Fashion

Fashion

Although I am not its slave by any means, I have to admit that I’ve always found fashion endlessly entertaining, setting aside an evening each month to read both Vogues, US and UK, cover to cover.  With a cup of hot tea and a gingersnap or two at the ready, I get lost in the exuberant creativity that teems between those glossy covers. The visionary work of artists such as photographer Tim Walker, or stylist Grace Coddington, often rocks me back on my heels.  I pore over the tailoring of a Stella McCartney suit, marvel at the boundless imagination stitched into an Alexander McQueen gown and always close the issue completely inspired and often rather hungry for a new pair of boots, or at least a change of lipstick.  To me, fashion is an art form as vital any other and I’m always fascinated by how people express themselves sartorially.

 One of my favourite pastimes is to sit in a cafe and people watch.  As I study their clothing, I imagine them all a few hours earlier, sleepily rummaging through their closets, deciding what to put on for the day. 

 Did they examine themselves in the mirror before leaving? 

 Did they change once, or twice, before giving approval to their ensemble?  

What made that person choose the blue coat over the red one?  

 That gentleman’s tie in a prominent plaid?  Was it a gift, or did he choose it for himself?  

 I notice how often best friends seem to dress alike, right down to the shoes and the handbags.  Rarely do I see a preppy with a rocker, or an artist with a senator’s wife.  Curious.

I create back stories for the people I observe, much like Miss Marple at a seaside hotel.  This one went to Wellesley, but veered from the path set out for her and left in her second year to travel through Asia.  And despite her impeccable black suit and red-soled heels, that one is chafing in a corporate career; her jewelry gives her away. 

Now I am well aware this is a pretty superficial analysis on my part, and I doubt I would ever wish to volunteer my wardrobe for such scrutiny.  But I do feel that how we choose to dress speaks volumes about us, telling the world who we are, or often, who we wish to be.  Just think of the two Hepburns, Audrey and Kate.  Didn’t their wardrobes tell us so much about their very different personalities?  Today I love to watch Cate Blanchett or Tilda Swinton, both masters at dressing to reveal or accentuate their delightful individuality.  And I was happy to read, just this week, that Harper’s Bazaar UK  named the luminous actress Carey Mulligan, pictured below, as the best dressed woman of the year.  Her unique style sets her apart from the pack, beautifully.

My mother tells me that from an early age I had most definite opinions about my wardrobe.  Even now, I am rather impervious to trends.  But I can still be surprised by secret facets of my own personality, unknown parts of my psyche just waiting to be given voice.  By way of example,  I was once boutique shopping for a fancy dress occasion The Songwriter and I were scheduled to attend.  Not finding anything that charmed me, I was preparing to leave the dressing room when the elderly saleslady opened my door and said, “Here dear, do try this on.  I think it would be perfect for you.”.  She handed me a dress I would have never pulled off the rack in a million years.  Gold (!), with a deep vee neck and metallic threads running through the fabric, I held it out in front of me, and fixed it with my most disdainful stare.  But thinking it might be worth a giggle, I decided to slip it on.  Turning to face the mirror, I was astounded.  It was lovely.  I felt like a princess.  I couldn’t purchase it fast enough. Who knew?   I had obviously unlocked a hidden room down one of the side hallways of my nature, and discovered that golden dress waiting patiently inside.  That, I suppose, is the fun of fashion.  As we grow and change on this twisting journey of days, clothing helps us translate ourselves in colour, texture and style.

My purchases so far this winter season have been a divine red tartan jacket,
 black and tweed spectator shoes
 and a fabulous pair of grey trousers, in a size smaller than last year!  

How about you?

Gathering In... A List For November

Gathering In

...a list for November

The days are shorter and the air is chilled.  There is a smattering of frost on my windowpane at dawn.  Edward is in absolute bouncy heaven and I have to admit that I share his joy with every fiber of my being.  It is November, the most anticipatory month of the year.  My head is swimming with preparations -   all those holiday meals soon to come, the flowers, the ribbons, favourite recipes to pull out, festive tables to set.   

 I get teased quite a bit for my habit of planning for Christmas  throughout the entire year.  But let them laugh, I say.  My handmade gifts are now completed, my shopping is all done.   I am totally free to wallow in the loveliness of now.  And make no mistake, November is a lovely month.

 In November there is always something scrumptious on my kitchen counter, for those who pop in for tea.  Lavish throws adorn every comfortable chair, and a stacks of new books teeter alongside.  Fresh flowers are always bedside in the guest room. To me, November is a sweet time of gathering in all those closest to you, be they human or canine, to the warmth of the home. Cozy fires, cozy dinners, good books and furry dogs, with visions of sugar plums fast on the way.

So please enjoy this list for November. 
 In no particular order, ten little magical bits to warm you right up in this most warm and wonderful month.

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1.  Trays

Who wouldn’t wish for breakfast in bed to be served on a tray such as this one?

  This entire line is incredible - each piece fit to hang on the wall as art. 

I am completely besotted with them all.

See more HERE.

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2.  Festive Tables

The year after my father died, I, swallowing hard, took on the role as Thanksgiving hostess.  Although daunting at first, it’s now a day I look forward to.  (The key to making it stress-free, I’ve discovered, is to prepare as much as possible in advance!  Getting up at five in the morning to cook is certain to make one grumpy beyond belief.)  And one of my favourite things about the entire process is planning the Thanksgiving table.  I have lots of antique china that I love to use.... which may sound nice until you have to hand wash every single piece... and choosing which plate to use with what is always such fun to me.  I recently came across this fabulous wool fabric by Liberty of London and thought what a magnificent autumnal tablecloth it would make, especially when paired with this William Yeoward china.  And maybe, at each place setting, individual mossy terracotta pots planted with pansies of orange, purple and blue.

Find the fabric HERE

and the china, HERE

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3.  Waistcoat Vases

Aren’t these the best? 

I can just imagine them filled with big fat chrysanthemums and late garden roses on my Thanksgiving table. 

Made in Scotland by potter, Alan Gaff, they really do look like little waistcoats, don’t they?
 Utterly charming.

Find them HERE.

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4.  Tea Set

For all those who knock on the door this month, 
for a cup of hot tea and a slice of blueberry cake,
 wouldn’t it just be lovely to serve them from this most whimsical of tea sets ever? 

It looks almost as though it simply danced straight off the set of Fantasia.

Find it HERE.

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5.  A Furry Friend

I once had the enviable job of decorating a children’s playroom.  Being a person who can hardly pass by a toy store without stopping in to see all the stuffed animals lined up in a row, each one silently asking to come home with me, this was a dream project indeed and I dove into it with relish, commissioning a favourite artist to paint large animal portraits to line the walls and purchasing seven life-sized cushy creatures - giraffes and gorillas, grizzlies and goats.  It was unbelievable fun.  Personally, I think everyone,  no matter their age, should have a teddy bear of their very own. 
 Or, in my case, a monkey.  
Or maybe even a dog, like one from this adorable family of canines. 

One of these has to be just the right size for you, or someone you know.

See Them HERE

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6.  Hot Water Bottle Cover

There is a cartoon that I love.  
It shows a husband and wife snuggled down in their four-poster on a cold winter night, with two or three dogs at their feet. 
 The wife is saying, “George dear, it’s freezing.  Put another dog on the bed, would you.” 

 On even the coldest of November nights, we here at The House of Edward always turn the heat completely to the off position.  Our central heating is provided by Edward, who takes his place at the foot of the bed, plops his wooly white heat across my ankles, and generates enough warmth for us all.  (More cold natured, Apple chooses to sleep in the windowseat.  Go figure.)  Before Edward, however, we were die hard fans of the Hot Water Bottle.  But who likes to feel that rubbery cover it comes with?  This is a most cozy solution. 

Everyone should own one. 

And, they are hand-knitted, beautifully.

See Them HERE

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7.  A Happy Ending

The Songwriter has a cousin who has always owned Collies.  Yes, as a child she fell in love with Lassie, a love that has endured for the whole of her life.  The last Collie she and her husband adopted was an eight year old fellow who could no longer be cared for by his owners.  He lived with them, happily, for four years until his passing a few months ago.  Our cousin and her husband were grief stricken to lose him, but they knew in their hearts that another dog was out there somewhere that needed them.  And sure enough, just last week they found their Collie.  Discovered wandering alone and left unclaimed at the county animal control center, three year old Clara Grace was picked up by Collie Rescue and our cousins found her online.  We met them for breakfast the day they came to town to get her, and their excitement was contagious. 

This lovely photograph was taken on the journey back to their home. 

I think Clara Grace looks rather happy, don’t you?

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8. Christmas Gift Boxes, Horlicks and The Bartering System

I have been busy this past month creating lots of Christmas gift boxes to fill my Etsy Shoppe.  I usually try to work on these when The Songwriter is out of town, as I turn our entire cottage into a replica of Geppeto’s workshop when I’m at it.  

Christmas trees, Polar Bears, and snow covered Stags are in practically every chair, waiting their turn to adorn a gift box.  It was so much fun making these last year - I spent more time than ever at the post office, sending them on their way to be part of Christmas celebrations all over the place. 

If you’d like to see more, they are all in my Etsy Shoppe, HERE

Also, since this is a list of favourites, I have to confess that one of my favourite things in the whole world is a cup of Horlicks Light Chocolate Malt before bedtime.  (I can hear my British friends laughing even now, but I assure you that I’m quite serious.)  I load up my suitcases with the stuff whenever I’m there, as it’s nowhere to be found in the states.  Sadly, I have just run completely out.

  So here’s the deal.....  

If one of you lovely, laughing, British friends would be so kind as to send me a couple of tins of this elixir, I will be more than happy to exchange the Christmas Gift Box shown below.  Just email me, my address is there on the sidebar, and let me know!  You’d be giving me such a treat, and getting a lovely little Christmas box in return. 

Any takers?  

The first one of you to write gets the box, postage paid.

The Christmas Box below,

For a couple of these!

Good Deal?

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9. Sherlock Holmes

I once had the privilege of meeting Jeremy Brett, the quintessential interpreter of Sherlock Holmes, at least in my opinion. It always seemed to me that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle himself must have sprinkled some sort of pixie dust over his book illustrations that caused them to spring to life in the form of Mr. Brett, so uncanny was his likeness to the great detective.  Any other version is always met by me with a sceptical eye.  So naturally, when I heard of the new PBS series, Sherlock Holmes, I was decidedly sniffy about the whole thing, but deigned to give it a look see.  What a sad thing it would have been if I had missed this one!  So creative, so witty, so beautifully done.  It is Holmes and Watson for the 21st century and, trust me, it works.

  I have circled my calendar for the upcoming episodes. 

They are truly a treat! 

Don’t miss them.

See more HERE.

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10.  Father Christmas

Of course, this fellow, as illustrated here by the remarkably talented, Rima Staines of The Hermitage, hovers over this month like a fat, happy cloud.  I have always loved Rima’s colour palette,  it’s so perfect for this magical time of the year.  She tells me she’s busy at present with book covers and folk tales, as well as commissions, all of which makes me so happy.  Her imagination sparkles.  Any one of her pieces would fit perfectly into St. Nick’s bag, just catch him before he makes it into that chimney.

 You can find more of Rima’s work in her shoppe HERE.

or you can visit her remarkable blog HERE.

Enjoy, Enjoy November!

Who Knows Why?

Who Knows Why?

There is an old covered bridge that spans a loud, rushing creek not very far from my house. Straight off the pages of a ghost story, it rattles and moans when you cross it, one car at a time, and once inside it is dark and dank, with unseen terrors that lurk, without question, in its sinister, cobwebby shadows - terrors that follow your progress as you slowly pass through like the eyes in an ancestral portrait.  The journey across causes the adult imagination to spark uncontrollably and it doesn’t take much to work out what it might do to that of a child.

I was that child and when I was little and October came round, my father would often, under intense and vociferous pressure, load up the family car with me and my little girlfriends and we would drive to that bridge to listen in rapt, shivering attention as he told us the Legend of Sleepy Hollow.  Lord, how we loved it.  Sitting huddled together, giggling nervously, we half expected poor, frightened Ichabod Crane to come careening out of the darkness, with the horrid Headless Horseman in menacing pursuit.  I never cross over that bridge today without smiling.  But I still keep my eyes straight ahead.

Why do we love to be scared?  The Songwriter has an enormous collection of classic ghost stories - M. R. James and Le Fanu, Poe and Wharton - and he relishes pulling them out to reread on these windy fall nights.  I myself love nothing better than those old black and white movies with haunted houses and keening ghosts - I tend to pop them in this time of year as well.  I hasten to state that I’m not talking about the slasher movie or ultra gory tale.  Those I tend to regard as rather sick, devoid of wit, and not worth my time.   Horror?  No.  But spooky?  Oh my, yes!  Give me a good, old-fashioned scary story on a black, moonless night - like The Uninvited, or The Others, even the original Wolfman - and I am guaranteed a most enjoyable evening.

As costumed children on long ago Halloweens, from our vantage points behind our plastic masks, the world, once so ordinary, now seemed strange and delightfully different. There was a delicious sort of fear in the air that we absolutely loved.  Even now, who among us hasn’t felt that same fearful thrill once or twice when we've groped for a light switch around a darkened doorway, wondering if our hand might perhaps meet another, one clammy and cold, just waiting to clasp ours inside the empty room beyond? 

 Doesn’t our pace quicken a bit when we pass by the grey abandoned house, the one with the broken windows and the porch swing that rocks, back and forth, back in forth, in the wind?  And don’t we laugh a bit nervously when we’re safely on the other side?

So yes, once again, I’ve chosen my witch hat, the one with the extravagant pheasant feather.  I have bowls of candy at the ready, and candles waiting to be lit.  Greig and Mussorgsky play softly, but distinctly, in the background and The Songwriter is out putting the finishing touches on his frightful tableau for the garden.  Soon our street will fill with wee little goblins of every mysterious shape and size. 

Who knows why we love it.

But we do.

Happy Halloween to All!

It Is Coming

It Is Coming

Turn up your tweed collar if it makes you feel safe.  

Draw tight the tapestry curtains and deny the moonlight passage into your sheltered room. 
 Kiss the golden amulet wound securely round your neck and pull up the warm quilt as far as you can, far up over your head if you wish.

 But remember, just remember, it shall make not a difference on the last day of the month.

 For you shall be found, oh yes.

Step out in the darkness and gaze up at the clouds. 

You can feel it already, in the depth of your bones - in the way your hands tremble, in the way your thumbs prick. 

Even now the pumpkins are smiling, even now the black cats are listening to voices unheard.

You know it is coming, yes.  

It is coming.

Riding in on the winds blowing sharp from the west, this most ancient of revenants is out traveling once more. 

 And it cannot be barred from your rooms with a bolt - it shall laugh at the sight of a latch. 

You shall never outrun it no matter your speed, it is useless to wish that you could. 

It will hide in your corners and peer through your glass, run a cold finger down the length of your spine. 

You shall hear its faint cackle upon the chilled breezes, circling round your dark window at midnight.

  Brave laughter will catch in your throat when you notice its green eyes are following you home.

The bats are now gathering in the glow of the streetlight, the rooks now are calling from high up in the trees.

Even now, it is coming.

It is coming.

Halloween.

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“Who’s in the next room ? - who?

I seemed to see

Somebody in the dawning passing through,

 Unknown to me.”

“Nay; you saw nought.  He passed invisibly.”

Thomas Hardy

Mad

Mad 

I tend to work by an open window in as many seasons as I possibly can, closing it, reluctantly, only in the coldest days of winter, or the stickiest ones of summer.  Having had quite a few of those sticky days this particular summer, sitting by my wide open window has been absolute bliss since Autumn unpacked her cool and colourful cases outside.  The October breezes, bracing in the early morning - gently warm in the afternoon - blow in continuously, playing tunes on the windchimes and ruffling Edward’s fur as he dozes on his tartan bed in the corner.  The cerulean blue glass birdfeeder is open for business all day, with feathered friends of every avian persuasion stopping in to say hello.  It has been delightful.  

Until last week.

   When HE arrived.

A grey squirrel.

Small, ordinary, and pure evil.

Gluing his paws to a tree limb just after sunrise, he has remained planted right outside my open window every day for over a week, determined, it seems, to drive me completely, utterly, irreversibly, mad.  No bigger than a bedroom slipper, but with a sound that explodes from his furry grey body eerily reminiscent of the high pitched shriek of Hitchcock’s violins in the infamous shower scene of Psycho.  And he emits this nerve-rattling sound every ten seconds of every minute of every hour of the blessed day.  

Now squirrels are not a rarity in my little corner of the world.  In fact, our back garden is fairly wiggly with them, especially this time of the year.  Edward has attempted to persuade me of their demonic proclivity for the longest time of course, but I suppose, being raised as I was with such charming characters as Squirrel Nutkin and Rocky, I have been slow to convince.

But this has been too much.  This Poeian squirrel of Halloween week, with his tell-tale heart of a shriek that slices through my innocent window like a knife blade, over and over and over, hacking away every coherent thought, carving my placid mood into little angry shards that spill over my desk and chew up every creative impulse until I throw down my pencils and head for the door.... this squirrel, this nemesis, this monster... must go.

And over in the corner, snuggled deep into a fat red tartan bed, Edward smiles a wry smile.  

“I told her so”.