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Sheridan Wells

Every Little Helps

It was a lovely wedding and the bride looked sumptuous. The honeymoon was memorable, of course, and then SHERIDAN WELLS settled down to looking after her home and her man.

But what with the cost of living rocketing at week-ends, Sheridan found the budget hardly allowed for a Sunday joint. So, she went out and did some modelling in her spare time.

“Thanks,” she said when the agency paid her, “every little helps.”

“That’s not little,” said the agency, counting it out again.

“That’s what you think,’ said Sheridan, “haven’t you seen the price of tomatoes?”

“We’re off tomatoes, they give us the pip.”

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Britt Hampshire

She Forgot Her Gloves

It was like the man next door who left his house to catch his train to work. He looked absolutely dapper, as he always did, in his single-breasted, narrow-lapelled charcoal grey suit, complete with buttonhole. But he was still wearing his carpet slippers and when he reached the station the only thing the friendly porter could do was to lend him a pair of railway boots. The day was a ridiculous one for him, he spent it noisily clumping round the office, making the typists quiver and inciting the boss to send out orders demanding the removal of some road-breaking machine that had been smuggled into the building. Well, it didn’t get as ridiculous as that for BRITT HAMPSHIRE. She only forgot her gloves. She had everything else needed to make a girl look well-dressed and glamorous and gloves hardly mattered. It was just that a finishing touch, like neat gloves or cute hat, completes a girl’s look to her own satisfaction. Sometimes when a girl feels gloves are a must, such as on the occasion of being a guest at a well-dressed wedding, and she finds she’s either forgotten them or misplaced them, the event is absolutely ruined for her.

She feels quite undressed.

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Anne Duke

Aristocratic Cobblers

Cobblers means codswallop. Codswallop means my eye and Betty Martin. Or drivel. What it all boils down to is that it’s a lot of jazz and junk to imply being aristocratic is indivisible from a pink hat and an Ascot sunshade.

For us ANNE DUKE looks aristocratic all over. Elegant, bewitching and self-assured. Maybe self-designated aristocrats have a butler to help them over a gate to ensure they don’t have trouble with their skirts, but you can’t say an elegant, bewitching and self-assured look doesn’t have an aristocratic aura to it—even when there’s a gate trying to sabotage the elegance.

Anne is Welsh. We don’t know if she can sing but she isn’t half lovely to look at. The man who lives round the next corner to her has gone off his cornflakes and gone on to carrots. He wants to sharpen up his eyesight. “What for?” asked his wife. “Oh, just to make sure I won’t miss anything,” he said.

“What’s anything?” she said. “Oh, you know, birds and flying saucers,” he said.

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Pinky Sands

Perky Pinky

This is another fairy story.

No matter how much television plays seek to befuddle you into believing there’s no such thing as a happy ending and that life for everybody is a lot of old boots, the fact is nice things do happen to people.

Princes and fairy queens and old harpies on broomsticks don’t play such impressive parts as they used to, but nevertheless, take the story of PINKY SANDS.

There she was, sitting home most nights and wondering what to do about life. Nothing fantastic ever seemed to happen and she couldn’t find a great deal of glamour in her typewriter, especially when it came to changing the ribbon.

Then a man who was photographing the bridesmaids at a wedding saw her looking long-legged and lovely among the guests and said, taking his eye off the bridesmaids so that they came out with their heads cut off, “You look like you ought to be a model, go and apply to an agency.”

So Pinky did just that and the agency said what a willowy wonder she was, and now Pinky rents a cosy little flat in town and is long-leggedly engaged in the glamour world of modelling. No wonder she’s perky.

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Jacki Owen

Boots and Minis

They can work themselves into frenzies trying to wrap the dollies in maxi-skirts, but they won’t get any help from us.

Nor from JACKI OWEN, except in the line of duty.

Jacki is a fashion model and all right, maybe she does have to glide down the catwalk all covered up in a maxi, but she hasn’t bought one for herself yet.

Perhaps, says Jacki, it’s all right for the skinny ones who look better with their legs covered up, but I’m not skinny and I think I’ve got rather nice legs, don’t you?

Divine is a better word.

Thank you. Well, then, says Jackie, what would you do?

We’d keep making life a lovely eyeful for our fellow-men.

Oh, go on, says Jackie, I’m not as inspiring as that.

You are to us, you gorgeous thing.

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Joan Paul


It’s not something you need go to a psychiatrist about. JOAN PAUL doesn’t, but some people do.

“Rest comfortably on the couch, please. Comfy? Nice and relaxed? Good. Now then, what’s the trouble?”

“I’ve got a mania.’’

“Oh, have you? So have I. I was thinking of going to a psychiatrist about it.” “But you’re a psychiatrist yourself.”

“I can’t help that, we’ve all got our problems. Now about my mania—it comes over me mostly in the park.”

“Excuse me, but I’m the patient, it’s my mania I’ve come to discuss with you, not yours. Look, see that, I’ve got one leg in the air.”

“Is that your mania?”

“No, that’s my cramp. My mania is to do with mini-skirts. The whole thing is a terrible worry to me and I can’t sleep at nights.”

“Why is it such a worry?”

“I keep thinking they’ll go out of fashion. Ouch, there goes my cramp again.”

When one realises just how scintillating Joan is in her mini, one can’t help sympathising with all men who worry about when it will all end.

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Dawn De Vere

Last Day of Winter

It’s all right now, isn’t it, with you pushing your hot toes through the warm sand and Essie soaking up the sun in her incalculably radiant bikini.

You’re all hot.

So to bring a touch of coolness cast your mind back to the last day of winter when it was perishing cold and nobody thought anything of spring being just around the corner. We thought it might strike at the roots of your sun-charged complacency if we showed you what the last day of winter was like to DAWN DE VERE, Essex secretary.

Dawn simply loves the outdoors, except when the last day of winter turns out to be as chilly as this one. Only an inborn outdoor type could put up with it all.

But don’t be put off. If Dawn can smile in a temperature of zero, so can you. All you need do is to wear a fur coat and stoke up your metabolism.

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Eva Warsava

Polish Poppet

During the war, there was an awful ding-dong going on in France, and Stanislaw Warsava was right in the thick of it, serving with a Free Polish unit. Still, there were far lovelier things to come. Off-duty behind the lines one day he met the most entrancing Polish girl who had escaped her suffering country and made her way through France.

They came to England, married and settled down in Carlisle. They had a lovely daughter later on. Here she is.

EVA WARSAVA, born of her happy Polish parents, can’t help being addicted to Britain. She’s eighteen now and lives in digs in Streatham in south-west London. She came to London to take up an office job but found it too monotonous. It was all biff-bang on a typewriter. The bell kept pinging.

Then she met a photographer. He said, “You’ll do, you’re a living doll.” Eva thought he was trying to make impetuous headway, but he was only trying to tell her she was a natural as a photographic glamour girl. In the end Eva took his advice and became a model.

Wasn’t it lucky her father-to-be met her mother-to-be in France? If he hadn’t, Eva might never have happened. It makes one go all weak at the thought.

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Vicky Landau

Just a Memory

When she left Hamburg some time ago to come to England, VICKY LANDAU thought well, it won’t be long before I’m back, there’s my dog Rupert and Willi Albrecht from the shipping company, they’re both lovely.

But now Rupert the dog and Willi the shipper are both just a memory. Vicky is still here, established in a cosy flat in London and earning her keep by lucrative modelling jobs.

“Naturally,” said Vicky in her fluent native tongue to Nigel Merry-weather in a London pub, “I shall go back one day, probably when I’ve made my fortune.”

“Could you speak in English,” said Nigel, “as I only speak German like an incoherent Italian in a wine barrel.”

“Oops, you are so funny,” said Vicky.

“Actually,” said Nigel, “I’m dead serious, you’re the most devastating bird I’ve ever met, and I tell you frankly. I’ve got designs on you. Have two more double Scotches,”

“I think,” said Vicky, “that you are trying to get me drunk.”

“I’ll be truthful,” said Nigel, “I’m that kind of rotter.”

“Englishmen,” murmured Vicky, “are fascinating but much too naughty,” And she poured her drink down his shirt front and then conked him with a German candlestick she always carries in her handbag.

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Diane King

Called To The Bar

There are various ways of being called to the bar. If you’re a prospective barrister, dead keen to do all you can to facilitate the functioning of the law, all you need do is pass an exam that would fill the ordinary citizen with a sickening sense of his ineptitude in such matters.

The way most of us like is in the nature of an invitation.

“Come on, Bert, over here—where you been? I’ve had six since I arrived and I can’t do me belt up.”

When DIANE KING received her call to the bar it was at a cocktail party, where the sumptuous decor included a corner bar and a high stool for a long-legged lady.

“That’s for me,” said Diane.

“And very nice you look too,” said the mini-skirt enthusiast.

“No, not the stool,” said Diane, ‘‘the bottle of red Cinzano. With soda water, please.”