Tuesday, November 25, 2014

Stripes: how many are too many?

My inner coastal Quaker finds stripes irresistible, so when Scottish Husband asks what I'd like for my birthday I overcome my initial response that I am in a decluttering zone and suggest a striped bedspread. Realising that he will probably not find one in the Harley Davidson store, the only shop he frequents, I attempt to find a specific URL.  Not easily done.

Europe used to contain one ticking quilt, but it is out of stock.

[Nordic House, out of stock]

The rest of the ticking, as you will see if you study a global heat-map of ticking, has migrated from France to North America.  These, for instance:

[Dash and Albert and Brahms Mount]

Due to dollars and customs duties and the cheerfulness barrier, trade with North America is impossible. Do you know where in Europe I can find a simple cotton bedspread or throw or quilt, striped?

Pretty Far West has been rather possession-focussed lately, a natural reaction to losing my fortune in an ill-fated investment in Bitcoins. Be assured that I am also a deeply cultural woman, who passes by the Opera House on the way to the little shop that sells the right sort of shoes. I was seated beside Salman Rushdie at a dinnerparty once, am a member of the parish bookclub despite never attending its meetings, and a former boyfriend of mine owns one of Britain's finest collections of eighteenth century art.

My cultural credentials pall beside those of Frances, who frequented the same New York launderette as a Bezos brother, but I struggle on.  Do let me know where your chamber orchestra will be playing next.

Tuesday, November 18, 2014

an end to the lipstick plight

I have spoken movingly in the past of an uncertain future faced due to the disastrous discontinuance of my lipstick. You will have followed my plight as I bought up all remaining stocks of that shade worldwide and set about the cruel task of finding a replacement product. With my trademark stoicism, I have said very little here, but the whole thing has been a woeful tale of reds that were too orange and of inappropriate degrees of shine.

Or so the situation stood until I discovered MAC Dubonnet, my official new lipstick. It is a good shade of red, as you will see in the photo of me unless you are reading this on a mobile device, which you probably are as you have so very much to do and your PA hovering nervously with the papers to sign. It suits me. I am willing to leave the house. Small birds stir and begin to sing once more.

Concern has failed to flood in about the chef who was beaten up back in my days in the catering trade. He recovered and later married one of my many sisters. I baked their wedding cake.  Only two tiers.

I haven't had time to read this book. You?

Friday, November 14, 2014

Not a Very Spiritual Post

After working non-stop for days and days, so much so that I could read only your blog and ignore everyone else's, I thought I'd stop for a coffee and share some finds with you.

Find number one: Scandic Way of Life.

These people sell lovely, simple clothes, with clean lines and good fabrics. International celebrities such as myself wear their dresses while we clear out the fridge or pass the roasted vegetable quiche off as homemade. I particularly like the Sorgenfri Sylt collection, whatever that means, and all these fine socken:

Find number 2: What became of Anna. As a child, I read When Hitler Stole Pink Rabbit by Judith Kerr over and over again, and now I discover that there is more. Bombs on Aunty Dainty is on my bedside table and A Small Person Far Away is rushing toward me in the post.

Anna's mother is highly strung and cannot sew, just like myself. I dearly hope she will survive the war.

Monday, November 3, 2014

Professor of Chinoiserie

It has been a difficult week, in which I experienced a bout of post-new-curtain slump: the listlessness of one for whom the thrill of the chase is over when the new curtains are finally hanging on a double old ivory rail with button finials. I have been morose and taciturn, a constant visitor to the jar of glacé cherries for my nerves.

Did I tell you about the few years I spent running a café after I ceased to be a Banking Mogul? There was a dear little square room at the very back, past the kitchens, where dry goods were stored. Valrhona chocolate chips, glacé cherries, and so forth. Things often go wrong in the café business.  When the chef got arrested, when the road collapsed, when the replacement chef was beaten up, I used to retire to that little room and idly eat cherries until I felt better. To this day a glacé cherry will help me through a tedious conversation about someone else's problems, or a tax return.  

But when God closes one set of curtains He opens another. I have been just offered a new post as Professor of Chinoiserie, and am planning to set the higher mathematics aside to devote myself wholly to that area. How well dear Dr Ada knows me and my unending quest for the perfect toile. 

This is the one that has been on my mind, River Song from Brunswig et Fils.  It will be just the thing for a little sit down when my visitors flit back from the immaculate croquet lawn for their fortune cookies and lapsang suchong.

My sister has sent me some jam from England for our global breakfasting needs here in the pretty far west, where quinces are unknown.  What a joy it was to receive an unexpected package after being out of the giveaway loop for so long.

You will note (top right) how few glacé cherries remain in their jar. Yes, with the curtains, with the flu, with Scottish Husband discovering Buddhism and Pinterest, it has certainly been a difficult week.

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