Regression

With the appearance of the last Harry Potter instalment, and seeing how my girls have grown up with those books as a sort of kiddielit theme running intermittently through their lives, I started thinking about which books I'd read as a child that I would now regard as real favourites - books I would not have missed for quids, and which I would still happily nibble on alongside my more grown-up literary diet. Books that taught me not to write ridiculously long sentences too. (Obviously didn't dip into too many of those).

Winnie the Pooh? Yes, and the Wind in the Willows, Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass, Little Women and its sequels, the Narnia books of course ... Seven Little Australians, Picnic at Hanging Rock (gave me nightmares for months), the Molesworth stories I pinched from my brother - and the terribly un-PC Famous Five as a sort of comfort-food collection when I was feeling low. I still have all of these books and many others from that part of my childhood (7 to 12 perhaps?), but I've settled on one special one as a favourite.

Norton Juster's "The Phantom Tollbooth" is still a wonderful book. A modern fairy tale (written in the early sixties I think), it's the magical journey of a disenfranchised, bored little boy called Milo who discovers the power of words, numbers, concepts and friends, and learns the value of getting off his bottom and actually doing something.

Seek it out and read it, and go back to a time of innocence, wonder and adventure, where wordplay becomes fun and fantasy leaps happily from page to page. It's not Hogwarts, but sometimes one book says enough.

Tomahawks and Jelly Beers

Desperately trying to find time this morning to get around to my usual haunts and say hello, but it's Production Week for the younger girls' youth theatre group and it's a nightmare. Well, lots of fun, but rehearsals every night until 11pm and then performances on Friday night and two on Saturday. I am working props and backstage, so I'm a tad weary - as are the girls!

We're doing a spoof Western (a musical) this year, and at midnight last night I was filling beer mugs with brownish gel then topping them with more gel, white and fluffed up, to look like real beers. Today I need to do the whisky shots and fill the bottles with ginger ale, repair a peace-pipe and bundle enough sticks together to roast three bar-room girls at totem poles. As you do. (Except we don't, because of course it all ends happily ever after).

Off now to get some green baize for the poker table and roll some more cigars. We're all class.

French for ...?

I'm making an attempt to reacquaint myself with the French language. My read du jour is a phrasebook published by Lonely Planet, and it is chock full of practical, helpful and essential phrases for survival and happiness in the Gallic regions.

However, that's not in the least bit interesting. What is interesting, in fact hilarious, is L.P.'s section on l'amour. Ladies and gentlemen, a primer for the modern tourist:

First you need to sound out your prospective partner. To this end, it is useful to be able to recognise the following phrases:

She is a babe / bitch / hot girl
He is a hot guy / prick (vraiment!)
He / she gets around.

And as things progress:

You have a beautiful body
Do you have a boyfriend / girlfriend / fetish?

And if they don't progress:

You're disturbing me
Your ego is out of control!

As a result of your research, should you then find yourself entwined in the arms of a Frenchman who needs a little coaching in the bedroom (I know they're all reputed to be brilliant lovers, but just suppose), a quick study of this chapter will enable you to give basic directions with complete confidence. I will spare you most of them, but here are a few must-haves:

Let's use (a condom)
Harder / softer / faster / slower
That was amazing / great / weird
I think we should stop now
Easy tiger!

and my personal favourite:
Don't worry, I'll do it myself.

Of course the funniest thing here is actually the bizarre thought of calling a temporary halt to proceedings while you look up the appropriate phrase in your trusty book.

But we must move on - now we are ready for the next page, where we have progressed from sex to love. Yes, I think it's the wrong way round too but I'm not in their target demographic. Call me old-fashioned, but if your relationship is still dependent on a pocket phrasebook for basic communication, perhaps Let's move in together! is a little premature? As for Will you marry me?, words fail - in any language.

Finally, and perhaps not surprisingly, we come to the section on Les Problemes. Skipping past Are you seeing someone else? and I never want to see you again, we have the classic You're just using me for sex. (Well, if you can't actually have a conversation ...)

Assez - enough for now. I'm off to study the other sections in the Social chapter: Repeat after me: C'est uniquement pour mon usage personnel: "This drug is for personal use ..."

Photo: The unbelievably fabulous Brassai.

Vintage and Tissues

I'll post the "PS" at the top: got this one today. Madeleine and her fabulous James. They've now been together for about 14 months, and are kindred spirits, sharing a wonderfully strange sense of humour, a love of music, and a reluctance to sleep before midnight at the earliest. He is a fearsomely good pianist, classically-trained but with jazz improvisation as his real passion. I love him to bits, which, frankly, is just as well.

**********

Well, I was going to wait until I had the "official" photos to post this, but I have some time today and I'm in the mood, so I'll go with the cropped happy snap for the time being.

This is Madeleine, the oldest of our three girls, at her Year 12 Formal a week or so ago. This is quite a big deal here, and comes before final school exam preparations take over every waking moment.

We looked for a very long time for a dress that was just right. Mads wanted something long and classical, but it was more a case of knowing what she didn't want rather than what she did. Funny - the specialist school she goes to has a dance stream and a music stream; the female dancers all wear short dresses, while the musos almost exclusively go "longs". Of course the dancers are very body-aware and confident, but I think the longs look classier (yes Mum).

Anyway - the story of the dress. My much-adored mother died quite suddenly when Mads was only eleven and in her final year at primary school. They were very close, and even now, some of Mads' most powerful creative writing brings up the pain of that loss.

After trawling though shop after shop looking unsuccessfully for the right dress, Mads remembered this one and asked if she could pull it out of storage. It was part of my mother's trousseau, and only she ever wore it. My mum was a very skilled dressmaker, and it's beautifully made in pure ivory silk with antique lace at the bodice, laced with rolled silk ties at the back. It is actually a nightdress, but we figured if turning underwear into daytime couture was OK for Stella McCartney then this was well within the rules for a school Formal.

As soon as Madeleine put it on she knew it was right. She told me she'd always wanted Grandma to make her Formal dress, and now she had. Hugs and tears for both of us, and the decision was made.

So here she is, at almost 18 years old, still thinking of the wonderful woman who loved and gave her her so much. I've always told the girls that Mum lives on through the people she loved most. It's nice that they feel the same way.