To The Manners Born

This sylphen silhouette may keep us in the dark about Miss Debrett's true identity but the coltish limbs gracing the Regency chair  quietly whisper the pedigree of  the upper classes.

 The filly may wear  short skirts but she has high standards. 

On Self Deprecation

Self deprecation is a trait that permeates British culture. It is a national characteristic - evident in a sense of history that, possibly uniquely, dwells on "glorious" failures (The Charge of The Light Brigade, Dunkirk, Scott's race against Amundson). It is also a valued personality trait, which people find engaging and - according to the latest anthropological research - sexually attractive. 

The British have a horror of what they call "blowing your own trumpet" and are deeply averse to earnestness, pomposity and self importance. Statements that in another culture, would simply be attributed as confident expressions of self esteem are misinterpreted in Britain as boastful and self-aggrandising. 

On the Stiff Upper Lip

The British Empire was built on the deadpan, the clenched jaw, the occasional polite smile. Adversity was something to be confronted with stoicism and sang-froid - there are numerous apocryphal tales of the phlegmatic reaction of Britons to disaster. The imperturbable refusal to reach histrionically to tragedy and disaster came into its own at times of national crisis - the terrible losses of the Great War, the devastation of the Blitz. And when the cards are really down, the British show an implacable tendency to keep calm and carry on.

On Ostentation

The British are said to be resentful of success and comfortable with failure. It is scarcely surprising then that ostentation was never a quality that was admired or emulated. Discretion about wealth and worldly success was the order of the day. There is an underlying suspicion that being flash with the cash is a terrible giveaway; what it reveals is that the cash is a newly acquired novelty, not a birthright.

Do you have a manners bete noire? Mine is tardiness;oh and show offs, windbags and general bores. 

Sights On You: ReAura Laser.

source

What would you say if I said I could offer you reduced lines, firmer skin, and a magic eraser to rub out a lifetime  of sun damage accrued on the Cote d'Azur, Blackpool and California?

Yes? Me too.

When Philips offered me the chance to trial the ReAura laser for 8 weeks I bit off their hand like  a ravenous  Doberman. 

I hope to emerge rejuvenated after 8 weeks: a very post modern brunette version  of Ayesha from Rider Haggard's She; bathed in the  magical Pillar of Life's fire.

Oh for this edition.

Forgive the cliche, but here comes  the science on the first at home laser based on Fraxel technology :


“The Philips product is a second generation device which has been demonstrated to be safe and effective”, said Dr Christopher Zachary, Professor and Chair of the Department of Dermatology at the University of California, Irvine.  “It has a sophisticated high speed scanner, similar to the Fraxel line of lasers, and was assessed in an 80 patient study to treat the full face, neck, chest and arms. Patients were instructed to use the Philips laser twice a week for 8-12 weeks”. Immediate side effects included some redness and slight swelling which lasted about 1-2 days.  About 50% patients noticed an improvement after one week, and over 90% at week 8.  There was statistically significant improvement in all study categories (including overall appearance, fine lines, pigmentation – age/sun spots, texture, firmness and radiance) at one week and four weeks after completing the course of treatment.  “It is likely that patients might have to undergo a periodic maintenance treatment, as with any skin rejuvenating regime.”


 I had a telephone consultation to establish whether or not I was a suitable candidate and Philips offer online support and a telephone helpline for users.
So as not to bore the pantaloons off all of you I shall report back after my 8th treatment and then my 16th.
Now then, my baseline is  pretty good for a 47 and a  half year old woman. Even though I have spent a large part of my life abroad, I have worn sunblock on my face every day since I was 21, so I really have no  sun damage at all. I have dynamic lines but no static ones yet. I do however have the curse of my genetic background namely  broken capillaries around my nose and cheeks as pink as one of  those creepy Victorian china dolls - alas the ReAura does not treat this problem so I had best just keep my ringlets and petticoats to a minimum. In addition I have the first signs of  crepiness on my neck (it doesn't show up in the i phone pics but I'll try to get someone to take a pic ) and the usual volume loss along my jawline and nasolabials associated with nearing my 50th year. It will be interesting  to see if the fibroblast/collagen stimulation brings  improvement to those areas.
*My intention  was  to use this to firm up my jawline and to improve my crepey neck and hands but see note below about my skeletal mitts.
Brace yourselves, I come from Nordic people, without a tan,  we are as pink as a slice of Spam.

The first signs of jowldom.


1. Does it hurt?
No, not really, it feels like a prickle from a very languid  honeybee's butt but after a little while my skin  felt very hot, like mild sunburn. 
2. How do you look after a treatment?
As if I had placed my face on a griddle pan for 5 minutes. Do not plan on going out. All was well by the next morning though a little tender on my neck,
3. Where do I buy this magic elixir?
It is UK only at the moment, and available for the pretty sum of £799
solely from Space NK.
4. Where else can it be used?
The hands, decollete, forearms.
My hands however are tendonous bags of skin and proved too bonio for the device to traverse, it was like trying to drive a three wheeled Robin Reliant over the back of the Loch Ness Monster.


So far my one bug bear is that it takes so long to do. I was bored out of my mind waiting on the "ta da dah!" fanfare which the laser emits once a zone is completed but trust me I am not known for my patience. 

For those wanting to see what it can do for photo damage, check out 
Lila's blog, she has had incredible results.
I had wanted to show evidence of that Blackpool holiday, but I am too lazy to go up to the attic to haul out old photos. My sunburn was so bad we had to call the doctor and I spent three days lying in a B&B on my tummy covered in calamine lotion. Of course I still managed to eat my weight in false teeth,  pink dummy tits and rock. 
If you aren't from Blighty that last line may have blown your mind.

Extreme Unction

Shhsppt, shhsppt!  

Regular  visitors to the B & P salon will know that I don't really like perfume, my feral little snout is too overactive to be bombarded with artificial scents, I like to keep my nostrilium clear for sniffing out bourbon, cake and trouble.

But at last, I have  found something which allows me  to participate in the indulgent  rite of self anointing. Sulking and preening in my boudoir with Nivea's body lotion has been a rather Puritanical experience until now. 

Diptyque's Voile Satin body oil contains the merest whiff of jasmine and saffron in a unctuous slippery base which means I can at last  play High Priestess in the bedroom.

Fear not, I only sacrifice gingerbread men on my altar; death by nibbling.

oh look I'm the genie in the bottle.

Anything new in your beauty arsenal?

Saturday with Madame Bovary

I both love and despise Flaubert's first novel, Madame Bovary.

I loathe  Emma for her spendthrift displaced misery and sappy   daydreaming and yet I recognise myself in her unadulterated lust for the beautiful, the transcendent which makes the grind of provincial housewifery just that bit more bearable.

Perhaps she is my Jungian shadow figure. But enough of that psychobabble tosh, look at my beautiful new edition. Does it not remind you of...

Yes, there may be more of Emma in myself than I care to acknowledge. Though God forbid I ever become  a Barbara Cartland reading shopaholic.

I had a meeting at the Corinthian whose interior I love. It looks like the Central Perk for  holy choirs of cherubim and seraphim. Though don't even think that their rosy cheeked bottoms are allowed anywhere near the cobra hooded Louis chairs, those are reserved for the high posteriors of the archangels. 

BUMP.

What's that noise? Ah yes that was me back at home, polishing off baked beans on toast - lashings of butter on the scorched  bread please. This humble repast would have set Madame Bovary off on an adulterous frenzy with the nearest banker but Curator, Claire and I  kicked off a culinary satyricon as we salivated over a baked beans on toast orgy  last week. Do you know that over  90% of tinned baked beans are consumed by Brits? It's a bit weird isn't it?

Do note that most of the sauce must be drained off prior to heating to ensure optimal butteriness to soak through.

In the evening, having at last whittled off my 5lbs Christmas excess, I dressed in fine lace for a night at the opera, Emma would have liked that; however the dress is 15 years old, Emma would not have liked that. 

I indulged in a glass of Veuve, a much more cheery tipple than Emma's choice of cocktail - arsenic on the rocks. Some women just don't know how to handle their drink.

Hitchcock Style

Glacial blondes in cashmere and pearls. 

Fine boned frames sheathed in pencil skirts.  

Coiled updos revealing the sensual curve of an alabaster neck.

 How on earth did a man who resembled a walrus bequeath such a blueprint for the WASP femme fatale?

Hitchcock was a voyeur but we, the audience, fell in love with his flaxen Pygmalions, and I have fallen in love with Assouline's new book, Hitchcock Style. 

To Catch A Thief is my favourite Hitchcock film, it is  set in the Carlton Hotel in Cannes where I used to summer during my childhood. I still dream of going there in a blue chiffon dress and being swept off my feet by a mahogany tanned Cary Grant.

Did anyone else spend their single dating life searching for a flawed Hitchcock Hero?

 I certainly did. 

All images: Assouline

Available for purchase at Assouline 

Jumping Jack Flash

Peek a boo! Here I am reading the world's smallest book.

I have  never been much of a saver but when I set my heart on Hermes Jumping boots  a few years ago I knew that my time had come to don miserly fingerless gloves, turn down the heat and  break open the cat food. 

Why do I love them? They are the antithesis of all of those baroque  'prosy trotters' that have been in fashion for what seems like aeons.

They are simple, classic and timeless.  

"The jumping boot is the contrary of pretty. It is daring, dynamic, Amazonian. You can see at a glance a union between the masculine rough universe and the very sophisticated and elegant femininity and that is very Hermès. What’s masculine? The shape, yet reduced to a feminine scale."  Pierre Hardy, Hermes shoe designer.

Are you saving for something or is parsimony as elusive to you as a kiss from the Easter bunny?

source

A Life Less Ordinary

When chapman billies leave the street

And drouthy neebors, neebors meet

As market-days are wearing late

An' folk begin to tak the gate

While we sit bousing at the nappy

An' getting fou and unco happy

We think na on the lang Scots miles

The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles

That lie between us and our hame...

Don't worry it's not quite Burns night, I'm not going to force any of you to eat haggis doused in whisky - quite yet, although you should trust me on that one, it's utterly delicious. Instead I am letting you all into my survival secret. 55 degrees north can be a souless bleak place to bivouac in winter, the last few weeks have seen neighbours' cars crushed by trees, chimneys fall through into dining rooms and  the demise of a 300 year old tree which I'm quite sure spoke to me.

At times like these I return to the succour of the ancients, namely Robert Burns. 

A roughshod B& P  translation of the clunky Germanic Scots above- Burn's most famous poem would be...

"Boss, boss, de plane, de plane!"

I know; you're thinking, 'Fantasy Island' aren't you? What on earth has this to do with Burns?  Well, I don't only believe in survival of the fittest but survival of the fantasists. Forget Mull, we're off to Fantasy Island! What else was Burns doing when he was getting "fou"?

It's no secret  that Scots shelter within the warm ample, umm, gynecomastic  bosom of John Barleycorn of an evening, Burns wrote of doing just that and the dreadful weather outside and on Friday night it is always cocktail hour at 6.00pm Chez Tabs.

Just as the clink of the ice cube tinkles into our second tumbler, my chum 'N' or I  will utter Tattoo's clarion call and the other will clap like a seal with anticipation. It heralds our game, "What if old Aunt Ermintrude kicked the bucket tomorrow and left us as sole heir?"

On Friday night my life less ordinary started with this desk which the divine Aerin Lauder is perched on above, it's by Gabriella Crespi but blow me down, one of my favourite London shops Birgit Israel has just made a version of it for their bespoke furniture collection, cheap as chips at er... £13, 500. When I found out about it last week, I almost disemboweled my piggy bank with a butter knife.  

On 'Fantasy Island', this desk and De Gournay wallpaper have been my  number one lust  since the  game began. (Oh yes, we play it all the time and never tire of it, it's like tea and toast for our wizened parched souls.)

Next up? Get out of Dodge. My  new life will be spent living in London and LA. I'm going to sojourn in  LA LA land all summer, I'm going to buy the house of my dreams - a Silver Bullet and park it up by Paradise Cove in Malibu and spend my days with surf washed hair, in a wetsuit,  burnt to a golden crisp. In the autumn I shall return  to London to my cosily converted mews house ( with a Twombly and an Auerbach in the hall) down a cobbled lane in Belgravia/ Chelsea/Pimlico,  seek succour in laser treatments from that saucy French frog, Jean Louis Sebagh, and become a patron of The Arts.

Birgit Israel

source

mews house

You are never going to believe this but your old vinegar and lavender soaked Aunt Ermintrude has just passed away and left you as sole heir to £160,000,000. The codicil to her will reads, "Have a double and dream."

Let's hear it...

Disclaimer:

Anyone who puts their  money towards world peace or orphanages will be thwacked back to Miss World  training camp with an

 hair-raising  jolt from my electric cattle prod.

PS. Happy Birthday Wendy!