Caught in the Act!

’Twas the night before Christmas,
And all through the house
Not a creature was stirring,
Not even a mouse…  EXCEPT FOR A NAUGHTY ELF WHO WAS EATING THE COOKIES AND MILK LEFT OUT FOR SANTA!

Breaking news from the Yuletide Bureau:

Little did Tatiana – employed in the Siberian division of Santa Inc as an ‘elf’ on temporary assignment to assist during the busy Christmas period – know that Mr Claus had sent his crack SS (Secret Santa) troops out into Christmas Eve night, armed with infra red goggles and high-definition telescopic-lensed DSLRs that were able to spot a misbehaving employee from a very long way away.

They spotted her breaking and entering through the chimney of a small cottage in southern Bulgaria (under the ostensible reason of checking that the chimney’s dimensions would allow Mr Claus’ not inconsiderable girth to pass), and within moments of the perp’s entry had taken strategic positions in and around the cottage’s sitting room. And when they saw her flagrantly breaching her contract with Santa Inc., they were not slow in capturing firsthand evidence of her crime.

Caught in the glare of the flash, Ms Tatiana (as she calls herself, refusing to disclose a surname) could not deny she had indeed been sampling the milk and cookies left out for Santa. When questioned directly, she insisted that she was tasting the goods merely in order to ascertain the quantity of sugar in the cookies. “You know he’s diabetic?” she added in an ingenuous tone. “I couldn’t risk the possibility that Mr Claus might suffer a fatal attack on my watch.”

This was a serious allegation against Mr Claus, the CEO of a major global corporation, but no-one from the headquarters of Santa Inc could be reached for comment.

Ms Tatiana has been remanded in custody pending further investigation.

Merry Christmas.

The Spirit of Christmas

It’s Christmas Eve at last, and it’s a warm summer’s day here in Melbourne. I have grown up with hot Christmases, so for me the notion of a snowy Christmas is exotic. That’s why I particularly love this photoshoot by Tim Walker from British Vogue, shot in Ireland. It’s not snowing, but that billowing tartan skirt looks so cosy, and an armful of holly is a simply wonderful concept. There’s an air of anticipation as they make ready for Christmas; a holiday excitement that makes them sing and skip.

I don’t know which issue of Vogue these pages are torn from, but I am guessing that it is at least 5–10 years old. Although there is a delightful touch of whimsy in the styling (hanging upsidedown; tipping through a window), there is not the Walker trademark of the utterly fantastic. This is not to say the shoot suffers any loss by it; rather it makes it easier to imagine inhabiting that cold Christmas world.

It’s a lovely inspiration for tomorrow however – I haven’t yet decided what to wear. Now a shot lilac silk dress beckons, and perhaps a pair of bejewelled green satin sandals too…

Click on images for larger versions.

Such A Sucker For Red

Still a sucker for red accessories: red shoes, red bags and now red gloves. I recently bought these on eBay despite the fact that winter was well and truly over, but how often do you see vintage 50s elbow length cherry-red leather gloves for sale? Never mind the fact that I already own wrist-length gloves in fire-engine red.

These are butter-soft, and so well made, the stitching on the exterior serving as decoration. I’m looking forward to autumn already!

(The Australian Vogue is from June, 1960.)

It Was Fifty Years Ago Today…

Lulue channels the Sixties in a houndstooth jacket, white mini, knee-high lace-up boots and of course the ubiquitous Vidal Sassoon bob (and, in the truest Sixties style, it’s a wig). Add giant white-framed sunglasses, hot pink fishnets, big jewellery and lashings of black warpaint, and she’s good to go … to a Sixties themed party at the very least.

The Sixties was the decade of youth: the new generation of Baby Boomers born following the war created a new market; a market that rebelled against all expressions of authority. Out went haute couture, and in came fashion off the streets.

The Mini

Tired of the neck and shoulders, fashion found a new erogenous zone: the midriff and thighs. The miniskirt was born in the early Sixties, first worn by art students in Manchester, and then marketed worldwide by Mary Quant in 1965. André Courrèges and Yves Saint Laurent also adopted the brief skirt in their Spring/Summer and Fall/Winter 1965 collections respectively. And also in 1965, what a scandal Jean Shrimpton caused by wearing a minidress to the Melbourne Cup Carnival! 

The Bob

“Everyone wanted more hair, adding thickness and height, whether the cut was short and bobbed, or long, heavy and swinging,” Georgina Howell tells us in her book In Vogue: 75 Years of Style (Condé Nast Books, 1991). Vidal Sassoon’s new do was hard and architectural, requiring a revolution in makeup and the correct hat to complement his bob. To satisfy this desire for height, hairdressers encouraged the use of hairpieces instead of constant and damaging back-combing. Eye makeup darkened – false eyelashes were an essential component of the Sixties look, and lips paled into insignificance.

The Boots

According to Howell, “in summer you went bare-legged and rouged your knees. In the winter you covered your exposed limbs in thick patterned tights or stretch lace, and boots climbed up the legs in pursuit of hemlines.” (How I love that last phrase, boots in pursuit of hemlines!) The go-go boot is the quintessential Sixties footwear, and were originally low-heeled; Lulue’s black lace-ups are more akin to ‘kinky boots’. The term was coined in the UK in the early Sixties, when boots became a mainstream fashion item. Prior to this they were worn predominately in the underground fetish world of the dominatrix.

It was certainly a youthquake, but everything grows tame in time. Young people grow up, and their glory years become a mine for their grandchildren’s theme parties. 

Check out more pics in the Out-takes & Extras album.

Thanks to Lulue for being such a gorgeous model yet again.

Sometimes Mother Does Not Know Best

Must… protect… hair… And also not be recognised whilst doing so.I love my mum. She is not, however, a woman overly interested in fashion and style. She believes in being appropriately dressed for the occasion; she favours modest attire (not too low, not too short); eccentricity receives a dubious frown, and she has strict notions of what looks ridiculous.

“You look like a gypsy!” she declared when I wore an emerald green Indian paisley printed hippy skirt with bells sewn in the hem (I was at art school at the time); too much ethnic jewellery is condemned as ‘drangulije’ – a lovely Croatian word for gewgaws; but her favourite Croatian phrase was an exhortation to ‘be proper!’ Er, perhaps I was a bit of a hoyden when I was younger. And more recently, when I wore my tomato red 40s hat on a visit to the parental home, it was not received with any degree of approbation: it was too odd in Mum’s book. In summary, one should not attract undue attention to one’s attire.

So I was justly indignant when my mother recently suggested that in case I should find myself outdoors in inclement weather, I should carry in my purse a plastic bag that I could place on my head in lieu of an umbrella. I’d like to see her do this. A more ridiculous notion I have never heard!

A plastic bag on the head would be a perfect substitute for an umbrella.

Prada’s clear plastic raincoat that turns opaque when wetMelbourne was experiencing some nasty winter weather at the time, and mum professed concern at my mode of transport to and from work: on foot through the Botanic Gardens. She questioned me closely on my attire, and I informed her reassuringly that I was wearing my red wool and cashmere coat, so was very warm. But that, apparently, was quite inadequate, as there are long splits on the sides under the sleeves. A plastic raincoat would be far more practical. Regrettably, I do not own a plastic raincoat (but if I ever saw one of those fabulous transparent ones Prada made a few years ago, I would snap it up).

A plastic bag on the head would be a perfect substitute for an umbrella. A good quality plastic bag, naturally; not one of those nasty cheap ones from the supermarket.

“Ven it is vindy, the rain blows under the umbrella and you get vet, darling!”

“But mum!” I protested between gales of laughter, “I would look like a lunatic!”

“Who cares! At least you vould be dry!”

“People would call the police if they saw me!”

“Bah! You are talking nonsense.”

It was remarkable how she could carry on with her exhortations even through my continued laughter. I need hardly add that on this occasion I did not take my mum’s advice!