Shirtwaisted

This is Elspeth as Mrs Drudge in the Downstage critics' production of Tom Stoppard's The Real Inspector Hound late last year. Knowledge of lines and donning of costume weren't strictly required, but she went to some lengths to get togged up. On her feet are an appalling pair of sheepskin slippers of mine, which I told her I never wanted to see again (unfortunately I now can). That's my feather duster too. I did get that back, for those hard-to-reach places.

The faux 50s, flower-print shirtwaister she picked up for $8 in a Cuba Street second-hand shop, and, after the one-night-only show, passed on to me. Right now it's hanging on a rack at Penny's Clothing and Alterations, and I'm looking forward to getting it back tomorrow, refitted and updated.
Dior's Spring 1951 collection featured a floral shirtwaister; it was one one expresson of the post-war New Look. And for a few gloaty minutes, I thought Elspeth's - now mine, all mine - was the genuine vintage article, because it's so nicely detailed. But reason soon broke through - the fabric, though it looks right, doesn't feel right. It's late-20th century synthetic, a fact swiftly confirmed by Penny, who knows about these things.
I wondered aloud who, in the 80s and 90s, would have bought and worn a new dress so unglamorously old-fashioned. Penny shrugged - her mother, for one, she said.
When I get it back, the bodice will be fitted, the sleeves narrowed and reset into narrowed shoulders, whose pads I already whipped out. It will go so perfectly with my Molly M gray suede wedges that I shall be able, apart from the singing aspect, to pretend I'm an Andrews sister.  

Thanks, Elspeth.

Petals and wings

Vio sent out a birthday party invitation accompanied by six flower fairies. The faithful reader has probably already surmised that I'm not a particularly girly girl, let alone a fairy. But let me tell you, I adore the flower fairies, and when I tracked down this one, my all-time favourite, my eyes filled with tears. Her sweet face and graceful pose, and the costume that so delightfully replicates her namesake bloom evoke all my childhood longings for a delicacy and prettiness I would never attain.


Try, faithful reader, not to puke. And I'll try to dissipate the saccharine effect by telling you that Cicely Mary Barker's depiction of the flowers, if not their respective fairies, was always botanically correct. 

By the time Flower Fairies of the Spring came out in 1923, fairies were already a popular theme in art and literature. The book I owned, A Flower Fairy Alphabet, was first published in 1934, but apparently fond relatives were still giving to little girls in the 50s.
Here's gorse. I had no idea I would eventually live in a country on the other side of the world that regards this as one of its worst noxious weeds.

At sixes and sevens

Sevens mania has hit Wellington. Its most visible aspect is the clutches of costumed fans around the city. We love to dress up. But we love it more if we can be one of a bunch all dressed the same.
This morning I was driving along a suburban street, minding my own business, when I was flagged down by half-a-dozen oversize pink whoopee cushions. They wanted me to drive them (and their spotty white legs) to the stadium. In their over-excited, over-exposed state, they seemed seriously to believe that I might. 
Later, E was walking on the waterfront when she noticed a red-clad major domo, like the man who opens the door at Kirkcaldies. He was sitting with his head in his hands. Assuming he was weeping, she kindly asked if he was all right. He lifted his head to observe angrily that he couldn't get into the stadium. But wehen she murmured something sympathetic in response, he snarled, "Bitch!"
Meanwhile, The Hound, who normally loves everyone and everything, was throwing a panic-stricken hissy fit at a bemused panda.
Last year's Sevens brought us teams of sperms (I'm doubtful about that pluralisation, but it was theirs) and Elizabeth IIs, any number of policemen, sailors and showgirls, and this Borat horror, which you might relieved to hear has since been banned.

Plumbed, wired and plastered

I daresay you've heard the one about the new sexual position known as The Plumber - you both stay home and nobody comes.
My bathroom renovations contine. Today, six tradespeople - the builder, a plasterer, a painter, a flooring lady and two electricians - all came simultaneously.  

Widow's weeds

Mourning dress 1880s

... are not, thank god, what they used to be. Nowadays, it's enough to feel your grief; you're not expected to wear it too. But although mourners no longer feel obliged to dress in formal black, most of the 200 who attended Harvey McQueen's memorial service at Old St Paul's on Friday were fairly soberly dressed.  Not so Anne, whose bright red jacket shone out from the front pew. She chose it deliberately because red was Harvey's favourite colour. The sad occasion was also a celebration of Harvey's life so red was every bit as appropriate as black.
Harvey's last blog posting just before Christmas was about his re-reading of Katherine Mansfield. Anne continues her blog on food, but poignantly the subtitle of her other blog, Elsewoman, is now "Learning how to live on my own for the first time in my life."

Anne Else and Harvey McQueen

Writing and renovating

Where have you been? I hear you cry. (Don't I?). I've been writing and renovating. It would be hard to say which is the greater obstacle to blogging, but against their combined forces, I've had no chance at all.
What I was writing was a longish review of two recently published fashion books: The Dress Circle: New Zealand Fashion Design Since 1940 by Lucy Hammonds, Douglas Lloyd Jenkins and Claire Regnault (Godwit) and New Zealand Fashion Design by Angela Lassig (Te Papa Press). It took me much longer than it should have. Partly because it will be published in a journal that has never reviewed a fashion book before, and I wanted to be sure to get it right. Partly because writing is never finished, only abandoned in the face of a deadline, and since I'm co-editor of the journal in question, I kept giving myself generous extensions. And partly because of interruptions due to the afore-mentioned renovations.

This is - or rather, was - my bathroom.

And this, my bedroom.

As you can see, I'm camping in these parts of the house, rather than living in them. Only the toilet is functional, and if I need to use it during office hours, so to speak, I have to ask any number of builders, plumbers and electricians to vacate the room for a few minutes. The icy southerly is whistling up from the basement through several holes in the (ex) bathroom floor; I have no well-lit mirror in which to put on lipstick and insert my contacts; I've been scrounging off local friends for showers and, to avoid making even great inroads on their generosity and hot water, getting back ache by washing my hair in the kitchen sink.

In spite of all that, and the fact that I'm usually something of a neat freak, I love it. Others (I'm talking about you, N) might angst over the dust and mess and general inconvenience, but I find it almost cathartic.

Feeling down? Life not going your way? Want to seize back control? Knock down walls! 

When it's all over I shall have not one large bathroom containing all the facilities, outside the door of which a disorderly queue forms whenever there's more than just me in the house, but those splendidly bourgeois assets, a main bathroom and an en suite. To be honest, that last label induces a cringe; every time I utter it I feel as if I'm channeling a real estate agent. Still, it will have its uses.

Until then, the trademen keep needing decisions and supplies. Do I mind if the heaters have cords? Where do I want the heated towel rails and the power outlets? Shower curtain or door? What about lighting? I seem to be wandering the aisles at Bunnings several times a day, and returning mistaken purchases every other day.

No, I don't know if we're nearly there yet because I don't want to drive the nice builder mad by asking him. One thing I am sure of, though, is that renovation is far less stressful when you live alone. The last time I managed anything like this (only bigger), I also had to manage The X, whose pained expression and martyred sighs were a lot harder to bear than a few piles of rubble and hours of commercial radio every day.  

Shopping on Mars and Venus

A nice young couple among the shelves of photo frames in one of Briscoes' recurring sales.

Her: (swooping) There are nice pink and blue ones here. Your thoughts?
Him: Nice.
Her: Which one - pink or blue?
Him: (after the slightest hesitation) Blue. She knows I like blue ...
Her: Have you seen the pink? The pink is nice.
Him: Either/or. Pink or blue.  

Actually, I hate that Mars and Venus stuff (anatomy is not destiny; I can read a map much better than The X ever could and I hate asking directions), but I thought this brief exchange nicely illustrated two shopping styles and what happens when they meet head on in a relationship.
She inspected everything and, having narrowed down the options, presented him with them. She wasn't against the blue, but wanted to be sure he'd properly assessed its appeal relative to the pink, and come to a considered decision. Her interrogation made him think she wanted the pink, so he immediately gave in.
I didn't hang around to see which one they finally bought. They might well have ended up with the one nobody wanted. I moved on the towel aisles, glad to have no one to consider but myself.