With the heatwave of July and August fading away into a distant, though still unpleasant memory, I finally feel like experimenting with perfume again. I know that it may sound ridiculous, but when the heatwave was at it's height I was only able to indulge myself with a few delicate favourites. Soft, light scents were a must and I clung to the calming cool breeze of aldehydes. Spicy perfumes and new additions to the olfactory landscape were quite impossible.
Today, however, I dug out a little vintage bottle of Worth's Ver Toi and am currently luxuriating in it's light woody loveliness. It's given me that perfume sample itch again and caused so many thoughts to rise to the top of my mind. So, this Autumn, there will be a return to perfume reviews on this blog. There will also be diversions and digressions, no doubt, into many other subjects.
Wednesday 29 August 2018
Tuesday 24 July 2018
Bird Bones (a short story).
©Holly Cox 2018
The sound of birdsong woke her in the cool half light of morning. She knew if she stretched her arm out beyond the limits of the blankets she would feel the chill and the little rush of possibilities that a new morning might bring.
For a few delicious minutes she was young again, in the country, and beyond her window the whole world waited for her. Then the dull ache in her joints came back to remind her and she recalled that the birdsong now came not from the warm living bodies of birds but from the clock radio on her bedside table.
‘Oh,’ she said, out loud. Then, hearing how the word hung so alone in the air, she said again, ‘oh.’
Minutes passed, the spell broken she rolled over and tuned away from the station of birdsong; squared her shoulders at the grown up responsibility to listen, each and every day, to the world’s misfortunes.
She studied the wallpapers pattern as she listened and weighed up all the different options she had considered for its replacement. She had seen a pleasant floral in town the other day and her friend, Elisa, had suggested a light stripe like a seaside chalet so that, with a few prints and some shells lined up upon the mantelpiece, she might always have summer in her house. Elise even claimed to know where she might get a stuffed seagull, a real one, to affix to the ceiling.
‘No,’ she said quickly, ‘too macabre.’ The floral would be better.
She stayed in bed until the news had exhausted all calamities and the weather man had confidently predicted many smaller inconveniences. Finally she pushed herself up over the edge of the bed; her feet patting about for the soft edges of her slippers whilst she felt on the table for her glasses.
***
The cars passing in the street and the kettle boiling on its stand set her teacups rattling on the shelf. So frail in their rattling that she feared they would spring and shake to slivers. Hurrying to catch her favourite with its pattern of Chinese songbirds; she tried to hum as she filled the cup with tea but the tune seemed to perish on her lips.
Seated at the little table with her tea she found her gaze drawn to her hand, pale, thin fingers clawed around the handle of her teacup. She saw and she could not help but be reminded of the bird’s skulls her brother kept lined up on his bedroom shelf.
“Tha’s a sparrow, tha’s a little kind of lapwing and tha’ big one, tha’s a crow.” He admired them for their lightness, for the way the sunlight filtered through them when you held them up. He had told her it was the lightness that allowed them to soar up into the sky and be utterly free.
She recalled too how his adored collection used to make her school friends shudder and he, in turn, thrilled with a boys delight at their horror. “T’is what we all come to in the end,” he said and laughed.
He had been right in the end. For was she not now dry and fragile as bird bones? She might be perfectly pleased with the transformation too if only she truly could lift up and fly away.
For a few delicious minutes she was young again, in the country, and beyond her window the whole world waited for her. Then the dull ache in her joints came back to remind her and she recalled that the birdsong now came not from the warm living bodies of birds but from the clock radio on her bedside table.
‘Oh,’ she said, out loud. Then, hearing how the word hung so alone in the air, she said again, ‘oh.’
Minutes passed, the spell broken she rolled over and tuned away from the station of birdsong; squared her shoulders at the grown up responsibility to listen, each and every day, to the world’s misfortunes.
She studied the wallpapers pattern as she listened and weighed up all the different options she had considered for its replacement. She had seen a pleasant floral in town the other day and her friend, Elisa, had suggested a light stripe like a seaside chalet so that, with a few prints and some shells lined up upon the mantelpiece, she might always have summer in her house. Elise even claimed to know where she might get a stuffed seagull, a real one, to affix to the ceiling.
‘No,’ she said quickly, ‘too macabre.’ The floral would be better.
She stayed in bed until the news had exhausted all calamities and the weather man had confidently predicted many smaller inconveniences. Finally she pushed herself up over the edge of the bed; her feet patting about for the soft edges of her slippers whilst she felt on the table for her glasses.
***
The cars passing in the street and the kettle boiling on its stand set her teacups rattling on the shelf. So frail in their rattling that she feared they would spring and shake to slivers. Hurrying to catch her favourite with its pattern of Chinese songbirds; she tried to hum as she filled the cup with tea but the tune seemed to perish on her lips.
Seated at the little table with her tea she found her gaze drawn to her hand, pale, thin fingers clawed around the handle of her teacup. She saw and she could not help but be reminded of the bird’s skulls her brother kept lined up on his bedroom shelf.
“Tha’s a sparrow, tha’s a little kind of lapwing and tha’ big one, tha’s a crow.” He admired them for their lightness, for the way the sunlight filtered through them when you held them up. He had told her it was the lightness that allowed them to soar up into the sky and be utterly free.
She recalled too how his adored collection used to make her school friends shudder and he, in turn, thrilled with a boys delight at their horror. “T’is what we all come to in the end,” he said and laughed.
He had been right in the end. For was she not now dry and fragile as bird bones? She might be perfectly pleased with the transformation too if only she truly could lift up and fly away.
Friday 22 June 2018
The turn of the year...
Well, midsummer has flown by, as ephemeral as a moth flitting through moonlight. Now, begins the long, languid sink into lengthening nights and shorter days. It's a loss and, at the same time, a moment of joy for the solstice holds open a door to the seasons yet to come. Autumn lies on the other side of that door, which I like to imagine resembles the moss cloaked, ivy wreathed door leading to Francis Hodgson Burnett's The Secret Garden, and winter too. There are falling leaves there and bonfires, hot tea and the possibility of snow. Berries hang, dark and red on the other side of that door, crows caw and wheel over stubble speckled fields and far off, in the distance, the faint fairy lights of a Christmas tree beckon.
For now, however, luxuriate in the honeyed sun of long days, the flowers blooming. Take inspiration from the summer months, store up the days as one stores up summer berries and locks their sun soaked secrets in jars of jam.
I know I will be letting the summer inspire me, and after the summer, the autumn will inspire me and after the autumn, the winter... And so it goes, on and on, a beautiful seasonal dance.
For now, however, luxuriate in the honeyed sun of long days, the flowers blooming. Take inspiration from the summer months, store up the days as one stores up summer berries and locks their sun soaked secrets in jars of jam.
I know I will be letting the summer inspire me, and after the summer, the autumn will inspire me and after the autumn, the winter... And so it goes, on and on, a beautiful seasonal dance.
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| ©H.Cox 2018 A page of Apple folklore from my folklore grimoire, |
Thursday 24 May 2018
Apologies for my long absence...
Apologies for my long absence from the blogosphere. Alas, life has been rather hectic recently and inspiration has eluded me, buried beneath a deluge of real life problems to be dealt with. Sadly, this post will, by necessity, be short since there are still things which need doing this Bank Holiday weekend. Hopefully, I will be back to longer posts next week.
However, whilst I have been absent, I have not been idle. In April I managed to complete Camp NaNoWriMo and return to the pleasure of writing poetry, I've been reading some wonderful books (everything from Michel de Montaigne to Angela Carter) and this week I even found time to make myself a Summer dress (see pictures below).
For now, I shall leave you with a blog recommendation for those who love reading, writing and historical fiction:
However, whilst I have been absent, I have not been idle. In April I managed to complete Camp NaNoWriMo and return to the pleasure of writing poetry, I've been reading some wonderful books (everything from Michel de Montaigne to Angela Carter) and this week I even found time to make myself a Summer dress (see pictures below).
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| © H.Cox 2018 |
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| © H.Cox 2018 |
The History Girls Blog
So many wonderful articles on this blog, so if you've never stumbled across it before, do.
And, as for perfume recommendations: try Imaginary Authors delicious perfume Violet Disguise.
It's the most delightful woody, earthy violet perfume, ideal for midsummer nights.
So many wonderful articles on this blog, so if you've never stumbled across it before, do.
And, as for perfume recommendations: try Imaginary Authors delicious perfume Violet Disguise.
It's the most delightful woody, earthy violet perfume, ideal for midsummer nights.
Wednesday 7 February 2018
Violets, violets, delicious violets! A review of Chanel's Misia.
When I was a little girl, I used to adore a particular sweet: Parma Violets. These appear be a particularly British sweet and a divisive one at that, people either love them or they hate them. I loved them. I loved their scent, their flavour and the slightly subversive idea of eating a flower (even highly processed and blended with sugar). When I was older, and heavily steeped in Jill Barklem's Brambly Hedge books, I sought out candied violets too and, predictably enough, I loved those too. It was practically a given that, once I became obsessed with perfume, I would adore violet perfumes.
As far as I am concerned there is one violet perfume, a relatively recent addition to the genre, which really takes the crown as the Queen of Violet perfumes: Misia from Chanel's Les Exclusifs range.
Misia is availible as an Eau de Parfum but the version upon which this review is based is the Eau de toilette and I have always felt that violets are particularly suited to the light airy composition of eau de toilettes, as Shakespeare said:
"A violet in the youth of primy nature
Forward, not permanent, sweet not lasting
The perfume and suppliance of a moment, no more"
Hamlet, Act I, Scene III
If you want words beautifully composed to capture a feeling, one should always turn to the Bard.
If you want a beautifully composed perfume try Misia. Though, I would have to say, for an EDT these violets, unlike Shakespeare's, are quite long lasting. On my skin, and everyone skin is different so I can make no promises, Misia lasts for roughly six hours before I need to reapply a dab or two.
Like most Chanel perfumes, Misia carries a signature top note of aldehydes, a spring breeze ruffling the delicate petals of a field of violets. Oh, and how deeply violets dominate the composition! These are, deep, dew moistened violets; their petals sweet and their roots sunk deep into the moist, dark earth. Violets in abundance, their sweetness rounded and warmed by middle notes of raspberry, rose and peach; their roots made temptingly, tantalizingly dark by notes of orris and tonka bean. It's a dancing scent, at once modern and fresh and wreathed in the sunlit glow of memories.
Misia is a perfume of rococo dressing tables heaped with delicate lace and glittering silver; it's the cloud of powder artfully applied to the maestro's coiffed wig before he settles himself at the piano and dazzles his audience; it's the scent nestled in the beauty spotted decollete of a powdered Mademoiselle; it's the delicate billow of scent that clings to a ribbon tied bundle of Edwardian letters and sepia toned photographs.
It is also the perfume of an evening stroll by the river; a late spring evening out; a Valentines day bouquet; it's the perfume of romance.
I can think of no one this scent would not suit. How beautifully it would shimmer and glow on every skin! I do not subscribe to the idea of gendered perfumes and, to me, Misia is decidedly unisex.
How delicate and delicious it would be with a slight rasp of stubble! How delicate and delicious it would be on soft, downy skin!
If you want to escape from the cliche (delightful as it is) of a bouquet of roses this Valentines Day, why not try Misia: a delicious bouquet of violets!
If you want a beautifully composed perfume try Misia. Though, I would have to say, for an EDT these violets, unlike Shakespeare's, are quite long lasting. On my skin, and everyone skin is different so I can make no promises, Misia lasts for roughly six hours before I need to reapply a dab or two.
Like most Chanel perfumes, Misia carries a signature top note of aldehydes, a spring breeze ruffling the delicate petals of a field of violets. Oh, and how deeply violets dominate the composition! These are, deep, dew moistened violets; their petals sweet and their roots sunk deep into the moist, dark earth. Violets in abundance, their sweetness rounded and warmed by middle notes of raspberry, rose and peach; their roots made temptingly, tantalizingly dark by notes of orris and tonka bean. It's a dancing scent, at once modern and fresh and wreathed in the sunlit glow of memories.
Misia is a perfume of rococo dressing tables heaped with delicate lace and glittering silver; it's the cloud of powder artfully applied to the maestro's coiffed wig before he settles himself at the piano and dazzles his audience; it's the scent nestled in the beauty spotted decollete of a powdered Mademoiselle; it's the delicate billow of scent that clings to a ribbon tied bundle of Edwardian letters and sepia toned photographs.
It is also the perfume of an evening stroll by the river; a late spring evening out; a Valentines day bouquet; it's the perfume of romance.
I can think of no one this scent would not suit. How beautifully it would shimmer and glow on every skin! I do not subscribe to the idea of gendered perfumes and, to me, Misia is decidedly unisex.
How delicate and delicious it would be with a slight rasp of stubble! How delicate and delicious it would be on soft, downy skin!
If you want to escape from the cliche (delightful as it is) of a bouquet of roses this Valentines Day, why not try Misia: a delicious bouquet of violets!
For more information on Violets in Shakespeare, their meanings and quotations, I direct you here:
A Shakespeare Garden.
A Shakespeare Garden.
Tuesday 23 January 2018
Pen to Paper...
Today is National Handwriting Day, although in these times of social media it's more international handwriting day. Handwriting really is something that I'm passionate about because I do it every single day. Let me explain...
Anyone who has met me or followed me on social media for any length of time will know that I am a serious notebook addict. I currently have slightly over 100 full notebooks and 35 notebooks waiting to be filled (and I will buy more, I know I will).
With a notebook collection like that it makes sense to write by hand. I also love the sensation of writing by hand. I love the way ink flows over paper, the curves of letters, the flow of ones thoughts. I find it particularly pleasurable when writing fiction because I can completely immerse myself in the world I am creating. My notebooks contain first drafts and research and character profiles; they are a complete and tangible history of my interests and inspiration. I love seeing them sitting together on a shelf and I love opening an old notebook and finding some forgotten treasure.
I recently took down one of my beautiful Paperblanks silver filigree notebooks and found notes on Louis XIV's love of ballet, of 17th Century fairy folklore and snippets from a love story I had titled, "May I be your Cello" (yes, that is as naughty as it sounds).
It was a wonderful moment, a beautiful moment; seeing the person that I had been and that I was. I still have many of the same obsessions (I am certainly still fascinated by Louis XIV) but I have developed new obsessions too and my writing style has changed and evolved over the years.
I wonder what I will think in a couple of years time when I open the notebooks I am keeping now?
In fact if there is one downside to writing everything by hand it is this: eventually, everything must be typed up.
Anyone who has met me or followed me on social media for any length of time will know that I am a serious notebook addict. I currently have slightly over 100 full notebooks and 35 notebooks waiting to be filled (and I will buy more, I know I will).
With a notebook collection like that it makes sense to write by hand. I also love the sensation of writing by hand. I love the way ink flows over paper, the curves of letters, the flow of ones thoughts. I find it particularly pleasurable when writing fiction because I can completely immerse myself in the world I am creating. My notebooks contain first drafts and research and character profiles; they are a complete and tangible history of my interests and inspiration. I love seeing them sitting together on a shelf and I love opening an old notebook and finding some forgotten treasure.
I recently took down one of my beautiful Paperblanks silver filigree notebooks and found notes on Louis XIV's love of ballet, of 17th Century fairy folklore and snippets from a love story I had titled, "May I be your Cello" (yes, that is as naughty as it sounds).
I wonder what I will think in a couple of years time when I open the notebooks I am keeping now?
In fact if there is one downside to writing everything by hand it is this: eventually, everything must be typed up.
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