Relics of the past

Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,/But not expresse’d in fancy; rich, not gaudy,/For the apparel oft proclaims the man. - Hamlet

Yesterday, I spent a rainy, October afternoon in the delightful company of Ella Myles, the proprietress of Corina Corina, Warwick town’s premiere Vintage and Pre-Loved Designer Fashion shop. In short, it’s a little slice of heaven.

Surprisingly, I was not there to buy, but there to sell. A very different, and utterly unique experience for me. Which has felt me thinking:

What is about women and clothes?

What is the mesmerizing connection between a woman and the bits of fabric that adorn her body, and her closet?

Clothes may only proclaim the man, but they certainly do make the woman.

Over steaming cups of coffee, Ella and I pondered over the treasures I have amassed, and are now ready (albeit in some cases quite, quite reluctantly) to part withal.

My reasons for selling are practical: due my new-found diet of carbs, with a side of carbs, most of this stuff just doesn’t fit anymore; but there is of course the financial incentive. I am used to being utterly independent and self-supporting. And so, this new-fangled life as “Taken Care Of Wife,”“Freelance Writer” and  “Freelance Scholar” sometimes feels a bit uncomfortable and ill-fitting, like my sexy, size 0, Nanette Lepore suit.

As a result, I find myself daily hatching plan after grand plan to revive my flagging spirits and welting career. This week, I was in need of a little instant gratification, hence my launch into the world of fashion re-sell.

It is ironic, how the tables have finally turned. In the not so distant past, “instant gratification” for me and my NYC diva chums, meant a spend binge in Soho (Anthropologie, anyone?), followed by over-priced, Earl Grey martinis at Pegu on West Broadway. Of course, we would weep for days after, racked with guilt at the money we’d spent.

I’ll have to phone my friend, who is now a “Happy Housewife and Mum of Two” living in Dubai, and see if she remembers these times.

Our tiny apartments were on opposite sides of Washington Square Park, and routinely, one or the other of us would make that mad dash through the Washington Square Arch, shopping bag in hand, frantically buzzing ourselves into the other’s building, to ultimately bang on the door and declare: “Look what I’ve done!” confessing and revealing the evidence.

“You paid how much!?” the other would respond in both disbelief and awe. But then, sensing the other’s desperate need for forgiveness and absolution, here came the salve: “Well, it is gorgeous. And you do deserve it. In fact, you’ve earned it!”

The remedy also resembled our Anglo-Catholic backgrounds: “Forgive yourself. Give something away to charity, have a few Bloody Marys and a Cosmo.”

Those were the days. Crazy, madcap, Manhattan days. It was dazzling, but it was also cold, brutal and harsh.

As I stood in Ella’s shop, examining each bit of clothing with her, it was like flipping through the pages of a book. Turning over the leaves of my single girl, Manhattan life storybook.

It broke my heart to let go of some of these things, like that Nanette Lepore suit. I actually saved up, and lost weight for that one! “It is sooo tiny!” Ella squealed. “Yes, sweetie, I was thin, thin, thin,” I explained. Then, suddenly, a realization:  “Thin, and unhappy.”  And, I was.

In that life, there were of course some truly magical moments, but it occurred to me, as I ran my hands over my luscious, lipstick red, Audrey Hepburn-esque, winter coat, with its stunning grey fur trim, that these clothes were in fact my security blankets in an uncertain and lonely world; my anchors in often troubled waters.

Releasing them now, was utterly liberating. Letting go of that chapter of my life completely. I left Ella’s shop with a spring in my step, and a much lighter load.

Corina Corina, The Midlands Most Chic Dress Agency 

 

 

 

Welcome to Dibley

Years ago, living my rather manic, Manhattan life, I fell in love with a sitcom on BBC  America, called “The Vicar of Dibley.” For any beings from the planet Zog, who may be reading this, and are unfamiliar with the programme, please click here: The Vicar of Dibley

I’m a massive fan of Dawn French, and any programme centred around an Anglican vicar will always get my vote, however, it was neither of these two incredible traits that really did it for me. For me, it was the opening credits and that luscious, panoramic view of the English countryside.

In the same way that New York City was the undoubtedly mesmerizing “fifth character” on 'Sex and the City,' so, too for me was the verdant landscape of the Chiltern Hills and Oxfordshire on The Vicar of Dibley.

The camera’s perspective of this view seemed to mirror my own. It came in from a distance, surveying the land below from above and afar. Of course, Howard Goodall’s  delicate and delightfully evocative theme tune (“The Lord is My Shepherd”) did its part, and was enough to send this Anglophilic, Episcopalian girl right over the edge!

So, when the D.E.B. and I came to live in Barford, we jokingly referred to it as “Dibley”, our Dibley. We even had the Vicar if Dibley theme tune sang beautifully at our wedding here.

I did not expect to find a community full of comic villagers like those in Dibley, but I did expect to find was a way of life very different from my own. And that much has been true.

I find my life here much simpler, calmer and more fulfilling than my manic, Manhattan one. And, I am definitely doing a lot more baking! My only fear is that I will eventually become the Barford equivalent of Dibley’s Letty Cropley, the wacky, old woman creates such awful delicacies as: parsnip brownies and chocolate spread sandwiches, with a "hint" of taramosalata. 

Beyond my baking and W.I. commitments the other feature of my life here that resembles Dibley in my involvement in the church, and the fact that we are welcoming a new Assistant Vicar to our village, a lovely, bubbly, lady vicar.

Another new development on the church front. The Bishop has agreed to allow me to serve on the altar as a chalice bearer. I was trained and licensed as an eucharistic minister in NYC, and the Bishop has agreed to accept those credentials.

Looking out my window, Barford is looking very Dibley-esque. I must dash off and jump in the shower. Serving at the 9:30 a.m. service this morning, with the new lady vicar, I believe. All I need is for the choir to sing the Howard Goodall tune, and my Dibley fantastic will be complete!

Dedication

 Believe in your story. - J. K. Rowling

I don’t know which is worse, the two rejection letters I received today from literary agents in London, one addressed to “Dear Author,” the other to “Dear Writer,” ("Dear Pond Life," would have at least been more imaginative, surely...) 

Or the ‘royalty cheque' (I use the term very lightly...) I also received today from the publishers of my first Shakespeare book, in the amount if £14.32 ($22.87 USD). I mean really, is that even worth the paper, ink and postage? Oy vey...

Still, in the midst of laughable dismay there is inspiration. 

Today, Her Majesty, The Queen honoured a 78 year old, Northumberland man, David Nichol for his single-handed dedication to his parish church choir.

Nichol joined the choir at St. John's Church when he was only 8 years old, on 1 October 1939. At that time, he was one of 36 choristers. But, over the years, numbers have dwindled, and since 1977, Nichol has been the sole voice in the church choir. He is the choir.

Each and every Sunday, come rain or shine, David Nichol walks a mile from his home in Acomb to St. John's to stand alone, and sing.

Now, that's dedication. That is truly believing that you have a song worth singing.

What's so Great about Britain?

Camper van parked and pitched near Coniston Water; Late morning breakfast of eggs, toast, tea and bacon hash (a D.E.B. specialty); D.E.B. tooling about the camp site, hammer in hand, like a keen Boy Scout; beloved Border Collie snoozing soundly at my feet; pile of books at the ready (Robert Lacey, Ed Stourton, Alison Sims) waiting to be read, as a heavy grey sky looms over head, and soft rain begins to drizzle (perfect Wellie weather). A typical late summer holiday in the Lake District, in the north of England…

What could be more British?

Recently, columnist Carla Carlisle explored the concept of ‘Britishness’ for Country Life magazine. “Is it still great to be British?” was the question posed to Ms. Carlisle, who seems, in many ways, uniquely placed to answer such a question: she is an American-born writer, married to an Englishman who was born in Wales, of Scottish parentage.

Carlisle begins her commentary by stating that the word “British” does not “fit easily” into her mouth, and says: “Like ‘Happiness,’ ‘Religion,’ ‘Beauty’ and ‘Justice,’ ‘British’ is a word that eludes definition and has defied attempts to hijack it.”

As this term does fit easily into my mouth, I wonder if a part of her hesitation is generational. Many of our points of reference are very similar, but in some instances reveal a few generational differences, one of her culture references in The Beatles, whereas my equivalent would be Wham! Or, Duran Duran.

At the end of day, we both agree, without hesitation, that Britain is indeed still very, very Great.

Like a convert, I see the flaws, but feel passionate about all that is good. – Carla Carlisle

So, what is so Great about Britain?

Here is a short list from me, in no particular order…

Cricket – Adorably handsome men, dressed in dazzling white uniforms, playing an elegant, though utterly incomprehensible game, that can go on for weeks on end and still finish in a tie; there are no “half time oranges” in this sport, they take very civilized breaks for tea. What’s not to love?

The Queen - Like Carla Carlisle, I agree that The Queen is “the human face of Britishness,” and that she “unearths in us feelings of loyalty, based on history, civilized manners, morals and shared values.”

The National Trust – history, culture, gardens, in perpetuity. Splendid. (www.nationaltrust.org.uk)

Newspapers – The five, outstanding daily newspapers one has to choose from living in Britain, is surely a by-product of the undeniable, long-term love affair Britons have had with the English language and the written word:  i.e., Chaucer, Shakespeare, Jane Austen, Brontës, Beatrix Potter, JK, and etc.

The BBC, TV & Radio - Three words: “The Shipping Forecast.” The nightly mantra that has lulled Britons to sleep for countless generations. And, also: “Woman’s Hour,” “The Archers,” “Desert Island Discs”…

NHS – Health care can be good, free, and for everyone.

The Lake District

W.I. (Women’s Institute)

The Cotswolds

Pantos/Village Hall Theatrics – Anyone who knows me will confirm that I have held a longstanding aversion to amateur dramatics. I’d rather be hung, drawn and quartered than forced to sit through the 8^th million local, am-dram attempt at Oliver, Guys & Dolls or West Side Story. However, living in England has changed my mind about this, completely. Amateur dramatics can be good. Really good. The difference, here at least, is that there is a careful consideration of producing  engaging material, entertaining scripts with compelling narratives. Not just dusting off the age-old chestnuts that will guarantee ‘bums on seats.’

Pubs – More than just a local watering hole, where “everybody knows your name,” the pub is an important feature of British life, especially in villages. It is a meeting place for friends and family, a sort of community centre with excellent beverages and food on offer. Pubs often offer a variety of entertainment and events such a Quiz Nights…

Quiz Nights – Britain is a trivia lovers haven!

Tea – What on earth were we thinking, dumping all that precious cargo into the Boston Harbor?!

Real Ales – locally brewed, hand drawn ales that are as unique and distinct in taste and character, as the locales they come from. (Just discovered a gorgeous Stout brewed here in the Lakes, just of Coniston Water.)

Sunday Lunch – gathering round the weekly roast is something no civilized person should live without.

Last Night of the Proms - "Rule, Britannia!" indeed!

Men – Of course, it goes without saying that one of the greatest things about Britain is British men; and American women seem uniquely susceptible to the charms of the British male. (See posting: “American Women & British Men,” 1 October 2008)

Holiday, celebrate

Excellent day at Coughton Court yesterday! Even ended up as a "Live Spot" on BBC1 "Midlands Today".

Full details upon my return!

Off with the D.E.B. for a week's holiday in the Lake District until 28 September.

Until soon...

The difference a year can make

Early morning jitters.

Cup of tea in hand, 

Waiting for the sun to rise over my quiet little corner of England...

It is quite remarkable, the difference a year can make.

This time last year, I was exploring my new world, trying not to look back on what I'd left behind, keen to make a fresh start, and anxious for what the future might hold. And, I started this blog, which has been a saving grace in so many ways. 

That seems such a long time ago, as I look upon myself now. There are still things yet to be discovered and chronicled, to be sure. The journey has just begun. 

The coming year will undoubtedly be no less adventure-filled than the one which has just passed. It begins today...

Last year this time, I went along to magnificent Coughton Court for the Throckmorton Literary Festival. This year, this morning, I will be speaking there as a feature author. I am sure I must be dreaming, but I hope that no one wakes me till its over.

But more than the dizzying high of being in the company of such illuminati as Kate Adie and David Starkey, what I am aware of most profoundly is a deep sense of wholeness and love.

I cannot fully describe what I mean, beyond saying that I have never felt so loved and supported in my life. This morning, my inbox was peppered with cheery messages of encouragement from friends and neighbours here in Barford. Other Barford friends and family made cheerleading phone calls or left rallying voicemails for me yesterday.

Practical support has come alongside the moral variety. The Darling D.E.B. has taken the day off work today. Not only is he planning to come along to cheer his little Wifey on, he's volunteered to be one of our Elizabethan waiters. 

We are serving samples from our cookbook as part of our session today. The D.E.B. in floppy shirt, short trousers and tights, a la Jonathan Rhys-Meyers in "The Tudors"...lovely!

Our wonderful Sally arranged the costumes; sweet Hannah--who sang 'our song' at our wedding--has stepped in to be Elizabethan Server #2. (I've decided to call them "Romeo" and "Rosalind"...let's see just how twee I can get today.) 

Maggie, from the Barford Heritage Group, phoed with good advice, prompting me to think about having our session recorded, which in the great mix of things had escaped me. 

I could go on and on, and name dozens of other Barfordians have been here for me with pep talks, cups of tea, and hugs that have helped bring me to today. And not just "today" in the literal and date specific sense, but Today. This Life.

That is the difference a wonderful, English year can make. 

Thank you, dear Reader, for sharing this journey with me.

The Scarlet Letter

The apple trees around Barford are blooming once again. I have mentioned before how much I covet my neighbour's apple tree. (See: "Deadly sins and Green-eyed monsters".) However, these days my pangs of envy are veering in a new direction. 

Today, as I walked through the quietly buzzing streets of our little village, I felt branded, not unlike Hawthorne's heroine, Hester Prynne. In Hawthorne's epic novel, The Scarlet Letter, Hester is forced to wear a scarlet "A" emblazoned across her chest, to indicate publicly her shameful status as an Adultress. 

The letter I feel I'm wearing is a Scarlet C, for Childless.

The other day was the first day of school here, and as I walked to the gym for my daily swim, I maneuvered through a swarm of adorable schoolchildren. It is such a cliche, isn't it? The "adorable, English schoolchildren." 

But, it is true! They are adorable! In their little red uniforms. The girls in late summer gingham, red and white, checkerboard print, down to their knees, and just a touch of lace detail on their collars. The boys in red summer jumpers, little white shirts, and dove grey short trousers. Adorable.

Sonia, the Lollipop Lady, was there of course, ushering them safely from one side of the road to the other. She's magic! A cross between Mrs. Santa and the Fairy Godmother from Cinderella. Love her! (More on her later.) 

One little boy, clearly starting his first day, was unsuccessfully holding back tears as he parted from mummy and daddy for the first time. Near by, another first day pupil, running with glee from his mother's side.

My own eyes filled with tears, as my senses were assaulted with a longing I have not felt before. 

Later, in the Village Shop. A gaggle of "Yummy Mummies," gathered around sharing stories and a cup of coffee outside the shop, in the late morning sunshine. I felt awkward and out of place. In the words of DCI Gene Hunt, from the brilliant TV series, "Ashes to Ashes," I was "more anxious, than a nun at a penguin shoot."

As I have fallen in with the W.I., my interactions with the "Yummy Mummy Brigade" have been negligible. When I'm with my W.I. chums, I'm the youngest of the bunch. To tell the truth, I never even think about age in that context. I love my W.I. chums and that's all. I don't think of them as older, younger, what have you. They just are.

But, when I see the YMs, I am reminding instantly that time is not on my side. That there is a giant clock in the sky ticking above my head. Perhaps, to add to my dismay, I should start wearing a giant watch around my neck like the rap star, Flava Flav!

(Oh dear, this is getting quite maudlin indeed.)  

On one hand I think I'm ready, and I know the DEB is (more than) ready for children. But, on the other hand, I do enjoy the freedom we have now. Pets, as much trouble as they are worth, are so much easier to manage in lots of ways!

So, that means even more "C's" for me: Cautious, Contemplating, and Comfortable.