Charm - In Search of Charm

‘In Search of Charm’ by Mary Young. This book should have been returned to Palatine Secondary School library in 1970. Oops, my mistake, but now that I’ve dug it out from one of my many bookcases, I think I’ll read it again and see how the world has changed fifty odd years on. At school, we were encouraged to walk properly upright, shoulders back, no slouching. Deportment included doing this carrying a book on our heads. This was the sort of thing covered in the book. I remember learning the correct way to open and close a door when entering or exiting a room. I also remember that it was considered acceptable to smoke on a train, but not on a bus, and certainly not outside on the street. This was all aimed at girls becoming ladies. I’ve no idea what the boys did, if anything. They continued to charge about like apes.

I was an impressionable fifteen year old in 1970. I idolised Twiggy, though all I had in common with her was incredibly skinny legs and an eye for fashion. I didn’t have her gorgeous face, still don’t. I was a young lady, behaving mostly in a lady-like manner. I loved my trips to stay with family in London which would always include a visit to Carnaby Street where I would look for something delicate and floaty to wear. And beads, they were my signature accessory.

It’s obvious to me now, as a mature, hopefully lady-like woman, that I grew up in a time when girls were being trained, if that’s the right description, to become good wives. My aunt told me that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach. I get by, but I’m not the Cordon Bleu that she once was. Luckily, I married a man who is an excellent cook and perfectly capable of making a delicious meal. Presenting ourselves as easy on the eye by looking nicely groomed was important, too. Um, for self-esteem, first.

A friend of my mother’s had a fascinating charm bracelet that gave me such joy to look at. It was gold and stuffed with many charms. Something had a folded ten-shilling note inside, something else a pound note. I’d never remember it all, but I loved looking at it and finding things I’d previously missed. It must have been worth a small fortune and it must have been really heavy. Just something that has stuck in my memory.

I expect that re-reading ‘In Search of Charm’ will fill me with horror. Women are equal. We can come out of the kitchen. I had my own mortgage when I was single.

I chose this poem because I liked it.  

The Charm

Thrice toss these oaken ashes in the air,
Thrice sit thou mute in this enchanted chair,
Then thrice three times tie up this true love’s knot,
And murmur soft ‘She will, or she will not.’
Go burn these pois’nous weeds in yon blue fire,
These screech-owl’s feathers and this prickling briar,
This cypress gathered at a dead man’s grave,
That all my fears and cares an end may have.
Then come, you fairies! Dance with me a round;
Melt her hard heart with your melodious sound.
In vain are all the charms I can devise:
She hath an art to break them with her eyes.

Thomas Campion (1567 – 1620)

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Lancashire Hat Collections

I have discovered hats coming out of the woodwork in Lancashire, from personal collections to those under close observational care in museums. For millennia, hats have been plastered to, balanced on and adorning heads for protection, as indicators of religion, political beliefs, nationality and culture along with being beacons of social status. Sarah Austin, Lancashire County Museum Service Curator writes:

Hats can tell us a lot about societal norms and the social status of people throughout history. The covering of the head was expected in polite society and the manner in which you covered it defined who you were and the class to which you belonged... At the beginning of the 20th Century top hats were still worn by members of the male upper classes, while bowler hats were worn by professional men and flat caps defined men as being from the working class.

TopHat
Lancashire County Museum Service Collection
Photo credit: Lancashire County Museum Service

In modern society, hats are now much more an expression of fashion and individual taste rather than a marker of social status. And it is therefore in this evolution that we can see the evolution of society itself and the changes that have prevailed, particularly over the last two hundred years. (1)

So who collects hats? Well I have over 35 hats. They protect my pate, amuse me and are worn as fashion statements. They range from those that keep me warm in winter and cool in the summer to fanciful pointy stripy festival hats, a psychedelic trilby, a vintage bowler and multiple caps. I often sport colourful ones when delivering creative workshops to add a bit of fun and be easily identifiable. The Art Can’t Hurt You cap is a good example.

Designer Fred Bobb's Art Can't Hurt You Cap, c 1980s
Kate Eggleston-Wirtz Collection
Photo credit: Kate Eggleston-Wirtz

I also have hats that are sentimental. One of my favourites is my father’s boy scout broad-brimmed felt campaign hat vintage 1930s. I enjoy the look and feel of this hat and can wear it. I love it because it is a tangible object that connects me to my dad. Objects have incredible power to connect people through time and space; as stand-ins for those who are somewhere else walking about on the planet or sadly long departed.

Herbert Eggleston, c 1930s
Photo credit: Kate Eggleston-Wirtz

After assessing my own hats and being mind-boggled at the actual sheer number of them, I was eager to find out about other collections. I contacted friends who I suspected had lots of headgear, and also colleagues at the Harris Museum, Art Gallery and Library, Lancashire County Council Museum Service and Fleetwood Museum. This is what came to light.

Seamstress and skip diving crafter Anna France has ten to twenty pieces of headgear in her collection. Anna began collecting hats because she’d started dancing and needed a 1940s hat for the Lytham 40s Festival. That started it. She then said that if she sees something she likes, she then starts to collect. The hats have been no different. Recently Anna took her hat collecting to a higher level and learnt how to make a fedora constructed out of felt, using a steamer and a proper wooden hat block. (2)

Fedora Hat made by Anna France, 2022
Anna France Collection
Photo credit: Kate Eggleston-Wirtz

Artist Boz Phillips has currently about ten hats in her collection, although at one point she had about 30. She collects and wears them for warmth, fun and sartorial elegance; sometimes to cover up on a bad hair day. (3)

Just like individuals, organisations collect hats and do so for many different reasons. Often, the hats looked after in museums are collected as representations of local people, ultimately helping to tell their stories that can then resonate with and educate the local contemporary community. Hats can bring stories to life.

Fleetwood Museum is one such organisation that cares for 17 pieces of headgear; seven hats in the Fleetwood Museum Trust and ten hats in the Lancashire Collections. These hats date from around the 1930s to the 1980s and include girl grammar hats and general formal hats that belonged to Fleetwood people such as Thomas Stone’s black WW2 Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve (RNVR) hat. Stone was a former owner of the Prawner vessel Judy that is kept outside the museum. (4)

Chief Petty Officer Tom Stone, c 1940s
Fleetwood Museum Trust Collection
Photo credit: Fleetwood Museum

Considering that Fleetwood is a coastal town. it is no surprise that navy hats and sou’westers are part of the two Fleetwood collections. These sou’westers are Fleetwood Museum’s Curator Assistant Zara Robinson’s favourite hats because they are “the traditional fishing hats, worn in most forms of fishing, deep sea and inshore fisheries. A big part of the trawlerman’s 'uniform.’” (5)

Travelling down the coast to Preston, one will find two organisations that manage much larger collections. The Harris Museum, Art Gallery and Library is located on the Flag Market in Preston. It is currently closed for a £16 million refurbishment and will be reopening in 2024. Dr Caroline Alexander, Curator at the Harris puts forward:

The Harris collects clothes like hats to tell a story about fashion and its development – where possible the museum also documents stories about the people who once made or wore these clothes. You can build up an interesting picture of Preston, as well as [the] fashion history, through the historic garments

that survive in the collection. (6)

In the Harris’ collection there are over 200 hats, and many represent the fashion industry and local people such as the well-known milliner Edna Deakin who was based on Church Street in Preston from 1938 – 1983. Edna’s was a flourishing business for nearly fifty years even during WW II, as hats were not rationed. The shop finally closed when Church Street was redeveloped by the council. (7)

Cloche Hat, Deigned by Edna Deakin, c 1966
Harris Museum, Art Gallery and Library Collection
Photo credit: Harris Museum, Art Gallery and Library

I asked Caroline what might be her favourite hat in the Harris’ collection, she said that she loved the Deakin one, referring to the Cloche hat above. She then went on to say there was another favourite, a stripy knitted bobble hat from the early to mid 1800s. Why was this one of her favourites?

It’s just such a cosy thing. Often hats are quite formal wear – so perhaps a bit harder to connect with. But this tasselled hat has always struck me as quite intimate. (8)

Red and Blue Woollen Hat, c 1800-1850
Harris Museum, Art Gallery and Library Collection
Photo credit: Harris Museum, Art Gallery and Library

The Lancashire County Museum Service (LCMS) has over 500 items of head wear in its collection that are looked after in different museums and special storage areas across the county. Ten of these items are housed at Fleetwood Museum as mentioned earlier, and there are a large number of dolls’ hats/ headwear located at the Judges’ Lodgings in Lancaster. The LCMS collection also includes top hats, bowler hats, smoking caps, berets, helmets, military headwear, ladies and children’s bonnets, fancy dress/stage headwear and straw boaters.

Straw Boater Hat
Lancashire County Museum Service Collection
Photo credit: Lancashire County Museum Service

Some of the gems in this collection are hats and headwear belonging to the actress and entertainer Hylda Baker (1905 – 1986), a Lancashire lass brought up in Farnsworth. The LCMS collection includes a mock medieval ladies hat, a multicoloured woollen beret and other headpieces used as stage props during Baker’s career, plus some hats from her own personal collection.

Another hat to be noted is LCMS’s Curator Sarah Austin’s favourite, a Pierrot costume union jack hat. She writes: 

It was made by a company in Southport called A. Thorpe and Sons and remarkably it was worn for a Victory Carnival to mark the end of the First World War. This type of ephemera rarely survives and this example is in amazing condition. It also tells a story of Britain at the end of the First World War and the hope and relief that must have come at the end of four years of war. It came from the collection of a Mrs Tatham that is the basis for a large part of our social history collection at LCC. (9)

Pierrot Hat, c 1918
Lancashire County Museum Service Collection
Photo credit: Lancashire County Museum Service

There you have it, a sneak peek into Lancashire hat collections. Wonder what hats are lurking in your wardrobe?

Hats

A bowler, a boater, a bucket, beret
for any occasion or time of the day.

A cowboy, stitched leather,
fedora with feather,
a pointed pierrot hat,
sou’westers to weather
bad weather on boats
on waves on the sea,
there’s always a perfect hat waiting for me.

A bowler, a boater, a bucket, beret
for any occasion or time of the day

A beanie well knitted,
fez felted and fitted,
a sun hat, a rain hat,
a slouch hat, a flat cap,
one hat for a party,
two hats are a pair,
more than two a collection, so many to wear.

Hats off to all those who took the time to share information about their fascinating collections of headwear, much appreciated.

Thank you for reading.
Kate  J

1 Austin, S. (2023) Email to Kate Eggleston-Wirtz (KEW), 4 May.
2 Hoyle, A. (2023) Hats. Interview with KEW, 28 April.
3 Phillips, B. (2023) Email to KEW, 1 May.
4 & 5 Robinson, Z. (2023) Email to KEW, 1 May.
6 Alexander, C. (2023) Email to KEW, 25 April.
7 Arnold, James. (2023) Email to KEW 25 April.
8 Alexander, C. (2023) Email to KEW, 11 May. 

9  Austin, S. (2023) Email to Kate Eggleston-Wirtz (KEW), 4 May

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Dens - Sanctuary

My eldest grandson liked to enclose himself in the book corner. He discovered that by opening a door to the toy cupboard and a door on the fitted unit, he could comfortably place himself behind them, almost hidden and with plenty of room to look at books or build Duplo. He liked his own space even before a brother and sister came along to disturb his peace. It wasn’t long before he worked out how easily all the cushions came off the sofa and what a good idea it was to sit there and fashion himself a den by using the large ones to make sides and a smaller one for the top, or a roof. Sometimes a blanket was brought from upstairs and draped over the entire construction and he would be in there with a book or watch TV through a gap. A good den is great comfort.

1967. For the first time in my life, we were living in a house instead of a pub. It felt weird, so quiet, no juke-box filtering through the building, no babble of a thousand indecipherable conversations.  The house itself was very nice, a three bedroomed detached with a garage in what estate agents would describe as a ‘sought after’ area in South Shore. We weren’t there for very long, the way things turned out, and I have some happy memories, in spite of it being a miserable time in my life. My mother was seriously ill, having surgeries and treatments and it was better for her to have the privacy the pub didn’t have, which is why my parents bought the house. I started senior school, a school I didn’t want to go to but had to because I’d failed my eleven-plus. My friends passed and went to the school I longed to be at, but it wasn’t to be. Failed! I’ve been trying to make up for it ever since. On the bus I was regularly picked on by pupils from another school. I had to take two buses and often chose to walk the longest part of my journey rather than be at the mercy of the bullies.  The house became home with us in it and our cosy furniture. We had gardens, front and back. Dad got a swing for me and my sister and the wooden shed at the end of the back garden became a den. A deck chair, a cushion from the house, a drink of orange and whatever book I was up to in Enid Blyton’s Malory Towers series was all I needed. The shed housed the new gardening tools propped up in a corner. Gardening became my father’s weekend chore. As the air chilled and the daylight lessened, I moved to an indoor den. My sister’s room, which must have been massive when I think what was in there and all the space to play, had her single bed and also bunk beds where I slept when our grandparents stayed over and had my room. The bottom bunk made a great den by using the tartan blanket on the top bunk as a curtain for the length and borrowing a big towel from the airing cupboard to hang over the end. The fun was short-lived. I wasn’t supposed to ‘mess’ in my sister’s room, even if she, aged about 4, didn’t seem to mind. It sticks in my mind how cold that winter, 1967/68 was. No central heating, but the house was cosy with a coal fire in the back living room and hot water bottles in bed. To add to my misery, I developed chilblains on my feet and a seemingly ever-lasting verruca. 1968 brought joy and normality. My mother had made a good recovery and we were moving back to the pub. School remained a nightmare until 4^th year but everything else was good.

My grandchildren can make a mess, make a noise and make dens to their hearts content. They can also tidy up afterwards.

My poem,

“I’m in my den!”
The voice, muffled
By the cushions
Forming a cube,
Of a fashion,
In the place where
There’s a sofa,
Now and again.
And giggling
While I pretend
I cannot find
Him, in the blocks
Of patterned green,
And I’m blind
To the red socks
And toes wiggling. 

PMW 2022

 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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Tracks - We'd Better Make Tracks

It is the moment I dislike the most. Our peaceful time in Scotland, staying in the quiet of a hidden-away lodge has reached an end. The car is packed for home. The rooms of our accommodation  are clean and tidy, we’ve checked and double-checked for anything forgotten and one of us says, ‘We’d better make tracks’.

The fact that we’ll be returning soon is of no consolation when the sadness of leaving has already taken hold.

I’ve been trying to find out where the term ‘making tracks’ originated and it is so frustrating not to discover a definitive answer. All I have found is a reference to early 1800s slang for running away in a hurry and leaving footprints. 

Quote -  “This nineteenth century American colloquialism was recorded by Thomas Chandler Haliburton (1796-1865) in his ‘Sam Slick’ papers, which originally appeared in a Nova Scotia weekly in 1836, as well as several earlier journals…”

I wanted to know why the saying is ‘making tracks’ when ‘following tracks’ seems to make more sense. I hoped to learn something more and I haven’t, so if any reader knows, please share with me.

‘We’d better make tracks’ was my father’s way of bringing a summer picnic to an end on a Sunday tea-time. Pubs were closed between 2 p.m. and 7 p.m. in those days. My family would get together and drive in convoy to a suitable destination to spend the afternoon, everyone bringing food to share. We were all based in Lancaster and Morecambe for a while and our outings were Crook O’ Lune, Littledale, Glasson Dock, Heysham and Ingleton Falls. I was aged four or five, the only child and got made a fuss of. Everyone was relaxed, life was simpler, or that’s how it looked to me. No one rushed. There would be glancing at wrist-watches and mutterings about getting back for opening time as thermos flasks and rugs were put away into car boots in a leisurely fashion.

Our first pub was in Manchester, close to Piccadilly railway station. I was too young to remember much about it, but I knew it was the Star and Garter on Fairfield Street and my walk to nursery with my father took us under a railway bridge. On a recent day at Manchester Christmas Markets with my friend, I suggested that we look at the pub, from the outside. Our train was taking us to Piccadilly so we weren’t going out of our way. I’m easily lost in a city without a coastline to guide me, so it was no surprise to find us following Fairfield Street in the wrong direction. We hadn’t gone too far, luckily. We strolled back and eventually reached the pub, took a few photos then went shopping. Later, waiting on Platform 14 for the train home, I was absent-mindedly gazing around when I realised that right in front of me, across the lower level train tracks, stood the Star and Garter. My friend and I laughed. We’d walked for ages looking for that.

Before long, it will be time for rest and recuperation in Dumfries & Galloway. The car will be packed, the house in good hands and I’ll be happy to say, ‘We’d better make tracks.’

 

I found this poem,

 

Flowered Tracks

 

The breeziness of gentle winds, leafs rustle as trees sway
Sunlight rays a partial light, that shine across the bay
Summers warmth an evening sky, are setting on the day
Dusk approaches through the trees, as the daylight goes away

Flowered tracks along the gorge, a gentle mountain breeze
Dusty valleys lead the way, past the old oak trees
Down to flowing waterfalls, the beauty that one sees
Flowered tracks floating beside, are following with ease

Deep inside the canyon walls, the water hits the stream
Shimmers from the waters edge, upon a golden gleam
The beauty of a secret place, waters merged with a sun beam
Is this a true reality, or flowered tracks last dream

Between the hills on golden ponds, lies colours of tracks flowers
Where the rocky crescent forms, and where the sunlight cowers
Moon light shadows visible, only after sunlight hours
The beauty of a litten dusk, the light the moon devours

A wolf howls above the rocks, high upon the glade
One heart beat I can hear, I am feeling so afraid
Full moons light upon my soul, the wolfs cursed life is paid
Wolf's blood bite on flowered tracks, a glistened moonlight trade

Wolfs eyes glare standing alone, no hunters and no packs
Were wolfs fangs on shadows moon, blood seeping through the cracks
A man once stood is now transformed, his humanity life lacks
The werewolf curse is fulfilled, complete on flowered tracks

 

Written by Kirk, from Hello Poetry.

 

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

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Hipster - Has Anyone Got a Cowbell?

All I wanted was a bell round my neck. Everyone else had one. The ‘everyone’ in this case referred to the groups of fashionable young people parading the promenade. I watched them from our upstairs living-room window, above the pub. They were older than me, but they were how I envisaged myself in the near future.  My Nan, always fascinated by the sights that walked by, tutted and thought they sounded like the donkeys on the beach. My Dad said they were ‘hippies’ or ‘Beatniks’ and I wasn’t going to be joining in with them. He was being boring, but he let me have a troll doll instead and I chose one with beautiful, long orange hair. I had her for many years. By the time I was old enough to please myself about strolling along the prom with a cowbell round my neck, the trend had passed and I was involved in more worthwhile activities. 

 

In making an effort to be individual, someone’s style can be so popular and copied to the extent that it becomes almost a uniform, like Teddy Boys, and defines opposites, like Mods and Rockers, Skinheads and Greasers. It is not just fashion, it’s a way of life, a culture.  Hipster, none of the above and not a hippy, but no label required, they are people of this generation.

 

My son has grown a full bushy beard. It looks good, even though it covers so much of his handsome face. This must be the opposite of ‘designer stubble’ that didn’t suit everyone and gave a look of scruffy and unshaven to some unfortunate fashion followers. Beards seem to be more popular than ever and the bigger, the better with young men, like medieval warriors. I can’t imagine my husband without his goatee and my daughter’s partner suits his rich auburn full beard, neatly trimmed. I hope it is a trend that lasts. I like it.

 

I’d love to feel bold enough to have colour in my hair again. I had my blonde highlights done at the weekend. It doesn’t make a lot of difference, it’s just a touch of natural looking enhancement. A hint of a rainbow beneath the top layers would be perfect. It could be a retirement gift to myself, perhaps, if only that were soon. My daughter has purple hair at the moment. It will be another colour before long.  She doesn’t like false nails, sweeping eyelashes or lip fillers all of which seem popular with young ladies. She had a tiny facial piercing as soon as she was old enough to have it done. I wish she had wanted a cowbell for a necklace. I would have happily bought it.

 

 

I love this poem I found by Porche Freeman,

 

I can't hear you over the sounds of The Shins on my iTouch.
I watch your mouth move but I don't care too much.
My music sounds like an orgy of broken computers.
My thoughts are too complex for you to clutch.

I am a Hipster and these are my confessions.
Scalene triangles and vintage are my obsessions.
My hair is so messy.
My life style is formed out of homosexual repression.

I don't wear skinny jeans, they're called fitted.
I love this hat that my grandmother knitted.
I carry sticky pads and sharpeys for artistic expression.
I got a ticket for being so cool unpermitted.

My name is John, but I tell people to call me Noah.
I once fell in love with a girl named Ramona.
I listen to the Yeah Yeah Yeahs but she said No No No.
So it was over fo eva.

I carry a camera because I am indie.
My favorite band is Breakfast with Cindy.
I love freaking coffee.
Look at my ironic t- shirt, I'm so trendy.

I am a Hipster and these are my confessions.
Scalene triangles and vintage are my obsessions.
My hair is so messy.
My life style is formed out of homosexual repression.

 

Porche Freeman

 

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x



 

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La Plume De Ma Tante

The title is just about the sum total of my knowledge of French! Rather a useless phrase I think. However it refers to the 'quill ' of my aunt...an early use for feathers as writing implements. Recently I was in Don's house and in a room is a jar of large feathers from the wings of geese. Now his late wife did calligraphy and she used these quills, shaped, trimmed to give different effects to her writing.

So I started to think of the uses to which feathers have been put through the ages. Early quilts and pillows were filled with feathers from plucked fowl destined for the pot. Down clothing is making a bit of a come back for outdoor wear and thankfully birds are not necessarily killed, but down is collected from large scale 'farms'. In earlier times, down was collected from nesting eiders ( after they'd abandoned the nests), steamed to clean them and used to line boots, hats and other outer wear. When I lived up north I had a down filled coat that was gorgeously warm...too hot at times ....but it was difficult to clean, requiring specialist methods.

Birds use their plumage to great effect, to attract mates, specify their breed...and of course to delight us! Unfortunately when early travellers discovered exotic fowl like birds of paradise, they took back plumage. It didn't take long for fashion to catch onto the vibrant natural colours and wholesale slaughter began leading to the demise of these gentle and unafraid birds.

Not only were the feathers used in hats...but stuffed birds appeared on some creations! Such hats signified the standing of the lady within society. Nowadays we are more scandalized by the thought of destroying such lovely creatures. Well, we can watch programmes on TV showing us the plumage...on live birds. This provides an insight into the use that the birds put their plumage to.

My niece in Canada belongs to an indiginous  group (mi'kmaq nova scotia) and feathers play an important part in their dress, drums, headdress, accessories etc. She too believes that finding a tiny feather signifies that a passed loved one is close by.

Whilst hillwalking I often come across feathers, say from a 'kill' or just shed from a live bird. Generally I pick up a couple and tuck them in my pocket or camera case and months later I come across them and recall the walk.

Do take time and really look at feathers as the range of colours is absolutely amazing. I've had a really close look at pheasant's plumage and it is wonderful...words cannot express the wonder that I felt.

  I don't have any pieces specifically about feathers though I have,however,written many poems about birds. This week's contribution is about Lapwings and how they use their plumage to great affect whilst in flight.

                       Lapwings at Knott End

          Peewit-wit-wit. Peewit-wit-wit.
         Won't you come and join us in our dance ?
                         Flashing black, flashing white.
         Fan-like wings that ride the air.
                         Flashing black, flashing white.
         A courtship dance to match a pair.
                         Flashing black, flashing white.
         Join us as we dance in sunlight.
         Listen too if you might-
         Calling, calling till the night.
         See our ballet in the blue-
         Come, come we're calling you.
         Peewit-wit-wit. Peewit-wit-wit,
         Won't you come and join us in our dance ?
                           Flashing black, flashing white.


                 Thank you for reading , Kath....

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