bring me sunshine with your duvet cover cover

A recent present of a Toast duvet cover was very gratefully received: it was pretty and soft and peacefully striped and had the feelgood 'organic' label attached, but, best of all, it came in its own matching duvet cover cover.

There's been a trend in recent years to label everything round the house - soap bowls, string holders, bread boxes, jam pots, tea and coffee jars and all that vintage glory stuff.  I've campaigned tirelessly against this, led marches, organised petitions and sat in for sit-ins, as I don't like being patronised by my groceries, but somehow it's different if you use containers for the wrong purpose.

a fine cover for my Macbook

As though any greater delight were possible, the matching pillowcases came in smaller, even more beguiling bags. I don't know what I'll do with them yet but just having them makes my life complete.

I wish I could make curtains

Most curtain fabric is horrible, either glaringly retro-modern or populist posh with shades of tobacco in the background.  It also seems to cost 87 euros per metre, which is not what one wants to hear when one's window is rather large, at a time of year when the Chevy will soon need tax, insurance and a replacement left sidelight bulb before it can be legally driven to the levee.

[stripey sheets from Cologne & Cotton]

I should hoist out the sewing machine, buy these attractively striped sheets, line and interline them, casually add some heading tape and there we are, Heaven On Earth for a fraction of the cost of Made To Measure, just like the wonderful Jaboopee.

That's what I'll do. Right after I've made the bag that came free with Cath Kidston's Sew, two and a half years ago.   The bag will be perfect for my trip to the levee, to carry handkerchiefs, perfume, little essentials that they might not sell in the levee gift-shop and café.  Maybe some photos of my curtains to show new people I meet there. Very few people aren't interested in curtains.

curtains just so

The samples of curtain fabric 

have been arriving so furiously here 

that we hardly have time to eat, 

and still the postman struggles up the drive with more.

[a mere few of the many rejected fabrics]

I plan to continue with this fascinating topic tomorrow.

When a former colleague has been awarded an MBE

~ while oneself INEXPLICABLY has not ~

it is more important than ever to get the curtains just so.

the little dresses

Am I the last one back after Christmas? Is there a prize for that?

These little dress paintings by Permanent Magenta on blocks of wood were my Christmas present from me to me.

As you can see, I've sprinkled them fetchingly among my dried hydrangeas and my china, to give the place a certain lovely eccentricity.

Scottish Husband likes these too, he says. At last we are finding common ground. Normally he asks me to come and have a look at a photo and specification of a fascinating new technical gadget and I reply that I would love to but unfortunately am So, So Busy, and he says, "but look, there is an interesting cushion in the background behind the technical gadget, slightly blurred", and I bestir myself from my So, So Busyness and have a glance, but only a quick glance lest he should think that I am interested in anything beyond blurred cushions and segue from describing the technical gadget into an opinion on Tier One Capital Ratios, in which I never claimed to be interested, not even in the dizzy days of Young Romance.

In fact, all recent visitors to the house have admired the dresses. Why be the odd one out?  Bring on the glowing praise. I have been very ill (only somewhat very ill, no need for concern) for the past week and mostly unable to read your blog but I long to do so.

the spoilsport sort

I have long been the spoilsport sort

who isn't interested in going to Graceland while I live

or to Heaven when I die,

who gets tired of the Christmas tree  

after a few days

and would prefer a large pot of hyacinths.

But it is good to live with a household of people

who are enchanted by the fairy lights, 

swathing themselves in wrapping paper,

inventing chestnut roasting devices, 

and constantly counting how many sleeps till Christmas -

Six! Only six!

And it is also good to be here among you bloggers,

you who so zealously,

so admirably,

are baking mince pies,

the good ones with suet

and the good ones without suet,

sewing miles of red and gold bunting,

applying glitter to everything in sight,

stalking the robin for your snowy image,

adding the last jelly to the gingerbread house,

and mulling batch after batch of wine

to get the ratio of cloves to sugar just so.

Yes, I'll sample a glass. Sure, why not?

Thank you, bloggers.

a sad day for the Lead Rabbit

The tearing winds flung so much salt from the sea up against our windows during that latest storm that we can barely see out.

Indeed, we can't go out either, as Pink Daughter is poorly and staying in bed.  She was to be the Lead Rabbit in tonight's school play, but some other rabbit will be first to the lettuce-field instead.

[angel, not relevant to rabbit]

It's a sad day for a six year old who had memorized everyone's lines and schemed long and hard to be allocated the best ears, who is peering feebly through the salted white windowpanes at the headlights making their way west: carloads of unfeverish rabbits and their proud parents heading for the parish-hall stage, and glory.

"Life will yield many opportunities to be the Lead Rabbit," I assure her, but she is not convinced.

an illustrated gift guide

I'm honoured to feature today in Shell Sherree's series of illustrated What I'd Like for Christmas Gift Guides.

Shell, whose enchanting drawings exist at the point where the worlds of Audrey Hepburn and PG Wodehouse meet, has been my comrade almost since first I tentatively tinkled a vintage silver fork against my crystal glass here in Blogtopia.  She does the colour pink justice like none other while never neglecting the other important pastels, and her lightness of touch with words always elicits a smile.

[click here for a larger version and links to all the items]

Vicki Archer was the first person to get the benefit of Shell's gentle idealism with her choice of gifts, then came me (Me!)...

[Me (Me!)]

... and I'm eager to see who will be next.  You'll be rushing off now, I know, to see where you can buy that dainty little milk-pan, but do take a moment first to say hello to Shell and admire her Tom Ford frock.

a Hidden Hurt

I was tweaking a wonky quatrain in a newly composed Blogtopian poem in which I hint at a Hidden Hurt when the phone rang.

It was X, wondering what progress I'd made with her present and why I'd unfriended her on Facebook.

"In fact," I told her, "that was another X, as I have two best friends, but the present I haven't got for you yet is even better, albeit undeliverable."

It's true. The French company from which I ordered it got in touch yesterday to say that my address doesn't exist. This came as a blow to me, as I've lived here for six years and received packages from all over the world in that time, including several incredible giveaway wins and, only last week, a Lifetime Achievement Award all the way from the Taiwanese High Consulate, as I told France vehemently.

And I hadn't unfriended X, but rather deleted my account on Facebook during the summer. You should see the great peace that has descended on me since then, no longer in the thick of things, unaware of everyone's sprightly activities unless they themselves tell me about them.  I've ceased to be pressured into Liking everything and can revert to my sullen self, not liking most things very much, except, as ever, your lovely hairstyle.

So that leaves X with little prospect of a present from me, down from 367 to 366 in the all-important number of dear Facebook friends, and forced to listen to the Blogtopian poem in which I hint at a Hidden Hurt.   "It's not hidden enough," she said. Who can blame her?

your Christmas present

I was hoping to have purchased your Christmas present by now. It was to be such an organised year, with everything chosen and wrapped by the end of November so that I could sit around with the decanter and cheeseboard in December instead of trampling out into the good cheer.

[ginger heart, blue icing; 2011]

But town was dispiriting on Friday. Clothes shops full of synthetic party-wear crackled as I walked past. Plastic toys in non-pastel colours made loud noises. Stacked shelves of gift sets signified mankind's primeval need for two soaps, some talcum powder and a lilac wash-mitt.

I don't want to buy the disposable junk; I want to inflict my taste upon future generations. "Oh yes, our Great Great Aunt Mise gave us that sturdy cushion. It's very nice. She says we're mentioned in her will."

So I decided to shop online instead. I have my credit card beside me here, and any minute now I'll type  "present for my friend X and her lovely family" -"terrible tat" -"garish plastic" -"acrylic OR viscose OR polyester" +"exquisite" +"pass off as homemade" +"delivery to Ireland", and then I'll click on "I'm Feeling Lucky." I'm not Feeling Lucky, but one must put up a brave front.

a modest sourdough

What a struggle it has been to get any work done this week. Meetings and moments of quiet reflection were constantly interrupted by the ping of imagined incoming emails from readers imploring me to share a photograph of my homemade sourdough bread.

Feed no shop-bought bread to progeny, battalion or beast

(Don John of Austria is measuring the yeast) 

Hesitantly, modestly, humbly, I do so.

At airports worldwide, illusory demands came plaintively through the Tannoy, seeking only a single close-up shot of the inside of the loaf, displayed, ideally, on a cheerful cottage-style pink tea towel.

Pause the ruin of Europe and be deaf unto its dread 

(Don John of Austria is buttering the bread)

Blushingly, I comply.