wendy house

I can improvise a complex modern gadget while simultaneously overcoming a set of push-button controls. Yay! Take a look at my laundry ‘dryer’ and swoon with envy. Oh YES!

How does it work?

A hot water radiator warms the air in the small yet ample bathroom. My recently washed clothes hang, unsuspectingly, on an airer. Meanwhile a scented candle loiters, invading the unsuspecting laundry. It could turn into a Turkish style bathroom.

The real sneaky part in this equation is the little blue dehumidifier. It blows warm air at the laundry while attracting the moisture to condense on a couple of frozen metal plates. Genius. There are 6 different buttons on my dehumidifier – that’s more than a handful – and I’ve pushed them all! The hardest part was balancing between the roll-top bath and sink to take this picture. HA! Scented dry laundry on a rainy day in a house too small to fit a tumble dryer, and NO MILDEW!

I’m a winner!!

A wendy wearing her favourite, only, Askatrán wool hat inspires local Apple fan-boy onlookers with thoughts of Cruella de Ville.

Meanwhile a svelte local Polish girl ran her fingers through my hair as she effervesced:

Never dye your hair! it’s beautiful, grow it really long, it’s so witchy with the silky white and dark. You look so witchy, in a good way

I’ve added “Dalmation fur kilt” to my Christmas present wish list.

Owning a kilt is not all about a big song and dance. There are some sneaky little down sides to the experience which I suspect many a non-kilt wearer is wise to.

These are the reasons why I haven’t yet bought a woollen kilt, they:

• are rather itchy (but I could wear thick tights or an underskirt to deal with this)
• smell of damp wool when it’s raining (don’t wear it outside in the rain)
• need to be dry-cleaned occasionally (that’s not too expensive and inconvenient)

The main kilt use challenge that I hadn’t anticipated is based on using the kilt with modern sanitary technology – the toilet.

Stop reading now if you have an aversion to toilet talk.

With a normal skirt a girl can simply lift the rear of the skirt and hold it up while taking a seat on the toilet – so the skirt never touches the toilet. Clean and neat. Not so with a kilt. There is so much material in the pleats that no matter where you grab it, the sides fall right back down gain. Cool! But not cool when you want to sit on  the loo without dangling it down the pan.

A kilt works for a squatting position above the pan, or squatting when there is no pan – in the wild where it was originally used.  I’ve adjusted my posture when wearing the kilt in the washrooms over the pan so that I stay standing and flick the kilt op over my back while leaning forward – this lets the wealth of material lie across my back.  This position requires more directional skill during the process than sitting down, but works to keep the kilt clean and out of the way.

you have been warned

After several months of wearing a genuine kilt, purchased in Edinburgh (online), I’ve leaned about many of it’s more subtle virtues, it:

• water repellent:  flicks the rain off the surface layer as you walk – never soaks up water because of the movement designed in. Rather like the water coming off a dog when it shakes itself. This effect is stronger for pure wool kilts (which mine isn’t). It’s suitable for rainy climates.
• toasty!: is very warm because the pleats make it 3 folds of material thick at most point. Again, this effect if emphasised for a wool kilt. It’s more suitable for cold climates.
• curvy: demonstrates the comely turn of my calves – whatever it’s made from.
• adjustable sizes: the wrap-around style means the kilt can fit you as you put-on, or loose, weight. This gives the kilt longevity as a wardrobe item. Excellent! As I approach my 50′s I’m anticipating the onset of a little plumpness and the kilt will stay with me unlike other clothes that might need replacing.
• swing-tastic: with just a normal walk the back of the kilt swings in a playful way. With a flick of the hips it’s even more fun, and spinning around? Well! It’s a must-do activity in a kilt.

Friends have commented that very few people can ‘pull-off’ wearing a kilt, but I am one of them. I can pull it off while keeping it on. I think everyone should have a kilt, it should be a standard part of everyone’s wardrobe because it is quite simply -

EXCELLENT

Walking along a crowded platform on Paddington station, suddenly an arm wrapped around a shoulder and a Scottish accent welcomed me. My friend had seen my Royal Stewart tartan through the crowds and recognised my gait. How lovely that the kilt could help bring us together in this otherwise unfriendly milieu.

Later, standing on a tube train, a stranger smiled at me and invited me to take an empty seat they had rights to by proximity. This has never happened before during my London commutes. Later again, a young man invited me to pass in front of him to leave the train rather than taking my natural place in the rambling crush.

I love all 9 yards of my kilt, it helps people see me.

It inspires kindness from strangers.

It’s magic.

I rarely go into M&S. This window display is a prime example of why. The slogan says “the best of British style” the mannequins are wearing shades of biege jumpers, denim and undistinctive footwear.  Neither classic, exciting, country, or any kind of combination that could really be described as style except perhaps ‘comfortably numb’.

Poor show M&S

I’m confident that British styling can do a whole lot better!

Mumsie: what would you like us to get you for your 18th Birthday present?

Wendy: A motorbike

Mumsie: No

Wendy: I’ll save to buy the protective clothing – Helmet, jacket, trousers, boots

Mumsie: No, nothing electrical for your 18th

Wendy: The Gibson Les Paul you got Bros 62 is an electric guitar

Mumsie: That’s different

Wendy: What if I buy the bike and you can give me a full set of leather gear and a helmet for my 18th?

Mumsie: No

Wendy: Why not?

Mumsie: No clothes for your 18th

Wendy: What can I have?

Mumsie: I thought a nice Diamond and Topaz ring

Wendy: If that’s what I’m allowed, I’ll take it… … can I pawn it for money towards a motorcycle?

Mum and Dad rarely rowed. Later that year they rowed about my getting a motorbike. Dad sided with me, placating mumsie with a promise to make sure that I looked after the bike properly. The morning before Dad took this photograph he carried a comfy chair into the garage while I laid out the large tent groundsheet on the garage floor between my bike and his comfy chair. Dad opened the Haynes manual.

Gradually I deconstructed the engine and lay each piece out in neat chronological order on the groundsheet. When the engine was in pieces we took a break to clean up and eat Sunday lunch.  Then, slowly, peace by piece, I rebuilt the engine. When I got confused, Dad showed me the relevant Haynes manual picture and pushed me to make a decision. He helped listen to the sound quality when adjusting the timer.

I felt so proud of myself once I’d finished.  Dad let me wear my favourite of his jumpers for this celebratory photograph.

The bike lasted just over a year before I sold it on for a profit.

My diamond and topaz ring, worn less than 6 times in 30 years,  reminds me that mum and dad love me and the responsibility and freedom of motorcycling…

I wasn’t the only person in a kilt at the wedding. This father and son couple were wearing their official kilts. The father, a military instructor at Sandhurst, said of his son:

He hasn’t fully got the hang of it yet, he wouldn’t be able to step over a barbedwire fence and I have to make him wear underwear

Later, the boy’s kilt was on back to front – it must have worked it’s way around – but he didn’t notice. Very cute.

You can just see the ‘sgian dhub‘, Gaelic for “black knife,”  an ornamental sock knife poking out of the top of the fathers sock. It’s a polite gesture to your host to put it in the sock where it can be seen – rather than hidden to enable a suprise attack

He told a delightful story of how the bagpipe’s were banned as an ‘instrument of war’ because they instilled fear in the opposition. Alas, I could find no evidence to support this claim online. This is what wikipedia says:

King George II attempted to assimilate the Highlands into Great Britain by weakening Gaelic culture and the Scottish clan system,though claims that the Act of Proscription 1746 banned the Highland bagpipes are not substantiated by the text itself. It was soon realised that Highlanders made excellent troops and a number of regiments were raised from the Highlands over the second half of the eighteenth century.

On the way to the wedding I took a rest break in the cute town of ‘Frome’ pronounced Froooooooom sounds like vroooooom

As I walked down the aptly named ‘Stoney Street’ a lady wearing a pink tailored jacket, a flared skirt and 2 inch heal court shoes looked at my kilt, covered her mouth with her hand,  smiled then turned her face away from me. I suspect that was a full laugh out loud

Bringing such a smile to people’s faces felt good, I raised my shoulders and accentuated the swing of my hips to highlight the swing of the kilt

In every small street shop that I went into someone remarked on my kilt, with a big smile on their face. Mostly they said really nice things

When clothes that I like bring a smile to other peoples face and encourage them to say nice things to me, I know I’m onto a winner

The kilt stays, it may even get a partner….

This post is an homage to Bux’s blog ‘Everyday Oslo‘. From her blog I’ve learned of  the  informal exchange of goods that goes on in Nordic capitals and seen the chirpy graffitti and sneaks onto everyday walls

I’ve introduced a new blog tag “Everyday Reading” to log those things that the locals of this town anonymously swap on the streets

Today’s contribution is a sporty, spotty, stripey, Hello Kitty headband

Thankyou

wendy: I’ve recently realised that I’m a cross-dresser

Spottydog: (laughs) are you serious? I’ve known that for ages!

wendy: well obviously I suspected, what with all the trousers and buying mens jumpers.  But I bought the jumpers because they’re virtually the same as the womens jumpers except they’re cheaper.  I thought I was just buying cheaper versions of girls clothes. But I’m not sure anymore. I think I might be a transvestite. Is a transvestite the same thing as a cross dresser?

Spottydog: does it matter?

wendy: well, I’d like to know what to say to people when I come out of the closet

Spottydog: you’re not in the closet

wendy: oh yeah…  ….do you like my new cricket jumper?  It’s to go with my kilt…

Mumsie helped with my wedding outfit decisions. What goes with my fabulous new Royal Stewart tartan kilt:

• Sox or stockings? Stockings – Mumsie didn’t think it was good form to reveal my bare knees to strangers. I take after Dad in the knee department, he once won a nobbly-knees contest
• Red or Black stockings? Black stockings – Mumsie felt it would be ok to wear black to a wedding nowadays. The colour is no longer reserved for mourning.  Several wedding guests were dressed completely in black. Tiger, who was actually in mourning wore a black shirt. One guest wore a white lace dress, risking a clash with the Bride’s outfit
• Red or Black shoes? Red shoes – Celebratory flatties for lots of jigging on the post-vows disco dancefloor
• White or Black shirt? White shirt
  
• Leather or velvet jacket? Leather jacket
  
• Hat or no hat – No hat!!!!!!  No-one at the wedding wore a hat.  4 women were sporting fascinators at the ceremony, but no hats or tiarras. A trend that’s changed dramatically in my wedding-going career

asked the young girl

Because they’re pretty and tell the tale of their owners running around – free from footwear

I was the only girl over the age of 10yrs wearing flat-soled shoes. The youngsters were quite keen to kick-off their flatties, I liked their attitude, they were all about running, twirling and laughing.

The adults were more about drinking, smoking and re-telling histories

There’s no story

Everyone is keeping stum!

There’s been a very effective whitewash at the wendy house, even the bastards at News International can’t tap into the story

C S Lewis wrote the Chronicals of Narnia while living in Oxford. On a frosty February morning driving along a deserted Oxfordhsire road reminds me of stepping from the Wardrobe into a frozen Narnia

Old Frenchy
My wardorbe was originally shipped from France to Portsmouth, probably circa 1880. It has a French accent. I found it in a 1993 garage sale (no garage) where the owner was moving to America and selling large furniture that wouldn’t ‘fit’ in an American apartment

Sailed to Seattle
Ironically, in 2000 I  shipped the wardrobe from Portsmouth to the USA. The french wardrobe looked decidely small in the large bedroom with its own built-in, walk-in, wardrobe. In Seattle the wardrobe was honourarily called an ‘Armoire‘ in respect of its origins.

Now nearer Narnia
Most recently it was shipped from Seattle to the Wendy House in Reading town,  near Narnia inspiring countryside of Oxfordshire. Armoire holds my hat collection. Over 50 hats, silk and top hats in hat boxes, baseball caps on hooks, Cloches  carefully laid out and stuffed with wooly ski hats.

Mr Benn
The hats in Armoire provide a doorway to so many different places. Each time I put on a different hat, like Mr Benn, I’m taken to the place that is right for that hat. In Today’s -12 temperatures my  ear-muffing psuedo-Russian snow leopard hat will be taking me somewhere….I wonder where…

This photograph of 2 boys and a girl was taken around 1910 give or take a decade in Viipuri, Finland

The relative lack of gender definition advertised by the childrens clothes is a pleasant suprise.  All 3 are wearing tunics that look like ‘dresses’ with dropped waistelines and high necklines, dark stockings, sturdy lace-up boots, large collars

These boots were probably purchased from the shoe store at 20 Torkkelinkatu, Viipuri, owned by the children’s father Alpo Kolehmainen or his later ‘factory’ at Mikkeli

The gender differences are also clear with the boys in larger white collars, and shorts below their tunics. The girl in paler coloured dress with elbow length sleeves and no obvious shorts

I suspect that this dress style is mainly specific to children, though drop waistlines became popular for adult female dresses in the 1920s

I wonder whether these dress style choices were specific to this family or part of a broader fashion?

It’s rather like Sesame Street’s “Furry Happy Monsters”

with a distinctive 1970′s

psuedo-professional-dancewear feel

ideal wendy-wear

for added bounce-ability quotients

numb·er·i·cal /nəmerikəl/

Adjective

Definitions:

1) Deprived of the power to feel or manipulate a number or series of numbers

“wendy suffered a numberical moment when asked to work out how many people it would take to eat 6 packages of  twiglets in 30 minutes”  (the answer was, of course:  ’1, ME!’ )

2) Inability to perceive numbers

“When asked how many packets of twiglets are hidden in the back of your wardrobe? wendy numberically answered “MINE!”

3) Counting without direct use of numbers

“wendy numberically asserted that there were a whole bunch of twiglets for sale in the Co-op”

“A guest in the wendy house numberically suggested there were loads of twiglets hidden in the back of wendy’s wardrobe” (not actually true because I’ve eaten them)

Getting ready for Barcelona in October. How? Buying a light-weight rain jacket and some comfy sandals! This year I’ve been lucky enough to get an annual bonus so I’ve indulged myself with:

1. Expensive “Ladies” Linen Barbour Jacket coated with a rough finish polyurethane. Essentailly a jacket that looks wet and has an over-priced classic British brand name. Almost Burberry. Does this make me a chav?
2. Cheap black leather Sketchers‘ “tone-up” sandals. The advertising bumf supplied by the manufacturer says that a clinical study (of 8 people) showed that there is significantly more muscle activity when walking in these compared to normal sandals. That activity will make my bum firmer. Well, there’s fancy foot-technology for you! If the previous purchase hasn’t qualified me as a chav, surely this one will?

These summer purchases will compliment my Ray Bans which are itching to be put in my Tumi Barcelona carry-on bag beside my elderly Animal washkit

If I haven’t already, I’m about to crash through the cusp of chavy. That’s the equivalent of Concorde breaking the sound barrier, only for Brand purchasing

Yeah Baby!

Riding the London commuter train back to Reading I realised I’d left my house keys in the office, luckily my neighbour was home, able to let me in with her spare key. It’s been a week for scattiness. I spent about 3 hours looking for my E11, EHIC, ready for my summer vacation.

Searching was a serious process that involved:

• looking in all the pockets of 5 handbags (USA purses)
• The contents of 4 old purses (USA Wallets)
• 16 drawers, some containing drawers – I might have hidden the card in my underwear. It’s possible.
• 4 trays of important ‘stuff’ , once recent letters that have faded to the bottom of unotuched piles
• lesser-used jacket pockets

My chest of drawers is more organised now that I’ve carefully inspected, sorted, folded and replaced each item. The search threw up some surprises, the condoms with a 2008 use-by date. Thrown away. Pre-Euro continental coinage from the 1990s, re-packed for posterity. No E11 card

Once I’d run out of obvious places, I gave up. A solemn swathe of paranoia about my ability to file and find key documents, a history of losing my passport, drove me to check that the passport was where I thought it should be. It was.

Tucked inside my passport was my E11 card.

A sensible place.

Unexpected!

Bounce…

charming friend #1:  that’s a nice neckscarf

wendy: it doubles as a hankerchief for sneeze emergencies or magic tricks

charming friend #2: I thought it was hiding a hickie

wendy: (raucous loud laughter, trying to dispel the hickie myth before rumours take flight)

Bux raised my awareness of discarding clothing as street art in everyday Oslo with a string of spectacular posts.

English people also discard their clothes in public, displayed in artistic ways at eye level. Below we see a pink shoe awaiting a push button signal before hot footing it to the Tandoori across the road.

A strange mutation in body fashion can be seen in the windows of Reading’s large chain stores

Headless mannequins seemingly move towards you in a manner yet more creepy than the infamous Jackson’s mannequins

In the first Elizabethan era the fashion was to dress children in miniature forms of adult clothing.  With heads still attached, though Liz’s dad was keen on perpetuating headlessness

Since then, the English fashions for dressing children have varied greatly.  But generally there has been a clear distinction between styles for different age groups.  Youngsters are dressed distinctively. You could tell the age of a child by the clothes they wore. It looks like this dress fashion is beginning to follow the theme of  the first Elizabethan period, dress children as mini-adult and

Off with their heads!

(whatever age)

In a bid to update my working wardrobe I ventured into the mahem that is Reading town centre on New Years eve. Jacksons is one of the first stores that I pass on my way into town.

Tweed wool culottes! Just what every quintessentially english gal needs in her working wardrobe

Jacksons store certainly goes where no other family store would dare to go.Trousers disguised as a skirt, in prickly wool, in a classic tweed.  Jackson’s never fails to suprise and delight.

They are the best!

Somehow, I managed to resist this little indulgence…  … will my work-colleagues bemoan my cowardice?

PS 100 word post before the PS

The luminous green net tutu and orange tights wobbled by, closely followed by the stripey tights on inturned knees.

This dress-non-sense temporarily baffled me. Why so garrish? But when I noticed the big smile on my face.  Thank you for brightening my cloudy day!

Looking good in an empty pocketed tairored blue pin stripped designer suit on a sunny day.  Strolling the canal bank to the equally dressed up fancy city offices of a new client.  Without a word, the receptionist buzzed me into the building, then asked  

you’re here for the interview, right?

Luckily no-one else was standing near enough to me to hear the rush of air as I deflated. The receptionist noticed my smile slip and fixed me up with a nice big mug of tea.

Everywhere there are uniforms. Uniforms for

• Empowered girliness – high heels, short skirt, proudly displayed cleavage
• IT safe corporateness – khaki cargo pants, branded baggy t-shirt
• London tube commuter - black and grey tailored and ironed outfits
• Healthy person - fleece, neoprene, goretex jackets and bouncy footwear
• Cyclist – lycra overdose, wrap-around glasses, go-faster helmet
• …..

There’s rarely an instruction manual for these uniforms. Working out what’s best is all too much for me. I’ve jumped ship and tend to opt for wearing comfortable clothes that make a token gesture towards the uniforms. Not excelling in displaying any 0ne unifrom, but partially there with all that needs to be conformed-to for social acceptability.

On a good day I’m slightly quirky. More often I exist somewhere in everyone’s experience of visually bland stylessness. 

Apart from my hats.

Back in the 1990’s I had developed a strong brand loyalty to Sloggi because they produced comfortable, outdoor activity sypporting, stylish, white, underwear.  Sloggi underwear wasn’t cheap but it lasted, it maintained it’s strength and looks.  Sloggi products were sold in  good department stores, the quality town stores.  Stores like Reading town’s Jackson’s.  I had no problem finding Sloggi underwear on the rare occasion I needed to purchase new stuff.

When I lived in the NW US, the quality department stores such as Nordstrum didn’t sell Sloggi.  In a recklessly adveturess streak I branched out into local underwear brands, Victoria Secrets. Nothing special, mass produced femininity. My underwear draw went pink and everso slightly twee.

In Tiverton I picked up my first Sloggi’s since 2000.  They feel and look good.  Back to my favourite high quality foundations…

In Reading town its Jacksons

In Tiverton town its Banbury’s

A family run store, named after the family.  Selling everything in tiny departments on split-level floors arranged with a maze-like series of turns and staircases. These stores are Tardis-like, seeming small from the outside then corridor after staircase after turn they get larger and larger.  The staff are normally experienced people with well structured hairstyles or quirky youngters. All are personable.  When leaving the Wendy house this morning I was in the middle of scat-fest.  Things I forgot to bring with my included, pants, watch,  tops to wear.  Banbury’s was just the place to temporarily solve my foundation garment shortage

While searching for the cleverly hidden underware department I stumbles across a Linen top with a print reminiscent of the fabulous Finnish Marimekko Unnikko print.  Yummy.

I wore a pinky-frilly-ickiest-ever-blouse

positively ICK-ICK-ICKY x 700

a bile-in-the-mouth inducing quotient of 78.35% 

and yet

strangers in the street smiled and said things like 

 nice blouse love. My favourite colour

They sounded so genuine.  My sarcasm detector could be failing its annual service test.  Even people at work commented on how good I looked in this lovelly (cough) blouse

Noone said  ‘wendy, that blouse really isnt you’ or ‘WHAT were you thinking of when you put that on?’

 There is deifintiely a conspiracy to pressure wendy’s into wearing the ickiest of blouses

I will resist