In which wearing angel wings does not absolve me of sin, but embroidery might.
In the week of All Hallows Eve I experiment with different applications of wearable angel wings and rekindle my relationship with embroidery after the fashion of a Federalist period American society wife. Read on to see how this came to be…
Monday:
Another Monday full of the usual tribulations of the workday. Come five o’clock, Murran, my youngest sister, came round for support with an assignment for her college course.
The subject of the report she had to write for her fashion business course was on branding, something which was of academic interest to me when I had the sprightly blush of youth about me and was still to be found in the hallowed halls of University.
Exhibiting excellent taste, her chosen focus was Schiaparelli and their use of storytelling techniques to enshrine the history of the Maison as rooted in the world of art, especially through Elsa Schiaparelli’s earliest collaborations with the likes of Dali.
Her choice of brand and choice of argument may be the earliest germ of a similarity between us that burgeons into a shared love for the intersection between conceptual surrealist art practice and the clean glamour of a great Parisienne Maison. Good things are to be expected.
Tuesday:
Today I modelled again for the first time in a number of weeks. As it’s Halloween week, Michael asked if I could bring any accessories with me. It just so happened that I’d made a purchase of Angel wings to complete my Halloween costume for Friday night, so I took these along.
Wearing the wings and nothing else, I feel I was able to reach a dimension of Grecian classical grace in my craft which, if you’ll pardon my pretension, has already been described as elegant and graceful in bygone sessions and by wandering artists who encounter me in the various clubs and public houses of the South and stop me to tell me how much they enjoy drawing me (one of my favourite social happenings and a tireless triumph of my personal brand).
I feel I excelled myself with three 30 minute poses one after the other in immediate succession, and only used headphones to listen to a chapter of Anna Karenina during one of those three.
Later I travelled home by public transport with my duffel sports bag with angel wings affixed, currying an air of boyish queer mystery that I’ll be adding to the brand portfolio for future use.
Wednesday:
I spent the day working in the office in town, fastidiously committed to the business of my role. Not long before finishing up I received a text from Derry requesting Hachis Parmentier for dinner.
After stopping at the Dougie for a glass of red wine and to collect my strength, I returned home to give myself entirely to the craft of cookery. Once the back of the preparation was well broken and the damnable mash prepared and creamed, I had what I am calling an “attack of faintness” (conjuring something of the Georgian woman in me), and which Derry described as a “caffeine crash”. Derry assembled the meal and added the finishing touches, thereafter claiming full credit and risking my caustic revenge.
Thursday:
Another full day of office working, but on completion of the day we headed out to join friends at a wine pairing above the Coach and Horses.
These pairings see a marvellous Sommelier join us with a selection of wines which are paired with light dishes created by Kevin O’Neil, the visionary chef and darling sweetheart of our social scene. Kev is a visionary in every way and it’s very telling that he was the selection to curate the cheeseboard at my surprise thirtieth birthday party last autumn.
The last of these wine pairings was my first opportunity to get the full benefit of Kev’s creativity and skill (all previous experiences consisted mainly of just really well balanced curated cheese boxes), and I was so delighted and carried off by the experience that I’ve lived from then until now in anxious anticipation of the next.
I can say with clarity and conviction that Kev “did it again” and the food, coupled with the wine, carried me off into a haze of bliss. Our friends and I had been graced with a private table from which to enjoy the experience which created a darling sense of intimacy, carrying us into the frivolity of purchasing a full bottle of the Goru Monastrell for the table; thusly we found ourselves going elsewhere for drinks whereby “the wives” (myself and the female half of the couple we were with) sequestered ourself to swap stories about our solo Paris trips and shared love of heritage furniture.
Friday:
All Hallows Eve arrived with the usual sense of latent excitement hanging in the air all through the daylight hours. I busied myself with this and that until the moment I could dash upstairs to dress myself in my costume: Felix from Saltburn in his party look from the Midsummer Night’s Dream themed rave where he meets his demise courtesy of a bottle of champagne (on brand for me).
I clad myself in the white singlet top and affixed my angel wings, now sprayed a metallic gold, and joined my parents who agreed to caddy me into town.
Loosed in the Douglas Arms I got set about the sparkling wine and the conversation. Almost all of the glittering jewels of the social scene were out and on full display, which was a rare delight and medicine for my Salonniere spirit which had been at risk of atrophy and devolving into seclusion in the same way that Greta Garbo did in the 1940s.
The night passed in a blissful prosecco haze of delightful tomfoolery not limited to an ambulating wig that made any wearer look ineffably like Charli XCX, the surprise soap opera delight of a random girl dressed as Sabrina Carpenter turning out to be a childhood friend from primary school (before I was removed overseas for my education), and sporadic but utterly rousing outbursts of popular song from Jordan, otherwise Madame Jo, in the style of a matronly Scottish ensemble singer with salt-clad Ayrshire vowels. Delightful.
Saturday:
Bereft of my vitality and wearied from two nights of accumulated wine toxins, I have drifted aimlessly. Derry is in Edinburgh for the Rugby so I joined my parents at their house for dinner in order to give myself an alternative to sitting with my embroidery sampler while listening to the Hamilton soundtrack and crying, which I’d done all afternoon.
Dinner with my parents was also a delightful excuse to chat to my uncle who was visiting, and to gobble up a platter of oysters which I’d taken along with me as an offering for the table.
After dinner I retired to the drawing room at home to actually watch Hamilton from start to finish on Disney Plus, then retired to bed emotionally raw from the performance and absolutely certain that another addition to my brand portfolio includes “Schuyler sister coded” (specifically: Angelica).
Sunday:
I can’t get over Hamilton and am absolutely carried away on the aesthetic, beyond which would normally be considered reasonable.
Granted, I’d whipped out the embroidery before going down this rabbit hole, but the aesthetic is confirmatory and so when Derry returned from his night of rabble rousing in the nation’s capital he found me deeply preoccupied with a rigorous stem stitch and contemplating how I can become even more like a socialite and philanthropic American wife of the Early Republic period (I suspect the next step is investing in health infrastructure at the local level of some kind).
I have set aside my embroidery hoop to write this diary but will be resuming presently and expect to stay in this spirit until the sun has slipped past the horizon and I am called to other purpose (making the dinner).