THE BEST ROYAL WEDDING DRESSES AND ENGAGEMENT RINGS...

 My interest in royal wedding dresses began at the age of ten, when Princess Diana walked down the aisle at St Paul's Cathedral.

It wasn't my first foray into fashion- that began at the age of five or six, when I'd copy illustrator Veronica Papworth's sketches from the Daily Express (like the one below) then play around with them, by re-designing the dresses, accessories and even the hairstyles.😀

Do you remember the cardboard cut-out dress-them-yourself dolls like these?

I used to draw around the doll then design my own clothes with tabs to fit onto her!

I was fascinated by the pageantry, and by the sheer glamour of Diana; who was young, fresh, beautiful and fashionable.  I'm know she wasn't the first royal woman to be all of those things, but she was the first I became interested in.

The recent launch of the Royal Style in the Making exhibition at Kensington Palace (which I'm booked in to see😀), which contains this iconic dress, inspired in me the need to share my favourites.

I have only shown British royal brides, as that's what I know most about (feel free to comment and educate me regarding foreign royalty of all cultures).

Most of the royal wedding dresses and engagement rings are pretty darn nice.  But, for me, only a handful really stand out and "speak" to me.

I've put a collection together (I don't think I need to point out that the majority of photos in this post are PDFs- I'm yet to be invited to a royal wedding!) 

Here's my top five, in order of loveliness... 

1

Sarah, Duchess of York, often got things wrong in terms of fashion- who could forget the black dress with that awful, duvet-like red satin wrap she wore for an evening event?  If ever there was a woman in need of a stylist, it was Fergie in the 1980s.

But here, in 1986, she nailed it just perfectly and looked the best she ever did.  I adore the fact that this Lindka Cierach gown sparkles and glistens, and find the gorgeous, simple neckline really appealing.

The back features a huge bow and it's magnificent.  It worked for this dress and Fergie made bows her signature.

2

This is the dreamy crinoline I adored as a child, discovered in a book my mum bought me of royal wedding dress sketches.  Worn by Queen Alexandra (then Princess Alexandra), consort to Edward VII at their wedding in 1863, and designed by Mrs James of Belgravia, my mum slung the book away without my permission.  Grrr, grrr and a thousand grrrs!

Princess Alexandra had the dress altered so that she could wear it again.  Here's a photo of mine, taken at the Fashion Museum, Bath.  It was actually the second time I'd seen this dress- the first was at a 2002 Kensington Palace exhibition of royal wedding dresses.  That exhibition also included the wedding gowns of the Queen, the Queen Mother, Queen Mary and Queen Victoria.

3

2018, and a stunning Peter Pilotto dress for a pretty girl with all her curves in the right places, and I love the deep V at the back.  It was designed that way, and the dress worn without a veil so that Princess Eugenie could show off her scar from surgery to correct her scoliosis.

This twist at the back is very modern, and the 21st century equivalent to a bow.

4

It was difficult choosing between Princess Beatrice's 2020 wedding dress and her sister Eugenie's dress for third place, but the more sophisticated neckline of Eugenie's just clinched it for me.

That's not to say that this is not spectacular- designed by Norman Hartnell and previously word by the Queen, Beatrice's dress was altered with the addition of cute puff sleeves and also appropriately lengthened as Beatrice is taller.

5

I couldn't not include the 1981 Emanuel dress which sparked my interest- the wedding itself was the royal wedding to beat all royal weddings.  As we all know, the marriage wasn't as much of a success.

After studying fashion I seriously considered working in the field of bridalwear.  Interesting, as I've never been in a rush to walk down the aisle myself, and if I did it would only be a small affair (a romantic elopement appeals).  I'd make sure my dress (something which could be dyed and worn again) was gorgeous, though!

Here's one that almost made my list, and it's good ol' Queen Victoria marrying her beloved Prince Albert, in 1840.

Interestingly, it's quite revealing in terms of being off-the-shoulder (like her daughter in-law, Princess Alexandra's was).  It's something that's not well thought of for royal brides nowadays, and that's a shame.

1

When it comes to engagement rings, this iconic sparkler, worn by Princess Diana and then the Duchess of Cambridge, Kate Middleton, has got to be the best.  I even own a copy, worn as a dress ring.

Funnily enough, despite loving it, if I ever got engaged I wouldn't want a ring like this- I'd want a solitaire diamond.

2

Camilla Parker Bowles, the Duchess of Cornwall's Art Deco heirloom ring was once worn by Queen Elizabeth, the Queen Mother.

It's timeless and absolutely stunning, but to me more of a dress ring than an engagement ring.

3

This was designed for Queen Elizabeth II (then Princess Elizabeth) using diamonds hacked from a tiara once belonging to Princess Alice of Battenberg, the mother of her intended, Prince Philip.  

The queen wanted something she could wear every day, and so would I.  So, for my engagement, it would be a toss-up between this beauty and the next ring...

4

Princess Beatrice's solitaire was enhanced by Art Deco baguette styling on the shoulders.  Does this still make it a solitaire?  Kind of...

It was hard choosing between this and the Queen's ring for third place.

5

A Burmese ruby formed the centrepiece of Fergie's ring, chosen to match her striking red hair.

This one nearly made the list.  I liked it before the Duchess of Sussex, Meghan Markle, had it altered, though.  I just prefer a chunky ring to a flimsy band.  

If I ever get engaged I'm having a chunky ring, as I'd just bend or break something delicate!

An additional adorable, although this one was always just a dress ring.  This striking aquamarine has been worn by both Diana and Meghan.

In terms of veils, there are only two which have ever stood out for me, for much the same reason as each other.

This is Meghan with her 16ft diaphanous train, which was decorated with embroidered flowers of the Commonwealth, plus a Californian poppy to represent her American background. 

The Queen's sheer veil was similarly adorned but with scattered flowers, inspired by Botticelli's (c.1482) painting of Primavera.  I like the look of a sheer veil dragging along the red carpet/ chapel floor...

An update:- since writing this I've learnt that it's not actually her veil- it's a train sewn onto the shoulders. Oh well, I still love it!

From classic Veronica Papworth sketches to royal bridal fashion, as a teenager I then turned more mainstream, although as a punk/goth/ general weirdo I did once design a collection inspired by rubber and lace cobwebs (don't ask!)

I did end up working for the mass market, as a designer, but was always a bit too avant-garde to fit in properly.

Here's me conforming.  The middle gal's wearing my dress, designed for fashion chain New Look.

Here's one of my mood boards, which sat in my portfolio for years.

Here's a link to more:-

https://elainerockett.blogspot.com/2017/04/my-fashion-designs.html

Some older stuff, showing a bit of my wackiness, and I actually pulled this out of the bin to photograph- before discarding it!

Here's another link to more of the same ilk:-

https://elainerockett.blogspot.com/2019/06/my-fashion-designs-part-2.html

There was not enough work available in the ailing British fashion industry, so I had to move on.  And it worked, as I love writing more than designing- it's more academically challenging, and I need something meaty, to get my teeth into.

But I will always retain some interest in clothes...

TTFN

The Miss Elaineous

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MISS ELAINEOUS VISITS PAINSHILL (YET AGAIN...)

 It's the sixth time I've visited this wonderful place, first discovered when a Facebook friend posted a beautiful picture of the one of the follies, which got me planning.

Painshill is an 18th century landscaped garden, created between 1738 and 1773 by the Hon. Charles Hamilton, who was the 9th son and 14th child of the Sixth Earl of Abercorn.  He embarked on two Grand Tours (the classical education for aristocratic young men in Georgian England, the intention being to cultivate their taste in European culture) ending up in Rome, before acquiring the land of Painshill.  His vision was to create "living paintings" in a new style of magical garden, designed to surprise and delight.  Inspired by the art and architecture he had seen, the result was a series of magical follies in a breathtaking landscape vista.  

Everything you see here has been created (during faithful restoration of the garden since 1981- it had been allowed to fall into ruin) and works with the natural landscape.

It's a 2.6 mile walk from Cobham Stoke d'Arbernon railway station, which took us directly beside the River Mole. 

These two swans were being obtuse, and seemed to want to fish for food alternately, rather than posing for us...

This is a SuperDean photograph, as he managed to snap the swans complying with our wishes!

Cedar House, which was once a stately home, is reflected in the water. 

Cobham Mill was completed in about 1822, for the production of animal feed.  Allowed to descend into neglect during the last century, restoration of the mill was completed in 1992, and it's open as a tourist attraction- just not on this particular day.

This is another SuperDean photo, taken with his phone whilst standing in front of Cedar House, looking back down the River Mole as we made our way back to the station in the afternoon.  The town is picture-postcard perfect.

This isn't going to be a detailed blog as I've blogged about Painshill Park three times before.  I'm just going to include a few pictures which inspired me throughout the day.

My link from September 2017:-

http://elainerockett.blogspot.com/2017/09/miss-elaineous-visits-painshill.html

My link from February 2018:-

http://elainerockett.blogspot.com/2018/02/miss-elaineous-visits-painshill-again.html

My link from February 2019:-

http://elainerockett.blogspot.com/2019/02/miss-elaineous-visits-painshill-for.html

This tree was down the Fir Walk, and the red cones reminded me of fingers, with the middle finger sticking up.  This tree was making its feelings perfectly clear and giving me the bird!

Inside the Gothic Temple, and the view over the vista featuring the Turkish Tent and Five-Arch Bridge.

When King George III (1738-1820) visited, he said that this was his favourite view at Painshill.

The Great Cedar is more than 250 years old, and is the height of nine double-decker buses stacked on top of one another!

The back of the Ruined Abbey.  It was originally built as a screen to hide the kilns needed for  Painshill's commercial operation of brick making, as the park did not generate an income.

Could the ruins in front of the arch be a part of those kilns?

It was the first folly to undergo an archaeological investigation, in 1984, and ducts between wall were revealed.  

Here's Dean doing his own investigation...

The Ruined Abbey central arch from the front.

The excavation also revealed kiln arches and this is what Dean seems nonplussed by, at the side of the Ruined Abbey- before we'd re-read the history...

I thought I looked rather bedraggled, so didn't want my photo taken.  I was also suffering from the remnants of an ear infection which- although mild- caused a bit of swelling in my face.

Do you think triple leopard print (top, scarf, and it features on the bracelet) too much?  I don't, and only regret that I forgot to add my leopard print earrings...😆

This was taken on the way to the Grotto.  It looks like something from The Wicker Man...

This is the Rockwork Arch, and is made of oolitic (egg stone) limestone, quarried near bath.  It reminds me of impacted skulls, which was the idea.

Water cascading into pools are a feature inside the Grotto, along with stalactites made of crystals...

After becoming derelict in the mid 1940s, the Grotto began to be restored in 1986.

The main chamber and mysterious passages are lined with calcite, quartz, fluorite, gypsum and other stones and minerals.

Looking out over a rock pool, onto the lake...

Now and then it's possible to take a photograph that's just perfect, and requires no tweaking.  This is such a photo, and a friend quipped that it reminded him of "The Lady In The Lake," which comes from Arthurian legend.

Crossing away from Grotto Island, and looking back down the lake towards the Ruined Abbey.

The Mausoleum.

The Five-Arch Bridge, with a sleeping swan to one side... 

Its friend, and the first time the SuperDean saw a swan sleeping like this, with its head under its wing, he though it was either poorly or dead!

The Waterwheel wasn't working on this day, and looked like it could do with a lick of paint.  It's normally a deep shade of red.

Nature can be fascinating sometimes, like these tree roots.

The Temple of Bacchus from below.  Its restoration is now complete.

I thought this photo of the Gothic Tower with a pylon in front of it an interesting juxtaposition.

Vandals set fire to it in 1973, and it was restored and reopened in 1989, by Sarah, Duchess of York (before she said goodbye to royal life.)  I've seen this ceremony on TV, and she got much criticism for behaving in an informal manner and becoming fascinated by a ladybird at her feet.  Shame.  I rather liked her spontaneous approach.

The Temple of Bacchus.

The Statue of Bacchus stands at the entrance to Painshill.  What you see here is actually a cardboard cut out...

Closer view and the restoration is very impressive.

View from behind the temple, and it's quire a precarious drop down...

Painshill combines the three key elements of 18th century landscape garden design, which are trees, water and grass...

The back of the Turkish Tent.

Another naturally perfect photo, featuring the Five-Arch Bridge and the Gothic Temple.

Down at ground level.  Moody skies and the Cedar of Lebanon (not to be confused with the Great Cedar), on Grotto Island in the distance.

It's also important to pay attention underfoot, as many areas have been planted in the style of a wild meadow.  Here are some buttercups...

...And here are some forget-me-nots.

And who could forget Painshill after visiting it?  It's an experience which stays imprinted on the mind.

I shall return.

Until then,

TTFN

The Miss Elaineous.

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FOR GLORY!

I entered this story into the Jane Austen Literacy Foundation writing competition, 2021.  I had to create a story of between 1000-2000 words, around the theme "Connection." 

Well, I didn't make the shortlist of three- but I did make the longlist of eight!  Not bad, considering that there were 280 entries!

Here is my screen shot of their website, celebrating my success, and here is the story, for your enjoyment.😁

FOR GLORY!

I remember that third meeting as much as the second...

I recognised her the minute I saw her, sitting on dad's sofa like a malediction. In another guise she might have been stunning; with her long butter-blonde hair parted seductively to one side and pouty, model-girl lips. But she wasn't yet thirty and dressed like someone's grandma, in huge cartoonish glasses, frosted pink mix-and-mess lipstick and a floral blouse twinned badly with a scratchy tweed skirt. She had a rancid aroma about her- body odour unmasked by cloying perfume.

Alarmed, I looked to my father for an explanation, and the gaze he proffered was sheepish. 'This is my girlfriend, Helen.' He pronounced it Hell-In.

Hell-In didn't know who I was, yet I knew her as the owner of the fascinating Toy Museum. I'd first been with my mother, when I was five. Behind a solid oak door tucked beneath the railway arches a fusty hall opened up through a huge archway. Sitting sentinel at the front was a massive glass cabinet, shaped like a transparent cube, with glass as thick as an iceberg. Varying exhibitions danced inside, but I remembered being more fascinated by the twin ovals of elevated slatted vents, like indentations of human heads.

'Oh, they're to let the air in. It's something to do with preventing condensation,' Mum supplied.

An emporium of intricate train sets sped and rattled on the ground floor, and the mezzanine level held cabinets squished full of toys. I fell in love with an old elephant named Humphrey; wedged in, yet woefully lonely, behind a collection of bears. Floppy eared and faded, a thin neck stripe peeping out from beneath his tatty checked suit indicated his previous blueness. His nose stuck out like a stirrup handle, but there was something about those sad bauble eyes that moved my little heart and made me want to cuddle him forever. I traced my fingers across the glass possessively as the staccato rumble of real trains vibrated from above.

The second time I went was with my headteacher, and Hell-In gave us a lecture. She'd released a selection of playthings, and one of them was my Humphrey. I instinctively reached over to grasp him but she cracked me on the knuckle with the cold metal ruler she used to indicate with.

'Get off! I told you not to touch!' The look she gave me was more than indignant- it was something akin to hatred but I was too shocked to say anything and fell back, instantly absorbed by my jostling classmates. She barked Humphrey's history; repeating what was written on his sepia cabinet card. He'd been made in Brighton during Queen Victoria's reign, by children. I was on the verge of tears and shaking, nursing my poor clunked hand, but she surprised me further by saying, 'He's so tatty that I'm thinking of binning him.'

I was horrified! How could someone who worked with antiques not love them? It was this, rather than the wallop that made me sob noisily. Hell-In just scowled. How such a nasty woman could be the proprietress of this sacred place was supplied by my mother.

'She inherited it,' she said back at the flat we'd shared since the divorce. 'I know it doesn't open Mondays. 'Her friend the headteacher is the only other keyholder, and she brings groups of kids in on the first Monday of every month.'

'Where's my cat?' was my tight-lipped response to dad's introduction.

'Oh, you mean Gloria?' Hell-In conjured up what passed for a smile.

'He name's Glory.' I couldn't keep the sibilant hiss from my voice, and Glory padded in apprehensively. It had been agreed that Glory should stay here, and I missed her so much. She mewed, regarding me with baby blue eyes, so I bent and stroked her beautiful silky fur, almost soothed.

'What an odd looking cat. With that red stripe over one eye and a grey blotch over the other,' the voice behind me interrupted.

I glared superciliously, 'She's pedigree. She's a ragdoll mitted.'

I began to notice things dying in dad's house. Hell-In drowned plants, and mum's once proud jardinière stood bereft, water leaking in splodges onto the floor, flowers rotting in their vases. But a dreadful thing was when I came round- at ten I was deemed old enough to possess a key- to find Glory chattering in abject distress on the landing outside the bathroom. Her litter tray, which sat inside a cute fuchsia plastic house I'd saved for and bought with my pocket money, was enclosed in that room. Glory was fastidious, and you could see the pain in her sweet eyes as she hopped from leg to leg in desperation, just like a human would.

'You were told to leave the door open!' I snapped at Hell-In. Dad was still at work and she just regarded me from over her magazine, propping her feet, still in sandals, onto the sofa. I thought it disrespectful- Dad didn't like feet on furniture. I could smell their stale parmesan stench from where I stood, and she had tights on, which gave her toes that weird human frog look. Hell-In was picking on pineapple chunks, pulling the fruit greedily from a dessert bowl by her side. She cackled and disregarded me, slavering noisily and launching into a story about a duke and duchess: how their garden had an island and how they would eat pineapples in the summerhouse on said island, and hinted at the unfortunate effect that would have on their constitutions.

I knew what she was getting at- every time I chose a piece of fruit from our bowl, Mum would nod her sage advice: 'It'll make you go.'

Glory was only eight but she started to lose a lot of weight, becoming extremely lethargic. I went round, racing upstairs to where she hid nowadays. Dad grimaced and he did try, sitting me down, picking at his hairline in that compulsive way he did and mumbling words like “tumour” and “pancreas.”

But it was Hell-In who piped up from her corner throne. 'She was very ill. She had to be destroyed.' She appeared to savour the words and they rolled patronisingly over her tongue. To be fair Dad did glower at her, but he allowed her to continue, 'We had her cremated. We thought it was for the best.'

My eyes opened as wide as a scream and I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

'Why didn't you tell me?' I stuttered, grasping the reality of what I was being told. And who was we? Hell-In was not married to Dad- in fact she didn't even live with him. I slumped back into the wall in paroxysms of sobs. 'You knew I loved her! You knew how much! Why didn't you let me see her one last time?' I crumpled down onto my haunches like an animal, heart-shaped tears splattering unchecked to the floor.

I refused to go back to Dad's house during those final few months of their relationship, and don't actually recall much about that time. Instead, I visited him at his shop. He was a locksmith, and to keep me occupied he taught me how to pick locks. 'Hold the pick here, and you've got to fiddle until the chambers line up. Then flick this lever and you can manoeuvre the barrel any way you want. Practice,' he said with a smile, walking away to serve a customer. And I did. I became quite good at it, breathing in the oily metallic smells of the workshop and whiling my time away in earnest concentration.

And I didn't pop into the Toy Museum for a long time, although I missed my darling Humphrey.

* * *

I rang up to ask for work experience. I had to time it correctly, but it was granted. There was absolutely no way she would recognise me now. Aside from giving a false address and calling from a phone box, it's been eight years, and I've grown about a foot taller and gained minimal weight since then. My chestnut curls are now a jet black crop, and I have an emerald stud in my nose. I'm not Cassandra any more- rather, I am Sandi, and my surname is way too common for any kind of connection to be made.

The front cube contains three glass cubes, rather like a mathematical puzzle, and there's a robot exhibition arranged inside. I practice picking that particular lock whilst Helen's at lunch, also working on a cabinet upstairs.

Luck works in my favour, and ten minutes before closing on my last day- the Saturday- the museum's deserted and I craftily slip the bolt across the front door. Then, making sure Helen can't see, I enter the picked cube, messing up the exhibition. When I tell her she's really baffled and scratches at the thick make-up on her forehead, but she takes the keys off the chain on her belt, inserts one into the lock and moves to the front to sort the disorganisation out. She still has that miasma about her and I gulp down revulsion, shifting to let her pass. The minute she bends down I place the two pineapples I'd secreted under a dolls' house display earlier at the back of the cube. Then, as quietly as a cat, I lock her in, remove the keys and skim them across the floor behind me. I fetch my coat, relieving Humphrey on the way and closing his cabinet. I kiss his threadbare felt head and hide my treasure in my bag. I hit the main light switch and leave.

I can hear Helen slapping on the glass the minute the lights go off, but her shout is only a whisper, muffled by insulation. I slam the door behind me with a cry of glee, just as a train grumbles past. I look up at it- I'll be on a train early tomorrow morning, to a university 500 miles north, but not to study museum studies as I'd told Helen, but to train to become a vet.

And Helen... She'll be discovered on Monday, when her friend the headteacher opens up with a group of kids hanging about her coat tails. She'll be clearly visible through the archway- there is nowhere to hide. And they will see this creature, who has been locked up for close to 40 hours, on display like an animal. She won't be missed- she lives alone and her mobile phone is in the cloakroom.

She won't be dead. The air vent will keep her alive and the pineapples will feed and water her. But nature will take its course, one way or another. And maybe it will be there for all to see. I wonder if she'll make the connection between the tale she told me about the duke and duchess, eight years ago. I don't think so but don't particularly care. I remember the heartache I suffered over not being able to see my beloved cat for one last time, and the numerous times my beautiful feline was locked out of the bathroom, unable to perform her ablutions.

Either way Helen will stink. And the kids will see her and smell her, and laugh and laugh and laugh. And I'll imagine this cold, vindictive cat killer and laugh and laugh and laugh. Revenge is certainly a dish best served smelly!

'For Glory!' I say to no one in particular as I make my way into the dusk. 

Copyright©Elaine Rockett

THE SECRET HISTORY by DONNA TARTT

 THE SECRET HISTORY

BY DONNA TARTT

THE BLURB:-

Under the influence of their charismatic classics professor, a group of clever, eccentric misfits at an elite New England college discover a way of thinking and living that is a world away from the humdrum existence of their contemporaries. But when they go beyond the boundaries of normal morality their lives are changed profoundly and for ever.

THE REALITY:-

This is the second time I've tried to post this- Google identified my original review as "containing malware."  Hmm.  Not put there by me, it didn't, so let's hope that this time all is okay...

This was one hell of a slow burner for me- it took me four months to finish, which of practically unheard of for me! This was on a used-book-shelf in the local pub, and I purloined it. They can have it back, but it will have to wait until the pubs reopen. You'd think that, under semi-lockdown followed by lockdown, I'd be into my reading but life intervened- I was at the tail end of my MA, then I had a holiday and then Christmas loomed. And also this book didn't grip me as much as I thought it would...

I've read Donna Tartt before- The Little Friend was a fantastic story of an intelligent teenager who stalks the man she thinks is responsible for her younger brother's disappearance. The Secret History is labelled a “thinking person's thriller” and, as a thinking person, I was certainly thrilled, and impressed by the erudite level of writing, especially when discussing the Greek that I'm quite ignorant of. The characters were varied and interesting, with some sinister bents going on, especially to do with sexuality and incest; although a lot of that could be explained away under the banner of young people's experimentation. The location (and, to me, its bleakness) was also clearly depicted, as was the obsessive behaviour which led the stronger bulk of the group to conduct their macabre “experiment” and its repercussions which led to more misadventure. There was certainly an ethereal pace to these parts.

I guess what I'm saying is that this well-crafted read failed to touch the heart and move me, and some parts did feel overly-long (something I usually prefer) and chugged along. I must confess, a little speed reading took place. Having said that, I would certainly give Donna Tartt's work another go and- although it's not for me- I love her masculine style of dressing. Fashion designer Kate Sylvester used her as the muse for her A/W 2015 catwalk show. Yes, the Miss Elaineous still retains some of her interest in fashion and dressing up....

HONESTY by LINDA LAUREN

 HONESTY

BY LINDA LAUREN

THE BLURB:-

'I've always wanted woman's wants. Before lipsticks, glossy cream sheens of tempting pout, it was stolen Smarties- the black ones licked and dabbed on my eyelids, and the reds run around my slashed smile. It felt strange, with eyelids dried to cardboard consistency. But I considered it helped with that strained, haughty look that all the best ladies possessed. It had to be learnt at a very early age just what hard work it is to be beautiful.'

As a child, Lizzie craves to be initiated into the mysteries of womanhood. Nightly she watches her mother's transformation- with the aid of powder and paint- from the hard, tough-handed housewife who had the first mangle in the street into a mysterious creature of the dusk, a femme fatale who rustles as she moves and smells of cream cakes as she sits on Lizzie's bed. Then suddenly her mother needs the smiles more than she needs Lizzie and leaves home.

But there are compensations: being able to shop, cook, iron for her father, playing grown-up games...

Lizzie at eleven is the vamp, pretending to seduce men with her eyes in cafes, regularly playing truant- and then going home to act the little woman for her dad. By fourteen she is affecting world-weariness: she has become an expert tease: drugs are passé.

And then she finds him: her man. Michael Rosetti, divinely tall, pale and sensitive, opens the last gate for Lizzie into the adult world of her dreams- where honesty costs.

THE REALITY:-

So I claimed the hardback for my forever pile, after first reading this work by Linda Lauren (as discussed in my previous post) over a friend's shoulder at the age of 14, being fascinated and then owning a paperback version over 10 years ago.

“She (Linda Lauren) started writing at the age of four. In lipstick all over her bedroom wall. She was enthusiastically discouraged until she got to school where she found it had to be done in black pencil and in straight lines,” said the author blurb at the back. Hmmm. Why do I feel like this is a monumental falsehood? I mean, would a four-year-old really do that? Don't get me wrong, good if she did, but the subsequent lack of information about this author makes me wonder if, like the Nancy Drew series, more than one writer has contributed to this work. Yes, the style is similar to Pretties and the same as Sisters but, if it has all been penned by the same person then maybe Pretties- although published second- was actually the writer's first attempt, as it seems the vaguest out of the three?

Enough of my tangent- down to the job at hand. Set in the 1970s, this story gives a very real account of exactly what it's like for a young, working class girl growing up. Heartfelt and honest (no pun intended...), the quote, “You have to take my honesty. It's all I have to give....” on page 165 really hit a note, when Lizzie is dissecting her feelings with regard to her little daughter, and how she tries to convey them to her husband. This book does indeed look at the many roles a woman has to play (daughter, stepdaughter, girlfriend, wife, lover, mother) and does it brutally well.

Serious events take place, from (spoiler alerts coming): Lizzie's mother abandoning the family, incidences with dodgy boyfriends and perverts, pregnancy, abortion and miscarriage, to the sad death of Carol at the end.  Incidentally, I loved the way the writer likens the latter's fragile state to that of Katy, a broken but much-loved doll of Lizzie's childhood.  These comparisons serve to make the writing genuine and emotional, and the more prosaic events such as the onset of periods, the growing of breasts and contraception are dealt with... honestly.

And that's exactly what I would call this book- honest. Never has a title so perfectly described a story before!  The experiences are so genuine I feel that I've lived some of them (and I have, although I consider myself much more emotionally immature than Lizzie at the same age).  The characters are so real I feel that I once lived next door to them.  And I wish I'd have known them- or even been one of them. A work of genius.

PRETTIES by LINDA LAUREN

 PRETTIES

BY LINDA LAUREN

THE BLURB:-

'Jessie was perusing the club in a slinky affair with a slit up the side and a thigh much too long for it. Her nails dripped blood red and her eyes glinted black ice. She had so much body, and so few uses for it, that it was bored. It tended to wander. She forgot about it and it slopped away. She'd suddenly spot a milky breast spilling from its silk and a creamy thigh creeping slowly from the top of its stocking...'

Quiet and withdrawn, Jessie's on the bread 'n' marge line with her mother and her mother's boyfriend Brian, all embarrassing eyes and clammy hands. Reality isn't so hot so she lives inside her head. Her only escape from the real world is her pretties box, sugar pink with a big satin bow, full of treasures from a childhood that went on too long or never really happened.

Then Steve comes along. Big, blond and safe, he's both protection form the world and a passport into it. But security becomes suffocation- Jessie simply isn't domestic bliss material- and when her fantasy man appears how can she resist? Through him she gets it all- a luxurious flat, more money and clothes than she can ever spend or wear, an endless stream of beautiful worshipping bodies, and Him- but at what price?

This vivid new novel gives remarkable insight into the pleasures and pitfalls of growing up female.

THE REALITY:-

I first came across this author when I was 13, when a classmate brought in Honesty, and I took a look and found it hard to put down. (I've since re-ordered and re-read it as an adult, but sadly it hasn't survived being carted off to the charity shop, long before I began blogging.) My mum found Pretties at a jumble sale not long afterwards, and the copy I now have is another re-ordering, as it stuck in my brain so much.

I was inspired by this work for one of my MA submission stories, about a young woman's sexual awakening, and have just been inspired again to quote from it: “What's wild is wild and can't be caught...” for a recent short story about civilization and wilderness that I submitted to a competition. In my story, as in this book, a character is picking flowers.

Enough waffle. Apart from being really poignant, discussing feelings (especially of a lustful, sexual nature) that a teenage girl can relate to, I love the style in which the writing is delivered, which is a certain vagueness. This really seems to make you think between the lines, and hone in on what it is exactly that the author is trying to say (it's always good to really involve the reader in your work) and seems to get to the heart of the emotions of our main character, Jessie. It's sad that her dream man has an agenda once he re-meets Jessie (he always calls her Jessica) as an adult, and what she has to go through (seemingly willingly) to keep him, and how she escapes and how he (spoiler alert!) finds her again, and how she gets some kind of happy ending.

Those of us who have lived- like Jessie- on the bread 'n' marge line- will certainly relate to the social aspects of this novel, which is set in the late 1970s/ early 1980s, just before my teenage time. This has a good mix of characters who are, sadly, all too real to life. I can certainly spot at least one of each ilk in my own teenage years. It was great to re-visit this work, and live that life again. Indeed, those times, and the strong, melodramatic feelings that run hand-in-hand with being that age, have been the basis for my own writing work.

But whatever happened to this author? She wrote another book, named Sisters, then appears to have dropped off the face of the earth. Here's my review of that book:-

http://elainerockett.blogspot.com/2014/04/sisters-by-linda-lauren.html

There is a Linda Lauren who writes, but she's an American psychic, and writes about her craft. I'm guessing that my Linda Lauren is either A) dead or B) writes under another name, as I strongly suspect that Linda Lauren are her first and middle names, and that Lauren is not her surname. If any of you can shed some light on this matter, then please let me know, as I would love to read more of her work.

By the way, the lovely pink hatbox was the inspiration for me making one of my own whilst studying textiles at college.  I did own a hat (which I never wore) but no box, and had to make it out of woven printed paper, and my artwork was inspired by Pierre Bonnard and Jackson Pollock, so it wasn't pink like Jessie's hatbox...  But I've gone off on a tangent here...