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.
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.
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.
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.”
Now that winter is here the girls are going in for all kinds of bizarre garments.
A bizarre garment is a garment designed to keep a girl looking kooky and feeling warm. Fashions are at their kookiest at the moment, as you know, what with feather boars and hats like the cowboy’s wear.
Amongst the kookiest girls it’s the silly season.
SUSAN DOUGLAS, who is among the most elegant and well-dressed models we know, is also among those who go in for long pants—these are indeed very kooky but marvellously warm.
You can’t take umbrage at the dears when they make life so exciting for us. You can always look forward to the time when the silly season is over and they’ve exchanged their feather boars for parasols and their long pants for bars of chocolate.
All over the world the uninhibited young ones are worshipping at the feet of those who bring to them the indescribable bliss of pop music. In the beat clubs of Berlin, the young workers find dynamic escapism on the dance floors, and it’s go, go, chick, be your age, you’re only young once. Caught in a mood of unrivalled vitality and zest is ANGIE HOLT, a secretary in West Berlin. Unrepressed, having nothing to do with anything that smacks of convention or establishmentarianism, Angie is representative of all that is alive and joyful in the big city of today.
Considering the millions of girls who are all representative of the absolute fascination of their kind today, it might be difficult for people like geologists and back-room boffins to decide which girl is more representative of our times than all the others.
When one is not only studying Chinese in a Paris university but also working hard in one’s spare time to earn one’s university fees, one needs the occasional break.
MARIE AUGE may not be able to afford a five-course lunch, even though there’s nothing that would give you greater joy than buying her one, but she has to eat.
During university recesses Marie works as a manicurist. At lunchtime break she likes a soufflé.
At a Chinese restaurant she knows in Paris they serve the most aromatic and fluffy soufflés. She orders in Chinese. It helps her with her homework. It seems a terrible waste dedicating oneself to Chinese, because there’s not much call for it except in China. Where’s China? Oh, sorry, Chairman Mao.