Scarlet and black

As a granny fashionista, I feel that it is my duty to dispense the occasional handy hint regarding matters sartorial, and this weekend I felt that I learned a lesson worth sharing.

And my advice is, please don't listen to those grande dames of decluttering, and ladies of high fashion who insist that if an item of clothing has not been worn for a couple of years, then the only thing to do is to toss it smartly into a bin bag and consign it to history.

No, the granny fashionista knows better - and in fact, I have come to the conclusion with matters of fashion and style, then the older the better, and even better if it is so old that you have forgotten that it belongs to you.

Many moons ago

Last Friday I found myself in the unusual situation of deciding what to wear to a party more than one hour in advance (mainly because those dastardly admirals were keeping me waiting, and I had time on my hands) and I stood in front of the mirror gazing sadly as this year's party frock purchase, and finding it sadly wanting.

I made the mistake of buying a new dress in the spring, thinking that three rather exciting parties in the offing justified such impulsive extravagance and would of course reduce the CPW to a mere nothing (fashionista-speak for cost per wear, a concept about as useful as that of investment dressing which somehow implies that spending large amounts on clothes is akin to putting the money into the bank or a pension. Take it from me, the more you spend on fashion, the more you spend and the less you have in the bank, whatever the CPW).

And as for my little piece of investment dressing, it has not stepped up to the mark for any party as yet. 'It is a very pretty dress,' said Princess Bunchy kindly. 'I think I might be cold,' I replied as I tried leggings and a variety of cardis, and every single pair of shoes to my name, and felt the sinking feeling that this fatal frock was not really up to a Hollywood theme in a rather lovely venue in the Great Wen, or anywhere else for that matter. In fact, this dress came under the category of Big Mistake, and contrary to the effusive affirmations of the shop assistants, it was not a dress for me but a dress for somebody else. I am not sure quite whom, but definitely not for me.

So Princess Bunchy went exploring in the back of the wardrobe and emerged with three party frocks from many moons ago, including the one I wore to my twenty-first birthday dance. 'It's rather revealing,' she said in a shocked voice, and I tried to explain about the 1980s and strapless ballgowns with boned bodices, not that my frock was strapless or boned, or revealing as I explained as I shifted the waistband up six inches to the 1980s, and pulled the laces tight, so this was only marginally relevant. 'Whalebone,' she said knowledgeably, and then I had to explain that actually I am not that old and plastic had been invented by the time I first donned a ballgown.

As you might gather, we were not getting very far: shocking pink and purple chiffon in layers, no, too strappy for granny arms. Pale grey and cream silk with pearl buttons from Singapore - dropped waist and boxy shape far too girlish. The princess dug down into another layer - only twenty years this time - heavy black velvet with a wonderful drape on the skirt. Beautiful - a dress of dreams and probably only worn once, and I still don't regret the purchase because I would wear it again if someone would invite me to a winter party (but I don't get out much, especially in winter). But a touch warm for London in August, even one as chilly as this.

Time was

And then, hiding behind everything, covered by dry cleaner's plastic, the princess pulled out a dress only a year older than she is. Scarlet and black, chiffon and burnt velvet, a whole raft of memories came spilling out with it. A mere fourteen years old, from a time when the Commander-in-Chief occupied a position which required his daughter to have one or two rather smart party frocks. And a sad time for other reasons, and I remembered the other velvet frock in ash grey and dark blue, rather roomy in its cut, which I had discarded because of the sad memories attached to it.

And this one in scarlet and black - bought after the grey one, for a summer party which I can't quite remember, but I remember feeling not quite at ease in the dress, and trying to forget things and be cheerful and graceful in a dress that was a little too tight and a little too bright for my feelings.

Scarlet and black, hidden away for all these years, and from memory, and now not too tight and bold at all, quite perfect for wearing on a red carpet and having its picture taken.

Very old

So this frock did go to the ball after all, and the story had a happy ending.
 
And the moral is, never throw away a party frock, because they come festooned with memories of all kinds, and far better to wear a really old one, where the cost is historic (and that is a genuine economic concept) and thus more thrifty than buying a new one.

Or you can buy a really old one, older than you are, which has been emptied out of someone else's bin bag, and thus become a genuine granny fashionista. Just like I did last week.

Tea and cake

The fire has been lit for the first time this autumn, I can feel the days shortening and my feet getting colder. Hand knitted socks, cosy vests, patchwork quilts and a superfluity of hot water bottles beckon.

Time to harvest Bramley apples and make delicious apple muffins (you will find my very easy recipe for these here) in the Aga. This recipe is so healthy that I am sure that the muffins are positively slimming, and if you count in the time pruning and picking the Bramleys then I think that they might even have negative calories.

There is nothing like a plate heaped up with apple muffins to bring a smile to the faces of your nearest and dearest on a damp Sunday afternoon - why not whip up some right now? Twenty minutes to make and twenty minutes to bake, and lo and behold! it's time for tea.

Style notes: willow pattern tablecloth from a charity shop, Bramley apples from a tree in the garden, plate from aged relative.

The granny fashionista steps out again

It may be June, but it is certainly not flaming here in the far south-east, and yes, I am wearing a vest today, and had a hottie in bed last night (Amy has just told me that  in America this means something quite different from hot water bottle, but I do mean hot water bottle, and not the Head Chef, nice as he is). However, you will see from the picture that I did find a summer frock opportunity a week or so ago, and you never know, I might even get to wear it again before winter.

Soft focus (recommended for granny fashion shoots)

This frock is not just granny fashion style, I think it is actually old enough to have belonged to your granny - I suspect this dress is just as old as me.

The arms are a trick of the light

I saw it hanging in a charity shop, and something about the fabric and pattern spoke to me across the rails - it just had an air of difference which stood out amongst the mediocrity. In fact, this dress called me in from the street, where I was supposed to be meeting my dear mamma outside the optician's (it was all right, I didn't lose her - when she saw that I was not waiting for her by the door, she just headed for the nearest charity shop, reasoning that it was the place I was most likely to be, and she was right).

So I tried on this frock (how did it make it to an anonymous high street shop - why was it not diverted to the vintage market?) which is made of an interesting textile called Dicell KN Celanese Acetate - just look at the label, it has vintage written all over it.

This is a label from my childhood - wonderfully vague washing instructions, with no buckets to be seen. A mild, warm wash just sounds so cosy ...

And how we have grown since then - the shop had labelled it size 12 in accordance with the label, but just look at those measurements - bust 34in, hips 36in. That's me, and I am a standard size 10 now.

Which might be why this frock had not flown off the rail before I strolled in to take it home; it was also very tight round the arms on me, which I put down to my arms fattening with age, and my dear mamma pointed out that the neckline was a tad high. But I did not care - this floral frock was waiting for me, and I was not going to let it down.

But let it down I did - at home, when I was gingerly ironing the creases from the Celanese acetate (perhaps my wash was not mild enough), I suddenly noticed a different colour stitching on the shoulder seam. Very bravely I attacked these interlopers with a seam ripper, and lo and behold! (there's a lot of that in my life) the armholes increased in size and the neckline dropped down. The first lady owner must have had tiny arms and a short body, and perhaps she never really felt at home in this frock, because it has a never-worn air.

Skipping granny fashionista - mind the uneven surface

Which proves that this dress was just waiting for me and my long body and fat arms to skip happily about the garden in it.

And now I would like some help from you. I am not sure when this dress was made but I suspect the early sixties - do you have any idea? The construction is a simple shift, with a single bust dart on either side. I think it must come after the full-skirted numbers of the 1950s, and before the very minis of the mid and late 1960s (which I remember). But you may know better, and any suggestions will be most gratefully received.

Hectoring headless granny fashionista

And finally, I will get on to What I Learn, which is what my science teacher used to make us write at the end of the experiment: (a) I now know why models are so young (so they don't have fat arms and wrinkly hands), and (b) if you want to be a granny fashion model, your photographer must either be shorter than you, or if he is taller, make him crouch down, otherwise not only will your arms look fat, so will your ankles, and the general effect will be of the sack of potatoes kind, and (c) chop your head off as this will avoid all sorts of double chins, bags under the eyes, wrinkles and generally less than fetching expressions, which of course are all a trick of the light, because you don't really look like that. No, surely not?

Looking after the bees

Let me take you by the hand, and take you on a little tour, not of the streets of London, but of my cottage garden, and ask you when you garden, to keep the bees in mind ...

Heartsease - very tasty flowers

In recent years the numbers of bees bumbling about the countryside have fallen precipitously, and some varieties have even become extinct.

The best use for heavy old metal watering cans

There is all sorts of speculation as to why this might have happened, and research is ongoing, but I feel that the very least we can do is to garden to help the bees.

Busy bee on catmint

They pollinate so many crops, and human beings are so dependent on them (if they did all become extinct, we would soon be following them), that it is pretty much a matter of enlightened self-interest.

Where the bee sucks ... Lonicera periclymenum

So as we walk round my little patch of earth, I will show you one or two plants that the bees seem to love - so they must be good to have in the garden. They are certainly attracted to honeysuckle (do you think they like the name?), which is lovely to grow up walls, along picket fences, or as part of an informal flowering mixed hedge. And the smell in my garden is quite heavenly ... somehow like the very best soap, but a lot less expensive.

Another plant which is always alive with bees is catmint (Nepeta x faassenii) - it has a very long flowering season, is pretty to look at, and a nice addition to this sort of flower arrangement.

And let nature take its course a bit:  I am all for an easy life, and this is one of the things I like about permaculture - it encourages you to work with nature, and not to labour unnecessarily. Bees need flowers from early spring to autumn, so in February and March when flowers are short, I let the pink, purple and white deadnettles have their pretty way on path edges and in corners - insects love them, and you can always tidy them up after they have flowered.

Spot the busy bee

And just to show the virtue of laissez faire in the great outdoors: this is an unprepossessing wall on the north end of the house, close by the boiler outlet (you can see the blue of the oil line behind), with no soil to plant in, and here we have self-sown hollyhocks, feverfew and delphinium which have been allowed to have their own way. A tidy gardener would have weeded (or worse, weedkilled them) out of existence to leave a neat blank wall in all its ugliness.

Whereas Slack Alice somehow never finished the housework, and in the process made a bee very happy ... If you want to find out more about how you can help bees in your own garden, you will find The Bumblebee Conservation Trust here. I would also love to hear what you have been doing in your patch that encourages bee conservation - I am always on the lookout for new ideas.

And this little garden tour is part of the Bloggers' Garden Tour organized by Amy at During Quiet Time - have a look at the other gardens here - and even better still, why not join in and show us the pretties in your patch?

Delectable floral frocks

In a previous post I gave my dear readers a little thrifty hint regarding a most enticing charity shop to be found just across the road from the V&A, and what is more, I also dropped a little hint about a floral frock which was hanging there waiting for me to call in.

So in the spirit of show and tell which suffuses the land of blog, I present this flowery dress in all its rosy beauty.

Note the shoes

I must admit that I hesitated just a little on the point of purchase, for I am not used to paying out amounts that venture into double figures in a charity shop, but the label said LK Bennett and although I thought this was just a shoe shop, I had a vague idea that they certainly aren't at the cheap and cheerful end of the market, thus this charming confection must be a Bargain not to be sniffed at (and subsequent research confirmed this, to my great satisfaction).

It's my best side

And to continue my career as self-styled granny fashionista, you will be very glad to hear that this new addition to my wardrobe of flowery frocks also coordinates beautifully with my granny cardi.

Granny fashionista

And just in case you were concerned that I was hurtling into granny territory at too cracking a rate, I think that I must be regressing into a second childhood. Those dainty little bronze pumps are courtesy of Mini Boden via Princess Bunchy.

Do I really have to face the camera?

Yes, my youngest child is now giving me her hand-me-downs as I shrink with age: or are my offspring just growing very tall?

The frock is also accessorized by a Naughty Dog who is showing promise as a canine model when not herding unwanted strangers off the premises.

(Credit where credit is due: photography and animal handling by Princess Bunchy.)

And just to confirm that my love of floral frocks shows signs of becoming an unhealthy obsession, this impossibly wonderful book has just arrived to feed my flowery fantasies and rose-tinted dreams.

Good night, sweet ladies, good night ...

A quilt top, and a wave of aestheticism

The Rose Parade quilt top is complete but it will not be keeping me warm on my holiday sofa this summer; instead it is now on its way to gracing the bed of a princess, a princess who had no call for a quilt until she saw this one in progress.

She stepped in, gave me a little guidance as to fabric arrangements and preferences, and is taking me to town to choose the backing fabric tomorrow.

Blowing in the wind - again

So here is the QUIP moving QUIFward, although it is nigh on impossible for the photographic amateur to get a good picture of a quilt on a tempest-tossed washing line (I had a professional photographer to stay last night, who also complained about the wind, so maybe it isn't just me), but I did rather like the stained glass effect of the reverse side (which also shows up any imperfections in the seams), and the princess is delighted with the finished result (which is a relief).

The art of seaming, or don't look too closely

Although princesses tend to smile sweetly and gaze admiringly on one's belongings in a longing sort of way, and charm them out of one's possession (a Cath Kidston handbag and purse come to mind), their presence in the house does offer some advantages, viz:

1. One now has a valid reason for taking out a subscription to Selvedge (on her behalf, of course) in the furtherance of her artistic leanings;

2. One also has a valid reason for taking a trip up to the Great Wen to visit the V&A (again) all for the sake of the cultural education of the younger generation. (Thrifty hint: there is the most wonderful charity shop almost opposite, where I found the most delectable floral frock last time.)

The trip may not be to the 'too utterly utter' Cult of Beauty exhibition, which was so utterly utter that I want to see it again, and am looking for somebody to come with me, but this time to Yohji Yamamoto (all very cutting edge for a granny fashionista). I have inhabited the nineteenth century so long, that it will do me good to face up to the present one (and the generation gap is made explicit in that the princess in dire need of a cultural education sees a distinction between 'twentieth-century fashion' and 'modern fashion', whereas I in my dotage did not).

If you need to dig a hole, ask a Ploughboy

So I have been reflecting on the way in which my family, young and old, are of great service to me: the Head Chef does bins, drains, and heavy lifting; the Ploughboy will dig a hole anywhere on request, and keeps me up to date with tractor specs; the General is always there for a conversation on typography and the wonders of the Interweb, and I have told you how Princess Bunchy is a great facilitator of unselfish expenditure.

Heavy lifting

I really only wanted to drop in briefly and tell you an everyday story of a quilt, but a shaggy dog wrestled me to the ground and I am beginning to feel quite Aesthetic: as I float off I wish you all an utterly utter weekend, filled with beauty, floral frocks, and a smiling, helpful family.

Beauty and the bin

Making content

It seems like the pinny got the vote in my last post, so I just wanted to tell you that you can have one just like that, too.

There is a wonderful tutorial by Jona G, called 'Apron in an Hour', which you can find here. This shows you how to make an apron just like this one, using a fat quarter for the front, and half a yard of fabric for the ties, and the instructions are so clear - step by step with photographs of every stage, so that you just can't go wrong. Even a complete beginner could make one of these pinnies as it is all straight stitching, no curves or gathers, and no pattern pieces to fiddle about with.

The latest one above was made for a special friend whose kitchen is a dream, all red and spotty (in the nicest possible way, of course). She cuts Princess Bunchy's hair for me, as the Princess will not let her mother near her hair with a pair of scissors, ever since the fateful day when said mother decided to give her Princess ringlets and in the process got the styling brush irretrievably stuck in the Princess's hair, just below her left ear. In most households it is small children who give themselves lopsided haircuts when their mothers aren't looking - unfortunately it seems that in Pomona's cottage the parent was the guilty party, and the daughter was the one who had the grace to accept an impromptu haircut, or perhaps surgical operation would be a more appropriate term, in order to remove a hairbrush. She accepted the situation with a brave and stoic mien, but ever since has exhibited a certain wariness on glimpsing a pair of scissors in my hands.

I normally cut my own hair (I can tell, I hear you say, sniggering) but on professional inspection yesterday it seems that I had actually managed to get the front snipping quite symmetrical. I will pass over the fact that the Head Chef's attempts with the scissors on the back were perhaps not quite so level, which accounts for the fact that I am always left with one section shorter than the rest when I plait it. But it could be the fact that we use wrapping paper scissors for hair - dressmaking ones being far too precious. But now you will be pleased to know any little amateurish inconsistencies have been evened out by a more expert pair of hands.

But enough of such vanities, and on to the important things like fabric and yarn, and crafting for twenty minutes a day. I have much to thank Marmalade Rose for - I have only missed out on my crafting on two rather wobbly days, and it is the making and creating that has kept me on the smiley side of sanity this winter.

Meet Me at Mike's has had a granny square initiative, and I did spend a whole evening trying to teach myself to crochet - I did think I had mastered the hook at eleven at night, but by the next morning I seemed to have forgotten it all again. So I think I will have to revisit the art of crochet at a later, lighter, and calmer date.

But back to the nitty gritty of fabric - for the red spotty apron I used some Tanya Whelan fabric - Rosie Dot and Ticking in red, from Gone to Earth. The first pinny I made (the one at the top) was in Heather Bailey's Pop Garden Rose Bouquet in yellow from Saints and Pinners, together with her Bijoux Tiled Primrose in turquoise, also from Gone to Earth.

But you don't have to buy fabric specially - I made one of these aprons for the Seaside Landlady (I think all seaside landladies must be in possession of a pinny, and possibly a headscarf and curlers to match), with a fat quarter from my stash - Kaffe Fassett, I think - and I used an old pillowcase from a charity shop for the ties and trim. Just open out all the seams and you will have plenty of fabric for nice long ties, but remember to avoid any worn parts in your quest for serviceability.

But it hasn't all been aprons round here - I have also finished what my dear mamma termed 'odd socks', although she did afterwards tell me that she was referring to the randomness of colour, rather than any inherent peculiarity of the knitting. These were knitted using one skein of Colinette Jitterbug in Popsicle, and in order to demonstrate to you the stress I was under whilst completing the second of the pair, here is all the yarn I had left.

It was touch and go, I can tell you, much anxious weighing of the ball and much pessimism on my part as to whether I would get to the toe without having recourse to a makeweight in another shade and brand of yarn entirely. The Head Chef was most amused.

But all's well that ends well, and they really aren't odd socks, and I do have enough left for darning. I used 2.5mm DPNS and the 8 stitches per inch pattern from Ann Budd's sock book in the adult small size which comfortably fits my size 5/38 feet. So if you want to knit anything bigger, I suggest buying more than one skein of Jitterbug - it will be much gentler on your blood pressure. This yarn does make lovely soft and cosy socks, so I would really recommend it.

However, do be warned, once you start wearing hand-knitted socks, it completely ruins you for anything else;  it is a sort of cashmere cardigan effect - once experienced, nothing else quite lives up to it.

Now just one last word to say thank you for all of those kind comments after my last sad little post, I do appreciate them. It was a bit of a wobbly time, but we are steadying ourselves day by day.

And although I do miss my little Black Dog, I have also had quite a few blessings to count this week. My computer is back from the hospital, and absence has indeed made my heart grow fonder, and did you know that you can get portable hard drives in CK red?

Mr Dyson was able to repair the vacuum cleaner, in spite of the fact that it seemed to me that more bits were broken than working. It is obviously all a matter of perception.

And it is raining so hard here that the Head Chef has been impelled to tidy the shed, not to mention his current love affair with Danish oil means that our worktops are positively beaming.

Also, even better, dearest Nina of Tabiboo has sent me the loveliest little dog from Scotland - it is the present that I would have chosen for myself, and has brightened up my week so much. Perhaps it might assuage my desire for a square-faced puppy. 

In the face of such a wonderful present, I also feel quite fortified in advance of my birthday, well able to cope with whatever the Head Chef and Princess Bunchy have decided that I need in my life, and the fact that the Ploughboy will probably still forget, in spite of electronic reminders from his fearsomely-organized brother. I found two hot water bottles in my Amazon basket last week - and I am not sure if they are a red herring, or the consequence of constantly complaining about the cold.

I have also been reading Peace is Every Step by Thich Nhat Hanh, on the recommendation of Karen at Sew and Sow Life, a book which is also most wonderfully fortifying, and should be part of the National Curriculum. But thereby hangs a world more tales, and I think that better be it for today - I am being beckoned by some pyjamas which need darning and the biggest ball of candy-pink yarn that I have ever seen. The rain it raineth, but I am for the fireside. Have a good day!

Bringing you flowers

I would like to start by saying how exceedingly grateful I am to all those terribly kind people who endowed me with the virtue of wisdom in their comments on my last post. I know I am rapidly getting older, and I am sure that old and wise is infinitely preferable to old and foolish, but it is a state into which I had never imagined myself. I never sought to be a Sibyl, but the whole concept of being oracular is rather attractive.

But enough of wisdom for today - I felt that we had had enough of that, and a little frivolity was in order, considering the festivity of the season.

I have started reading a fascinating little book called Scroogenomics by Joel Waldfogel, subtitled 'Why you shouldn't buy presents for the holidays' (he actually means Christmas, rather than going to Barbados, but I think that is one of the linguistic divides across the Atlantic).

And I am afraid, dear readers, I have fallen ... this was bought new from Amazon, but in my defence, it wasn't available in the library, and it was cheaper to buy new. (But I might well pass it on to some poor defenceless soul as a present, so in that case it wouldn't really count, would it?)

I am only on chapter five, but Professor Waldfogel has already persuaded me that I will get far better value for my hard-earned spendidos if I buy presents for myself rather than for other people.  And he quotes all sorts of figures to prove what I have always suspected, that a very large proportion of presents miss the mark by a wide margin.

 

You only have to look in a few charity shops to discover this (I call it empirical research): their shelves are populated by countless boxed gift sets of bubble bath and other scented accoutrements, myriad novelty alarm clocks with integral bottle opener, and other barrel-scraping 'novelty gifts', which I imagine as travelling on a endless circuit between desperate givers and hapless receivers until the sticky tape becomes too yellow and brittle to fool anyone.

So having justified myself there, I can proudly present a couple of recent acquisitions that are 100% efficient from an economist's point of view, because they are Christmas self-presents with which I am most delighted. The two-dollar earrings (handmade by Silja in Estonia) coordinate beautifully with my new party dress, although unfortunately I lost one of them in the process of shopping for the said party dress, which is why I have decided that two-dollar earrings are the way to go for me, because I lose earrings at a horrifying rate, to the point that I have lots of singles, and not many pairs. I will have to affect odd earrings as a sibylline style statement from now on, I think.

As for the party dress, my sister suggested that such an item was a superfluity in my wardrobe, as I never find myself at a party. Well, I can always live in hope on that front, but the appellation 'party' was not a statement of intent, or even wistfulness, on my part: the dress was hanging plaintively on a rather undistinguished rail in a local charity shop, and on the price label, someone had written 'PARTY' in bold capitals next to the price.

And who am I to argue? If the dress wants to call itself a party dress, I am happy to go along with it - it will give me a party feeling wearing it; just like that bubble bath, things might happen if I array myself in its silken folds (or maybe not, maybe I'll just pretend).

And just because it likes to call itself a party dress, that will not prevent me from wearing it with jeans and wellies, as I told my dear mamma who was with me at the time, when she, also, indicated that a party dress was not warranted for people with a limited social life and an eccentric tendency to underdress, anyway. Her response was that it would not surprise her at all if I did wear a party dress in that way, as it was the 'sort of thing I would do'. (In case you were in any doubt, we do have a very doting relationship based on an affectionate and amused incomprehension of each other's endearing little foibles.)

I am not sure how I have ended up interrogating the role of the party dress in the wardrobe of a country bumpkin, when I meant to extol the virtues of my pesky squirrel from Dottie Angel, which honestly makes me smile when I wake every morning. The squirrel is the first thing I see as I open my eyes when the Head Chef brings me my morning cup of tea in bed, without which beverage I find it physically impossible to rise from my couch.

Tif's parcel was wrapped so beautifully, and so much after my own heart, in sheets of paper which began life as the pages of glossy magazines, and tied with yarn of such a blue that it was totally consonant with my current obsession with shades of teal, duck egg and petrol blue (unfortunate name for an ecowarrior, that, I will have to think of another when it comes to describing yarn and cardigans and party dresses). And there were also buttons - I actually had to sit down for a bit while unwrapping such a heavenly parcel, it was just all too much for me, hence the drunken slant of the photo below.

And Anthropologie catalogues: unfortunately I think the likelihood of finding such anthropological and sartorial beauty in the charity shops of East Kent is infinitesimally small, but one can always dream and travel hopefully.

And a beautiful Japanese magazine called Come Home, which actually moved the General to come down from his celestial plane of teenage superiority and infinite wisdom to comment on the graphic design, which apparently has far more white space than is thought of in his universe.

I have always read magazines from back to front, so that part was quite easy, and I was fascinated by the way that the domestic objets were lined up in a grid formation on the surfaces, whereas being of the Country Living school of decoration I have always favoured artful angles and a certain amount of dichotomous asymmetry.

Now I did want to tell you a tale of a Princess and a pesky squirrel, which is what impelled my purchase from Tif's shop, and ask you the question, 'Is it unkind of a mother to hang by the maternal pillow a picture of an animal with which a child has a vexed relationship, or does it count as graded exposure, and thus a form of behavioural therapy?' but sadly and unfortunately, I feel the sands of time and the stream of words slipping away.

I do, however, feel that a headline which says 'You don't bring me flowers' (and which I have, alas, unintentionally lost, along with numberless earrings), is one of the utmost profundity, and one upon which I propose to meditate for some time.

It might seem to contain a most ineffable sadness, but I hope I have persuaded you of the solution to such disappointment: just buy yourself a charmingly frivolous present, for I am sure that nobody else will.

Going placidly

It is already the second Sunday in Advent, Sarah's little Christmas tree is counting down relentlessly, and everywhere I see and hear the sights and sounds of mounting panic in the face of Christmas almost present.

But dearest Tif has sent me this embroidered traycloth to fortify me in my resolve, and I have taken her advice to heart - I am going to remain calm, and carry on calmly towards the holidays, looking forward to some holiday, some celebrating, some good food ... but I am determined to avoid excess, especially on the shopping and the anxiety front.

And Floss has been encouraging us all to Pause in Advent, with which I heartily agree, especially if that pause involves a little quiet time on the sofa.

And then I thought of the words of Max Ehrmann's 'Desiderata', found on a million posters in the 1970s, but still valid and relevant and full of wisdom.

It begins with the words: 'Go placidly amidst the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.' So perhaps you may find time to take your own little pause and indulge yourself in a little silence, so that you may continue your journey towards the festivities quite placidly.

I think that it is important to remember that it is only one day amongst many, and sometimes we aim for too much in the way of perfection. And ask yourself, too, what you are really worrying about - and if your worries came to pass, would it really be so very bad?

If you are on good terms with your guests (and I do believe that it is a useful principle in life to determine on being on the most amiable terms with all guests, bearing in mind that, by definition, the presence of a guest is always temporary), then look upon it as a chance to get together and have a nice chat. And if you tell yourself it is not a banquet nor a competition, but merely a glorified Sunday lunch, then the prospect of cooking doesn't seem nearly so daunting. And if the numbers are more than you feel you can manage, ask them to help by bringing a pudding or their pinny. I also make it a point of principle not to cook (or, rather, not to instruct the Head Chef to cook) anything that will not be eaten or is disliked by the majority, regardless of invented tradition.

If the recipients don't like their presents, I hope they are polite enough not to show it, and if they do, well they can always give them to someone else who will appreciate them more, I won't mind at all. As I discussed here, I think the important thing is to give out blessings without thought of return, and that way you won't be disappointed in what you might receive. Unwanted presents can always be given to a charity shop, and that way they can do some good in the world.

And if the guests are apt to be disagreeable, why, just smile at them and make empathetic noises, and feel sorry for them in their self-induced unhappiness with life; after all, we are all the architects of our own misery or joy, and I know that my own wish in life is to spread joy, not sadness or anger.

And I am sure that the way that you can make your children happy is to be happy yourself, and teach them that satisfaction does not come from desiring what you do not have, but from contentment with what you already possess. That is the most valuable gift you can give them.

As Ehrmann writes, 'With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.'

So there ends my little homily, I hope I don't sound too hectoring: I am not really telling you how to live your life, but telling myself - I find that the more I repeat these things (yes, I do sit in a corner muttering to myself rather a lot), the more that they come true. And, yes, Pollyanna is still my heroine, as I mentioned here. And I am getting so old and wise that I feel impelled to share my philosophies (although perhaps not quite as old as Alice, for my children don't yet prepare food for me, but she gives me hope that such an occasion is imminent.)

And tomorrow or the next day I will be back to tell you about pesky squirrels, the most wonderful two dollar earrings, and the joy of buying yourself a present. I know I have mentioned this before, but it can't be recommended too much as an antidote to the stress of buying presents for other people - remember I gave you some handy shopping advice here, so you don't even have to move from your chair to do it!