wendy house

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

spotty dog: Nice jacket, Jack Wills?
wendy: yes, when I got back from the US I felt an overwhelming need to wear something fabulously british, this looked like a boating jacket
spotty dog: but you haven’t worn it since we arrived
wendy: its too hot in Italy, I’ll be fabulously British when we get back home

Judging by the items in the shop window,   EXtreme urban clothing involves brightly coloured trousers, t-shirts, shirts and trainers.   Compared to the black and grey commuters on the London tube,   this is indeed extreme….

I have old lady

• shoes (ecco)
• no-sholderpads (apparently the 80′s are back)
•  bras -because banana bras are back in fashion
• wrinkles
• natural arctic blonde highlights
• smile at babies reflex
• living arrangements (with two cats)

I wonder what comes  next…

In  the 80′s  I used to  cut the shoulderpads out from new clothes.   This fashion-subversive act enabled  me  to avoid looking like a cast extra from  Dynasty, Falconcrest, Dallas, or an aspiring  USA football team member.    

Apparantly the shoulder-pad  look is returning.   There are rumours that The John Lewis Partnership (JLP) haberdashery department has recently sold-out of shoulder pads.    

I didn’t purchase them.

Words of wisdom from  an almost stranger*.  in this case a girl on the commuter  train to London Paddington:

don’t wear Ecco shoes,   they’ll  make you look like a really boring  old person

I would have followed this advice

except

Ooops!   it’s toooooo late

I picked up these little green dudes in a sale,   as preparation for my upcoming HOLIDAY in CAIRO.   They have the phrase ‘pat pending’ on the sole.   Just like the wacky races character.   I love that!   The garish green is pretty darn cool too,   for a wrinkly, if this is what boring old people wear,   then so be it.

* Past tips provided by Alan the hairdresser.   Lucia the hairdresser, an anonymous  manicurist, a Jackson’s sales assistant, a bus stop philanthropist, a mini salesman, Windows Network Diagnostics, Flat Eric  and Reading Police.

Wendy:   I want Oxblood red please!

Conkers footwear facilitator (CFF): You can have any of these colours, you can have different colours for different feet, different colours for different sections of the boot, what would you like?

Wendy: Oh, Oh, OH,   purple, no green, no this electric blue,   no brown.   Oh!   …   um,   Oxblood red please..

I discovered Conkers shoes in the summer of 1986.   discovered after having been sent there by a bouncy student friend from Newton Abbot who’s boots I couldn’t help but admire.   By the time I found Conkers  they were 9 years old and had a small shop at the top of Totnes High street.

They now have a larger shop half way up  Totnes High street. As a student I couldn’t afford the luxury of a well made, durable, easy to repair, natural tree-rubber soled, funky coloured, personalised pair of shoes. I sulked and promised myself that when I had a job I would come back and treat myself.   I’ve had one job or another for nearly 20 years.   This week I went back to Totnes and now I have a pair of boots being made-up to fit.   I suspect I will be back again…   for purple, or green, or…

With the internet I can just type the name, make, model, serial-number and colour of my preferred bra  and get an  exact purchasable match in less than one minute.   Excellent,   underwear wooshing its way to the Wendy House.   All is well

 Then

The Royal Mail left me a little note to let me know that my ‘package’ was too big to fit through my letterbox.   Not being a larger lady in the underwear department this was a baffling concept.   This meant a trip to the Reading central post-office on Satruday morning during peak Reading shopping traffic congestion.   While listening to Jonathon Ross interview Spandau Ballet I noticed a shop with hand-crafted wood furniture in the window

Dangerous

An hour later I had picked-up my new underwear, removed the ridiculously bulky packaging and bought a hand made ‘gun cupboard’ for my mug collection

Expensive underwear

Pink.   They shout Charlotte across my chest.

Following me home from a tourist shop in the steamy southern US city several years ago.   They continue to lure me into long undressed Sunday mornings, afternoons, evening.   Blurring the edges between day and night.   The baggy track-suit-like pants could cover the nether-regions of a fat person.   Down my hips they slide, jostling to trip me up on the decidedly dangerous Wendy House stair-ladder.

Can I escape their clutches?

friend: you’re wearing a skirt, I’ve not seen you in a skirt before

I pull open my cosey warm cardigan to reveal that the skirt goes all the way up to my armpits

Wendy: a dress

friend: Oh!