The Sunday Spinster Sermons: Part Five

Hello. Sorry to be so unSunday in my approach but this spinster has been living it up with a 4 day weekend full of sugar and spice and all things nice. Still Untouched but full of plans and high fallutin ideas. I hope you enjoyed the Veronicas, this track's a cross between Don Henley's Boys of Summer and Divinyls' I touch myself. J'adore. Spinster anthems.

I'd now like to read you a short excerpt from Angels & Insects by A.S.Byatt, one of my favourite authors, as she so concerns herself with Victorian art and poetry. It is a wonderfully bumbling spoken piece by a Mr Jesse to Miss Tennyson (sister of Alfred Lord).


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'You don't seem to understand. I didn't mean to speak so much so soon, but there I go, rushing on, like the North Wind, can't stop - have you ever felt that someone was to do with you, when you saw them, quite simply, just that, that there are people all over the place with noses like dough-buttons and eyes like currants and other people like Roman busts, you know, and then suddenly you see a face that's alive - for you - and you know it's to do with you, that that person is a part of your life, have you ever felt that?'

'Once,' said Emily. 'Once, I believe.' Had she? They stood in the street and looked at each other. Richard's bland, amiable brow was crumpled with his puzzled attempt to make her share what was perfectly plain to him. He made an awkward movement with his arms, half a salute, half the prelude to enfolding her, and drew back.

'I'm crowding you, Miss Tennyson, I'll go now, I hope you'll talk later and not hold my awkwardness against me. If I'm right, we do have things to say to each other, and if I'm not, it will become clear enough, no bad feelings, wont it? So I'll bid you goodbye for he present, Miss Tennyson. It's been a pleasure.'

And he strode off, very fast, down the street, leaving her not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

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It's no 50 shades of grey, but I much prefer to hear talk of dough buttons, currants and Roman busts than strong men, weak women and bad porn.

I had my photo taken with this book on Sunday. Other books titles strewn around included: The Psychology of Romantic Love by Robert A Johnson; The book of Werewolves by Sabine Baring-Gould; Basic Bhagavad Gita by Sravaniya DiPecoraro; John Keats, The Complete Poems; Mythology by Edith Hamilton; The Dictionary of the Occult by Andrew Nataf; Guenevere, the Queen of the Summer Country by Rosalind Miles; Woman on the Edge of Time by Marge Piercy and Tales of Power by Carlos Casteneda.

I hadn't heard of this link yet http://hotgirlsreadingbooks.tumblr.com/ but I think that's the general gist. Sunday was photoshoot day. My ego had been supremely flattered when I'd been offered a free photoshoot. I hadn't really thought through the likelihood that I'd be encouraged to buy photographs afterwards. After spending an hour in make-up and being told the shoot would last about 5 hours, I figured there was likely to be an element of sales pitch. There is NO sales pitch. There is just wonderfully clever lighting and make up and your vanity does all the rest. I want these photos so bad. I want them over my imaginary kingsize bed. I want selections of some in my imaginary study. I want a giant coffee table book made with them placed on my imaginary coffee table. Alas, or luckily, depending upon your perception, I have no rooms of my own, so have no place to put these pictures, so am not purchasing. For now... But they're out there. About 50 lovely photographs. I'm strewn across a fake fur on the floor with green satin gloves and black veils. I'm pouring Chambord as if a wicked love potion into a gilded vessel. I'm twirling a parasol in a pastel sheath dress with an overstated hello boys wink. I'm Pre-raphaelite wicked with curious books, statues of buddhas and peacock feathers fresh from the castle lie in my wake. It was egomadness. I was in heaven. I was Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer. I recommend you all do it. Boys included. With beauty being in the eye of the beholder, having professionals help you control your image is quite wonderful. Of the many photos taken. The photographer has posted 3 on his site. If I want to revel in my beauty once more I must pay for the privilege. Nifty business model. Relying on the seven deadliest of sins.

Here are the three I can share:

Elaine, my beautiful friend who came to join the egotrip.

Me looking somewhat jilted

The pair of us, busy subverting the male gaze, or posing :)

So Sunday was pretend to be a model day. Saturday was pretend to be a sailor day. This lucky little spinster was picked up at the castle by the House Steward in his smashing red sports car and whisked off to Lake Vernwy to get my Wayfarer on. I was imagining self as Lynne from Howard's Way. The epitome of grown up cool. Alas, as the grown up on the boat was used to racing yachts, I spent three and a half hours getting bruised while exposing my knickers due to far too much tacking and far too little drinking. Fun though.

Monday was yoga nidra with friends, which led to yoga snoring with mat and waking up late in the afternoon. I then drove to Blackburn to visit the faery wood.

Faery writing pod where pacts were made

By Tuesday strict covenants had been drawn up to ensure the blogging grows to novelling and then it was time to go home, back to teenworld at Hope Cottage, Number one Cleveland Street, Cherry Orchard, Shrewsbury, Shropshire, England, Great Britain, Europe, the Earth, the Milky Way, the Universe, Infinity and beyond. Which is where I am now. Which is why it is bedtime. I leave you with the dulcet tones of the theme tune to the finest drama before Sunset Beach.

Oh and your Sunday worship, in honour of Tom Daley and his bronze...

Peace be with you

xxx