Mary Norton - just like The Borrowers...

cosmictanya wrote:

Oh well, there you go. A 7 it is, but I am 5ft10 so it's not out of proportion.

You're the same height as me!

Perhaps they were right on ***, we are the same poster after all.

Well we've yet to be seen in the same room simultaneously, so in that festering pit of fetid paranoia and delusional hysteria, rooted in such foul undeniable misogyny in tone and undertone, they'd probably quite like to drown the pair of us - after some corrective intercourse to maximize any opportunities for humiliation. 

If only one drowns, clearly she'll have headed straight for the Styx to bring her associates back up with her. Best at that point to burn the swimmer alive, concrete over the lake, lay some Minton tiles over it, and vote on whose skyscraper should be victoriously erected for the others to venerate in envious wonderment.

Reichsmarschall Heil T*nks* reporting for duty sir.

I dread to think what's going to become of all the footwear the northern half of Italy does with such excellence.





This time next year*, survivors might be forced to wear Freeman Hardy Willis shoes in wipe down leather effect vinyl.

*Happy Passover greetings to all.

Chag semeach.

Vogue tells me that primroses and peach pastels are very in as we go into summer 2020, taking the overtly feminine themes of the last few seasons with us on a directional journey where more radical and sharper angles can be utilised to soften ruffles. I had suspected as much.

I remember being surprised at seeing that, Viz doesn't usually do observational comedy about women's clothes from the wearer's point of view.

I'll be up for the day now. I had planned to visit a friend so she could invoke some kind of divine intervention, but I've just discovered that my black cemetery shoes (kept contained in several thick plastic bags, in a plastic box so they don't contaminate my environment after contact with soil where all that unhygienic horror is present) have somehow fallen apart since they were last placed in there. It was actually her funeral that convinced me of the need for a dedicated pair - I was so repulsed by the process of burial, and was unexpectedly called forward to serve as one of the ceremonial rope holders.

The heels of my shoes sank in the corrupt mud, and the idea of cleaning them, wearing them again, or walking through my front door in them disgusted me so much I had to bin them. All those people, soaked by rain seepage, locked for eternity in their sodden satin lined boxes, alone, expanding and exploding and degenerating into a maggot infested soup. Writhing flesh sliding off the bone in stinking lumps. A vision of hell, and people nonchalantly trailing through their own houses in the very shoes that have stood in proximity to that. Disgusting.

The pair in question has lasted twenty years - not bad, so I'll have to see what else is available online. What a depressing task.

These might do for £60...



Not at all bad for a fiver, with the extra advantage of a white sole so you can see, even at arms length, that they've been thoroughly cleaned and disinfected after each use before being bagged and sealed...



Yes, very practical, I'll have those for £5.

I prefer the black sole.

I like it less, it suits my sole purpose less appropriately, and it's £55 more.

Waiting for the delivery will give me more time to have some suitable flowers arranged. The last time I went there I had to throw away a mud-caked fake lilac coloured rose wreath someone had left. She'd have preferred my own offering of a white candle in a glass hurricane jar, along with pink lilies, white jasmine, and birds of paradise. I'll take that same combination again.

It'll be interesting to see if the amethyst cave and collection of crystals and pebbles I've added over time is still intact. It's a grim old place all told.

It still bothers me that her family buried her without eye makeup. She was very proud of her eyelids and the languid expression they helped create, and never left the house without liquid liner and false eyelashes. Still, you can't really say anything when it's not your event. If I wasn't so repulsed by corpses in general I'd have fixed it myself before any more people 'viewed'.

If she'd been attired appropriately and cremated after glowing tributes and good music, then instead of recalling a bad waxwork of Joanna Lumley about to be locked in the ground forever, I'd be better able to think of her the last time I saw her alive - all done up, dashing off to the theatre in gold Cleopatra earrings*, a black suede bomber jacket, leopard print catsuit, and little black suede stiletto ankle boots with gold laces. Or wearing a blue Paisley print kaftan, drenched in Chanel No.5, with no shoes, at my birthday party the month before.

Who knows whether she was given the decency of a final manicure and a fresh application of her never without it Estée Lauder pink nail varnish. I couldn't see for the frightful shroud.

*She had some very striking stuff, lots made from gold her grandfather had mined. Most of that in my grateful possession.