Personal Effects - How Little We Need

 

There’s a small box in the attic. It contains the last of the personal effects of my late aunt. Things have reduced over time. She passed away in 1998 and for many years I kept her paperwork. After about twenty years, I shredded most of it, keeping only important, historical or sentimental documents. Items of costume jewellery includes a mink brooch which I remember from my childhood. They were fashionable once, horrible now. I can’t part with the bits and pieces of her Catholic faith, her wall-hanging crucifix and her statue of Christ which was placed on her bedside table. The Jesus statue was a wedding gift from the priest, I believe. I’ve also kept a few old black and white photos that mean nothing to me, but were something to her, so they stay, for now. Anyway, that’s it. The remaining possessions of a life spanning seventy-four years, or thereabouts, neatly placed in a box only slightly bigger than an average shoe-box and stored in the home of her first niece. That could be me, one day. I think I should speak to my niece. There isn’t a box large enough for all my personal effects. Things can shrink, though.

Books, of which I have many, can be stored on a Kindle, or similar. Photos, again lots of them, can live on pen-drives. Music, my collection of vinyl and CDs can be digitalised. Not for me, though. I like real books on shelves, to feel pages and see the different prints and fonts. I don’t care if anyone calls me old-fashioned.

My house is my home. It’s not quite how I like it because I’ve packed away most of the non-essential things, ornaments and pictures, ready for putting the house up for sale. No, it hasn’t happened yet and I’m still going on about it. The sooner, the better, but there are obstacles still in the way. Considering that so much has gone into a storage unit, there is no empty space here to speak of.

Compared to home, we manage with very little on our caravan. Unfortunately, it hasn’t had much use over the summer due to present circumstances. Instead, we managed a mid-week break to a hotel in Cheshire, with all necessary personal effects for both of us, in one, middle-sized suitcase.

My Haiku,

A box in the loft
Auntie’s personal effects,
Left over from life.

Fond mem’ries remain
Which will always stay with me.
I look back and smile.

PMW 2026

Read More

Harlequin

My diligent research into Harlequin for this week's blog led me to conclude that at his inception he was literally 'hell king' i.e. the devil in human form, at large on earth. In that guise he populated many a medieval French and German morality play as far back as the 11th century, pranking mortals, tempting them into bad ways, and sometimes dragging their souls off to eternal damnation for their follies, a lesson to us all.

When the Italians took him up as the zany Arlecchino in the commedia dell'arte a couple of hundred years later, they emphasised the trickster part of his nature and played down the darker devilish connotations, though he does feature as a demonic presence in Dante's 'Inferno '. By the 16th century he had become a carnival joker and also acquired his distinctive mottled costume of colourful diamonds.

Harlequin with Columbine and Pierrot

Combining variously great physical agility (to tumble, cartwheel, dance) with an ability to mimic, make jokes and even perform sleights of hand, Harlequin in the theatrical entertainments developing in Italy, France and England was an increasingly comical figure, witty and mischievous, part court jester/fool, part magician and part servant and stooge. And it is no accident that he became the joker (in his lozenged apparel) in early packs of playing cards. Hell king to clowning servant: quite a transformation over seven centuries.

The most powerful and lasting legacy of the Harlequin appears to be that trademark geometric diamond pattern, derived from the traditional costume, which was originally a patchwork created out of spare scraps of cloth. It is a striking rhombus design repeating itself in a variety of bold colours (red, black, purple, green, blue, pink, yellow), sometimes in a formal sequence, sometimes more randomised. It has featured on the backs of playing cards and in the leaded lights of stained-glass windows (see below) for centuries, more recently in the 18th and 19th centuries as a graphic on the endpapers of hardback books and as gift-wrap. In the mid-20th century it finally entered mainstream fashion. Adele Simpson first popularised a harlequin print on women's clothes in 1940s America and by the 1960s it was everywhere from underwear to skirts and blouses, knitwear, ski-suits, ties, tights, trousers (Freddie Mercury sported a pair), even umbrellas and upholstery - ubiquitous harlequin.

through harlequin glass

I must concede that if ever I had the money and a Tudor (or even mock-Tudor) home, I'd have leaded lights and harlequin glass in at least some of the windows, for the wonderful effect of sunlight through those coloured lozenges. In conclusion, here's how it went down...

Harlequinade

Hell king, black masqued and sulfurous

Adulterer of wives weak in wedlock.

Rubicund player on passion's stage,

Licentious behind diamond panes.

Evolving corps of comedic culture with

Quadrilles and quick quips to shock.

Upstart with agile sleight of hand,

Immodest knave, delightful zane. 

Natty dandy, flamboyant, carnivalesque

Animus of fancy's fashionable flock.

Dissipating through ten centuries, 

Eventually just a pattern remains.

Thanks for reading, S ;-)

Read More

Circus - Excitement and Anticipation

Piccadilly Circus, 1972. My friend and I felt like we had landed somewhere exciting. We were staying a long weekend with my family in Roehampton. Encouraged to go out and have fun, we took a bus then a tube and eventually emerged from the Underground at Piccadilly Circus. It was the hottest day ever and we went straight to Boot’s the Chemist for deodorant which we liberally applied in the nearby public convenience. My orange loon pants with navy blue pleats and a navy tank-top was my favourite and most fashionable outfit at the time. The trousers were made of stretch towelling – beach clothing, really – too heavy for such a hot day, but I loved them so much. (Except one night when I wore them to go ice-skating and they soaked up gallons of surface water, but that’s another story.) My friend was dressed more sensibly in shorts. We shopped on Carnaby Street, watched a busker, looked around Soho, sat on some grass in the shade and eventually made our way back to Piccadilly Circus and the tube station for the first part of our return journey to Roehampton.

It was fun when I was seventeen, but London like any major city is too busy, too fast moving and loud for me so I’m not a regular visitor. Exceptions have been made to go to see The Moody Blues a few times at the Royal Albert Hall or the O2 Arena. Well, of course I’d go then. There was another time when there was no holding back.

The Prince Edward Theatre, 1978. Evita. Tickets like gold dust, but lucky me. There is only one Che for me and that is David Essex. No one else can sing ‘Oh What a Circus!’ with such passion, giving everything to the exceptional lyrics of Tim Rice who perfectly captured the media circus of the time.

I was a child when my family moved to Blackpool. One of the first places I remember being taken to is the Tower Circus. Mid 1960s and animals were still a big part of the show, horses, elephants and am I imagining sea lions in the water finale? I don’t remember if lions featured. My favourites were always the clowns with Charlie Cairoli.

At around the age of seven, I latched on to books by Enid Blyton. I discovered that I could read something other than ‘the green reader’ or whatever my school reading book was. Still in the infants, I’d moved on from Janet and John and found that I didn’t need to read out loud to understand the text. Book after book came my way, Secret Seven, Famous Five, lots of the Mystery series, fairy stories, and somewhere in the middle, before the boarding school tales from Malory Towers or St. Clare’s, I read the circus stories, Mr Galliano’s Circus, Hurrah for the Circus! and Circus Days Again. They began with the arrival of the circus folk parading through the town and setting up camp. Excitement and anticipation grabbed me in the first paragraph and carried me along the chapter as the author introduced characters, illustrating each one with her vibrant description as she did all her books and I loved it. Circus Days Again is the only one of the trilogy in my possession. All of my Enid Blyton’s are treasured.

On that long weekend in London almost fifty years ago, someone joked about Piccadilly Circus and how wise we were to come home before dark. We didn’t know what they meant and we didn’t ask because we were two worldly, clever, independent seventeen year olds.

I found this poem:

Piccadilly Circus At Night – Street Walkers

When into the night the yellow light is roused like dust above the towns,
Or like a mist the moon has kissed from off a pool in the midst of the downs,

Our faces flower for a little hour pale and uncertain along the street,
Daisies that waken all mistaken white-spread in expectancy to meet

The luminous mist which the poor things wist was dawn arriving across the sky,
When dawn is far behind the star the dust-lit town has driven so high.

All the birds are folded in a silent ball of sleep,
All the flowers are faded from the asphalt isle in the sea,
Only we hard-faced creatures go round and round, and keep
The shores of this innermost ocean alive and illusory.

Wanton sparrows that twittered when morning looked in at their eyes
And the Cyprian’s pavement-roses are gone, and now it is we
Flowers of illusion who shine in our gauds, make a Paradise
On the shores of this ceaseless ocean, gay birds of the town-dark sea.

D H Lawrence (1916)

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More