Finding treasure close to home

“Give me the map.” – King Lear

Along with Her Majesty The Queen, Sebastian Coe, and Britain’s Olympic and Paralympic athletes, Shakespeare is having a great year. As the headlining act of the London 2012 “Cultural Olympiad”, Shakespeare’s life and works have featured in heavy rotation across a range of media (stage, screen, television, radio &etc). One of the most outstanding offerings of this landmark ‘Bardfest’ is a stunning exhibition at the British Museum mounted in collaboration with the RSC.

“Shakespeare: Staging the World” focuses on the playwright's world, both real and imagined. It takes us on a journey from medieval England and the forest of Arden, to Venice, Rome and finally to Prospero's magical isle.

Flying in the face of conspiracy theories, such as those espoused by the recent film “Anonymous”, the British Museum’s exhibition confirms William Shakespeare as the author of the greatest works of English literature, and posits Warwickshire firmly as the undisputed site of his inspiration and imagination.

Without doubt, Shakespeare’s Warwickshire origins were extremely important to him, and his works are steeped in references to local places, wisdom, tradition and folklore. His plays reveal a country dweller’s knowledge and appreciation of the romance and reality of rural life. This was delightfully realised in the exemplary British Museum show.

At the heart of the exhibition is the magnificent Sheldon Tapestry Map of Warwickshire. This map was one of a set of four tapestry maps made in the 1580s. They were commissioned by Ralph Sheldon (1537-1613) to hang in his new home at Weston in Warwickshire. The maps were made at the Sheldon tapestry works at Barcheston, Warwickshire. The tapestry works were set up by Ralph's father, William, with the aim of creating a tapestry-making industry in Britain by training locals to become weavers.

This extraordinary work of art – hand-woven in Warwickshire – is a pictorial record of the county in Elizabethan times, showing the River Avon, the Forest of Arden, the hills of Brailles and Burton Dassett, as well as fields, towns, villages and great houses of the gentry. It allowed me to see my world as Shakespeare saw it.

With delight, I surveyed the territory I call home, familiar to me even with archaic, 16^th century spellings: Warwicke, Lemmington, Kenelmworth, Coventrie, Stretford, Wasbvrton, Welsborn, Charlcot and Sherborn. Although rendered as Bearfoote, my beloved Barford was indeniably present - immediately distinguishable by its lovely bridge crossing the Avon.

I was surprised to find that this precious artifact, previously unknown to me, is held in the collection of the Warwickshire Museum Service. It can usually be seen in all its glory at the Market Hall Museum in Warwick. As is often the case, it is only in traveling great distances that we are lead to discover and appreciate the rare treasures that lie close to home.

More information

                           “Shakespeare: Staging the World” - Continues until 25 November 2012                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 www.britishmuseum.org

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 

 

 

 

Another Sunday in Barford

Lily toying with shrews in the freshly mown garden, while Lucy chomps away contentedly on celery sticks (at least her diet’s going well)…the DEB busy (always busy) at something, today its washing the car. And me. Sat outside, in the sunshine and brisk breeze, with my laptop and a cup of tea. Paradise.

The DEB and I played truant today, and missed Sunday service at St. Peter’s. We were a bit naughty and had a lazy (or not so lazy, rather…) morning in bed. (Have I mentioned lately that I love this man more than words can say?)

We deserved a bit of lie-in today (and yesterday…) as we’ve had quite a busy time lately. On Friday night, the DEB along with his chum, Ewan, were the headlining act at The Chase Folk Club, near Birmingham. I was there in the front row, the beaming, proud fiancée. The DEB dedicated the last song of the evening to me, “Who Knows where the Time Goes.” To my own surprise, I did not get teary, but just felt, well, happy and content. And perhaps, more than anything, relieved that he is finally mine.

“Folk nights” in England are a bit like “Quiz nights,” in that they are events that are frequented by what one might call “the usual suspects”. In other words, after a while, you know what you are in for. The serious Folk crowd is typically older and greyer. I enjoy these nights immensely as I get to play “the wee, young thing” for the night. (She says with her tongue firmly in her cheek.) All joking aside, the folk scene is quite interesting. I’ve met the most amazing people through the DEB’s musical hobby. I shouldn’t call it a hobby, really, I mean, he is in fact earning more from his guitar twanging than I am from my writing, so there! (I’ll lament about my writing ambitious some other time, there is far more interest stuff to share.)

On Friday, I re-discovered Leamington Spa, on my own. I got myself there for the first time on the Stagecoach bus – and what a treat! It’s a lovely little spa town, bigger and more cosmopolitan than Warwick; and it actually felt like a little enclave of my beloved Greenwich Village -- stylish, buzzing, with a great mix of people. The guy asking for spare change at the bus stop made me feel right at home!

I was on a mission this week to find someone who could give me a decent hair-cut. I’m experimenting with possible looks for the wedding. As I was walking down the Parade, I saw this young Asian/Indian girl chatting to a friend. Before they hugged and parted, I heard her say: “And then I’m going to get my hair cut.” That was a sign from the gods, as far as I was concerned! She had dark, thick hair like mine, so I was in like a shot. She recommended Toni & Guy a little further up on the Parade. And what a super find it was. Even at “top end” prices, the cut and blow dry was still miles cheaper than what I would have paid in NYC. The stylist chap, Pardeep, did a stellar job, and I am feeling much more at ease about looking the way I want to for the wedding. 

Feeling fresh and springy, after my hair cut, which didn’t take very long at all, I treated myself to some girlie gear from Boots across the street. (How did I live before Boots the Chemist?) Nail varnishes/polish, lipstick…joy, joy, joy!

I allowed myself just this little bit of hedonism as my Thursday this week was completely and utterly spiritual. I spent the day on Thursday on a silent retreat at  the Convent of the Sisters of The Poor Child Jesus, in Southam, Warwickshire.

I’m a real fan of Quiet Days and Silent retreats. When I was university/college, while most of my friends spent their final days of our undergraduate life in debauched hedonism, I spent the week before graduation doing the “Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius” -- a five-day silent retreat on the shores of the Atlantic in Narragansett, Rhode Island. It is one of the fondest memories of my life.

I can honestly say that my day at the convent in Southam was comparable. Although brief, it was a very, very intense day. The retreat leader, Sister Sharon PCJ, a plucky pistol from Maine no less, was simply amazing. She reminded me of, well, okay, a thoroughly modern version of Debbie Reynolds character in the movie “The Singing Nun.” (I’m a closet Catholic, remember.) Basically, just imagine a big heart on legs, with a super singing voice.

This day was just what I needed, precisely when I needed it. Just when I was about to nose-dive into Bridal Vortex Overdrive, Sister Sharon was there to pull me up short, and remind me what it’s all about. I would recommend it to anyone. I went along with a group from St. Peter’s, but Sister Sharon and her team often create and administer quiet days for individual seekers who come on their own. And, you don’t even have to be of any particular faith, creed or belief to go along. Anybody who is looking for a bit of spiritual peace and quiet is welcome.

Right. The sun is out and there is laundry to be hung, and a roast waiting to be roasted!

A mirror, or a friend

Two kilograms.

That’s roughly 4.4 pounds.  Or, as I prefer to see it: That is two, whole bags of caster sugar!! That is how much weight I have lost in precisely seven (7) days.  Yes, I have succumbed to the “I’m-a-bride-and-I-must-get-fit” mindset. But, thankfully, I’m not obsessing about it.  I have started a new fitness regime, and I love every minute of it! I’m actually having fun (so far).

Last week, I joined the Gym/Leisure Club at The Glebe Hotel. I’m not a huge fan of gyms and clubs, but this one is different. It is very small, and very friendly. With a lovely Hobbit-sized swimming pool that looks “crowded” with more than three people in it. There is a sauna (my favorite post-workout reward!) and a steam-room. The female trainer is a really sweet, Polish girl called Eva.  (Interesting point: There is a growing Polish population in the UK. Stratford-upon-Avon now has a Polish market on its high street. Fascinating, for a small market town in the Midlands.)

Eva is awesome. The first day I went in she asked me what my goals were, and I told her: “I’m getting married this summer, and I need to look less like the world’s shortest sumo wrestler.”

“No problem.” said Eva. “We work together. We make it happen. You believe in you, whatever it takes. Dreams are free.” I walked away from my first grueling weigh-in with high hopes. Eva’s words propelled me forward, so earnest, so simple, so inspired.

It was only later, after I’d showered, that I noticed the motivational posters on the women’s dressing walls. More tasteful and mature than the now legendary kitty-cat on a washing line-“Hang in there, baby” posters, these depict healthy, active people pursuing daring and challenging pursuits, complete with pithy catch phrases, such as: “Believe in yourself.” “Make it happen,” and, yes, even “Dreams are Free.”

Okay, so Eva gets no points for originality, but she scores big in her training prowess. She’s incredible. No shouting, no bullying, no showing off. She’s calm and soft-spoken, and takes a “gently, gently” approach to training. She has managed to create a fitness plan that I can actually follow. She has kept everything simple and user-friendly for me. My workout is a mix of running, light strength training and swimming.  This works for me, as I’m the sort of person who gets bored with monotonous routines. And, I’m in and out of the gym in an hour and a half each day. Brilliant! And that includes a post-swim snooze in the sauna. As with monotony, I’m not a: “3 hours in the gym” kind o’ gal.  I just won’t go. I want to walk in, do it, get it done, and move on to the rest of my day. I think I may just manage to stick to this one.

There is method to this bridal madness, you see, as of yesterday, I have found (and purchased) The Dress. As with so much in my life, this major occurrence happened purely by chance.

I decided to treat myself to a day out in Warwick yesterday. Stratford-upon-Avon will have to forgive my infidelity, but I have fallen madly in love with Warwick, the county town of Warwickshire. Anyway, I have decided—as if I have time—to start a wedding quilt.  So, a trip to “The Quilter’s Den” in Warwick was a must. I have meant to start this quilt project for several days, but kept getting distracted by the dress saga.

Short note on dress saga: I had placed myself on another “thrift challenge” to see if I could find a gorgeous dress without breaking the bank, i.e., "Vera Wang on a Budget". So, as noted previously, I have been wasting hours upon hours of my life trolling the depths of eBay, preownedweddingdress.com, myrecycledwedding.com, among other sites to try and bargain hunt for the dress. 

This is frustrating process to say the least. Frustrating, and in my case, pointless. Until someone actually invents Hobbit-Brides.com, I’m wasting my time.  I’m petite and curvy, and so unlike an average slim-Jim Jane, ordering a dress online and expecting a perfect fit is a pipe dream.

But, I’m a clever girl, and I had a cunning plan. I would take myself a proper Bridal shop, have a gander at styles, figure out what works on me, and what doesn’t, then proceed with the quest armed with the requisite knowledge.

Then, the unexpected. And, perfection.

The shop I’d chosen was “Eternal Bride” in the Old Square in Warwick. I will confess I was completely overwhelmed and nervous as I walked in. Would they be nice? Would I feel trapped by “a hard sell”? Would I be conned into buying something I didn’t actually like, or want, just for the seek of freedom and escape?? And goodness, I was doing this all alone!

My expectations could not have been more far from the truth. The staff at Eternal Bride: Debbie, Morag and Peter were incredibly kind and friendly. They gave very good advice, but more importantly, they listened to me. After an initial chat with the wonderfully effervescent Debbie (she has a great job, and she knows/loves it), I was handed a pair of white archivist’s gloves (much to the glee of my librarian heart) and was let loose on my own in a beautiful sea of wedding gowns.

To some, this may sound like an incredibly lonely experience, but I truly enjoyed it.  It had a similar and warmly familiar feeling to me, like when I am doing historical research in an archive or special collection. Handling precious things with care, taking your time to peruse and access the details.

So, it was just my opinion, and the dresses. And without any sort of high-pressure “suggestions” from shop assistants pushing a particular line. I took my time and made about a dozen selections, which I indicated by putting a bright blue tag on the hanger.  I went back and reported my findings to Debbie, who then had her colleague, take the dresses down for me and placed in a dressing room.

Looking back on it, I have no doubt, given her keen eye; Debbie knew which dress was going to work for me from the beginning. But she let me come to that conclusion myself. Her instructions to me had been incredibly simple and helpful: “Pick out whichever dresses you like for whatever reasons: the color, the bodice, its personality, etc.”

Of course, the dress that I had chosen purely for an example of a color/shade I like, turned out to be the And all, I mean ALL the dresses I had assumed would be solid choices for reasons of style, cut and design never even made it out of the gates! I had envisioned billowy organza, with a deep v-neck, and off the shoulder straps. Each and every one of the dresses of that type made me look like a smurf drowning in a giant pavlova.

I want the D.E.B. to recognize me when I walk down the aisle. I want to look like myself, I want to be comfortable. I also want to be elegant, sexy and fun. That’s a tall order for one dress. But, I think I found it. Made of scrumptious ivory, Thai silk, the dress --fitted strapless bodice, sheath skirt, with detachable train--was designed by award-winning, British designer Helen Marina, and part of her “Vintage Collection”: Helen Marina Bridal Wear UK

As for “sticker shock” – there was sticker shock, indeed! This couture creation was actually ON SALE, so I came in UNDER, yes UNDER, my target budget. Yea, Team! Now, if only everything else could work out so beautifully and economically.

Back to Eternal Bride…it was an incredible, incredible experience. And sure, there are loads of people in my life whom I would have loved to have been there to share that moment with me, but there was also a real sense of accomplishment in my doing this very major thing on my own. I felt very, very grown-up.

But, that is not to suggest that I didn’t misbehave. Debbie is a real sweetie, she put me at ease and we giggled and howled all afternoon as we waded through the virtual mountain of dresses. Ah, what fun it is to be a girl! And the staff at “Eternal Bride” made me feel just like a princess…

I will admit that I did get a little teary when I saw myself in “the dress.” It finally, finally dawned on me that I’m going to be a bride. That I’m actually going to marry my D.E.B. at last.

So, the quest now is to tone up—and turn my “hams” back into “arms”—as much as I can before my first fitting in March. It’s good to have a firm deadline. And it’s even better to have a team of helpful and gregarious supporters in my corner, to be the mirrors and friends I need.

p.s. The DEB and I have a catering/reception meeting tonight, with one of our top choice venues!!

Good Karma

My prayers to the “Beauty Gods” have been answered!

Just discovered a wonderful, wonderful beauty salon in Warwick.  The salon called Karma Beauty, is run by Claire who is a waxing wizardess! Not only were her services cheaper than what I used to pay in NYC, she is super fast! The other day I walked in at 6:25 PM, and I was back on the street by 6:40 PM! I’m not kidding! And that was eyebrows, lip, and “Hollywood”. She’s fab! And a real sweetie, to boot!

http://www.karmaskincentre.co.uk/

p.s. Tell Claire I sent you!

Curious week in Barford...

Highlights of this past week:

Broke a tooth. Completed my first W.I. duties. And yet another attempt at “church shopping.”

I also baked a horrendous Banana Bread Loaf this week--on Sunday--that had all the light, airy texture of a cast-iron brick. Must note that said failed Banana Loaf was not the cause of aforementioned broken tooth. I broke my tooth eating popcorn. While watching a movie! What is the world coming to? Found a dentist in Stratford-upon-Avon, no problem. Got an appointment for the very next day. Dental procedure took less than half an hour, and wasn’t too expensive.  Go, British Healthcare System!

My first duties for the Barford W.I. consisted of delivering flyers door-to-door from my end of Wellesbourne Road to the bridge and back, for the upcoming “Grand Auction of Promises.”  The Auction proceeds will benefit the soon-to-be-opened Barford Shop! (Sainsbury’s will finally have some local competition here in leafy Barford!) A gander at the prizes for the auction will illustrate the caliber of my new neighbo(u)rhood: a bottle of House of Commons whisky; “cream tea for 2 in the Cotswolds in a chauffer driven Classic 1977 Jaguar Coupe”,  “Champagne and canapés followed by river trip and supper for 6 adults”; 1 week’s accommodation in a flat in Javea, Spain (between Alicante and Valencia); and “a quantity of farmyard manure (delivery if required)”. God, I love this place.

The quest for the “new spiritual home” continues. The D.E.B., bless him, has given up for now. I think he has just resigned himself to attend whichever place I finally settle on.  That is, if I am ever able to actually settle on any one place...  This week I tried the Collegiate Church of St. Mary (C of E) in Warwick. Fabulous.  I mean, it's not every day that a girl gets to take Communion in a church that has it’s own 10^th century crypt!

On the surface, I felt I had finally found the “Mother Ship”. Up-market, well-heeled, coolly Episcopalian-looking congregation; all-male choristers, decked and trimmed in dazzling red and white, high-necked regalia; massive pipe organ bellowing a Bach Prelude; did I mention the Norman crypt?

Yes, even without the ‘smells and bells’ that I so desperately long and pine for (what is it with English Anglicans and their anti-smoke/incense stance?), this place had most, if not all, of the pomp and circumstance I think God deserves, though doesn’t require.  Besides, any church that has its own “Choir Librarian” wins in my book! I mean, now that is just sexy…in a spiritual way, of course.

The Norman crypt is the oldest part of the church and dates back to 1123.  I crept down the cold, ash coloured stones to the crypt, and found, alongside the slabs of the long dead, the remnants of a medieval "Ducking Stool".  I could not believe my eyes, nor could my hands resist. I closed my eyes and ran my hands over the wheel and wooden flanks of this intricate torture device. I dug my fingers into a hole where a spoke had long gone missing, relishing the thought of collecting some medieval dust under my nails. I wanted to touch, smell and sense the past, those frightening and confusing times. They thought they were living in the end times. But still life went on, and still life goes on. Perhaps each generation of people believes their time is the only time, the most important, painful, or significant. And still, we go on.

A note on the wall reminded me that the "Ducking Stool" was used as an implement of punishment for: “Dishonest bakers, brewers of unadulterated beer, scolding wives, women of immoral character or those suspected of witchcraft, and quarrelsome married couples.” Happy times, indeed.

I left St. Mary’s beaming, basking in the bright October sunlight, and the thought that: “Yes, I’ve found it.” But, just as I was passing through the church’s massive, beautiful garden, the collegiate bells rang out, thundering the arrival of the noon hour; my heart broke with the thought of little St. Peter’s back in Barford. So humble, so small, so modest by comparison. 

The vicar had asked me at Morning Prayer this past Thursday, if he would see me at service on Sunday, he had planned to “welcome us” during the service. I had hemmed and hawed ("hummed and hawed" in Brit English), knowing I was had planned to go to St. Mary’s for a “bigger and better” experience. I feel so awful now. A place like St. Peter’s needs people like me. Am I looking a gift horse in the mouth? St. Peter’s may not be everything I want, but it may be what I need. And maybe, it is a place that needs me, instead of the other way around. Perhaps that is the lesson I am meant to learn in all this.   

Is this an appliance, I see before me?

I refuse to be outwitted by my new “hoover” (vacuum cleaner).  I am too smart to be defeated by British electrical appliances! Sometimes, I wonder if all of my British appliances are against me, or if the Dyson is on its own? Without a doubt, the Dyson is in it to win it. 

The “cooker”(stove/oven) is clearly in league with the Dyson; it has a mind of its own, along with a very frightening, flame-throwing death wish. The refrigerator is an insult to all appliances worldwide that bear that name.  It is the size—and shape—of a small shoe box. No, in fact I think there would be more space in a shoe box.  A toddler’s shoe box. Oddly, the largest appliance in my kitchen is the Freezer. We have more freezer capacity in our kitchen, than a caribou hunter in Alaska! And what, pray tell, could possibly have been the reasoning behind that design choice? Microscopic fridge (typically, the appliance used for maintaining necessary everyday items), with a colossal freezer (typical, in my case, only used for ice cream, French fries and occasional Edamame.) The mind boggles.

Having such a small refrigerator basically means that the D.E.B. has to perform a near daily run to Sainsbury’s on his way home from work. Sure, it’s very hip and French to do a bit of grocery shopping everyday, but, surely, eventually this has to become an annoyance. Although, I will say the “Sainsbury’s run” does have the side benefit of a very fun, routine exchange between the D.E.B. and myself. I log on to sainsburys.com, and create a virtual trolley of everything I want to buy. I then email the Trolley, pictures and all, to the D.E.B., who dutifully prints it out, and carries it forthwith to Sainsbury’s. On some occasions, we arrange to meet, and shop together. I really, really enjoy this.

On those days, I take the silly Warwickshire bus to Warwick (sounds redundant, and often feels that way) and walk to the bright, new, glistening Sainsbury’s. I run gleefully to their dazzling, new Starbucks (Yes, Starbucks!), order my Grande Soy Latte, read a book (currently, Professors Wive’s Club, by my dear friend, Joanne Rendell, a.k.a. “Superstar Writer Friend.”), and wait for my D.E.B. He arrives, smiling that smile, and we sit and have coffee. We stare into other’s eyes, and those few precious moments, in this Starbucks--that looks like every other Starbucks in the world--it feels  to both of us like we are back in NYC. Having coffee out in the Village during one of the D.E.B.’s transatlantic hops to see me, deciding how we should spend the afternoon, if we should go to the MET, the Morgan or just back to the apartment… Perhaps, our tiny fridge isn’t such a bad thing.

The washing machine. I have a secret fascination with the washing machine. I find myself purposely dirtying my clothes, just so I can use it.  (“Oh, dear. Did I just accidently spill tea on that skirt, and smear Marmite on my t-shirt? Oh, well, better wash them!”) The washing machine is adorable. The tub inside it is just about big enough to hold three pairs of socks, two towels, a t-shirt and a bra, to be washed at the same time.  It’s a Hobbit Washing Machine. I guess it’s a good thing that I am a Hobbit-sized person—though I’d prefer to be an Elf.

Although it is not technically an “appliance,” per se, my arch-nemesis—even more than the Dyson, or the masochist cooker—is the “washing line.”  The washing line is, of course, the implement I use to dry the clothes I am constantly washing. A nifty trick for a girl who has never known life without a huge, electric, tumble dryer.

The washing line tempts me. Whenever there is even the slightest a bit of sunshine on the horizon, the washing line whispers to me, like the serpent luring Eve: “Psst, psst. It’s a sunny day, better use it while you can…” I try to ignore it. I drink my tea, and keep reading. But as the sun beams hotter, I feel my resolve melting away. I dash about, madly gathering clothes, putting the Hobbit Washing Machine to work flat out. I then relish the moment—over an hour later—when the Hobbit Washing Machine has chugged its last and final spin, and I proudly drape the freshly cleaned clothes on the tempter washing line. Of course, of course, two hours later, as I am out walking Lucy up the hilly foothpath to Hareway Lane, the clouds break. Rain. On my clean, nearly-dried laundry.  And I can just hear the washing line, and the Dyson, sneering: “Gotcha!”