The Cocktail Bar

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Music Playing: The Quirrie Quintet with You're The Top

Dateline: Wednesday, September 3rd, 1952

A Perfect Quirrinelle Summer

Elizabeth Ruth, this is absolutely fascinating! I love your catalog of the seasons by berries. It reminds me of a wonderful book called _Greenwillow_, and also a bit of the _Stillmeadow_ books.

Where my caravan is this year, the blackberries are just finishing. I missed the peak of them, because for a month I was caravaned at a wonderful magical herb garden hung over the Western Sea. It was a gate to a world -- Diana's Lunar Realm, perhaps. Pastoral, Arcadia.... Avonlea perfected....

Especially one wooden bench, just a log skillfully split and put back together inside-out, so to speak. On a hillside, with wild lavendar growing around. At the top of a V valley facing south. A place to sit in the morning sun and watch the fog rise from the valley, and then again in the afternoon shade and watch the fog come in. At midday you can see the ocean down there, if you have time between gathering fruit and picking flowers.... Gentle hills behind, golden grass, as gently rising as bread in the oven, one feels as safe as leaning back in the lap of the Goddess.... This countryside was the inspiration for the fairytale "The Wicker House", do you know it?

Yes, I am a bit sunburned, here also we have the hot inland valleys with orchards and grapes, and hot springs. For many years I caravanned up and down this coast, in and out of all sorts of Dark Ages, and those that would have been better if Dark.... Camped the caravan by the hot springs, soaked under starlight, miles from electricty....

--Oh, Barpette dear, a Blackberry-Fizz and some shortbread, please!

MARY MARGARETE


My dear friends at the Cocktail Bar --

Oh, how lovely autumn sounds in the sun-drenched land of Amazonia! Of course, it is sun-drenched here where I live, too, but we haven't the fun of scooping up basketsful of little fish (nor the fun of gutting and cleaning them, so I suppose there is something to be said for paper-wrapped packages from the butcher's counter!). We also don't have any hot springs here, but it is really still too hot for hot springs. In fact, here where I live, in the Deep South of America, it is hardly ever cold enough for hot springs. Oh, we'll get an inch of snow or so, but it hardly ever lasts for more than a day, and then it's back to a dreary grey chill. Ick! But enough of that. It is still hot brazen summer here, even if college has begun, and I plan to enjoy all the sunshine I can (with a parasol from now on, however).

But that Amazonian experience sounds too frightfully exotic. I wonder if outside blondes are ever allowed to visit and try the life. Is there such a thing as Immigration in Amazonia?

And by the way, I think that Amazonian scholar who said that it was reading the skies and earth that came first, before writing and then speech, may have had something there. It is just so hard to know, since there are no boldly written treatises from the Early Days, spelled out in plain Language that we blondes and brunettes can read today! That is why I think that places like the Academy and Universities are so important -- I hate to think that blondes and brunettes of the future will be so baffled by us as we are about our Really Far Back Predecessors. I mean, there is a really powerful oral tradition, obviously, but I think that here we are talking about pre-History, so to speak. Or pre-known-History, at least.

Goodness me! I am running on. Well, someday perhaps I will just get it all prettily formed and packaged and wrapped up in neat white paper, like those lovely chops from the butcher!

Thoughtfully yours,

KATHERINE


I rather think that the reference to reading the earth and the sky may refer to an immediate and direct understanding of the Heaven and Earth as reflected in the world, which would come before any loss of understanding and the elaboration which is then necessary as a result of that loss; I shall ask the Sagette to comment further.

The Barpette


Miss Vera Lynn Sings for Alice Lucy

A Pette can request a song in the Aphrodite Cocktail Bar, cant she? Well, even if she cant, I want to so I will, so she can after all, I suppose, since I just did. Request one, I mean. A song, yes, what did you think I was talking about, a champagne cocktail? (I'll have a couple of those, too, easy on the bitters, if you please.) So don't tell me no [stamp!] Thanks awfully. And dont try to get me confused, I was talking about songs, not champagne cocktails! Golliwogs, what wickets a blonde must go through to be understood around here when she is making herself perfectly plain!

So now that the band and I understand ourselves perfectly, (as one blonde to another), I want to request a song by the Kadorie Nightingale, Miss Vera Lynn. I want the Cocktail Bar band to dedicate this song to my dearest friend, Alice Lucy, who I know pines for Real London at times, but she needn't, as all she has to do, as she very well knows, (because she told me how to do it) is to switch on the wireless every Monday or Thursday evening when Big Ben strikes seven. Then she can hear Miss Lynn do her show known as the Vera Lynn Show for all the girls on the Front and any girls at Home who wish to listen in for fifteen glorious minutes, which is just about everyone. Last night Miss Lynn started off with London Pride. So without further adieu, here she is again.

London Pride

London Pride has been handed down to us
London Pride is a flower that's free
London Pride means our own dear town to us
And our pride it forever will be

Whoa, Liza, see the coster barrows
Vegetable marrows and the fruit piled high
Whoa, Liza, little London sparrows
Covent Garden market where the costers cry

Cockney feet mark the beat of history
Every street pins a memory down
Nothing ever can quite replace
The grace of London town

There's a litte city flower every spring unfailing
Growing in the crevices by some London railing
Though it has a Latin name in town and countryside
We in England call it London Pride.

London Pride has been handed down to us
London Pride is a flower that's free
London pride means our own dear town to us
And our pride it forever will be.

Hey, lady! When the day is dawning
See the bobbie yawning on her lonely beat
Gay lady, Mayfair in the morning
Hear the footsteps echo in the empty street

Early rain and the pavements glistening
All Park Lane is a shimmering gown
Nothing ever could break or harm
The charm of London town

ARIADNE P.S.: Heres a picture of Miss Lynn in uniform.


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