s it was the most luxurious and exclusive place for colonial society to meet at in Durban.

 

***********************The Colony and Protectorate of Kenya, commonly known as British Kenya or British East Africa, was part of the British Empire in Africa. It was established when the former East Africa Protectorate was transformed into a British Crown colony in 1920. Technically, the "Colony of Kenya" referred to the interior lands, with a ten mile coastal strip, nominally on lease from the Sultan of Zanzibar, was the "Protectorate of Kenya", but the two were controlled as a single administrative unit. The colony came to an end in 1963 when an ethnic Kenyan majority government was elected for the first time and eventually declared independence as the Republic of Kenya.

 

************************In 1920s England, manicures were highly popular among affluent and upper-class men. Rather than wearing polish, men received hygienic nail treatments focused on filing, removing cuticles, and buffing nails to a high shine using powders and creams. Upscale gentlemen’s clubs in London and high-end barbershops frequently offered manicure services to their upper-class patrons. Polishes were mostly reserved for women, while the male standard was clean, trimmed, and naturally buffed nails. It was considered a mark of a "gentleman of leisure." Wealthy men also utilised personal, ornate manicure kits (often made with ivory, silver, or mother-of-pearl) or bought branded treatments like the Supreme Nail Polish by Max Factor, which used tinted powder to create a sleek sheen.

 

*************************The meaning of the very British term “shall I be mother” is “shall I pour the tea?”

 

**************************Catnip (Nepeta cataria) is a perennial herb belonging to the mint family. It grows wild, native to Europe and Asia. The herb contains a volatile oil called nepetalactone in its stems and leaves. When cats smell it, the compound binds to olfactory receptors, triggering a euphoric state that causes them to roll around, purr, rub against the plant, and sometimes become hyperactive.

 

***************************During the 1926 General Strike, the volunteer canteens — often staffed by "titled ladies" to feed volunteers maintaining essential services — were largely organized and supported by the upper classes, society women, and the government\'s emergency volunteer network. Women from high society and the aristocracy, including Lady Louis Mountbatten, Lady Quilter, Lady Mary Ashley Cooper, and Lady Carmichael-Anstruther, participated in and helped manage these canteens. Canteens, such as those overseen by a "Mrs. Loeffler" at Scotland House and similar efforts in Hyde Park, provided food and refreshments to the thousands of middle-class volunteers, such as special constables, who broke the strike. These canteens were part of a coordinated effort by the Conservative government to maintain essential services and counter the strike\'s effectiveness. The focus of these efforts was to support the volunteer workforce—such as the "special constables"—to keep services running, as opposed to the soup kitchens operated in mining communities by workers\' wives to support the miners.

 

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

 

This grand Georgian interior may appear like something out of a historical stately country house, but it is in fact part of my 1:12 miniatures collection and includes items from my childhood, as well as those I have collected as an adult.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

On the central chinoiserie tea table, the delicate tea set with its floral sprigged pattern and gilded handles and lips come from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering. The round biscuit barrel, has been made with great attention to its detail, and comes from Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The ornate oval silver tea tray I have had since I was about seven. It was given to me as a birthday present. The wonderful selection of biscuits on offer were also made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering.

 

The vase of red and yellow roses in the foreground and the apricot roses in front of the oriental screen are beautifully made by hand by the Doll House Emporium. The pink roses in the mantlepiece come from Beautifully handmade Miniatures in Kettering.

 

The two cameos sitting on the fireplace mantle are in fact a pair of very old clip on earrings which came into my possession from my maternal Grandmother. They were her mother’s before her, her mother’s before that and her mother’s before her at least. I estimate that these earrings are from around the Regency period between 1811 and 1820. They are carved ivory profiles on an ebony black background. The yellowing of the ivory is a sign of its advanced age, and their finer detail has been worn by many hands touching them over the centuries: not least of all mine. As a child, I used to use them as miniature pictures on the mantles of the fireplaces of my miniature tableaux I used to set up and play with (see I was even doing it then). I named them Flora and Fauna when my Grandmother told me that they were classical profiles of Roman Goddesses. Flora is on the right and is my favourite. Fauna, with a lightly sterner look is on the left.

 

The vase containing the pink roses I bought from a high street shop that specialised in dolls and doll house furnishings when I was a teenager. It is hand painted.

 

The tea caddy in between Flora and Fauna and the two candlesticks on the right of the mantle come from Warwick Miniatures in Ireland.

 

The little white vase on the mantle 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 mantle mirror is actually a small pink plastic framed looking glass. The handle broke off long ago, and I painted in black and gilded it to give it a Regency look, proving that I do not let anything go to waste if I can avoid it!

 

The two large blue and white urns flanking the fireplace are Eighteenth Century Chinese jars that I bought as part of a large job lot of small oriental pieces of porcelain, pottery and glass from an auction house many years ago.

 

The black japanned Chippendale chinoiserie style chairs, green fabric covered stools and chinoiserie cupboard, the chinoiserie oval tea table and the galleried side table are made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq.

 

The oriental screen in the background is made of black japanned wood with inserts of soapstone. It came from Kathleen Knight's Doll's House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

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

 

The wallpaper is an authentic copy of hand-painted Georgian wallpaper from the 1770s.

 

The Persian rug on the floor has been woven by Mackay and Gerrish in Sydney, Australia.

Canon 50D Aurora in Nebraska -- stacked star trails from time lapse photos. I think the 5 second pause I have in between each timelapse shot need to be eliminated (somehow), since it causes a slight "stutter" in between the star streaks, which looks weird in the middle.

The red and yellow are holding up pretty well on C415 415 (did I stutter?) as it basks in the sun at Blue Island.

This was not my usual encounter with a stranger I would come to photograph.

 

When I was much... much... younger, I used to go to the Renaissance Faire in a rather risqué, 1970's peasant-style dress designed by Gunne Sax, getting into the whole fantasy of the annual event. I gave up the dress, and the Faire, decades ago. When I did return this year, I wore more practical gear: jeans, sunhat, and sturdy walking boots. I went with only one thought in mind: to get photographs. I was no longer part of the Faire or the magic; I had morphed into a pragmatic observer.

 

I spotted Melinda's stall from a distance. Her pieces of jewelry reminded me of a museum exhibit. But the moment she emerged from the shadows, I found myself blurting out, "I must photograph you!" (or something equally embarrassing).

 

I stuttered out an apology for my rudeness but tried to cover up by saying she must be used to loads of photographers asking her to pose. With quiet grace, she quelled my nerves and readily agreed to being photographed. I lost myself for the next few minutes in a sort of photographer's high.

 

After I showed her the images, she casually asked if I would like to photograph her husband. Of course, says I, as he emerged from behind the dark, velvet curtains. In that moment, I began to think maybe I had not lost my belief in magic.

 

Attila was equally gracious; they both spent more time than I could have asked for allowing me to fumble my way through the shoot.

 

We chatted awhile talking about art and the creation of their wearable sculptures, each piece designed and handmade by them. Both are exceedingly kind and generous people, as well as brilliant artisans.

 

Rather than repeat their story, read their bio (fascinating) on their website at wizarts.us/pages/gallery after admiring their handiwork. There is also a YouTube video with music composed and played by Melinda.

 

I didn't want this to come across as some star-struck, magical experience... but it was.

 

-------------------------

 

Visit my Human Family/100 Strangers album

 

Find out more about the project and see pictures taken by other photographers: 100 Strangers Flickr Group.

 

For street portraits and stories from The Human Family, visit The Human Family Flickr Group.

  

Deathstroke raises his sword about to slice down on me, I struggle to get up, to not get killed, but he puts his foot on me, holding me down.

“Just know that you die with honor!” he yells out, and now I see it, he’s distracted, caught up in the glory, so I use this to push him off his feet, I throw the sword a couple feet away and begin punching him, I get in about twenty-five, before he pushes me off. We begin wrestling to get back up. He grabs my wrist, but I thrust my whole body into him, he begins to try and strangle me, but I use my hands to smash down on his shoulders.

“Look out Batman!” yells a voice, Robins voice, as he comes flying down upon him.

“Nice one kid, using stealth against your opponent is one thing that good fighters should try to do, something I would have expected from the creature of the night, not a boy dressed like a Christmas Tree. He then swings his fist, and Robin dodges it, I then come flying in tackling him, but he pushes me of.

He pops up and pulls out his gun and aims it at me.

“So kid, your choice, does the man live, or die?” Robin stutters, this isn’t something he should have to go through, especially after what happened with Harvey.

“He’s going to live, there’s nothing you can do about it” Robin yells, strongly, not wanting to negotiate with him.

“He will, as long as I get away” and then he grapples away.

“Should I pursue him?” Robin yells, still shaken up from that.

“No, we need to head back to the Batcave, you and I need it” and so we hop in the Batmobile and drive off, both shaken up from that experience, looks like this whole endeavor won’t be as easy as we thought it would be.

 

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.

[Just a reminder: life is crazier than one might be lead to think.]

Stuttered - Bleak weather precipatates a break down in painting flow continuum

 

Tomorrow is another day too.

"Send me away I'm here on my own.

Hammer, stutter now Lets rock, lets roll now

I'm desperate. I'm better off like this

Don't you know I care"

 

Desperate - The Killes

Shutter Stutter

 

I planned to take a set of photographs around our back yard, starting with the view from the bedroom window. I set the camera directly on the window sill instead of on the stubby tripod. Obviously not the best idea.

 

But I still like the result.

 

Ondu 6x12 Multiformat Pinhole Camera

Kentmere Pan 100 exposed at 200, developed in D76 1:1 15.5 min

Epson Perfection V500 Photo scanner

 

#ilfordfilm, #kentmere100, #kentmerepan100, #pushedonestop,

#ondu6x12 #ondu_pinhole, #pinholecamera, #pinhole, #woodencamera,

#blackandwhite, #shootfilmstaypoor, #ishootfilm,

#myhouse, #neighborhood, #irondequoitny, #shutterstutter,

Rear end , Nothing too special, same engines as big yellow but i had good reason, ill explain in the next pictures.

 

I really wanted to add vectoring gimbals to the engines but honestly i was stressing out with the crashing and stuttering 😕😖

 

Please consider joining my group

 

www.flickr.com/groups/artificial_art/

Please give me name suggestions lol. Anyway, life has been annoying, keeping me busy and stuff like that, so that was why I was gone (also exhaustion for posting for 30 DAYS IN A ROW!) I also joined this group by Tigerlegos and it is really interesting if you want to check it out the link is below and enjoy!

 

House of M group by the one and only Tigerlegos: www.flickr.com/groups/14795983@N23/

 

The actual story of you just want to read the story: (please do, I spent a whole lot of time on this)

 

“We saw it coming. Tony Stark knew it. Steve Rogers knew it. We all knew it. We just weren’t fast enough. It was like a brief moment. One second we were fighting Magneto and his team, the next, the Avengers were dead. I’m the only survivor. Or so I thought.”

 

*Title Card* Hawkeye (if this was a movie, this would happen)

 

“Ahhh, ughh, it wasn’t me…” said a mutant “I don’t even know you…”

 

“Where is he?” Hawkeye said solemnly.

 

“Who?”

 

“Did I stutter? WHERE IS HE?”

 

“Please, don’t…”

 

“MAGENTO! WHERE IS HE?”

 

“I’m just a civilian, I don’t kn—“

 

BANG!

 

“Fricken useless” Hawkeye whispered to himself.

 

Clint Barton, used to be Hawkeye, continued walking around New York. He was still saddened by the loss of his beloved wife during the Avengers’ massacre. Everything has changed since the massacre in fact. Every meta-human is and will always be in hiding unless Clint did something. Even if he failed, Clint would know he would die, avenging his wife by the slightest.

 

Barton walked into another alleyway uncovering a manhole cover, climbing down, and sealing the hole above him.

 

“Yo, Barton, you find anythin’?” A familiar voice said. “Nothing?”

 

“Cage, can’t you tell by his body language? It-“ Matt Murdock said right before being interrupted.

 

“I know, blind guy, I have eyes you know.”

 

“Shut up,” Clint yelled. “Where’s Danny”

 

“Meditating,” Cage replied. “Over there, why?”

 

“Nothing, just don’t wanna lose anyone else,” Clint replied.

 

“Look, don’t worry, we can handle ourselves,” Murdock said. “Don’t stress yourself out.”

 

“Sure.”

 

Clint decided to get out of the sewer again to continue his search for Magneto. He was also hoping on finding more people to recruit to kill Magneto once and for all.

 

An unknown voice yelled from behind. “Hey! You’re Hawkeye right? Clint Barton? The Avengers?”

 

In the far background is the Finnish icebreaker Urho, then Midnatsol and Borea. Seen departing on the far side of the midground dock is the Prinsessan; on the near side is the auto ferry Viking, and closer in is the Sandnes; seen arriving in the near foreground is the Alta, and alongside at near right is the Kista Dan.

 

This is a pretty good photo stack- objects are in focus for the full depth of field, and this iteration has no stutter.

 

It was 1953. When Bob, my department coordinator walked into my office yesterday with a disappointed look on his face. My curiosity was aroused. “What’s up Bob?” “Well Jim looks like you’ll be leaving us” he announced as he handed me an official letter with the Bureau seal on it. Confused, I glanced down at the official looking letter. Before I could say anything, Bob, interrupted. “You’ve been reassigned - just read the letter.”

 

For the past eight years I had been working out of the FBI's Kansas City, Missouri field office. In fact ever since completing my twenty-one week NAT training at Quantico, Virginia I had been assigned to the Kansas City Field office. Although I always knew that no assignment could be considered permanent when working for the FBI, this announcement left me confused and disappointed. I had made some good friends, both within the office and outside the department. I had worked on and solved some major cases. My desk was still heaped with piles of active case files. “You’ve been a good agent and I have enjoyed working with you over the years. I believe we have produced some great results but as you know Jim, it isn’t about performance, it’s always about the Bureau’s needs.”

 

As I looked down and scanned through the letter, the word, ‘Chicago’ stood out. “Oh damn, not Chicago!”, I exclaimed. “Well there could be worse places”, Bob placated. “Yeah, Bob I know but this couldn’t have come at a worse time. Kathy and I were in the process of buying a house. We had plans to start a family in this area.” Bob took a chair in front of my desk and sat down somewhat dejectedly. Looking me in the eyes, he said, “Hey Jim think of this as a promotion, which I’m sure it is. I’m sure there are nice decent areas in the Chicago area……..somewhere”, he added with a chuckle. “Did you read this damn letter, Bob?” Now my irritation was boiling up to the surface. “Well no, not exactly but”…… I interrupted, “But you did read part of it, right? Just like a damn detective.” “Well yeah”……… “Then you know, I interrupted, they aren’t even giving me time to get my affairs together. They want me to report to the Chicago Field office in two weeks! What am I going to tell Kathy?” “Tell her the truth, Jim. She knew what she was in for marrying an FBI agent.” Exacerbated I flung the letter across my desk top with a outburst of, “damn!” The eyebrows on Bill’s face raised as if surprised and bemused simultaneously. “Hey Jim, we just broke a big case. That interstate transportation of stolen equipment deal and we were able to get twenty-four indictments out of that case. Big case. I’m sure the Bureau was happy about that. Hell, that could even be a reason why the Bureau is wanting a seasoned veteran in their Chicago office. You know they have big problem up there in the windy city.” Still frustrated but gradually becoming reconciled to the reassignment I replied, “Yeah, yeah I know Bob but just recently being married and in the middle of making plans for our future in the Kansas City area, this puts a real crimp in everything.” “But consider the increase in your pay grade, Jim. Remember back when you first got out of the Academy and started here as a lowly GL-10. Hell man, I’m sure with eight years under your belt as a seasoned agent with what, probably a forty or fifty percent arrest and conviction record, plus the extra LPP (locality payment percentage) and I’m sure the Bureau will move you up to a grade ten, step eight You should receive a substantial increase in pay, plus bonus money under the special incentives program.” “Something to consider I supposed”, I responded, still not fully resigned to the reassignment. “Your damn right, something to consider Jim Bo. That ought to make the new wife happy to know that.” Typical of Bob’s nature, he was doing all the things he could to placate me. In a way, I’m sure this was not easy for him either, about to lose a partner with whom he had worked with for so many years and with whom he had shared so many experiences, both on the job and on our off time.

 

Slowly, I stood up and Bob did the same. Across the desk we shook hands and studied one another face. “It’s been a hell of a trip working with you buddy”, I managed to mutter. He replied, typical Bob - but not typical FBI agent, “It was a hell of a trip working with me too”, he laughed.

 

The situation was getting a little awkward and becoming maudlin - not a situation two FBI Special Agents indulge in. Giving Bob a nod, I said, “Well I better get out of here and break the news to Kathy. Also, need to stop by Al Fleming’s office and check out.” “Oh Fleming, Mr. personality, our section chief”, Bob said glumly. I smiled at Bob’s reference. “You take care buddy and stay in touch.” “You to partner and catch a lot of bad guys when you’re up there in Chicago”, Bob replied. Then he turned and walked out, throwing me one more quick glance and a thumbs up. The room suddenly seemed empty and alien. Looking down one last time at the piles of case files lying on my desk, I thought, oh well someone’s going to have a lot of work to do.

 

I strode down to hallway and stopped at the door and paused. This is never enjoyable I thought before giving the door a couple of hard raps. From behind the blinds, Fleming waved me in. The same sour look on his face. “Hi Jim”, as I walked in. Just as I started to speak, he interjected. “I know all about your reassignment”. “Then you know I need to report to the Chicago office in two weeks. I really need to sign out and start getting things together and, of course, tell my wife.” As he stood and reached out his hand to shake, he continued, “So do you want the Bureau to arrange a flight for you?” “No that won’t be necessary. I’m planning to drive to Chicago to have my car available when I need it but thanks anyway.” “Yeah, sure no problem”. “I assume you have the Bureau’s address”, he replied in his usual condescending manner. “Yep, 2111 W. Roosevelt Road.” “Okay good. Well then let me say you’ve done a good job for us here in Kansas City and wish you all the success up there in Chicago. I’m sure our offices will be in contact. Have a good trip.” Gee, I thought, these are more words that Fleming has spoken to me in the eight years I’ve been here. “Thanks Al and you take care”, is all I could think of to say. As we shook hands, he, in his usual manner, seemed distracted. The guy is always distracted, I thought to myself.

 

“What about the deal on our house!” were the second words out of Kathy’s mouth. The first words were, “Oh my God!” Interrupting her I said, ‘I’ll call the broker and explain everything. I mean, things happen, circumstances change unexpectedly, that’s life. He will have to understand. We have no choice, right?” Between sobs, she stuttered, “I, I guess so. I, I, I hope so. Oh, I hate to leave Kansas City, Jim. I made a lot of friends since we’ve lived here. What am I gonna do?” “You’ll make new friends in Chicago. I know you will. You’re an outgoing gregarious girl.” I grabbed her and held her tightly in my arms as she continued to sob. But despite my wife’s sorrow and tribulations, my mind was being pulled in another direction. I needed to get things organized - call the real estate broker, make arrangements for leaving, drive up to Chicago, etc, etc, etc. Good thing we have two cars I thought. I was planning to take the Buick convertible to Chicago. It was newer and more reliable. Kathy would be able to get around fine driving the Chevy. It was a 1949 and in excellent shape……..and as she said, she had a lot of friends in the area who I knew would be there for her. I knew we wouldn’t be able to move for at least a month. I would stay in an apartment furnished by the Bureau in the Chicago area until the two of us got everything tied up and resolved. I mean people in the military face situations like this all the time. Being an agent for the FBI was pretty much like being in the military. It can be a hard life for spouses but I knew Kathy was resourceful and self-sufficient when she had to be. I felt badly for her, losing her good friends and moving to a strange city and basically starting all over but what could I do. I had made the choice to become an FBI agent and she had made the decision to marry me, knowing that life as a cop’s wife could be challenging.

  

………… so where is this story leading? Well, actually, nowhere but if it kept you occupied for a while and maybe provided you with a good excuse for not doing some of the things that you wanted a good excuse for not doing, well then, you’re welcome………..

 

__________________________________________________

 

Oh yes, the picture - a composite of course. While I did not photograph the car, a 1951 Buick Roadmaster Convertible and moreover do not know who did, I did record the picture of this “now famous” renovated, but not operating, Texaco gas station located in Dwight, Illinois. (Not far, by the way, from Pontiac, Illinois the “home” of Pontiac Correctional Center, a maximum security prison. (It should be noted how politically correct our society has become. No longer do we incarcerate criminals, oops, I mean, “suspects” in “prisons” but rather, correctional centers where the system believes society can “correct” the actions of those who rob, rape and brutally kill other humans beings. Those who believe in correctional centers should spend a few hours leisurely touring the “play area” (a/k/a “the general population” area) of a “center” like the one at Pontiac (Correctional) Center. Inmates gleefully enjoying stimulating games like ping-pong, badmitton, volleyball, pool, playing Canasta and many other friendly competitive games that encourage sportsmanship and healthy cohabitation ………

 

The city did not sleep.

It recalculated.

 

At the center of the roundabout; where traffic once obeyed; a machine learned to pray

in a language made of smoke,

angles,

and broken directives.

 

Steel limbs knelt into themselves,

not seeking gods,

but replacement laws.

 

This was not construction.

This was invocation.

 

The asphalt remembered

every footstep,

every siren,

every body dissolved into compliance.

From that memory

rose a geometry that refused purpose.

 

Lights flickered like dying witnesses.

Crosswalks became sigils.

Road markings bled alignment.

 

The engine breathed once.

Time stuttered.

 

Cars paused mid-intention,

as if the future had been revoked.

Surveillance blinked; blind, for the first time.

 

This was the moment

the city admitted it had a soul,

and that soul

was not human.

 

It was procedural.

Recursive.

Hungry.

 

Smoke wrapped the mechanism

like a burial shroud written in code.

Not to hide it; but to announce it.

 

Here,

order collapses into ritual.

Control mutates into myth.

And movement becomes forbidden knowledge.

 

The roundabout spins no longer for circulation,

but for containment.

 

Something has arrived.

It does not advance.

It anchors.

 

And from now on,

every direction leads inward.

Once upon a time, in a land not too far away,

There lived a girl who was pale, short and a little too gray.

Always dressed in red and somewhat creepy,

She made even the sunniest of days seem gloomy.

 

Around humans she stuttered and was nervous,

They made her feel self conscious, anxious.

Oh she was naive and shy, they would say

Quite odd too, to her parent’s dismay.

 

She would sit for hours staring into nothing,

But in her mind her thoughts were racing.

In a hundred different worlds was where her mind dwelled,

In reality she stayed disinterested, withheld.

 

In her dreams she painted the sky dark gray-blue,

Roses black and violets too.

It was tenebrous and stormy,

Perfectly suited for her constant melancholy.

 

While she was contented with her own privacy,

People started getting peeved at her obsessive secrecy.

They demanded to know what she was hiding,

But she would not speak a word, defying.

 

The girl remained detached and silent,

But her thoughts bordered on getting violent.

Infuriated that people were becoming intrusive,

Because she preferred to lie low and elusive.

 

And there came a day where she vanished,

So suddenly everyone was astonished.

She was never heard from again, never found,

Everyone assumed she might have died and drowned.

 

But the girl was alive, still as enigmatic,

Or maybe even more and much less pragmatic.

Maybe she had lost all her sanity,

And the rest of her humanity.

 

But she was finally where she desired.

In her Wonderland, she was inspired,

There she would live forever,

With no one to disturb her ever.

 

In her desolation she drew, painted and wrote,

Not masterpieces or intelligent quotes,

But ludicrous poems and macabre drawings,

To satisfy her inner bizarre cravings.

 

View On Black

I've gotten behind...stumped by curtains. I mentioned this to a friend and she suggested prayer flags. I happened to have and hung them my stutters.

Day #4...I'm on it...

A solid class 50 turn at the time this local stopping service provided plenty of thrash in the Duchy as here on the climb from Par to Treverran. Alas by the start of the summer timetable it would all be history as the Sprinter revolution made it's stuttering start.

and the very gradual letting go.

 

Remembering forgetting how to smile for the camera.

 

Duh! In that get over yourself sort of way.

 

A circle was carved into the air

not to open a passage,

but to erase the idea of elsewhere.

 

The bird did not fly.

It was extracted

from the grammar of gravity,

its wings still beating

out of habit,

out of error.

 

Around it, the horizon stuttered.

Fields repeated themselves

like corrupted memory sectors.

The tree stood witness,

rooted in a language older than light,

unable to intervene.

 

This was not ascension.

This was archival deletion.

 

Smoke rose where intention collapsed,

a black residue of unrealized futures.

The ring shimmered; a perfect algorithm of return

that never returns anything.

 

Here, myth was rewritten

as firmware.

Here, transcendence became

a closed loop

that feeds on its own promise.

 

The bird understood too late:

the sky was no longer above.

It had been compressed,

folded,

and sealed into a symbol

that pretends to mean freedom.

 

What escaped

was not the body,

but the error

that still remembers

how flight once felt.

It was followed by quite a bad smell of not optimal burning fuel. Driving behind it, even my BX didn't like it. It suddenly started stuttering and didn't run stationary any more. It disappeared as quickly as it came...

from cornell

 

The dapper Spotted Sandpiper makes a great ambassador for the notoriously difficult-to-identify shorebirds. They occur all across North America, they are distinctive in both looks and actions, and they're handsome. They also have intriguing social lives in which females take the lead and males raise the young. With their richly spotted breeding plumage, teetering gait, stuttering wingbeats, and showy courtship dances, this bird is among the most notable and memorable shorebirds in North America.

Herman's Pond, Rancho San Rafael, Reno, Washoe Co, Nevada (May 17th, 2018). 21. Large county park in NW Reno.

 

Male, in the throes of the comical swollen-neck, tail-up bubbling/stuttering courtship display, beating the water into foam with its big expanded-end bill to the accompaniment of staccato popping noises. The photo shows the display at its height with the water at its bubbliest.

 

More shots of the bubbling display--

www.flickr.com/photos/fugl/35185735265/in/album-721576818...

www.flickr.com/photos/fugl/39828318910/in/album-721576818...

www.flickr.com/photos/fugl/50941115392/in/photostream/

  

More Ruddy Duck photos--

www.flickr.com/photos/fugl/albums/72157681855435076

- Edgar Allen Poe.

 

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I took this picture just before the tribute in light ceremony at the WTC memorial on the 11th year anniversary of 9/11.there were a bunch of NY's finest photographers at the Brooklyn bridge park in front of the dismantled pier.

 

As we were all waiting for the lights the sun started to set and lit up the sky beautifully. Fortunately I had my Lee big stopper with me and decided to use it along with the .3 Hard GND and got this amazing result. The only wish i had was to have some more clouds in the sky. Hope you enjoy it as much as I did making it!!

Olympus digital camera

Dorrigo National Park, New South Wales.

Great Horned Owls are nocturnal. You may see them at dusk sitting on fence posts or tree limbs at the edges of open areas, or flying across roads or fields with stiff, deep beats of their rounded wings. Their call is a deep, stuttering series of four to five hoots.

2 BBY

Raxicorus Prime

Oceanview Trade Port

 

Ships blaze overhead as I trudge through the crowd of merchants, customers, and Imperial officers that usually fill the streets. I adjust the parcel slung over my shoulder. Dad’s going to be pissed if I don’t get these parts to him in time. My feet pick up their pace and I practically jog to the front of his hut. My dad, Markus Corporus, has run a sort of antique outpost since we moved here about a decade ago. It’s a fun place to work, and I’ve been picking up stuff for him to sell or tinker with since I was old enough to learn how to pilot a speeder. I’m sixteen now, which kind of worries me. The Empire has been cracking down on drafting regulations since their conflict with the Rebellion has increased to all new heights. Luckily, they’re not too worried about getting troops from the Outer Rim territories like Raxicorus, but still. It’s enough to make someone scared.

 

I look up and smile as I see the dusty, rusted surface of Corporus Curiosities, my dad’s shop. Quickly, I move under the roof of the hut and look around for my dad. Not seeing him, I call out into the empty store front.

 

“Hey, Pops?”

 

A crashing sound comes from somewhere in the back, and I see a part of the back wall slide open to reveal my father walking out. His emerald work robes were spattered with oil, and he was wiping grease off his forehead. He looked over at me and smiled.

 

“Jaxon! Afternoon, son. I was just helping some of the other venders fix up the converters on the market’s generator. It’s been running a little funny for the last couple of days, and we figured out what was wrong just a little while ago. Anyways, what’s that?”

 

I hand him the bag and he begins to sift the contents.

 

“Uxam had some extra parts he was willing to spare. I figured we could use them to spruce up the engine on the Fox. Maybe work on doubling its power?”

 

He chuckles, “You really are the son of an engineer. Sure, we can work on it once I close shop tonight. Maybe play a couple rounds of Sabacc too?”

 

“Sounds like a plan. Maybe I’ll join in as well?

 

We both turn around in reaction to the new voice, crisp and somewhat chilling. I felt my face bring on a look of disgust, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t. Not after what he did.

 

“A-ah, Tarum. I, um, I didn’t think you were scheduled to come home so soon,” Pops stuttered. My older brother, Tarum, was standing there with his usual black outfit signifying his rank of Imperial pilot. He ran his hand through his slicked back ginger hair, and cracked a smirk.

 

“Well, the Emperor believes that we should get at least an occasional break. Hunting down Rebel cells is rather tiring, after all.”

 

My father shifted uncomfortably as his eyes scanned the area, and I looked over to the end of the alley our shop was located in to see a woman in grey Imperial clothing flanked by two troopers. They march over to us, the woman walking up to Tarum.

 

“Is this the man you wanted me to meet, Officer Corporus?” she asked, her voice hinting at slight loathing. I could pick up something about her. She feels like my brother is wasting her time. You can tell by her body language.

 

“Yes, Admiral Geeris. This is my father, Markus Corporus. Father, this is Admiral Yvette Geeris, my commanding officer.”

 

“P-pleasure to meet you.”

 

Pops was practically shaking as he reached his hand out for a handshake. Geeris hesitated before accepting it. The troopers just stood there silently, their blasters resting in their hands. Why did Tarum bring them here?

 

“I’ve heard much about you, Mr. Corporus. The records on you are outstanding. You were possibly one of the best engineers for the Republic during the Clone Wars. A true war hero, if you ask me. It’s a treat for me to get to see your son rise in my ranks. He’s a gifted pilot, possibly the best in my entire brigade.”

 

Pops just nods his head awkwardly while Tarum stands there, beaming. What a suck-up. Geeris looks around my father’s shop.

 

“Battle droid parts...firearms from what I’m assuming were Naboo smugglers by the shape...engine parts…”

 

Her eyes rest on a white and red suit of trooper armor my father has displayed.

 

“Shock trooper armor? Looks like an early model. Right at the beginning from the Empire’s formation?”

 

“Eh, I don’t know where or when it’s from,” Pops shrugged, “Won it in a bet from a podracing tournament on Tatooine a few years back. Figured I could fetch a few credits for it.”

 

“Yes...well, the reason we’ve arrived is because of a transmission. One of our fleets intercepted a message to the Rebels on this planet. Given this outpost is the most populated area, we figured we’d check here. You haven’t happened to have seen something unusual, Mr. Corporus? It would be in your best interests to tell us. The Emperor himself would be most grateful.”

 

“Rebels? Here? No, I don’t believe so,” Pops quickly spit out, "I haven't seen anything."

 

Geeris made a slight attempt at a smile. She nodded, bid my father good day and thanks for his help, and began to walk back towards the ship bay. The two troopers stood there for a moment before following her. Now my brother just stared at us, agitated.

 

“Well, it was so nice to see you two again. Goodbye, father. Brother.”

 

He strides off, and my father lets out a sigh of relief. We both begin to set up the new equipment he wants to sell, until a shock of cold goes up my back. I look down at my arms and flip my jacket sleeves back to see rows of goosebumps forming. Pops looks at me.

 

“I have a bad feeling about something,” I mutter. He nods and rushes over.

 

“Here. Take these parts with you to the Fox. Gather anything you can from the house you think we’ll need, and get to the docking bay immediately. Don’t look back. If I’m not there, then you start the ship and leave to Dantooine. Understand?”

 

“Yes,” I say calmly, but my body is shivering. In the distance, we hear the familiar roar of twin ion engines. Pops grimaces and pushes me to the wall, opening the secret door that leads to an underground passageway. Few know about it, but it was used to hide supplies during the Clone Wars. The tunnel is one of a large system, snaking through the entire trading post and living areas. It’s not on any Imperial maps, making it non-existent. As I head down the dark passage, my ears pick up sounds of screams and blaster fire. I feel my eyes start to burn as a tear runs down my face. Pops worked so hard to keep his involvement hidden. It was Tarum who was blinded to the true workings of the Empire. He can’t see their true faces. He betrayed our father, and he betrayed me. I grimace as I think about what he’s done. Now isn’t the time for vengeance, though. I need to get to Dantooine and give Vuldrix the news about what’s happened. I don’t know what I’ll do then, but I’m clear of one thing. This is where it starts. My fight. My quest.

 

My rebellion.

 

I tried using HDR for this photograph but due to cloud movement, which results in an unsightly stutter effect, I simply masked the lower half onto the upper half to create a proper toned image.

Olney State Forest, The Watagans, New South Wales, Australia

 

Vulnerable

 

Contact me on jono_dashper@hotmail.com for use of this image.