“NEAR ENOUGH.”

Otago Witness, Issue 4033, 30 June 1931, Page 66

“NEAR ENOUGH.”

Doreen was matching ribbons for a friend who lived in the country. “ It’s really more of a powder blue,” she said, looking a little doubtfully at velvet ribbon that had more than a hint of green in it. “ Oh, well, I may as well have six yards of that. It's near enough.” Perhaps it was just as well for Doreen that she wasn’t “near enough” to hear the remarks of her friend in the country when she found herself landed with six yards of turquoise blue ribbon to trim a hyacinth blue dress.

It’s just the same if you go to tea. Doreen will snatch the kettle from the gas-ring, heedless of your mild protest that it isn’t quite boiling, with a blithe: “ Oh, you are an old fusspot, it’s just on the boil.” Unfortunately, it just isn’t, and the resulting tea is almost undrinkable, just because Dpreen is too slapdash to realise the difference between “ near enough ” and “ quite.” “ Let’s see, is Hetty’s address Cavendish Gardens or Cavendish Crescent ? ” exclaims Doreen, pen in hand. “ I’ll chance it and put Cavendish Crescent. It’ll be sure to find her.” It does find her, a day late, with “ Try Cavendish Gardens ” on the envelope, and it finds her considerably annoyed, having refused another invitation and waited in all the afternoon because she hadn’t heard whether Doreen was coining tp tea or not. Doreen’s “ near enough ” policy had failed again, and it would only have taken her a minute to run and find her address book. ¥ * * * “ I’m one of those happy-go-lucky people. Life isn’t long enough to keep on worrying over petty, little trifles,” she says gaily, with a slightly contemptuous smile for those “ old-maidish ” creatures who are actually quite peevish if you arrange to meet them at sixfifteen, and don’t turn up till six-forty-five; and are positively annoyed when you arrive home with a pound and a half of butter instead of half a pound. “ Oh, well, what of it? It’s only a bit more,” Doreen exclaims airily. But the “ bit more ” is a bit too much when you’re living alone, and the butter goes rancid long before you can eat it. “Like my new dress?” inquires Doreen proudly. “ I copied it from a French model in Cherisette’s window. Of course, that had pink broderie anglaise collar and cuffs, but I thought these white muslin ones were near enough.” Unfortunately, it was a simple little dress, and the touch of pink broderie anglaise just “made it,’ 4 whereas Doreen’s collars and cuffs merely looked ordinary.

The worst of it is that Doreen, though careless, is the soul good nature, and is always willing to lend a hand in running up a dress, or executing some small commission, but alas, the result is nearly always the same. “ I couldn’t get the jasmine soap you wanted, darling, so I got white heather,”

she announces brightly, heedless of the> fact that you loathe white heather. *''

“ That bit of marabout I got in the 1 sales isn’t quite long enough to go round your dressing-gown, but it’ll lie near enough. I’m afraid that petticoat I. dyed for you has gone a bit streakyThe directions said wash it first, but I didn’t think it would matter.” Alas, Doreen won’t realise that “ near enough ” is often such miles away.— Silvia Thorn-Drury, in Women’s Weekly.