The Cocktail Bar
Memories of Evenings Past
NOTE: This conversation runs backwards! For the benefit
of regular readers the newest comments are put at the top.
Music Playing: Dorita's Big Band with: My Fickle Eye
Dateline: 21 February 1952
Squadron Leader Estelle Fairchild
Just the other day Miss Annalinde described a daring and victorious air-raid
by the Royal Novarian Air Force against a hideous bongo stronghold. In
her quite understandable pride at the outcome of the action, I am afraid
to say Miss Annalinde may have inadvertently neglected to mention that
the Culverian Air Corps also took to the skies in support
of the mission. The Culverians, flying their midnight blue Kadorian Mustangs,
knocked out seven bongo fighters and nine anti-aircraft batteries, so that
this week they are being toasted all over New Kadoria as heroines. And
no flygirl is being more feted than Squadron Leader Capt. Estelle Fairchild,
who received yet another citation for gallantry under fire, making her
now the most decorated ace in New Kadoria.
Here is Capt.
Fairchild in the cockpit of her Mustang, about to take off on a yet another
dangerous mission. Her immaculate lipstick, eyebrows and nails reflect
the great care and precision she brings to her by-now daily missions against
the Forces of Darkness. Fortunate indeed is the enemy who is attacked by
such a perfectly feminine warrior - to be struck by her 50 caliber light-cannon
is an excruciatingly pleasant way to be restored to real femininity
- once one is hit, that is. The anticipation is rather frightening, however.
COL. C. J.("MAD BRUNETTE") PARSONS,
TACTICAL WING COMMANDER,
VII CULVERIAN AIR CORPS,
NEW KADORIA
A Brunette in Love?
And now I will tell you the rest of the story. It was really rather naughty
of me to leave everyone hanging, but I had a sudden pang of conscience
and thought that perhaps I had better ask Gratiana if she minded too terribly
if I told all my friends at the Cocktail Bar about our tete-a-tete. She
merely smiled a stunning smile and said I might tell all I wished, as she
was certainly telling all her friends about St. Valentine's Day.
So: On the fateful eve, I arrived at her apartment at eight o'
clock, right on time (it is definitely the blonde's prerogative to keep
a brunette waiting--any brunette who tried that trick would be in purdah
for good). She came out rather quickly, for a blonde, but I suppose that
is partly because she lives without any mommies to keep me entertained
while she finishes her preparations. She did, however, have a roommate,
a blonde's blonde, very talkative and sweet, and also very blonde in the
conventional, hair-color sense of the word. I suppose Gratiana did not
trust Francine (for that is the roommate's name) to keep me happy for long--or
perhaps (and I like this perhaps) Gratiana simply did not want to
leave me alone with another blonde for too long.... All idle speculation.
When Gratiana did appear, only three or four moments after I entered the
front room, she looked spectacular. She was wearing a dress of the most
silky sea-green sheen imaginable, fringed all down its length, and had
a soft shawl white crocheted shawl as a wrap. Her hair was twisted up in
such a convoluted arrangement of curls and braids that I feared to touch
it, and in a truly Vintessian style,
she wore a broad headband over her brow instead of a hat--the headband
matched her dress perfectly, and just the fancy eye-part of a peacock's
tail feather was tucked into the band, curving delicately across her temple.
She said later in the evening that she had made the entire ensemble, from
crocheted shawl to silk headband (this gives me hope--I can't sew either,
Norma, and with a blonde like Gratiana around, I might not be such a disgrace
to fashion.... But how can I think such a thing? We've only had the one
date...).
We went with all due process to The Banshee. It is a speakeasy,
but the food is the best in town--the chef is a Parisienne, and she is
apparently a very temperamental brunette, sterner than Miss Featherington,
even, when it comes to dealing with her blonde assistants. We had a wonderful
meal, and then the dancing...it was heavenly. She is just the right height
for dancing--I am medium height, and she is very petite, so her head comes
right up to my chin. Perfect. That is when I found out about her streak
of fun, too, for when the band struck up a good fast tune, she did the
Charleston with enough energy to make the lights on the band look dim!
We won the contest, in fact, and then, at Gratiana's urging, I sang a folk
song with the band ("Black Is the Color of My True Love's Hair"). Everyone
was very gracious about my singing, and I think it was better than ever,
if only because I had Gratiana's gaze on me.
Do I sound like a brunette in love? I may be one.
To make a long story short, we danced the night away, and closed
down the speakeasy. It was the most joyous St. Valentine's Day I have ever
celebrated. And for all you who want to know what happened when I took
Gratiana home (at two a.m.), all I have to say is, she was raised very
well, and I am a very proper brunette, and you will just have to wonder!
The only detail I will give you is that no pinching whatsoever occurred.
(Whether I regret that or not is another matter entirely.)
Blissfully yours,
DIANA
Peroxide & Henna
Hello darlings. Charlene gives her best. Oooh, its simply dreadful outside,
I'm Soaked Through. Pardon? Yes, why thank you dear, Excellent suggestion.
A hot buttered rum would be Perfection! I will say this for the Winter
Season, which is nearly passed, at least I can wear my minks and, for once,
not be overly warm. Unfortunately, the weather here doesn't afford one
many excuses to bundle up in extravagant furs and being the Western Vintesse
Blonde that I am, I try to never miss an opportunity to indulge myself.
Perhaps I should relocate to Helsinki. Can you imagine?
Drat, the flint on my lighter is damp. Could I trouble you for
a light? Thanks ever so. You know, I've heard news from the pit that over
the wall cigarettes and furs are practically Banned! Can you imagine? I
mean, really, smoking is so Modern and Elegant, don't you agree? Of course,
I wouldn't be caught dead puffing without my ivory holder.
The band here is quite good. I simply adore this boogie-woogie
phenom. Patience, my brunette, introduced me to it. She can really twirl
me across the floor. I'm meeting her later for dinner. I simply must tell
you. She's so thoroughly Competent, she has been giving me Flying lessons
of all things. Can you imagine? It is just so Thrilling! I adore the Challenge
of it. The Rush of wind, the Vibrating engine, Pumping the rudders! After
a lesson with her I'm so elated, exhilarated and stimulated!
Do you think me Bold for a blonde? Well, I admit I am quite Modern
but that comes from living in Vintesse. No, I can see you think its more
than that. I have a confession. Promise not to tell? Come closer, see that?
Yes, auburn roots! Can you imagine? I know its awful but I'm simply too
irresponsible to be a true Brunette. Please, please don't think me deceitful.
Not that I care a hoot for what's Proper, my entire life has been defined
by scandal. I mean its just so frustrating for Society to expect one to
behave in a particular fashion simply based on the Color of ones' tresses.
Sometimes I've been so confused, ah me, born a brunette but a blonde at
heart.
Pardon? You say, hair color doesn't matter? You miss my point.
I've tried being a brunette, and I've tried being a blonde. Can you imagine?
You see, I can't do either for very long before I need to try the other
again. Thank Goodness for peroxide and henna. Fortunately for me, Patience
is well named. She puts up with my caprices and whims wonderfully. I do
so adore her for it. We exchanged loads of chocolate last Friday, 14.
Oh, dear Patience! I'll be late, where's the time gone?. You're
sweet, its been lovely chatting like this but I must Run! How do I look?
Is it still raining? I'll pamper myself with a cab.
Twenty-three Skiddoo,
DAFFODIL
Welcome, Daffodil. We do hope you'll be back. It's nice to have
a few girls from Vintesse after the recent Quiridorian hegemony.
Dancing, Sewing and the Hestia
How clever dear Annalinde is at catching every single word of the lyrics
of the most delightful songs. There is a song that I have been trying to
write down for you pettes for simply ages. Can I ever remember every word?
No, I cannot, which is a pity as it is very amusing. It is about a blonde
who knows where to draw the line with a brunette, and has a rather jaunty
tune. It is rather a counterpoint to the 'persuasion' songs that Miss Barbara
was talking about some time ago. [See the archives.]
The song opens with a brunette verse which describes the romantic
atmosphere of the evening, with the moon high in the Heavens, and the scene
is set.
But the blonde has decided that enough is enough, and sings:
Nain, Nain, I won't go dancing
Nain, Nain, no more romancing
Nain, Nain, I won't go dancing
Until you marry me.
Nain, Nain, no more riding,
That's plain, so start deciding,
Nain, Nain, my lips are tight
Until you marry me.
It's been long since we've been going steady,
Now my lips are really ready.
Here the brunette tries to persuade her to do all of these things,
but the answer remains firm.
Nain, Nain, I won't go dancing,
Nain, Nain, no more romancing,
Nain, Nain, I won't go dancing
Until you marry me.
The sentiments may not be of the most elevated, but they are solid
and decent. The blonde has decided that they have had sufficient opportunity
to know each other, and that the time has come for the brunette to decide
whether she is going to marry her or not. She has not the slightest intention
of being a 'good-time' blonde, the kind that all the brunettes know is
good fun, but would never take home to meet their mothers, for both her
reputation and doing what is right are very precious to her. And the impression
one receives from the song is that the brunette is rather inclined to be
a 'good-time' girl herself, who is about to be reformed by a blonde with
a sense of propriety. Like Annalinde, I only wish you pettes could hear
it!
Norma, you fashion journalists are so lucky. Imagine, girls, being
the first pette to see the newest fashion. How fortunate we are to have
you to share them with us! And as for Dreadful Secret - well, when I thought
about it, I was not sure that I could name any brunettes who could
sew, apart from maids. I can think of brunies who can make shift to sew
a button or two onto a garment that has lost them - I offer no opinion
on how well it is done-but I rather think that it is the
blondes who take the honours in the art and craft of sewing.
Of course, it is a craft, with its own symbolism. The blonde
who sews may be an un-knowing participant in a ritual act, but I wonder
whether on some deep level, she does know about it, as girls who do
like sewing often seem to have an utter passion for it. The home crafts
are important, as making the hestia is the single most important
thing that a girl can do, I believe. The hestia is, after all, where all
the joys and tragedies of life are played; where the virtues are trained
and vices restrained. This would be true even if it was not for the Pit.
The hestia is what connects us to Heaven, and with a sweet-natured, tender-hearted,
and well-beloved blonde enthroned within it, it is a reflection
of Heaven, isn't it?
CANDIDA
Music Playing: Dorita's Big Band with: Chattanooga Choo-Choo
Dateline: 20 February 1952
Economical Fashions
Norma here, darlings. I must say, wise Marcelene has shown me my duty about
not wasting precious fabric, but in the most blush-making way (for me,
that is). Come closer, girls, I'll tell you a secret. Closer, Elizabeth
and Candida, and you, too, Diana - closer than that, I don't want
to broadcast it all over the Cocktail Bar, you know. All right, that's
better. Well, here it is, but don't tell: I never learned to sew!
There! I've said it! My blonde mother was all thumbs when it came to needle
and thread - in fact, since we were fairly well off, Blonde Mommy always
had her own dressmaker - and the maids did all the mending, so, naturally,
(as my brunette mother's idea of a needle went no further than when
one has to lift the phonograph kind out of that endless
swish-swish
groove at end of a record) ... well, I just never learned to sew! And if
one doesn't learn as a girl, one almost never does - like riding
a bike or swimming. But, perhaps I am not so very different in this from
most brunettes...
That doesn't mean, though, that I'm a wastrel with fabrics or
somehow un-matriotic. I'll prove it to you with some convertible Mid-Kadorie
post-war styles, where frugality in fabrics is no longer the watchword,
but we waste not just the same. Here is a charming black rayon-linen suit:
a blonde secretary's or receptionist's delight. But with just a little
imagination (and four yards of printed chambray), you get not one, but
four
delightful ensembles - fashion's easiest trick, and no trick fashion, either.
First: here
is the basic black rayon-linen basque suit with a luxuriously smooth-hanging,
three-gore skirt (that makes you want to smooth it down with your hands
even though it is already perfectly smooth, like petting a sleek cat),
and matching cartridge-bag purse and turban, with contrasting white gloves...
This suit clings to a girl without really clinging - it's flatteringly
smooth yet demure - never too tight! (And don't the daffodils resonate
perfectly with black?)
Next, behold
a printed two-piece, airy chambray dress with new, post-war full skirt
(75 inches!) and puff-sleeved top, long chambray gloves in the same elegant
print. A large-buckled black rayon-linen belt and black portfolio bag make
this the perfect outfit for luncheon or afternoon tea. Or one may wear
this on a visit, say, to one's dentist: the portfolio bag is just
the right size to hold a McCall's magazine to keep you entertained
in her waiting room, and the decolletage is sufficiently high-cut
so that even your brunette dentist's possibly errant eyes can find no purchase
when she looms over you and says, "Open, please" in that voice that penetrates
far more deeply into your being than her little, whining drill does into
your tooth...
Third variant:
here we have the basque tunic from the suit combined with the printed chambray
skirt from the two-piece dress. This is no longer a luncheon or afternoon
tea fashion, but something more suited for cocktails and early dinners.
(For later dining, wear the turban and add a blue fox stole to set off
the blue in the print of the dress. A diamond clip at the shoulder won't
hurt, either).
Fourth permutation:
take the skirt from the printed chambray two-piece dress and combine with
just a yard of black rayon-linen to make the daringest wisp of a halter
top, tied low in the back with a soft feminine bow, and you have a darling
summer afternoon outfit for country wear, for those days when it is just
too unbearably hot in the city and one must escape to mountains
or seashore and reluctantly abandon the levers of urban commerce and progress
to those serious brunettes for whom summer heat is a challenge.
Have you ever noticed that Gotham in August is an almost all-brunette city?
NORMA
Another Song for the Heart-Broken
Well, well, with all this war-talk these days, I thought we might be in
need of something a little romantic, harking back to the conversation a
week or two ago, when it wasn't about short hair and short commons, but
about broken-hearted blondes, and brunettes in similar condition. Well,
here is a lovely song (Kadorie, I think)
that quite brought a tear to the eye. Gosh it is so frustrating giving
you pettes the song without the tune, because it is the wonderful tune
that turns the trick. I bet none of your eyes are moist in sympathy, when
you can't hear the lovely dance-band and the sweet Kadorian blonde singing:
Oh, You Crazy Moon
When they met, the way they smiled,
I thought that I was through.
Oh, you crazy moon
What did you do?
When they kissed they tried to say
That it was all in fun.
Oh, you crazy moon
Look what you've done.
Once you promised me, you know,
That it would never end.
You should be ashamed to show
Your funny face, my friend.
There they are, they fell in love,
I guess you think you're smart.
Oh, you crazy moon
You broke my heart.
Well no doubt you pettes are finding more and more up-to-date
music every day as your racination proceeds, so no doubt you'll hear it
one day. And then you'll shed a tear, or I don't know you as well
as I thought.
ANNALINDE
Where the Battle Lies
Aristasians in battle with each other? How sane of you to know intuitively
that this would never be the case. Could a foot be at war with an arm?
Would a eyelash wish to battle a mouth? And what fair maid would ever wish
to take her warrior self into battle against her own fair sister? We battle
side by side, and our enemy is the ugliness and spiritual depravity that
exists outside of our world.
Thank you friend Annalinde for telling us of the lovely Fairy-sent
dream. Sometimes a girl feels such battle fatigue and a little matriotic
talk helps pick up her spirits so.
MISS BARBARA
Aphorisms for Victory
Your fleeming adventures are very interesting, Elizabeth O., and your little
girl sounds delightful. What other things have you found for your lovely
hestia? Do tell us all about them. It is very important War work, as every
time one replaces a bongo thing with something Real, it is a stroke of
war and brings us a tiny step nearer to V.T. Day. Remember, pettes, that
a hat bought is a battle fought! Gloves worn at all times, will help to
break Enemy lines! Aristasian language, thought and deed, helps break the
pit like a rotten reed! The Imperial Navy, Army and Air Force need the
help of the pettes on the Home Front too!
Anyway, enough of War aphorisms. Dashing Diana, you managed to
keep very quiet about your little blondie. I am looking forward to hearing
more about her. How terribly sad to be an orphan, especially for a blonde!
You must be extra kind to her in your inimitable best brunette manner.
I do hope that she is a well-brought-up blonde, especially after your most
unfortunate experience with a fickle-hearted brat.
Cherryle, how nice to hear from you again. The weather must be
better there than here. Jennifer has put no washing out to dry for a week!
Well, pettes, here I am in Quirinelle, and Jennifer is with me too, of
course. Golly, talk about the land of flowing milk and honey! The land
of peace and plenty! Do you know, pettes, that nothing is rationed
in Quirinelle?
In the shop
Jennifer: Good day, young lady. Have you any stockings?
Shop-girl: Yes, Miss.
Jennifer: And how many am I allowed to buy for my Mistress?
Shop-girl: As many as you've got the money for, Miss.
Jennifer: Have you got handkerchiefs?
Shop-girl: Oh, yes Miss.
Jennifer: Have you hair-grips?
Shop-girl: Certainly, Miss.
Jennifer: And reels of cotton? And embroidered table-cloths? And combs?
And petticoats?
Shop-girl: Why, yes Miss.
Jennifer [running out of the shop and down the hill]: Miss Candida, Miss Candida,
the War's over!
She was so excited that it took some time to explain that although
the War does not affect Quirinelle as it does Kadoria, when we return to
Kadoria the War will still be there. She thought for a few moments and
then cleared her throat.
"Miss, is it permitted to take purchases with us when we return
to Kadoria?"
On being assured that this was so, she returned to the shop and
ordered so many items that I fear to see the bill when it is presented.
CANDIDA
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