Mundane Musings

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 180, 20 October 1927, Page 4

Mundane Musings

Potted Luck

I could feel my eyes popping out of my head like a couple of organ stops, with sheer horror and helplessness. Anyone wishing to enter our seaside cottage from the sea front must first climb a little dreadnought-grey ladder between the ramparts and the flagstaff, tread sideways down another, at the risk of life and limb, before they reach the green, unbobbed lawns which are the pride of our front elevation. Perched upon this second ladder, and in full view of all the front parlours of the suburb, there suddenly appeared the husband of one of my best friends. The hand that held a most welcome cup of afternoon tea to my lips trembled with annoyance. “Darling!” I quickly breathed across to Netta, who had the sardine tin on her plate and was delicately lapping up the oil with some bread and butter. “Tfliere’s George Box. And —yes, there’s Sonia and some female. Oh, my godmothers!” Netta, though only 11 h wonderful years old, was yet woman enough to realise the full meaning of the tragedy that had descended upon us both from out of the blue. “Whatever shall we do, mamma?” The welcome cup of tea went back on to its dinner plate, untouched. “Nothing!” I wailed. “In two seconds he’ll spot us. There! He's spotted us. Oh, help!” I put my head out or the open window, knocked the water of a bowl of marigolds all over my tired, worn out feet, and yelled back greetings with a false gaiety. “Welcome to our great city!” I could have brained them. And all the time a little bee in my bonnet was buzzing relentlessly, “Not a thing washed up! Not a thing clean!” Because that Saturday morning showed signs of being the only summertide of the year, I sent a message over to the fisherman’s wife who does my cottage work for me that we were going into town soon after breakfast for lunch and shopping, and would she come in about seven instead, to clear up? It was about five of the clock when we trailed home on our backstays, slightly hot and bothered, dying for our tea, and loaded down almost to the ankles with extra provisions. Melons, grapefruit, a bottle of magnesia, and Netta, of course, with the usual armful of wild flowers and grasses. Now, it’s one of my little prayers as a good cottage-wife that the fates will never permit me to grow .slack. It is my aim always to serve things in apple-pie order. I never want to forget the daily fresh flower water, though flowers on the table or in the room are a blooming nuisance; the right spoons, the proper dishes, and as frequently laundered table-linen as I can afford. All this sounds pretty obvious and over-emphasised, I know, but it’s pathetic to see in desolate, isolated habitations how easily women sink into that awful slough of don’t-care-ness when a folded, grubby cloth spread at one end of a table, and things still in their tins and pots, are good enough to set before their families. But on this hot, tiring day I admit I took a sad toss in the matter of my domestic principles. I slumped. Too fatigued and hungry were we to do anything but plump our market baskets on the floor anywhere, change our shoes and think of an immediate meal. While Netta ransacked the dresser for the remaining remnants of clean crockery, I opened two tins, one of milk and the other of sardines; hacked at the bread and butter, put a melon on a meat dish and set the oilstove to boil the kettle. And never had the oilstove looked more unbeautiful. There were all the horrid remains of the previous night’s soup which had remorselessly boiled over the azure-enamelled funnels when I wasn’t looking. Also it was badly in need of its Saturday morning spit and polish. But our meal, when it was spread in the Sunshine Room, was the saddest of all sights. A grubby, folded tablecloth spread at one end of the table, and things still in their tins. We didn’t care. We were starving. The seaside air does that to you. And all we desired at that blissful moment when we sat down to the slipshod but ample repast was the peace to dispatch it in, and leave to prop our morning papers—they don’t come until three in the afternoon—against the nearest thing handy. Stray guests in search of potted luck were the last things we desired to have sprung on us.

Semi-hysterical with exhaustion, the two women quite grey beneath their town make-up. my friends fell upon me the moment I opened the back door with mingled yells of laughter and chagrin. They’re the yelling sort. “Well, whadd’ye know about that?” I said, laughing on the wrong side of my face. “Oh, Jane!” whined Sonia, “you might have told us this was the end of the world! My dear! We’ve walked miles and miles over that awful beach. We’re staying in town for the weekend, so we thought we’d come and see Jane. They told us that you w’ere quite near. My dear! Jane, this is Outie So-and-so. Just over from New York. She’s heard all about you and your wonderful cottage. She’s just crazy to meet you.” Cutie, who was wearing a thick and highly cultured motoring coat, luxurious grey snakeskin shoes with three-inch high heels, and ten-dollar sheer silk stockings, looked as if she’d painfully walked off that crazy feeling long ago. Jane wasn’t feeling so crazy, either. “Come in,” she said. “We’ve just done our eight miles ourselves, and are in a bit of a mess.” And that was that! This sad little tale may conclude in some future edition, when I have recovered from Cutie’s superior smiles.

THE DUNEDIN CLUB

FINAL SOCIAL EVENING The Dunedin Club held the final social evening of its 1927 season in the clubrooms, Wyndham Street, last evening, when there was a record attendance of members and their friends. The president of the club, Mr. E. C. Cutten, was in the chair. During the evening bridge was played and dancing indulged in. the rooms being very attractively decorated with bowls of rose pink sweet peas and arum lilies. Mr. and Mrs. Dickinson were the bridge prize-winners. After supper Mr. Cutten spoke briefly on the splendid progress of the club and thanked the members for their enthusiastic and loyal support. • Mrs. K. Raymond, who has been so charming a hostess for all the club’s functions, was presented with a very handsome handbag in recognition of her services, while the committee also presented Mr. Cutten with an inlaid Indian cigarette case. Mr. Cutten lias been president since the inauguration of the club. Mrs. Raymond wore a very attractive gown of heavily sequined black georgette inset with orchid pink ac-cordion-pleated georgette, and over it she had a handsome wrap coat of French embossed georgette. The social evenings will recommence in March.

ST. MARY’S CONVENT DANCE

The Old Girls of St. Mary's Convent held their annual dance and bridge evening in the Amateur Society Hall last evening. Excellent music was provided, and about 80 couples were present. Among those who attended were: Mrs. Carter, frock of amber beaded georgette; Mrs. W. Meek, cherry brocaded taffeta gown with panne velvet hem; Mrs. B. Morris, frock of white beaded georgette trimmed with pink; Mrs. Geary, navy blue beaded ninon frock; Mrs. H. T. Dawson, gown of black panne velvet; Mrs. Nevin, cyclamen and silver lace gown; Mrs. Gilbert, black lace frock edged with black satin; -Mrs. Petersen, gown of cyclamen embossed crepe faille; Mrs. Snedden, frock of black georgette embroidered with royal blue; Miss Snedden, delphinium blue georgette frock; Miss A. Wright, plum coloured georgette gown; Miss D. King, frock of black lace; Miss R. Bright, frock of black crepe de chine and gold lace; Miss King, cream lace frock over pink satin; Miss H. Bright, frock of willow green georgette over silver tissue; Miss Nolan, ivory georgette gown beaded in silver and salmon; Miss L. Bowen, frock of flame crepe de chine and gold lace; Miss Mahley, black georgette frock; Miss AT. Mackay, apricot embossed satin frock; Miss Brown, cyclamen crepe faille gown; Miss M. Fenwick, frock of mauve georgette with white fur at hem; Miss N. Flynn, shell pink embossed georgette frock; Miss D. McGuire, beige crepe faille and cream lace frock. Miss Creedon, rose pink tissue frock with satin skirt; Miss D. Alder, ciel blue taffeta and silver lace frock; Miss V. Wheaton, frock of ecru lace over japonica pink satin; Miss Simmons, black georgette frock; Miss Thorpe, tomato red taffeta gown. Miss M. Tuck, spring green georgette frock; Miss L. McGuire, wistaria crepe de chine and gold lace gown; Miss O’Leary, hyacinth taffeta frock; Miss Flood, peach coloured georgette frock trimmed with diamante; Miss Lynch, Wedgwood blue crepe faille frock; Miss McHardy, frock of pervanehe blue romaine; Miss Wall, frock of japonica pink georgette; Miss G. O’Connor, salmon pink beaded georgette gown; Miss H. O'Connor, midnight blue velvet gown, relieved with gold lace; Miss M. Dempsey, sage green georgette frock; Miss K. Molloy, gown of black satin relieved with gold lace; Miss Williams, shaded * cyclamen georgette frock; Miss K. Elliott, frock of mauve taffeta and silver lace; Miss K. Moore, frock of lacquer red sequined georgette; Miss D. Wright, gown of silver brocaded lame; Miss M. Enwright, black chiffon velvet frock; Miss Connell, flame coloured taffeta gown; Miss F. Dawson, powder blue taffeta frock; Miss Galbraith, frock of blush rose taffeta with lace hem; Miss K. Galbraith, gown of bois de rose taffeta; Miss D. Morris, Nile green crepe de chine frock trimmed with gold lace; Miss Whye, frock of cyclamen taffeta relieved with silver; Miss E. Selby, frock of delphinium blue fringed satin. ~

A little warm beer is a very good thing with which to wash oak furiture before polishing it. It improves the colour of the wood.

If when trimming dress-hangers you cover them with velvet ribbon instead of silk, the dresses will not slip.