Dark desires, pale imitations

"Got some dark desire?" inquires the poster. Indeed I do, although I'm not sure Costume Cave's notion of a can-can girl is the answer.


It comprises a black lace skirt overlaying red and black frills, a sleeveless square-necked black lace blouse and a black corset. There's also a bead choker, elbow-length red gloves, and a comb bearing a black rose and long feathers. I'll supply my own fishnet tights.



The skirt and blouse have definitely seen better days. Strategically placed safety pins are all that holds the skirt up. The corset is made of sterner stuff and to my surprise does approach some previously unapprehended darker desire. S pointed out when we were fitted a couple of weeks ago, though, that since our bosoms are not our strong point, we would have to make the most of our legs. S's go on forever, while C is much more appropriately endowed for corset-wearing.

I needed to do something, though, to make the outfit a little bit my own, so after coffee at La Cloche this morning I ducked into Spotlight. I bought a clutch of red feathers to replenish the weary ones on the comb, and a length of black velvet ribbon on which to pin a brooch for a classier choker.


The three of us convene at 7 to lace each other up. This may well prove the most fun part of the evening.

Emergency wear

For several days now I've been stepping around two big plastic lidded boxes on the kitchen floor. The X and I bought them a few years back to contain our earthquake survival kit, but suffered a loss of interest before the kit was completed and the boxes stowed, out of sight and mind, in the shed. (The X survival kit I had to put together myself a couple of years later.) 

"Shed" is a grand term for what amounts to a small metal box with sliding doors that don't. The first quiver of a tectonic plate and it'll be tumbling down into the bush. I'll just have to tumble after it. Fortunately, where it stops tumbling will be where the nearest water supply is.

I duly downloaded a list of what I needed in my kit and at the supermarket today made up the shortfall. I do wonder, though, how long it will be before I'm compelled to raid the box for the Whittaker's Peanut Slabs and the coffee.

The emergency clothing, on the other hand, I'm in no hurry to reclaim:

The centrepeice is a 25-year-old Swandri, still in excellent nick. I bought it for my first foray down to the West Coast (a vain attempt to blend in?) and it was sold as boyswear.

I shall accessorise it with a disgusting old black wool Glassons jersey that it's too depressing to wear even for gardening. Old track pants ditto. Three pairs of clean, albeit tatty, knickers.  One pair of flowery gumboots from No 1 Shoe Warehouse.

If that doesn't put the rescuers off, nothing will.

Blare

From Jenny Diski's latest London Review of Books blog:

"Act now and sign up for the Facebook Group not-so-snappily entitled Subversively Move Tony Blair’s Memoirs to the Crime Section in Book Shops http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=150746811621277&v=wall  There are coming up for 10,000 members so far. For this alone the internet and Facebook must be considered a good thing. There are other creative options. Fiction, obviously, Fantasy and Fairy Tales. But you are not just confined to book sections. Someone moved A Journey in Tesco to the Wet Wipes section. In Asda it’s to be found among the Cat Litter. And there’s a suggestion that perhaps the meat counter is the most appropriate place. Go to it."

Distressed

Really.

This is the sort of thing that gives fashion - and anyone or anything to do with it -  a bad name. 

If the mere sight doesn't provoke contempt, consider the fact that, should you be mad enough to want to buy it, it will set you back 570 pounds.

Distressed, they call it.

They're not kidding.

Emergency fashion

Earthquake was, not surprisingly, the topic of conversation in a local dress shop this afternoon. Did we each have an earthquake kit, and what was in it?

A young mother was trying on one of those diaphonous aprony things that wrap around whatever's underneath. She said canned baby food, although her baby hadn't yet moved on to solids. Part-time assistant K confessed to a couple of cans of baked beans and a malfunctioning torch. Her boss - another young mother - said an Ashley Fogel sundress. 

Sorry?

An Ashley fogel sundress.

Right.

Golden lads and lassies must ...

Those trees in blossom brought to mind A's 21st birthday party a couple of Saturdays ago. Her father's house was filled to the brim with lovely young things - fresh faces, bare arms and shoulders, shiny hair, sweet frocks and dizzy shoes. Here's the birthday girl, photographed by Steve Payne  http://gobsmackedinnewzealand.blogspot.com/

It reminded me of a wedding I attended in Morelia, Mexico, 10 years ago. It was held at a country venue, the guests seated under a vast awning out of the harsh sun. The bride and groom were the centre of fond attention, but the real stars were a bevvy of young unmarried women in long brightly coloured dresses. The couple were loved and congratulated, but these blooming girls were regarded with unadulterated joy. The occasion was at least as much a celebration of their youth and beauty as it was of a marriage.

A few nights before the wedding the X and I were taken to The Hummingbird Club. Its speciality was the traditional Morelian dance you can see here  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zJAw0e5Wfw0&feature=related
The men hobbled on in a crocodile, leaning heavily on sticks, a hand on the shoulder in front, wearing gruesome old-men masks. They stumped around like this for some time then suddenly whirled into the clog-clacking dance you can see on the clip.  Eventually, they tottered offstage the way they had entered.

Mexicans don't shy away from age and death, which means they don't glorify and, therefore, resent, youth. They rejoice in it, their pleasure heightened by knowing how fleeting it is. Seeing a beautiful young woman is like catching a tree in blossom. You only get so many in the course of a life.

On the road

Ken Kesey in a campervan - minus the drugs. Which meant a week sans hairdryer, makeup, decent clothes and, god help me, tango. Yet I can report that I had a lovely time, and that there's a lot to be said for putting appearances behind you once in a while. It was already spring in Hawke's Bay and Gisborne, though, and the trees were dressed to kill.

First stop was Greytown, where I plunged into Minx shoes and discovered a sale.












As you can see, I have a lot to learn about photographing shoes on my own foot. Still, aren't they delicious. I would never have put royal blue and purple together, but since they're both colours I wear - albeit separately - I've decided these count as a sensible buy. Plus they work for tango.

The warm daytime temperatures went to S's head. Here he is heading for the Pacific Ocean at Wainui Beach, just north of Gisborne.

The old Gisborne Gentleman's Club - a series of wood-panelled rooms entered through grand doors with elaborate cut-glass handles - now operates as a cafe (the coffee is excellent) and shops. Among the latter I found a room crammed with Turkish stuff, including a lovely array of crazily cheap pashminas.

No, they're not all for me.