The price of vanity!

Just the other day a friend and I attended a fashion show put on by one of our largest stores to raise funds for the Breast Friends charity. A good cause that we felt we had to contribute to. The show was held at Moor Hall, my favourite stately home type hotel and eating place. The ambience there was perfect for such an occasion. I made lots of notes of appealing outfits but have yet to explore the possibility of purchase.

However, we did come away with goody bags containing loads of samples for making ourselves look not only more beautiful but youthful too. One of the samples was a new award winning product by Lancôme, namely Génifique, a youth activator. These days anything that claims to hold the secret of youthful skin sounds very attractive. I used the sample for several days and I swear I could see a difference. I agree that may be a little over the top but I did enjoy the feel of the product and my skin seemed suddenly to glow with life.

Obviously a trial run was not enough; the treatment needed to be continued forthwith. Under the circumstances it’s perfectly understandable that a trip to town was considered to be somewhat urgent, never mind that a phone call was expected from Australia at 11 o’clock my time. The shopping precinct being a mere stone’s throw away I knew I could be home in good time to take the call.

At the store, stopping only to buy a couple of jackets at greatly reduced price ... well, who can resist bargains, especially since recent weight loss means I have nothing to wear … I headed for the Lancôme counter. A beautiful young assistant told me she couldn’t serve me because the fire alarm was going off. What? I listened … and could just about hear it under the blare of music.

I love music but there’s a time and a place and stores that make frequent announcements to the public should not play music at a pitch where nothing else can be heard. Why on earth we need music playing in stores is a mystery and today proved my point that it’s not only unnecessary but a possible safety hazard. But back to the fire alarm…

When I had decided to go out I didn’t take into account the possibility of mass evacuation of the entire shopping mall. Having been told to leave the store, I automatically went to the nearest escalator which led to the door where my car was parked. Half way down I was called back, ordered to switch over to the one going UP. Then I was hustled out of the store to join the throng of people being ushered away. A continuing announcement told us that an incident had been reported that required evacuation of the Mall, ending with the statement that under no circumstances should we attempt to go back for our cars. Alarm bells continued to go off to demonstrate the seriousness of the incident.

Isn’t it amazing how people talk to each other when there’s a crisis? I was in the middle of a conversation with a couple of folk when my cell phone vibrated in my pocket. It was a text message from Australia to say the intended call could not be made at 11 o’clock, and the caller would ring the next day. Whoops, in the excitement of the evacuation I’d forgotten all about the expected phone call. But what a relief that the call had been put off because there was no way I would get home in time.

I continued to chat with the two ladies, often having to repeat things because of the row made by the non-stop announcement and alarms, but then suddenly the noise stopped. It was all over. Of course we had to wait while all the employees went back to their respective shops and opened for business a second time. I spotted the lovely Lancôme assistant heading back to the store and as soon as permission was granted I went in to make my purchase.

I just hope it was all worth it. On a final note I must praise the security people who dealt with the evacuation. The entire area was vacated in minutes in a fuss-free, calm manner. I was impressed by the professionalism and shall always feel safe when I go shopping in that part of town.

MARKING TIME

Initially, the notion of travelling back through time filled me with fearful foreboding. Not the actual crossing over from now to then, I could cope with that, being a bit heroic in the exploring stakes. No, it was the idea of meeting up with a dead person that worried me, knowing he's dead yet sitting with him, drinking coffee, or vodka, pretending he's alive and feeling talkative. Famous or infamous, he'd still be dead. Deceased! Defunct! But on second thoughts, I guess it could be fun. Question is, which man would I like to meet. I say he, but it doesn't have to be a man. Take Cleopatra. She was intriguing as an individual, though I wouldn't fancy encountering her in case she was still screwed up over that blessed asp. Best leave her dead and buried in case she turns spiteful and sets an asp on yours truly. Let me think. What about Will Shakespeare? His stories were brilliant. He could string words like pearl necklaces. Put me to shame, he would, if we met. I'd rather carry on in blissful contentment, writing my own yarns, getting them read my only concern. William Caxton wouldn't have such trials, he'd print his own. William Caxton, English printer? Now he was bright. Without him I couldn't have read Shakespeare's Macbeth, or Hamlet, or The Taming of the Shrew. Or Wilbur Smith! Caxton was born in 1422. In Kent. He became apprenticed to a London cloth dealer and ultimately set up his own business in Bruges. I'd like to know how his interest in printing arose but I daresay cotton cloth and papyrus were similar. I could ask him about design and layout. He was Governor to the English merchants in Bruges and negotiated on their behalf with the Dukes of Burgundy but somewhere along the line he cottoned on (excuse the pun) to printing and took himself off to Cologne to learn the art. Bit of a traveller was Will: England, Belgium, Germany, by ship and by road. I wonder if the ancient ships were as uncomfortable as I imagine them to be. I'd ask what life was like in the 1400s, what sort of pace it had and how he felt when he set up his press in Bruges. Must have been thrilling, in 1474, when he printed his own version of a French romance entitled Recuyell of the Historyes of Troye. Like I said, he was bright. Bet the poets Chaucer and Gower and John Lydgate thought so too, when he published their works. William Caxton, printer of a hundred books. Perhaps, if I went back, I could persuade him to give me some publishing tips. What satisfaction I'd have vetoing today's uninterested publishers and printing my own.

Dream Talk

Do you talk in your sleep? You do? What language do you use?

My Guy is a great one for talking in his sleep, the only trouble is I can’t understand a word he says? I can’t make up my mind if he’s talking Swahili or gibberish. It’s driving me mad. I suppose there’s nothing to say he has to speak in his own tongue but it would be ever so convenient if he did. It’s very frustrating. I mean, he could be revealing all sorts of secrets and there’s me not understanding a word. How would I know? My school never taught Swahili or even gibberish?

I wish I could sleep through it but, no, the minute he starts I wake … at least I think I do … and lie there in my little bed straining to decipher the words. It’s even worse when he talks about something exciting, when the voice rises almost to a crescendo making it impossible even to interpret the plot. I might just as well forget the whole thing and go back to sleep.

My trouble is I’m inquisitive and I don’t like being kept in ignorance over hush-hush things happening in the middle of the night. I wonder if someone could invent dreams with subtitles. The mind boggles sometimes when after a few grunts he starts with the action. The grunts are similar to the ones uttered at the start of a domestic, the sort that say ‘Oh no, not again!’ But when there’s one of those his arms don’t lash out and his legs certainly don’t start kicking. He’s quite a saintly person to argue with, that’s how I know he’s not dreaming about me! And it’s definitely not sexy behaviour … come to think of it I don’t believe I’ve ever seen how he reacts to a sexy dream. Perhaps he doesn’t have them anymore. I don’t like to ask… just in case...

One night I tried to record a lengthy conversation he was having but when I played it back the tape was totally blank. Perhaps I hadn’t switched the recorder on properly. I tried again the next night, making sure before I nodded off that the recorder was set up accurately and all I had to do was press a button. Again, when checked out the next day there was no recording although the tape had wound on to its full extent. Don’t you find that interesting? I tested the equipment, talking in English, and it recorded beautifully. After trying several times more I came to the conclusion that dream talk can’t be recorded … unless, of course, you know better.

Talented Bloggers Part II

Today it is my privilege to link up with another blogging friend and to announce the publication of her book and her blog. The first post is dedicated to Star, who has written a book using the pseudonym Amanda Marigold. Amanda’s book is a mystery entitled Murder in the School … here's the synopsis. “The arrival of a new Head Teacher in the school causes turbulence amongst the staff. It isn't long before tensions escalate and strange things begin to happen. The school secretary decides to take matters into her own hands and begins to collect together the tools of her trade, which include a broom and three black cats.”

The mere mention of black cats has me wondering and I intend reading it as soon as I can. I read one of her stories on-line and believe me I couldn’t wait for the next part to be posted. Amanda Marigold is also the name of her new blog which you can find here. She has an open invitation to writers so why not pay her a visit and find out all about it.