Thursday 5 March 2009

GOOD MOURNING

Mourning becomes me. I don't just mean the couture - of which more later. No, it suits me because it provides an arena  for more generalised regret.  Whilst mourning the dearly departed, one can also bolt on various other mopes such as misspent youth, poison-pen letters and buying black leather bunny-ears by Benoit Missolin last week when I really couldn't afford them. I thought they would amuse Lord Numb who is taking me to Jumby Bay next month and, therefore, needs encouragement, but I was wrong.  My women readers will sigh when I say: how can one please a man? And how can this be done quickly, cheaply and with no strain to the lower back?  It is a mystery as old as time,  and black leather bunny-ears no longer cut it, apparently. Numb now claims a fascination with the I Dream Of Genie look: Kathy Kirby hair, ruched chiffon brassiere and a yashmak.  The whole thing is beyond reason. 

I have worn some gorgeous ensembles during this period of grief, and have made some other mourners quite giddy with envy and desire.  A black leather dress by PPQ, Daybirger & Mikkelsen gloves and a Sergio Rossi python-skin clutch set the standard at the crematorium.  Some dowdy old retainers and a so-called Practice Manager looked surly, but I swept past with a scowl.  The Probate Office saw me in a perfectly plain silk jersey dress by Britt Lintner, a pair of Kenneth Cole Broken Hearts in parma violet and a Theo Fennell serpent.  Every day for a month I have worn a beautiful diamond and yellow sapphire pin in the shape of a sorceress holding a crystal ball by Van Cleef & Arpels.  It was given to me by my father to mark the birth of my first baby.  Yesterday Numb presented me with a bottle of Ange ou Demon and a David Morris bracelet. On the packaging was written: David Morris - London - Palm Beach - Moscow - Doha -Dubai.  Could anything be nastier than that despicable itinerary?  I nearly refused to accept the trinket, but I am nothing if not gracious.   Some baser women have rolled their eyes and said The Wages of Sin, but I despise their envy and turn the other cheek.

Clearing my dear father's belongings has been a painful trial, and quite boring.  He owned seven identical suits and shoes of almost comical antiquity.  I am keeping his clinical equipment for posterity, or to use in hospital role play should Numb be excited by memories of Emergency Ward 10. In a heap of Wincarnis crates, I found my father's old cameras. What memories!  He dealt with several companies, all linked in some way with my dear old Opa: Silber of Lambs Conduit Street, Komlosy of Dunstable, Steinhardt of Islington, Pearlman of Harrow, Engert of the Strand and, of course, Max Spielmann of Liverpool.  In one box, I found his ex-Air Ministry Gaumont British Projector, for which he paid £60.  He was a keen and clever photographer and won the Daily Herald competition in 1963 for a black and white portrait of my mother.  The prize was £300 and the challenge trophy.  He called the portrait "Hannelore", which is my mother's middle name.  I wish you could see it.   She is 28 years old but looks like a schoolgirl.

Another year, he won a prize for a picture of a bee in flight.  We had a hive at home and kept a swarm until it was stricken with Isle of Wight's Disease.  People shouldn't be scared of bees. The worker's sting is quite straight and can be easily pulled, but the sting of the Queen is like a scimitar. Workers sometimes sting bees from other hives, and such a sting is always fatal, but a Queen never stings anything other than a rival Queen.  The drone has no sting, and is therefore quite defenceless.

20 comments:

  1. Could you not scan the photo of your mother and post it? If I can anyone can.
    Well done on keeping up appearances - it's a good example pour les autres.
    I love getting those blasts from the past. Whatever happened to Kathy Kirby - at one time the poor man's Marilyn.
    I wonder if your father had the date his suits were made sewn into his jackets like cousin Harold did. He would show us with great pride and one would choke on great wafts of pipe tobacco and wonder if, in their long life, they had ever been dry cleaned.
    Probably not.

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  2. *Yellow* sapphires?? My dear good woman, where are the emeralds?

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  3. how can one please a man?

    Honestly Mrs P, I'm sure you know how! And I'm deeply smitten by the idea of you wearing your bunny ears... Can I borrow them?
    Sx

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  4. I know of one man you please whenever you appear.

    Moi.

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  5. Bunny ears alone mean nothing to the true deviant, Mrs P. You need the tail and willingness to hop.

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  6. I can't for one moment imagine you twitching your nose and eating carrots. Eschew the bunny ears milday!

    One should be kind to bees. I've spent the past week setting up nest boxes for bumblebees and mason bees (the garden's too small for a hive and the fruit trees need a hand).

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  7. Yes, I've also always admired the bee, and especially the bumble bee with its nice big round furry bottom. Get Kevin there, putting up nest boxes for them, now that's positive.

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  8. Hello, Pat. Kathy Kirby is alive and well and living in Hounslow. Of course, I use the phrase "alive and well" and the word "Hounslow" advisedly, knowing that it doesn't sit easily.

    Inky, the emeralds are nice, they are impressive, but they don't suit me. I have green eyes, and the whole effect is quite witchy. I am trying to rock a more fluffy look, but failing miserably.

    Scarly, I will have to think about it. You have met me, so you KNOW how it looks. My bunny ears are black patent leather, more suited to my sallow skin and melanic bouffant, as I'm sure you agree. You have a rosier, healthier vibe, and should stick to the more acceptable pink satin with white velvet inserts.

    Jimmy Bastard, how gorgeous you are! I spent some time in a low bar in Stockwell Street this week, and felt your presence. Or something.

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  9. Boyo dear, you know me well enough by now to guess that my collection of tails is comprehensive, to say the least. And as for my willingness to hop, well, just make me.

    Kevin, your skill as an apiarist knows no bounds, and I salute you. I see you in full protective wear, heavily veiled and with a mysterious aerosol in your trembling hand. However, I can't imagine what you don for bee-work. Do enlighten us.

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  10. Yes, Isle of Wight Disease, MJ. Caused by a parasitic mite and quite lethal to hives and colonies. Characterised by lethargy and disorientation, and a desire to travel on a chain-ferry to Totnes. In its acute form, the afflicted become insufferably smug and make small ornaments from the coloured sands of Blackgang Chine.

    Gadjo, big round furry bottoms. I just had to repeat that because I cannot imagine where Scarlet is. Not that she HAS a BRFB, but because it's the sort of feed-line that pulls in her vulgar rejoinders. No, wait, I remember now: she's at the seaside. Let's hope it's not Ventnor Sands; we don't want her contracting Isle of Wight disease.

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  11. Drones have no sting, they are defenceless, drawn incessantly to the honey. It is way outside my experience but I am led to understand that straightforward frilly knickers are the thing these days, perhaps Lord Numb should be told. He'd be like a bee up a drainpipe.

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  12. Appalling. This is hardly the sort of rejoinder that commends itself to me, Farrish. I was hoping to hear your thoughts on the bijoux, for example, or of your apprenticeship with the silversmiths of Tel Gezer, where Joshua ordered the sun to stand still.

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  13. Good for Kathy. I hope she's worn well.

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  14. "I am trying to rock a more fluffy look, but failing miserably." Well of course you are, you green-eyed vixen. Go with what god gave you and WEAR THE EMERALDS. And if sallow is an issue, then what else is fake tan for? (Yes, expensive fake tan, we both know that ferchrissake already.)

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  15. Pat, she is a recluse. It is terribly sad. She doesn't leave her humble flat (council) unless she really has to, and hasn't performed for over 20 years. Some people think her ill-advised affair with B. Forsyth threw her off kilter. Well, it would, wouldn't it?

    Inky, is there a more exciting man than you in the ethersphere? If there is, I'd like to meet him, sit on the opposite banquette, let my skirt ride up, and suck a White Russian through a transparent straw. Just think about that edifying spectacle for a minute. That is my reward to you for being so gorgeous. Mwah mwah mwah.

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  16. Glad you are not letting this period of grief affect your dress code. I must check out the glove supplier you mention - I adore wearing gloves.

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  17. There's a lot to be said for a woman in gloves. But my blood pressure precludes my saying it.

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  18. Hello, Frenchie, how nice! Of course, people beswarm me begging for style tips, and I am happy to oblige. D-B & M are a Danish company, and their gloves are to sigh for. I have 4 pairs, but they are fiendishly difficult to get hold of in the UK. I suggest you try net-a-porter.com in the first instance. Of course, I have a substantial private income, so the expense doesn't bother me, but if you are poor Dents of Piccadilly are a good alternative, and Jackson Freres of Reading (... AND WENDY WHERE ARE YOU??) carries their full range, including the velvet ones.

    Kev, say it. Or do you want me to say it for you? Some men like salacious glove-talk, and I am happy to provide it. You know where I am.

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  19. I have my bottom shaved at least once a week. It gives me a buzz.
    Sx

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