Catalogues With Glossy Pages

As an eleven and twelve year old, there was something exciting about the arrival of the latest home-shopping catalogue. It took both hands to lift it on to the table and all day to choose items of clothing, sticking to the given budget. Glossy pages with a distinctive inky smell felt pleasant to touch and were slowly turned from one appealing outfit to another with corners folded down to mark likely purchases. My mother wasn’t well enough to take us shopping and growing girls needed new clothes all the time. The catalogue was a life-line.

Later, when I was considered old enough to go to town with friends, I was given money to buy things from Chelsea Girl – my favourite boutique – and Marks & Spencer for underwear. The catalogue always had a place, though, and as I grew up and raised my own family, it was useful for household items. Affordable credit added to the appeal of the convenience of home shopping.

We used to keep the catalogues in a cupboard with the fat telephone directories. Littlewoods and Grattan along with Argos, Toys’R’Us, and Betterware, when the man came. They’ve all gone now, though sometimes we have Cotton Traders if they think we need reminding that they are there.

The physical catalogues might have ceased to fill the cupboard, but the way of shopping remains. We’re online instead. Amazon has absolutely everything, just a click away. The anticipation of the catalogue parcel has been replaced by the excitement of the Prime van being only three stops away. Marks & Spencer has more appeal online than in store. I was recently disappointed to visit our branch and discover a shop reduced in size by closing off the top floor and carrying limited stock. The food hall was as bad. A wasted trip on my part.

We still get those mini-catalogues stapled into the TV listings magazines, the ones full of interesting gadgets that make me wonder how old I’ll be before I can’t manage without them. They go straight into the recycling.

Haiku for those long ago times,

A nice, grey school skirt
And a navy blue cardy
To start the new term.

Some smart white blouses
A pair of stirrup trousers
That’s what we called them.

Strap under the feet.
And socks and knickers and vests
And some pyjamas.

PMW 2023

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Too Ridiculous for Words

I’ve realised recently that the word, ‘ridiculous,’ is one I use pretty often (along with, ‘exactly’ and, ‘absolutely,’ which irritated my husband so much that he had a t-shirt printed for me with the words on, spelt phonetically) 'Ridiculous' is usually uttered with a roll of the eyes and a look of despair, frequently in relation to a member of the current Conservative government, or in response to some petty rule that I really think is irrelevant. 

Over the years, I’ve become something of an expert on all things ridiculous. Let’s face it, I’ve been pretty ridiculous numerous times in my life, not least because of my fashion (mis)sense.  Looking back I’ve made a few ridiculous errors of judgment where clothes are concerned. There are numerous occasions where I might have slightly misjudged the ‘dress code.’  Having said that, I’m a great believer in wearing what you want (within reason) and not having to conform to somebody else’s ideas of ‘appropriate’ dress. When I started teaching I was pulled up twice on my attire. 

The first time, at the school I was on teaching practice, I’m willing to admit, in hindsight, and with thirty more years of sartorial experience behind me, there was an element of ‘ridiculousness’ about the outfit. It was a brightly coloured jumpsuit that I’d made for myself out of a pair of children’s curtains. Yes, I know. But it went down well with the seven year olds I was teaching. The deputy head obviously drew the short straw. He came to me after school one day and talked about maths, PE and the weather, before averting his eyes and mentioning - oh so awkwardly - that I might wear something different the following day.  

The second time was in my first teaching job where the headteacher and I had developed a kind of love-hate relationship. She would compliment me on my dangly earrings one day, then pull me aside the next, to tell me that my red ski pants (yes, they were in fashion in the early 80s) were inappropriate.  I disagreed, but, in order to keep my job, I went into tailored black pants the following day, and very quickly became a Stepford Teacher (with a few ridiculous additions - the green Doc Martins, the mad earrings, and the brightly coloured tops).  I was too much of a rebel to be completely converted. 

I’m sure, if I flick through some of our earlier photo albums, I’ll find plenty of examples of ridiculous outfits, but, to be honest, they were just a bit of fun to me. My mum assures me that I was never conventional, even as a child. When I got into my early teens and bought myself an age 8 Ladybird kilt (how on earth did it fit?) and a pair of red tap shoes to wear ‘down the high road’ on a Saturday afternoon I thought I was the bee’s knees. My best friend had an identical outfit, and I’m sure we were the focus of many ‘ridiculous’ comments. At the time, it was probably what we loved about those trips. 

My sense of humour is frequently activated by  sights or situations which could be accurately described as ridiculous.  I’m lucky to have friends and family who see the world in a similar way. One of the most ridiculous sights I’ve ever seen occurred on an aircraft. I was with my daughter and it doesn’t take much to set us off.  As we sat down to wait for take off a little scene began to unfold before us. Now, I am nosy (I like to call it curious) but my daughter is the opposite, and can’t understand my interest in other people and their lives. As she settled down to have little sleep, I listened in to the couple in front. What I ascertained was that they were work colleagues, off to some sort of conference. It was obvious they didn’t know each other very well, as the conversation was, at first, somewhat stilted.  The female was quite young, possibly early twenties, and the male was older, probably in his forties. He wanted to impress, and spent the whole journey talking about himself and his many achievements. Being a polite young girl his colleague nodded and put in the odd, complimentary comment as we flew towards London. 

When we landed the male seemed reluctant for the conversation to end, and I heard him asking if the girl would like to go with him for a drink.  I got the impression she wasn’t very keen but obviously was too shy or too inexperienced to say no. I woke up my daughter and quickly filled her in on the conversation I’d overheard. She was polite enough to feign interest as we stood up to get our luggage.  The couple in front also began to gather their things together and get their coats on.  I noticed the man, still talking, was struggling with his jacket, which was a short, bomber style affair. As passengers started to alight, the man continued to try and impress the girl, mentioning expensive clubs and restaurants - whist still wrestling with his jacket.  It was their turn to join the queue, and I was relieved to see he’d eventually managed to get the jacket on. Except that it was upside down. Hence the struggle. And hence the rather strange arm movements he was exhibiting as he descended the steps.  The girl was oblivious, I’m guessing she was working on an escape plan, and the man, although obviously uncomfortable, ploughed on with his monologue. 

My daughter and I noticed the problem at exactly the same time. We looked at each for a few seconds before bursting into  uncontrollable laughter. We followed behind, trying desperately to keep up, whilst also trying to stifle the outburst. We couldn’t. It was too funny: the man desperately trying to impress his bored young colleague whilst walking beside her in an upside down jacket. The more we looked at him the louder we laughed. He turned at one point to throw us a questioning look, but that just made us laugh all the more.  We followed him towards the baggage hall, not wanting to miss his discovery of the faux pas.  Sure enough, as we rounded a bend, he stopped, looked down at himself, stole a glance at the girl, and in one swift move, whipped off the jacket, turned it around the correct way and put it back on. This happened many years ago, when Blackpool airport was still open and flying planes to London, but my daughter only has to ask me if I remember the man in the upside down jacket and we’re both back on that plane and doubled up with laughter. 

For me, I think that incident pretty much defines the word, ‘ridiculous’ in all it’s forms: older man trying to impress young girl; older man trying to prolong the conversation by offering drinks; and, above all, older man in upside down jacket trying to sound like Mr Big.  I wonder what happened to them? Maybe they’re married now. If they are, I really hope they wore their wedding clothes upside down or, at least, inside out. 

I Started a Poem  by Jill Reidy

I started a poem

About all things ridiculous 

I listed them

Rolling my eyes

Tutting 

Judging

And laughing to myself 

I went to town on 

Make up

Fashion

And lots more 

And then

I realised 

That, over the years 

I’d been guilty of so many 

Of those things I deemed 

Ridiculous.

The sparkling pink eye shadow 

That sprinkled glitter down my cheeks 

Made me look like I’d been crying 

The skirt, too tight, too short

Revealing legs too fat 

Lips I tried to plump with stinging gel

Carefully outlined and painted shiny red

The too high shoes I couldn’t walk in 

The clompy mules on giant platforms

The baggy harem pants

And the skin tight jeans 

Leggings stretched to bursting

Tights like Nora Batty’s

Oh and the hair

The pink, the purple, the rainbow hues

And finally, the huge, Deirdre Barlow glasses

That make a spectacle of myself.

So I didn’t write the poem.  I decided it was just too ridiculous for words....

 Thanks for reading.......... Jill

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Travesty - Dressing Up

   

I’m sure I chose ‘Shelf’ for last week’s blog, which makes me feel really bad about not making a contribution. I had some notes in my head and even the beginnings of a poem until it all went pear-shaped or migraine-shaped. Well, not exactly a migraine but whatever it is affects my vision, my concentration and makes me feel worn out. It doesn’t happen often, thank goodness. Anyway, if ‘Shelf’ should come up again in the future, I’m halfway there.

 Thinking about ‘Travesty’ took me back to some dark days, long ago times before I was able to take control of my own life.

My mother had beautiful clothes. She was always perfectly dressed for whatever she was doing. Even the casual trousers and tops she wore for general housework and jobs around our pub were smart. She had fabulous cocktail dresses, suits and blouses that she wore in the evenings when she accompanied my father in the bar. They were always off to dinner dances so she had a selection of evening gowns, usually from an exclusive dress shop. She died young. I remember my nan and Auntie Kathy, our housekeeper, sorting out her clothes. They gave me some jumpers and blouses that I wanted. Some evening gowns remained in my mother’s large wardrobe, whether forgotten or on purpose, I don’t know.

My father remarried. Our family was never the same again.

They were going out to a ‘black tie’ function. Dad looked handsome in his best suit, bow-tie and highly polished shoes. I was horrified to see his partner giving me a twirl, winking and smiling widely, wearing one of my mother’s evening gowns and asking me if I liked it on her. I expect the hard slam of my bedroom door gave her the answer she was goading for. Dad didn’t realise it was my mother’s gown and was unfazed. I was livid, it was a travesty. She was an attractive woman and had lovely clothes and things of her own. There was no need to do this. I grew used to it and hardened myself to her hurtful ways.

 

One of my favourite books and films is Daphne du Maurier’s ‘Rebecca’. Perhaps I should announce Spoiler Alert here, just in case. There is going to be the Annual Costume Ball at Manderley and as the second Mrs de Winter is pondering over what to wear, housekeeper Mrs Danvers manipulates her into wearing a dress as illustrated in a painting of an ancestor of her husband’s. What Mrs Danvers doesn’t tell her is that Rebecca, Maxim’s first wife, wore the exact same costume for the last ball. She tricks her on purpose, knowing that Maxim will be angry and embarrassed at the travesty. Indeed he was, as a loud gasp of all the guests draws his attention. Seething, he orders his wife to go and get changed immediately. (If you haven’t read the book, I strongly recommend it. The Laurence Olivier & Joan Fontaine version is the best film.) The photograph is Joan Fontaine as the second Mrs de Winter.

 

My poem,

 

 

Pale Blue Brocade

 

Pale blue brocade, nipped in at the waist,

Gentle swish as the hem swept the floor.

Satin ribbon crossed her back and laced

The bodice, just skin-tight but no more.

Over her shoulders, organza swirls

And around her neck some plastic pearls.

 

 She knew it was wrong to wear that dress,

Obvious mockery in her eyes.

Her feigned innocence did not impress

Me. A travesty, undisguised,

Without Mrs Danvers’ poisonous touch.

This was sev’ral steps too far, too much.

 

PMW 2019

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

 

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Suzy

Suzy

My first born was a little bundle of soft, pink joy.  She had a mass of curly blonde hair, a rather serious face and eyes that refused to close at bedtime despite my frequent efforts to lull her into that deep sleep I knew she needed.  She had two changes of clothes which was hardly adequate but I had plans to deal with that.  Grandma would come into play with her sewing and knitting skills. 

I was three and Suzy was my pride and joy.  

From the day that Suzy arrived in my Christmas stocking my life changed.  I was the mum I hadn’t realised I wanted to be. I had the baby I hadn’t realised I needed. 

Don’t get me wrong, Suzy wasn’t always the perfect child. She had her moments. The eyes were a prime example. Whilst my friends had babies whose eyelids drooped and quivered and finally closed as they were laid in their cots, Suzy stared at me, wide eyed and serious, some might say defiant.  She stayed like that as I covered her with the quilt my mum had made, stroked her Brillo pad hair and sung a little lullaby.  

When I had done my morning chores, which usually consisted of frying plastic sausages and making numerous cups of tea for my mum, I would return to the cot and find Suzy in the same catatonic state.  I’m not sure what happened with her finger but I’m guessing that one day the lack of sleep became too much for me and I bit into the squishy digit and spat out the tiny end.  Either that or the feeling of soft plastic between my teeth was impossible to resist - a bit like when you have a chewy sweet and try desperately not to bite into it.  

Suzy took the surprise amputation in her stride and continued to stare blankly at me as I sat miserably wondering how to explain away the missing finger to her grandma (who I guessed might not be too happy about it: ‘You bit her finger off?? What do you mean you bit her finger off??) I predicted a telling off unless I could dress Suzy in gloves for the rest of her life. 

I think I must have got away with the finger because sometime later Suzy suffered the loss of a couple of toes in a similar incident.  I told her it was frostbite, which my dad had recently explained to me, and she accepted it with her usual sangfroid. I did wonder much later, after one graphic RE lesson, whether I should have blamed leprosy. 

I think having Suzy must have sparked my interest in sewing and knitting, which remains with me to this day  As predicted, my mum made Suzy a few basic outfits - dresses, skirts, knickers and, strangely, an apron.  I’m guessing the apron was to prepare Suzy for a life of housewifery, and in the meantime to assist me with the cups of tea and plastic sausages.  Before long I was sitting with pieces of old fabric, scissors and a needle and thread, and cobbling together a rather bizarre wardrobe for Suzy.  Which, thinking about it, is probably how my love of weird clothing for myself developed.  

The best times with Suzy were undoubtedly when we visited our cousins in Margate.  Sue, a year older than I, had her own baby, Lindy, who was slightly smaller than Suzy.   I remember comparing the two babies and, just like a real mother, I felt quite smug that Suzy was obviously so much chubbier and prettier than poor Lindy.  Sue had a great Auntie Rosa, who was a whizz with a pair of knitting needles or a crochet hook, and was obviously at such a loose end that she had fashioned a huge wardrobe of outfits for the lucky Lindy.  I don’t know how I did it but I managed to persuade Sue that some of Suzy’s rather strange and ill-fitting outfits would be lovely on Lindy, and vice versa.  Soon Suzy was being squeezed into beautifully knitted jumpers and cardigans, and poor Lindy was looking like an orphan in huge hand me downs, falling apart at the seams.  I’m not sure what Suzy thought of the knitted knickers but she wore them without complaint for much longer than I’m sure was hygienic. 

As I got older, I have to admit I had less contact with Suzy. Life took over - art college, boyfriends, marriage and (more) children. Suzy ended up unceremoniously dumped head first, woolly knickers in the air, in a box in a cupboard at my parents’ house.  She might have been out of sight but my first born was never really out of mind for too long.  Grandchildren, great grandchildren, nieces and nephews were all treated to the sight of Suzy’s poker face, as the toy box was brought out over the years. I must say, Suzy was usually discarded in favour of something far more exciting.  It looked like she’d had her day. Nobody loved Suzy like I loved Suzy. 

Just recently, knowing I was going to write this post I asked my son to take a picture of Suzy whilst he was visiting his grandparents. In an attempt to get Dan to find the right doll, I described her in as much detail as possible: she’s ugly, quite dirty and yellow, with missing fingers and hair like a Brillo pad. He sent the picture. 

Suzy, My Baby, With Her Missing Fingers

You might be 63 now Suzy - your fingers and toes have healed, your hair is still too stiff to brush and those eyes will never close, but you know what, Suzy, you’ll always be my baby. 

Another Day with Mother by Jill Reidy

At night

In the nursery

The baby dolls stir

Peep over their quilts 

And call to each other

Suzy never sleeps

Her eyes all seeing

She’s the leader 

Keeps the secrets

They help each other

Out of cots

Play games they’ve never 

Had a chance to play

They giggle

Drink the juice left on the side

Hold hands, dance round

And wait 

For the early signs of dawn

As the light 

Seeps through the curtains

And the room begins to warm

Suzy picks up toys 

Pulls back covers

Does a roll call 

Prodding and poking 

Sends the babies

Back to bed

I find her in the morning

Suzy, my first born

Eyes wide

Hair wild

I lift her up

Inhale the familiar rubbery smell

Gently touch the broken fingers

She stares right back at me

And resigns herself to another day with mother

Thanks for reading,    Jill

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