My Gay & Glamorous Life – Celebrating the 26th of April

We all have special days in our diaries, days which seem humdrum and unremarkable to everyone except oneself.  For me the 26 of April is one of those impossibly dreamlike, fairytale days that will never dim or diminish, no matter how long ago it was.  I try to spend the day in London each year, and celebrate and commemorate it in time hallowed rituals.

Last week – I am posting this late since I was cut off from my blogger fans by inefficient internet providers, may their beards wither – my attempts to mark the day where somewhat thwarted by the inclement weather.  It rained most of the time, although I did manage to nip out in late afternoon and shoot a few photos.

To start of the day I went to the dentist, a new one though in the same location.  I have been with the same dental practice for twenty five years, and changing now makes me a little sad.  But the practice has to close, and I shall never use that little elevator again, nor walk down that corridor, nor ring that inefficient bell, nor sit in the little waiting room …  At least I will still be in Knightsbridge Court, opposite the Hermes shop – I try to reward myself with a scarf for a good result!

This time I had an excellent result, using an electric toothbrush is paying off.  If anyone deserved a scarf it was me.  But alas and alack, none were to my liking.  I am very particular when it comes to buying things, most especially expensive things, so I regretfully left the store.

However, sensing my disappointment I decided to nip into Harrods and buy myself some little treat or other to make up for the lacklustre performance of my favourite scarf merchant.  But I never reached it, because half way between the dentist and Harrods I was waylaid by a cashmere sale.

There is a lot of sub-standard cashmere around these days, most such garments pill like mad and become unwearable within a few seasons.  I tend to buy mine second hand from thriftshops and markets.  By the time a cardigan has been worn for a few years and washed a few times it shows its true worth – if it is inclined to pill it will look horrible by then (if indeed it still exists and has not pilled itself out of existence).  But if it is made of good quality cashmere it will be as warm as the day it was made, and ten times softer.  For good cashmere starts out not fluffily soft, like the lesser quality stuff, but smooth and firm – more like lambs wool than cashmere.  The longer it is worn and the more it is washed the softer it gets.

The only problem with buying cashmere second hand is that I rarely find the colours and sizes that suit me.  Buying good quality cashmere new is of course a ludicrous proposition for non-millionaires, because it is obscenely expensive.  I would have to be very rich indeed before I would pay £600 or even £850 for a cardigan!  Besides, no matter how costly such garments are, they still suffer from two drawback; firstly, no pockets, secondly, over-long sleeves.  Pockets are only found in men’s clothes, presumably because women have handbags.  As for sleeve length, for a few years now they have been consistently too long.  I don’t know who these designers have in mind, their pullovers and cardigans might fit Chimpanzees or Gorillas or similar knuckle-walkers, but any human wearer will find the sleeves are at least half a foot too long.  Why do they hate their customers so much?

Anyway.  I drift into this shop and find myself surrounded by cardigans of excellent quality, with pockets, sleeves which fit me perfectly, lovely colours, and ON SALE!!!!!  80% to 90% off.  And get this, ONLY MY SIZE IS ON SALE!  Apparently women my size don’t buy top quality cashmere cardigans with normal length sleeves and pockets, so they had to massively reduce prices to shift their stock at all.  I wasn’t sure whether to feel insulted or blessed, but I bought as many as finances permitted.  After all, it was the 26 of April, and I had just been to the dentist!  I flagged a taxi and rode to the Club through the rain-whipped streets like the Queen, laden with Ballantyne merchandise.

You might think after that the rest of the day could only go downhill, but you would be mistaken.  I spent an enjoyable hour reading a few newspapers in the Bar of the Club, waiting for K and R who were joining me for lunch.  Usually I only lunch there on the weekends, so I was a little surprised to see how many people were thronging the premises.  Mainly men between 60 and 80 meeting old friends and entertaining business contacts, or so it seemed.

 After a three hour lunch followed by coffee – ah the decadent life of a woman about town! – my friends had to return to their various lairs, while I haunted the neighbourhood to reminisce, take photos, and generally mooch around.  Then it started to rain again and I returned to the Club, to read more papers while waiting for S, who had dinner with me.  Dinner was in the palatial breakfast room (weirdly named, but there it is), and we dined off smoked eel and duck and talked nine to the dozen and were happily engaged until well after ten.  Despite its huge size the room is rather cosy, what with its red wallpaper and huge oil paintings and mahogany furniture, and somehow or other these little banquets with my friends always last longer than can reasonably be expected.  When we realised the lateness of the hour we had to conclude our deliberations somewhat hastily and rush to our respective modes of transportations, S to the Underground and I to the coach to Oxford 

On the way to Marble Arch I caught sight of yet another of those strangely alluring works of art that litter London these days – see photo below.  I finally slipped between my linen sheets at 1 in the morning, happily exhausted and at peace with the world.  Of course getting up the next morning was another matter!

Out and about in Oxford – some local art

Every now and then I like to cater for the tastes of my artistically inclined Friends & Relations, and such is the case today.  Yesterday I had breakfast & newspapers in Headington, just up the Hill from the centre of Oxford where I live.  Since there was a short break in the torrential downpours we have been having I had a little wander around the area.  Usually on these occasions I see something nice and worthy of a photograph, only to discover that I forgot my little camera yet again.  But this time it was still lurking in my bag from my recent epic trip, so I was able to take a few photos.

The Headington Shark is quite a landmark in Oxford.  I remember some 25 years ago when it had first come on to my radar.  The artist had been refused planning permission to put it up, I forgot where, and the students of my college passed a motion that the shark be acquired by that institution and stuck into the ‘Bridge of Sighs’ – a badly chosen nickname, in my opinion, since it looks more like the Rialto Bridge than the real Bridge of Sighs, although it is possible (though highly unlikely) that the name was chosen because exam candidates were herded across it before having to take exams or some such thing.  However that may be, the bridge is the most photographed object of Oxford, and governing body refused point-blank to even consider sticking the shark into it.



Apparently there were many similar, equally surreal suggestions, from other quarters regarding a suitable location for the artistic shark, all vetoed by outraged grown-ups or the city council.  Eventually the shark found its current resting place in Headington, in the roof of the home of a local radio celebrity.  Occasionally one hears rumours of indignant neighbours or officious building inspectors, but the shark is now a permanent fixture in the area and is probably safer than his flesh & blood relatives in the watery wastes.  Over the years I have become quite attached to it, and it never fails to cheer me up when it comes into view.

During a walk today with my friend Z we came across another local piece of art, less impressive to be sure but quite striking and pleasant to encounter during a Sunday afternoon.

Holidays, anyone?

It’s that time of year again when holiday plans are made, or, as in my case, un-made.  I had vaguely planned to have a week in la Bourboule in April, but since the Honoured Ancestor is having heart troubles again and needs the support of his descendants, I had to change tack.  Instead of taking the Eurostar to Paris and then on to la Bourboule, I shall grace Brussels with my presence and go on to Bremen.  Next Friday I will assist the sun in his rising by bearing witness – I shall be passing the Gap of Oxfordshire right around that time, I figure – and spend the day travelling through northern Europe.  I don’t recall having ever been in Brussels before, and am quite looking forward to seeing it, even if just through the window of a train. 

The following Friday I shall return.  It seems rather daft missing the weekend, but since I had to book at the last minute I had to take what was available, in this case tickets on Friday the Thirteenth.  For once the superstitions of my fellow human beings worked out in my favour – they are obviously all going to be holed up at home, leaving the roads and trains to foolhardy fate-tempters like me.

La Bourboule shall have to wait until the Summer.  It will be tricky timing, because I need to be at work for the first three weeks of August and then from the middle of September.  This leaves a window of opportunity of exactly three weeks!  The Damsels des les Isles Britanniques were obliging as always, but the Eurostar tickets could prove difficult.  The last week in August contains the August bank holiday, so there is every chance that the multitude will book a long weekend Paris city break – may their collective beards wither!  I shall have to check every day in April to book a cheap ticket, because they will sell like hotcakes and I am loathe to pay full price.

But well, luckily I have the brains, enterprise, and patience necessary to snatch one of those elusive cheap return tickets from the jaws of the profit-maximising Eurostarlings, so am not unduly worried.  More worrying to me is the timing of the holiday.  I would have preferred a later time, since excessive heat is not my idea of a holiday, but with a bit of luck it will be unseasonably cold and snow all the time.  You just never know how the weather in la Bourboule turns out, just about anything is possible in those mountains.

This is going to be a home-focussed sort of year.  Over the Summer I shall avoid travelling altogether, on account of the Sporting Extravaganza scheduled in London.  Instead of frequent trips to foreign lands I will renovate the Little House.  It needs a bit of work done, some painting and deep cleaning at the very least – not in that order, hopefully.  I already made a good start last week by scraping a few centimetres off the front door.  It has been sticking for about a decade, and it took real skill to open it.  First a certain type of pull, then a push at just the right spot, a perfectly executed turn of the key – even I sometimes needed a few tries!

I had always reasoned that this was as good a burglar deterrent as anything sold in the shops, but things went from bad to worse recently, and when I almost did not manage to get into the house one day I knew that action had to be taken.  I borrowed a file/scraper from the workmen at the college, partly because I hate spending money on a tool I just need once for an hour or two, partly because I did not want to walk into a shop and ask for a ‘file to break into my house’ – it is the sort of request that frequently leads to misunderstandings.  The file/scraper worked quite well, and after two hours of diligent filing/scraping the door was fixed.  Now all I have to do when I wish to enter the Little House is insert the key, turn it, and voila! the door opens.  It is like magic, like living in a fairytale!  Should have done this years ago.

Confessions of a Glider Groupie – my Glider Collection

Part 4 – Segler quercus robustus

Today I am featuring my biggest glider, the monstrously huge Segler quercus robustus, also known as the Bruiser of the Sky.  This glider has no pretensions of beauty or elegance, but what he lacks in style he makes up for in sturdy robustness.  He has a wingspan of about a meter, and is made, believe it or not, of solid oak!  Not hollow, not veneered, no, solid oak all the way through.  He weighs a lot, obviously.  I paid twice in shipping what I paid for the glider himself.  I discovered him in Germany, in a junkshop masquerading as an antiques dealer on Ebay.  He came wrapped totally inadequately, just shoved as he was between two pieces of cardboard loosely taped together – both his wings stuck out!  But if anyone could handle such slapdash treatment it was this glider, which was build to last.

 

I rather suspect he was made in the 1930s as a toy for children, rather rambunctious high spirited ones, who were hard on their toys and destroyed them as like as not.  Perhaps a doting grandfather, intent on raising his grandchildren to be good glidermen, carved this sturdy sailplane for them to play with.  And play with it they did, for the Sky Bruiser is pitted with any number of bumps and scars, and even lost the top part of his tail.  Perhaps he was painted at some time, a few remnants of yellow paint remain on the wings. 

At first I considered sanding him down and effecting a few repairs, but then decided to just clean him up a little and give him a polish with Danish oil.  He is what he is, and has nothing to be ashamed about.  His scratches and holes are come by honourably, and bear witness that he gave good sport to his little owners who liked to play rough.  It would be nice to restore the missing tail portion, but I am worried to do it wrongly, so have done nothing about it so far.  Perhaps one day MDL can be prevailed upon to heal this injured old trooper – he has worked miracles on far more damaged sailplanes.

But damaged or not, the Sky Bruiser is very welcome to his spot in the ceiling of my Nostalgia Studio.  I like to imagine that he has a gruff but chivalrous nature, and should any intruder ever menace me in that room I have no doubt that my Segler quercus robustus would slip from his harness and impress my hapless assailant with his stout oaken nature by braining him!

A Day in the Life of DB

Yesterday was one of those wonderful days where Nature seems to have pulled all stops to create perfection, like one of those haughty self centred young artists who throw their completed masterpiece at the feet of their uncomprehending audience proclaiming, ‘this is my heart’s blood, take it or leave it, see if I care, you geekoid masses!

Usually Nature does this on a weekday, when everyone is shut up in their offices and can’t go out to appreciate the effort that has gone into creating the perfect day, and then Nature goes into a huff and it rains for ten days.  But this time it was a Saturday, so I rose to the challenge! 

Every Friday evening I resolve to become a better person and adopt virtuous habits.  I promise myself that I will stay at home on Saturdays and do the dusting and hovering and laundry, and not leave everything to the last minute on Sunday night.  And every Saturday I get up, take one look at the sluts-wool in the corners and the dirty dishes in the kitchen sink and the overflowing laundry basket, and instead of getting stuck in and shifting the grime I avert my eyes and skip away.

But yesterday morning I had an excuse!  How could I possibly be expected to clean the house on a beautiful day like this?  It would be a sin and a shame and cry to Heaven for vengeance!  When it comes to avoiding housework I have many excuses.  Well, I figure, as long as it gets done eventually, like in the evenings when it is too dark to see the dirt properly so I miss half the accumulations, who cares?  I don’t think God wants me to waste my life cleaning the house.  He wants me to be outside and play and be happy!  That’s what I think.  A happy heart is more important than a clean house.

So as I was saying, yesterday morning I skipped from the house at an early hour, having found the perfect excuse:  My Mushroom scarf needed an airing!  I am very fond of my mushroom scarf, it is the first quality scarf I bought, many decades ago when I was a poor student.  I never wore it, because I was so frightened I would damage it.  Instead I took it out of its box occasionally and admired it in a reverend attitude.  Finally I spotted another one on Ebay, and since I now have a spare I actually wear it sometimes.

I had a very special reason, too, for wearing it – it was a perfect colour match for my newly finished waistcoat!  The photo does not really capture the colour of the waistcoat very well, so you just have to take my word for it.  Both scarf and waistcoat are a beautiful rich grass green, the sort of green one mainly sees in spring, the green of young beech leaves.  Simply gorgeous!  Of course pedants might argue that mushrooms are more of an autumn phenomenon, but I am not a pedant, and anyway the scarf is art and art knows no boundaries.



So I folded my scarf such that it displayed the nicest mushrooms  to best advantage and took it for a walk.  We walked up the Hill in the cool morning mist, beneath a blue sky and a strengthening sun.  The birds were singing, flowers bloomed everywhere, and everyone I met was in a good mood.  Half way up the Hill I found a penny! 

After half an hour I directed my steps to Café Noir, to partake of a light breakfast and their free newspapers, but alas, they were closed because of some electric problems.  I speculated that they had forgotten to pay their electricity bill and went on to another café, which supplied me with an acceptable breakfast but no free papers, so I had to buy one myself – duh! 

Then I hit the charity shops, there are half a dozen up the Hill and I searched them all with a fine tooth comb.  I am at heart a hunter & gatherer, I hunt for bargains and gather freebies.  On this occasion I found a lilac cardigan which should come in handy during the summer and a cat by Perry Lancaster, he who made the Cat & Mouse statue that lives on my mantelpiece.  This was a real bargain at £2.99 – the Cat & Mouse one retails for £90!  Anyway, I thought the cat could keep an eye on the Green Mamba, it is quite a sturdy looking fellow.

Then I walked home again, offloaded my treasures and took another look at the cleaning situation.  Pricked by my conscience I cleaned the kitchen, but after that I got restless again and went to town to discuss The Perfect Handbag with my long-suffering handbag guru in the Covered Market.  I only allow The Bridge bags into my house, and even those have to meet tight specifications.  My handbag guru maintains that The Bridge bags are of a better quality than most designer bags, and they are of course much cheaper and look better and don’t scream ‘Look at me I can afford a designer bag!’ all over town. 

I am not a fan of designer labels.  I do wear some, but I try to use them such that no one can see the labels.  I don’t want some idiot mugger thinking to himself, Hey look at this woman wearing a designer scarf, I bet she is loaded! and try to steal my handbag.  An intelligent mugger would think, Hey look at this woman wearing a designer scarf, I bet she is broke! which would be much nearer the mark.  Least of all do I want a fellow scarfie try and steal the scarf!

Having concluded for the umpteenth time that my current assortment of four bags – one small for evening events (strap only), one middling for long walks (strap only), one middling for elegant city breaks (strap & handles), one large for work and inelegant city breaks (strap & handles) – were Perfection Profundis, I walked up a different hill to visit Z.  Z had houseguests and needed a break, so we went for a long walk along the river and gossiped.  Then I walked back home, decided I was too fagged for any more housework, having walked for about five hours that day, and barricaded myself in the Nostalgia Studio. 

Once settled down I decided to watch a nice movie.  I am currently watching several movies, all in French with French subtitles, still trying to force French into my stubborn brain cells while knitting waistcoats.  Anyway, the movie had barely started when I noticed – Shock!  Horror!! – that the newly acquired feline was eyeing not the Green Mamba as instructed but the Tiny Visitors who were just then resting on the Clocktower!  Well, the tower is high and the cat is heavy – made of Goncalo Alves wood – so I figure the Tiny Visitors are quite safe, but it is a little disconcerting all the same!

Confessions of a Glider Groupie – my Glider Collection

Part 3 – Planeur fruitwoodii elegans

This beautiful sailplane is La Dame de Vol.  I discovered her in France, mounted on one of the ugliest stands I have ever seen.  Needless to say, as soon as she arrived at The Little House I unscrewed her from the stand, drilled a hook into the ceiling of the Nostalgia Studio, and gently slid her into a harness of thin but strong string. 

All my suspended gliders are held in harness, rather than permanently affixed to strings, so they can slip out and have a little soar around the room when they feel like it and I am not watching. 

My elegant lady is towards the back of the room, behind the mobile, partly so she can keep an eye on the Tiny Visitors and partly because she doesn’t want to be too close to Segler quercus robustus, the Bruiser of the Sky, who hovers near the window and rather fancies her (the feeling is definitely not mutual).

As to the exact race and species of my fair lady, I have no clear idea.  I rather suspect she was crafted in the seventies of the last century, of a fruitwood, possibly pear.  The shape seems to suggest that she was made in the likeness of an early German glider – her wings are slightly curved, like a seagul’s.

Despite her corner location, La Dame de Vol manages to sway gently in the breeze when the window is open, and even the odd thermal created by the radiator sometimes causes her to move a little.

View from my bed, head on pillow!

I found Gold in London!

OK, now that I have your attention ….  Yesterday I was in London, doing my usual stuff, you know, glamourising around and doing the kind of stuff other people can only fantasise about, like walking around in Hyde Park, using the toilets in Selfridges, discussing the best way to knot a 90cm carre with a charming young Frenchman, looking for coins in Knightsbridge, and so on and so forth.

After having glimmered around London glamorously for a few hours, I met up with K to see the Spider Silk Exhibition at the Victoria & Albert Museum.  Wow Au AU!!!  Incredible, simply incredible.  I took some photos, and am adding the link to a film Z found on the internet as well.  The exhibition is on until early June, if you don’t go to see it you will regret it until the day you die.

The textiles shown are made from the silk of the Madagascar Golden Orb spiders.  The silk is naturally golden, the garments have not been dyed.

http://www.vam.ac.uk/content/articles/g/golden-spider-silk/