Friday, 26 July 2013

A Fringed Flirtation



 “The greatest feminists have also been the greatest lovers. I'm thinking not only of Mary Wollstonecraft and her daughter Mary Shelley, but of Anais Nin, Edna St. Vincent Millay, and of course Sappho. You cannot divide creative juices from human juices. And as long as juicy women are equated with bad women, we will err on the side of being bad.”  
Erica Jong, via 1

The Outfit:
Black T-shirt: very old from H&M
 Pink Beaded Fringe Skirt: very old from a sale at The Vestry
Pink Strappy High Heeled Sandals: old from a sale at New Look
Pink Flower Fascinator, & Floral Fan: from Accessorize
Vintage Long Silver Earrings: from a charity shop
The Soundtrack
Caro Emerald: That Man   
All photographs taken by me in the spring, using the self timer of my little digital camera.
p.s. you'll have to excuse my pinker than usual knee, I'd scraped it recently and it was still recovering.
I'm delighted to be a part of the next Visible Monday, hosted by the lovely Patti from Not Dead Yet Style, click on the website link to see her outfit and those of many others.
I'm also excited to be a part of Hat Attack, a new link party held by the wonderful Judith of Style Crone, to take place August 1st, do click on her website link to find out how you can join in!
Plus I'm now linking this post to Shoe Shine, a great event hosted by the lovely Bella of The Citizen Rosebud, click on the website to see her cute shoes and those of many others.

Friday, 19 July 2013

The Hammock

"Don't banter me," she said, wounded at what appeared to be his flippancy. He did not mind the entreaty, but the tone with its delicate note of pathos was like a reproach. He could not explain; he could not tell her that he had penetrated her mood and understood. He said nothing except to offer her his arm, for, by her own admission, she was exhausted. She had been walking alone with her arms hanging limp, letting her white skirts trail along the dewy path. She took his arm, but she did not lean upon it. She let her hand lie listlessly, as though her thoughts were elsewhere--somewhere in advance of her body, and she was striving to overtake them.
Robert assisted her into the hammock which swung from the post before her door out to the trunk of a tree.
"Will you stay out here and wait for Mr. Pontellier?" he asked.
"I'll stay out here. Good-night."
"Shall I get you a pillow?"
"There's one here," she said, feeling about, for they were in the shadow.
"It must be soiled; the children have been tumbling it about."
"No matter." And having discovered the pillow, she adjusted it beneath her head. She extended herself in the hammock with a deep breath of relief. She was not a supercilious or an over-dainty woman. She was not much given to reclining in the hammock, and when she did so it was with no cat-like suggestion of voluptuous ease, but with a beneficent repose which seemed to invade her whole body.

Extract from The Awakening & Other Stories by Kate Chopin, via 1

The Outfit:
Peasant Blouse: from a charity shop
Mint Green Maxi Skirt: very old from the high street
Soft Leather Blue Ankle Tie Sandals: from a sale years ago online at Toast
White Cotton Parasol: from Ebay
The Soundtrack
John Taverner: The Protecting Veil  
Photographs taken by Mr Eve a few months ago, using my little digital camera.
I'm delighted to be a part of the next Visible Monday, hosted by the lovely Patti from, click on the website link to see her outfit and those of many others.

Saturday, 13 July 2013

The Twelve Dancing Princesses make their way to the Mad Tea Party

Once there was a White Queen. The eldest of twelve princesses, she had married a soldier King and the responsibilities of her position weighed heavily upon her. 
The White Queen grew weary of her own company and that of her beloved. She longed to see her sisters, to put her work to one side and to return to the gilded palace where they used to dance in their jewel coloured dresses, to twirl and waltz and tango until their feet were sore and their souls soared with the magic and mischief that only wholehearted dancing brings.
Proposing a mad tea party at her food blog Idle Bakes - like the wonderful one being held by my inspiring friend Vanessa Valencia at A Fanciful Twist right now - she sent word for her dear sisters to join her, and so here they come, dancing their way across the land. But as they do so, let me recount to you their tale. For as you shall discover, despite the poetic fears of a certain Anne Sexton, their story ends very well after all....

this king had twelve daughters,
each more beautiful than the other.
They slept together, bed by bed
in a kind of girls' dormitory.
At night the king locked and bolted the door
. How could they possibly escape?
Yet each morning their shoes
were danced to pieces.
Each was as worn as an old jockstrap.
The king sent out a proclamation
that anyone who could discover
where the princesses did their dancing
could take his pick of the litter.
However there was a catch.
If he failed, he would pay with his life.
Well, so it goes.


Many princes tried,
each sitting outside the dormitory,
the door ajar so he could observe
what enchantment came over the shoes.
But each time the twelve dancing princesses
gave the snoopy man a Mickey Finn
and so he was beheaded.
Poof! Like a basketball.


It so happened that a poor soldier
heard about these strange goings on
and decided to give it a try.
On his way to the castle
he met an old old woman.
Age, for a change, was of some use.
She wasn't stuffed in a nursing home.
She told him not to drink a drop of wine
and gave him a cloak that would make
him invisible when the right time came.
And thus he sat outside the dorm.
The oldest princess brought him some wine
but he fastened a sponge beneath his chin,
looking the opposite of Andy Gump.

      The sponge soaked up the wine,
and thus he stayed awake.
He feigned sleep however
and the princesses sprang out of their beds
and fussed around like a Miss America Contest.
Then the eldest went to her bed
and knocked upon it and it sank into the earth.
They descended down the opening
one after the other. The crafty soldier
put on his invisible cloak and followed.
Yikes, said the youngest daughter,
something just stepped on my dress.
But the oldest thought it just a nail.

      Next stood an avenue of trees,
each leaf make of sterling silver.
The soldier took a leaf for proof.
The youngest heard the branch break
and said, Oof! Who goes there?
But the oldest said, Those are
the royal trumpets playing triumphantly.
The next trees were made of diamonds.
He took one that flickered like Tinkerbell
and the youngest said: Wait up! He is here!
But the oldest said: Trumpets, my dear.
Next they came to a lake where lay
twelve boats with twelve enchanted princes
waiting to row them to the underground castle.
The soldier sat in the youngest's boat
and the boat was as heavy as if an icebox
had been added but the prince did not suspect.
Next came the ball where the shoes did duty.
The princesses danced like taxi girls at Roseland
as if those tickets would run right out.
They were painted in kisses with their secret hair
and though the soldier drank from their cups
they drank down their youth with nary a thought.

      Cruets of champagne and cups full of rubies.
They danced until morning and the sun came up
naked and angry and so they returned
by the same strange route. The soldier
went forward through the dormitory and into
his waiting chair to feign his druggy sleep.
That morning the soldier, his eyes fiery
like blood in a wound, his purpose brutal
as if facing a battle, hurried with his answer
as if to the Sphinx. The shoes! The shoes!
The soldier told. He brought forth
the silver leaf, the diamond the size of a plum.

      He had won. The dancing shoes would dance
no more. The princesses were torn from
their night life like a baby from its pacifier.
Because he was old he picked the eldest.
At the wedding the princesses averted their eyes
and sagged like old sweatshirts.
Now the runaways would run no more and never
again would their hair be tangled into diamonds,
never again their shoes worn down to a laugh,
never the bed falling down into purgatory
to let them climb in after
with their Lucifer kicking.

Extract from The Twelve Dancing Princesses, by Anne Sexton, via 1

However, that is not the end of their story.... so let me continue. After an initial sagging like old sweatshirts, the princesses soon discovered both the Women's Liberation movement, and the barefoot dance style of Isadora Duncan. They left home and their controlling father behind, and they continue to dance every night away at the same underground palace, still the best club in town.

Once the eldest princess knew him better, she grew to love her soldier husband, for he treated her as his adored equal. He became the White King, and she the White Queen. They devoted their time to humanitarian work, taking money from the rich in their kingdom to feed the poor. The eldest held on to her favourite shoes and a couple of her magnificent dresses, as keepsakes from those heady dancing days, and she still dances in the club with her sisters whenever the fancy takes her.  No man is the boss of her, of that you can be certain!

She's serving tea at her Mad Tea Party at Idle Bakes right now, do drop by to say hello and eat a homemade rose macaron or two...
Wishing you all a very happy Mad Tea Party!


The Outfits

Apart from the multi-coloured ruffle dress, which I bought relatively recently for my younger brother's wedding from Monsoon, all dresses shown are either vintage or old favourites of mine. The pale pink petal lace up dress I bought for myself as a teenager over 20 years ago.
The Soundtrack
Ralph Vaughan Williams: The Lark Ascending

Dancing photographs taken by me, self portraits using the timer on my little digital camera.
White Queen at the tea party photographs taken by my dear mother.
p.s. the real dancers amongst you will recognise that I can't really remember how to dance, having stopped ballet lessons at the age of 9, but I do enjoy an Isadora Duncan inspired freestyle!

Thanks for popping by, and please be sure you feast with the White Queen at Idle Bakes before you leave.
Now I'm off to visit all your mad tea parties!


Friday, 5 July 2013

Share In Style: Vintage

This post is a collaboration with the beautiful Sacramento, my dear friend whose blog Mis Papelicos is a constant source of inspiration to me. We are both posting outfit photos on the theme of Vintage, a subject very close to our hearts. Also linking up with Aminta, who with her blog Aminta Online creates these special weekly Share In Style posts with Sacramento.

Where the woodland streamlets flow,
Gushing down a rocky bed,
Where the tasseled alders grow,
Lightly meeting over head,
When the fullest August days,
Give the richness what they know,
Then the wild clematis comes,
With her wealth of tangled blooms,
Reaching up and drooping low.
And her fresh leaves only shade
That which is within her bower,
Like a curtain, lightly made,
Half to hide her virgin flower;
None too close to let the wind
Find a place to breathe between,
Where the wild bee cannot miss
All the sweetness that there is,
Underneath her tent of green.
And the sunlight flickers in,
So to touch her maiden breast;
And between her twists of vine
Sings the woodbird to his nest;
And the air is wondrous sweet,
And the twilight lingers long, -
And the young birds learn to fly
In among her greenery,
And she hears their earliest song.
But when Autumn days are here,
And the woods of Autumn burn,
Then her leaves are black and sere
Quick with early frosts to turn!
As the golden Summer dies,
So her silky green has fled,
And the smoky clusters rise
As from fires of sacrifice,
Sacred incense to the dead!
Wild Clematis by Dora Reed Goodale, via 1
The Outfit:
Vintage 1970s Blue Gypsy Dress: from Ebay
Vintage 1990s Beloved Red Parisian Espadrilles: bought in Le Marais when I lived in Paris
Hoop Earrings & Orchid Flower Clip: both from Accessorize
Vintage French Silver Coin 1960s Bracelet: passed down from my Mother
Vintage 1930s Silver & Amber Bracelet: passed down from late granny Penny
Vintage Victorian China Jug & Bowl: passed down from late granny Kiki
The Soundtrack
Nick Drake: Bryter Layter  
Photographs taken by me, self portraits using the timer on my little digital camera.
And here's Sacramento's gorgeous vintage look, don't you just love the print of that dress and her amazing shoes! There's plenty more of her vintage ensemble to be seen at Mis Papelicos  
What's more, I am feeling very honoured to have been nominated for a Liebster award by dear Joanna, do check out her great vintage blog and a full list of nominees at Dividing Vintage Moments
I'm delighted to be a part of the next Visible Monday, hosted by the lovely Patti from Not Dead Yet Style, click on the website link to see her outfit and those of many others.
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