Loss, by Wendy Cope
The day that he left was terrible -
That evening she went through hell.
His absence wasn't a problem
But the corkscrew had gone as well.
It's not entirely on point. It was she who left, not he. Her absence most certainly is a problem. She even left the corkscrew behind, not that it's any use to me (maybe they only have screwtops in heaven?).
But oh, what I wouldn't give for a large glass of wine right now.
If you didn't laugh, etc.
This poem previously seen here on the subject of a different loss, that of the recipe book my mum made for me. Not just painful because of the recipes but because she also wrote down all of her favourite poems and I bloody well lost them and do you know how hard it is to pick a bloody poem for a bloody funeral??
Illustration by Caitlin McGauley
Nearly a decade ago, Edwin Morgan wrote a poem called For the Opening of the Scottish Parliament, 9 October 2004.
It's packed with pithy, eminently quotable phrases, and some cracking collective nouns: "A nest of fearties." "A symposium of procrastinators." "A phalanx of forelock-tuggers."
But it's the opening line that slaps you in the face so hard that you want to print it out and stick it on your wall:
Open the doors! Light of the day, shine in; light of the mind, shine out!
I actually did print it out and stick it on my wall.
You can read the poem in full here, courtesy of the Scottish Poetry Library. I can't think of a better thing to do on a Sunday morning.
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Image: design by Gemma Tickle, photography by Kate Jackling
There's nothing I enjoy more than agreeing to do things that seem like a good idea at the time even though it turns out I'm lacking the time, energy and organisational capacity to actually do them, so when Zoë asked me back in the spring if I would take over the Edinburgh chapter of Blook Club, naturally, I said yes.
Fortunately Zoë has even less spare time than me, so it took us a good six months and drafting in an extra person (hi, Amy!) to finally organise something. But now the wait is over, and the next Blook Club gathering is just a couple of weeks away. So far, I've designed a pretty graphic and sent one or two emails. All that's left to do is organise a venue, set a time, figure out how to charge my Kindle after I threw the cable away in a fit of decluttering insanity and, oh yes, read the books (note the plural). Did I mention it's less than a fortnight away?
We've been putting the word out on Twitter, but it occurred to me that some local readers might fancy coming along. The only rule for joining in is that you have a blog or that you're a blog reader with a Twitter account, so we know you're not a creepy stalker who just happens to be really into women's fiction. Here's the aforementioned pretty graphic with all the details:
Fortunately Zoë has even less spare time than me, so it took us a good six months and drafting in an extra person (hi, Amy!) to finally organise something. But now the wait is over, and the next Blook Club gathering is just a couple of weeks away. So far, I've designed a pretty graphic and sent one or two emails. All that's left to do is organise a venue, set a time, figure out how to charge my Kindle after I threw the cable away in a fit of decluttering insanity and, oh yes, read the books (note the plural). Did I mention it's less than a fortnight away?
We've been putting the word out on Twitter, but it occurred to me that some local readers might fancy coming along. The only rule for joining in is that you have a blog or that you're a blog reader with a Twitter account, so we know you're not a creepy stalker who just happens to be really into women's fiction. Here's the aforementioned pretty graphic with all the details:
Yup, there's a Back to School theme, which made a lot more sense in August when we picked it. You can sign up for Blook Club here and the two books are Paper Aeroplanes by Dawn O'Porter and Eleanor & Park by Rainbow Rowell. It's not exactly Dostoevsky, but (a) this is supposed to be fun, and (b) we're saving Dostoevsky for next term. We also thought it might be interesting to do a little compare and contrast (JUST LIKE SCHOOL!). I've already spotted some good reviews on Twitter from Blook Clubbers who are clearly way more organised than I am, so I'm looking forward to reading the books. When I find my Kindle cable.
If you're not in Edinburgh, don't despair. You can still join in, either by signing up for the London Blook Club or reading along and joining in the discussion online. I can't think of a snappy way to end this post, so maybe I'll finish with a question, like they teach us in blogging school: do you ever feel nostalgic for school? The structure, spending all day with your friends, learning things? Or is it just me?
If you're not in Edinburgh, don't despair. You can still join in, either by signing up for the London Blook Club or reading along and joining in the discussion online. I can't think of a snappy way to end this post, so maybe I'll finish with a question, like they teach us in blogging school: do you ever feel nostalgic for school? The structure, spending all day with your friends, learning things? Or is it just me?
SEE ALSO:
Image: Beyoncé channelling drugs mule chic. Blook Club graphic by yours truly. So proud.
I think we all know by now that I'm fond of a bit of poetry. I don't really know much about it - the last time I attempted any kind of proper literary analysis was over a decade ago - but I admire and enjoy it, and really, isn't that the point?
So, obviously, I am very into these free downloadable posters from the Scottish Poetry Library. Not only do I love the graphic type and candy colours, I love the very idea of printing poetry off and sticking it on your wall, like it was a Romeo+Juliet-era Leonardo DiCaprio poster.
I'm tempted to download "A tiny radiance" for the space above my desk, but I feel like my boss might take it the wrong way. I also can't get over the description of poetry as "the breast milk of language." Indeed.
If you prefer pictures to words, Pugly Pixel shared a link a while back to a new project from the Rijks Museum, which is offering free high-res downloads of artworks from its vast collection.
In order to help you narrow down which pieces you might like to download, the museum offers a 'Master Matching' service, which is kind of like a Cosmo "Which Sex and the City character are you?" quiz except infinitely classier. Instead of suffering the indignity of categorising yourself as a particular type cocktail or shoe ("Practical flats? You're so Miranda!"), you're invited to select your favourite Dutch city (who doesn't love Maastricht?) and ponder whether you were a hermit or a queen in a past life (hermit, obvs). This, ladies and gents, is my idea of a good time.
Update: I took my own advice.
Poetry posters via the Scottish Poetry Library. Porcelain plate circa 1778-1782 via Rijks Studio.
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I don't recall pain, or joy, only the blue dress
I wore, and the door open to the sea,
and the liquid sun across the floor beside the bed.
Excerpt from The Blue Dress, by Freya Manfred
No reason. I just liked it.
Wishing you a lovely weekend, filled with liquid sun.
Bambi Northwood-Blyth by Tim Barber for Muse Summer 2011, via Fashion Gone Rogue
SEE ALSO:
The Italian nanny was attempting to answer the teacher's latest question when the Morrocan student interrupted, shouting, "Excuse me, what's an Easter?"
The teacher called upon the rest of us to explain.
The Poles led the charge to the best of their ability. "It is," said one, "a party for the little boy of God who call his self Jesus and . . . oh shit." She faltered and her fellow country-man came to her aid.
"He call his self Jesus and then he be die one day on two . . . morsels of . . . lumber."
The rest of the class jumped in, offering bits of information that would have given the pope an aneurysm.
"He die one day and then he go above of my head to live with your father."
"He weared of himself the long hair and after he die, the first day he come back here for to say hello to the peoples."
"He nice, the Jesus."
From Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris
Hope you have the nice party, peoples.
Bunny brooch: SketchInc
If you ask me 'What's new?', I have nothing to say
Except that the garden is growing.
I had a slight cold but it's better today.
I'm content with the way things are going.
Yes, he is the same as he usually is,
Still eating and sleeping and snoring.
I get on with my work. He gets on with his.
I know this is all very boring.
- From Being Boring by Wendy Cope, the blog's Offical Poet
(Fun fact: this is also the poem that inspired the blog's name.)
I have nothing to say. I don't even have a garden. As Zoë put it, it's too January to blog.
But I'm content with the way things are going.
Is the 15th of January too late to wish you a happy new year? I hope not, but happy Tuesday, just in case.
Cinemagraphs by Jamie Beck and Kevin Burg - see more of their very-not-boring work here
Fin's a new book person. He loves the smell of them, the shiny spines in well-ordered rows. He could spend several happy hours browsing the shelves of a good bookshop and never get bored. Second-hand things - books, clothes, anything textile - give him the willies.
I, on the other hand, am more of an old book person. I find new books sterile, their scent vaguely chemical. I'll take a library over a bookshop any day of the week. For me, nothing beats the weight of an old book in my hands, heavy with dust and nostalgia. Whose hands have turned these pages? Where were they sitting, what were they wearing? What did they think?
I have a particular soft spot for etiquette and self-help books of the past; I just find them incredibly charming, with their crazy titles and ridiculous advice and rampant sexism. It's so easy to laugh, now.
For some reason, my Nana's worn and beloved copy of The Bride's Book caught my eye this week. One meandering, time-killing internet search led to another, when suddenly I hit vintage marriage etiquette book jackpot on etsy. What, like you've never hit vintage marriage etiquette book jackpot? Weirdo.
(Can we just take a moment to appreciate the amazing nom de plume on the bottom right?
I find the quotation marks deeply fascinating. My theory is it's really a man.)
So now I'm wondering how many vintage marriage etiquette books a girl can justify purchasing. And whether that number is more or less than the number of books on increasingly obscure aspects of World War I currently sitting, unread, at Fin's end of the bookshelf. I think I've got some catching up to do.
Are you a new book person, or an old book person? A really special new book can still get me excited; I just cracked the spine on my (brand new! hardback!) copy of Days of Blood and Starlight and I'm already well and truly sunk.
And while we're on the topic of books, are there any I should be putting on my Christmas list? You lot strike me as the people to ask.
All images from Eager for Word on etsy. You might also have noticed I've stopped linking to Amazon. That's because Amazon is evil, and Hive is the best idea ever.
"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a warm-blooded woman in possession of good eyesight, must be in want of some gratuitous pictures of Colin Firth."
Jane Austen. (Probably.)
If you were in Britain and had a pulse in 1995, you will remember the phenomenon that was the BBC's adaptation of Pride and Prejudice. It was a classic of the genre, the standard against which all subsequent attempts should be judged. Memorable performances abounded - Julia Sawalha as a giggling, brainless Lydia, Jennifer Ehle's moon-faced beauty and expressive eyebrows, the wickedly caddish portrayal of Wickham by that bloke off Peak Practice - but none permeated the public consciousness like The Man Himself. For me, there will only ever be one Mr Darcy: Oscar-winner and all-round charming man, Colin Firth.
We all know I like a man in period attire, and I can only assume that being exposed at such a tender age to the sight of Colin Firth striding across the lawns in all his manly, dripping glory had more than a little to do with it. That famous lake scene isn't even in the book (he simply walks round a corner - DULL), but what a stroke of genius it was. In one seemingly inconsequential scene, Darcy goes from Mr Uptight Stick-Up-His-Arse to a sensuous man, glistening with sweat, so desperate to feel the cool waters against his skin that he throws propriety (and his clothes) to the wind and surrenders to a deeper, physical urge. Also, you can kind of see his nipples through his shirt. It's steamy stuff.
But what, you might wonder, has prompted this little trip down memory lane? Is this just turning into a blog about on-screen hotties of yesteryear? Sadly not. Colin Firth has been on my mind recently for a very specific reason. This reason:
That's right, people. MR DARCY IS MOVING IN NEXT DOOR. Kind of. Okay fine, he's not technically *moving in*. And that is not technically *my* house, since I haven't actually lived with my parents for the better part of a decade. But Colin Firth is shooting a film all this week mere yards away from the house where I grew up. The very house, in fact, where I first saw him dive into that god damn sexy lake.
Oh yeah, and Nicole Kidman is in it too. Just a couple of Hollywood A-listers, hanging out on my street. No big deal.
As you can imagine, North Berwick is all a-flutter. This is the most exciting celebrity happening in the town since Ronnie Corbett appeared in support of the Save The Outdoor Pool campaign. My mum reports higher than usual traffic along our section of the beach, with people casually strolling first one way, then the other, attempting to appear disinterested while twisting back over their shoulders hoping to catch a glimpse.
The couple who normally live in the house in question have decamped to a neighbouring flat and the decoraters have moved in, transforming it beyond recognition. North Berwick's usual sci-fi-esque streetlamps have been replaced on our street with original 80s fittings, bathing the terrace in a retro orange glow. Soon, though, it will be basking in the bright white light of superstardom emanating from the perfect, screenworthy features of Colin and Nicole. (See how we're on first name terms already?)
Regrettably, I probably won't get to hang out with Col and Nic personally, since they have quite selfishly scheduled filming to take place while I'm at work. I did manage to snap some behind-the-scenes pictures on Saturday though, and my mum has promised me frequent updates, which I will no doubt be relaying on twitter and which I'm sure you're all very excited to hear. "I think I just saw Colin's arm in the window!" "Nicole's assistant's assistant just walked past the back gate!" That kind of thing. In a happy coincidence, Isla has just had her final jags and is now free to run around outside - I think there's a strong chance she might "accidentally" run into Colin Firth's trailer...
So, how was YOUR weekend? See any Hollywood A-listers? Snuggle any puppies? Take any pictures of lampposts?
Second image by Lillian and Leonard. Note the wedding bunting.
So, how was YOUR weekend? See any Hollywood A-listers? Snuggle any puppies? Take any pictures of lampposts?
Second image by Lillian and Leonard. Note the wedding bunting.
Have you seen this story? Oh, Topshop. You never fail to crack me up. I'm not sure which is more ridiculous - the fact you spelt Shakespeare wrong, or the fact that you felt the need to clarify who wrote Romeo & Juliet in the first place. Is your opinion of teenage girls really that low?!
My favourite part is this: "When informed of the error, a Topshop spokesperson reportedly exclaimed: 'Oh my god.'"
Quite.
I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy;
Naething could resist my Nancy;
But to see her was to love her,
Love but her, and love for ever.
Had we never loved sae kindly,
Had we never loved sae blindly,
Never met—or never parted,
We had ne'er been broken-hearted.
From Ae Fond Kiss
2. What exactly do you think is inside a sausage?
3. Did I mention IT'S DELICIOUS?
Image by Chloe Aftel from this beautiful polaroid wedding over on east side bride.
Robert Burns wrote this ode to unrequited love in 1791 (read the rest, and a snippet of scandalous backstory, here). As with all of Burns' best bits, his words are lovely to read, but better to listen to, especially when sung by the incomparable Eddi Reader.
Tonight is Burns Night, which means haggis for tea. To those of you who might balk at the idea of eating haggis, I have three things to say:
1. It's delicious.
2. What exactly do you think is inside a sausage?
3. Did I mention IT'S DELICIOUS?
Don't worry, though. If you really can't stomach it, vegetarian haggis is also, fortunately, delicious. Fun fact: my dad's friend invented vegetarian haggis. That's right, I move in exalted circles.
Anyone else celebrating Burns Night? And does anyone else get really quite upset when people cross their arms at the wrong bit of Auld Lang Syne, or - horrors - sing "for the sake of"...?
P.S. If haggis and poetry aren't your thing (in which case, we need to have a serious talk about our friendship), might I recommend this old but hilarious post by an altogether different Burns.
P.P.S. Thanks for all of your comments yesterday. You're the best.
Image by Chloe Aftel from this beautiful polaroid wedding over on east side bride.
A perfect white wine
is sharp, sweet and cold as this:
birdsong in winter.
Haiku by Wendy Cope
This weekend, I will be mainly:
♥ Drinking wine, which may or may not be white, and which is unlikely in either event to be perfect. Thank God I was too lazy to make any anti-drinking resolutions this year, or they would have been well and truly crushed by now.
♥ Taking Smidgen on increasingly blustery walks. What is with all this wind? Don't they know I ordered snow, dammit?
♥ Frittering away the hours making pretty grids of all the things I want to buy on etsy. It's kind of addictive - I've made four in the last two days. So far, I've managed to refrain from actually purchasing anything, but it's only a matter of time.
♥ Reading the wise and funny words of Wendy Cope (I like to think of her as the blog's Official Poet). I picked up her latest volume when my mum and I went to see her read in August, but I've only just sat down to read it, and it's heaven.
♥ Knitting a damn snood.
How about you?
'Birdsong in Winter' etsy treasury imported into Blogger using the Treasury tool by Red Row Studio, via DDay. Haiku from Family Values by Wendy Cope.
"The difference between Chinese medicine and Western medicine is the dissection versus the observation of the thing in motion. The difference between reading a story and studying a story is the difference between living the story and killing the story and looking at its guts.
"School! We sat in English class and we dissected the stories that I'd escaped into, laid open their abdomens and tagged their organs, covered their genitals with polite, sterile drapes, recorded dutiful notes en masse that told us what the story was about, but never what the story was. Stories are propaganda, virii that slide past your critical immune system and insert themselves discreetly into your emotions. Kill them and cut them open and they're as naked as a nightclub in daylight."
From Eastern Standard Tribe by Cory Doctorow
When Maggie O'Farrell spoke at Fringe by the Sea, she talked about her love of poetry, and mentioned how glad she was that she had studied English literature and not creative writing at university. In order to be able to write a novel, she said, it was important to know how to take one apart, examine it, and then carefully put it all back together again.
Naturally, having studied neither literature nor writing but rather something significantly less poetic, I was a little dismayed by her advice. Oh well, too late to go back and change it now. I had the option to study English, or music, or even creative writing. I applied for and was accepted onto courses in all of these subjects at reputable institutions. But by that stage, after thirteen solid years of education, I just wanted to be able to read a book and not be constantly bothered by wondering what the meaning was, what the author was really trying to say. For years, I had been too busy analysing writing to do something as pedestrian as enjoying it. So I chose instead a subject where the words I was analysing were so dreadfully dull that there was no chance anyone could ever actually enjoy them anyway, and in fact the process of analysis at least served as a distraction from the relentless monotony of the text.
Somehow, though, as the years go on, it's easy to forget that there was a reason behind my decisions. It's easy to feel guilty for reading carelessly, for fun, with no thought to the higher aim or purpose of the writer. And it's oh so easy to add "Not having an English literature degree" to the list of Reasons Why I Could Never Be A Writer.
But last night, when I read the words above, I was struck anew by the simple truth that there is nothing wrong with reading, or writing for that matter, purely for pleasure. In fact, you know what? I think that may be kind of the point.
(Yes, I did just use the words "genitals" and "naked" in the same post. Twice. Bring it on, spammers and weirdos. Bring it on.)
Excerpt from the second page (boom!) of Eastern Standard Tribe by Cory Doctorow, which made its way to me via the excellent Book Crossing project. Image from Day and Night, a series of photographs of Berlin nightclubs by day, on Finding Berlin.
There is nothing, repeat nothing, more cringingly awful than people quoting song lyrics as if they are deeply meaningful works of literature. It is painfully, toe-curlingly embarrassing. When a friend who shall remain nameless told me that, overcome with love one day, she texted her boyfriend the lyrics to Chasing Cars, a small part of me died inside.
But if I were ever to make an exception to this rule (and I won't, but if I were), it would be for Mr Steven Patrick Morrissey. The man is a genius. He's also a bit of a pompous twat with borderline racist tendencies, but a genius nonetheless. What's more, he's the Hubster's favouritest favourite ever.
The Smiths are known for being, well, a bit glum. A bit moany. Lines like, "for once in my life, let me get what I want. Lord knows, it would be the first time," don't exactly help to alleviate that impression. But trust me, it's not all just depressive whining. Some of it's angry, some of it's thoughtful, some of it's even - whisper it - funny. ("I was looking for a job, and then I found a job, and heaven knows I'm miserable now." I mean, COME ON.)
And some of Morrissey's songs are the best love songs ever written. Fact.
Not the "oh, you're so beautiful and everything's so perfect, I want to hold your hand and gaze lovingly into your eyes and frolic through soft-focus fields forever and ever" kind of love song. I'm talking about the gritty, honest, this-is-what-love-really-feels-like-and-it's-sometimes-quite-shit kind of love song.
I'm talking about lyrics like, "Boot the grime of this world in the crotch, dear, and don't go home tonight. Come out and find the one that you love and who loves you."
Lyrics like, "You're on your own tonight, with your triumphs and your charms, while they are in each other's arms."
Lyrics like, "I am human and I need to be loved, just like everybody else does. There's a club if you'd like to go - you could meet somebody who really loves you. So you go and you stand on your own, and you leave on your own, and you go home, and you cry and you want to die." (Erm, okay, that one is kind of depressing.)
Lyrics like, "And if a double-decker bus crashes into us, to die by your side is such a heavenly way to die. And if a ten-tonne truck kills the both of us, to die by your side, well, the pleasure, the privilege is mine." (That one is so good, the awesome Celia has it framed above her bed, and Fin and I had it printed in the back of our orders of service on our wedding day, despite my aforementioned hatred of lyric-quoting.)
And then there's my favourite Smiths line. Maybe the best Smiths line ever. This line:
"It's so easy to laugh.
It's so easy to hate.
It takes strength to be gentle and kind."
Boom. Told you Morrissey was good.
Tell me I'm not the only Moz fan lurking in the blogosphere. Or tell me I'm wrong and the lyrics to Chasing Cars are in fact a sophisticated expression of the power and and simplicity of love rather than a pile of cheesy meaningless crap.
(Sorry, Nameless Friend, if you're reading this. Nothing's changed, I still love you. Only slightly less than I used to.)
{Amazing Penguin Classics/Smiths posters by Hunting Bears. Why is the Ask one sold out? WHYYYY??}
There is a distinct autumnal chill in the air. The brief warmth that flared up at the end of last month has fizzled out as quickly as it appeared, and Autumn is well and truly upon us, necessitating the purchase of cosy winter coats. So what better way to pass a wet October Saturday afternoon, for a girl temporarily without a husband and with absolutely no plans, than sitting alone in the darkness with nothing but her wildly beating heart to keep her company as a tragic love story unfolds across a silver screen?
No, I did not go to see Johnny English Reborn. I went to see Jane Eyre. And I adored it.
From the muted colour palette and spine-crushing corsetry to the restrained passion of the central performances, everything about it is beautifully understated. I was utterly spellbound from start to finish and actually continued to wander around in a dream for a good two hours afterwards. So much so that, as I strolled through the shops in a cinematically-induced dwam, I found myself inexplicably lusting after dresses such as these:
I can't imagine why.
And the lusting didn't end there. I hesitate to admit this, but I don't think I've ever read Jane Eyre, nor have I read Wuthering Heights (oh, the shame), so I spent much of the first half of the film trying to remember which of them was the crazy-first-wife-in-the-attic one. That question was answered soon enough, and promptly replaced by far more pressing issues: namely, where can I find myself a Mr Edward Fairfax Rochester and can I get him to run away with me immediately?
Byronic heroes are a bit of a weakness of mine (in literary terms, you understand). One only has to glance at a list of typical traits to understand why. "Intelligent and perceptive". "Self-critical and introspective". "Mysterious, magnetic and charismatic". "Seductive and sexually attractive". "Having a troubled past or suffering from an unnamed crime". Hello, bad boy. Mix in a bit of period style (floppy hair, billowing sleeves, offensively long sideburns) and SWOON.
I frequently find myself indulging in full-length romantic fantasies involving whichever brooding antihero has most recently leapt off the pages of a book and swept me off my metaphorical feet. Hell, even Edward Cullen would do in a pinch. Two souls yearning for each other, smouldering declarations of love, some sort of unexpected tragedy and maybe a bit of riding around on a horse looking manly. Isn't that what a perfect romance should look like?
Well, maybe.
But what happens after the last page has been turned, the last frame has faded from the screen? Most of these epic, tortured romances culminate in a wedding, an engagement, or some similar declaration of everlasting love. Cue passionate snoggage and ebullient strings, as the camera pans away across the windswept moors. The End. Except it's not the end, is it?
I find myself wondering what sort of a husband Rochester would make. Would he leave his friends and drive across town to let me in when I forget my keys? Would he randomly send me a link to over 200 quotations about dogs? Would he remember to put the bins out?
When I first met my husband, he had, or so I thought, a touch of the Byronic hero about him. He didn't go to classes, which of course meant he must be a sexy, rebellious outlaw. He wasn't overtly flirtatious with me, which of course meant he must be a brooding, enigmatic brute who was secretly in love with me. He even had some pretty serious sideburns, which meant he was, well, stuck in the 90s, but you can't have everything.
I now know that he was, in fact, just a little lost when it came to his degree, and to crazy girls who followed him around like a sad puppy, and to facial grooming. Fin has never told me he wants me for my soul - I'm pretty sure he wants me for my macaroni cheese. When he proposed, it wasn't like this. It was like this.
Because married life is not a romantic novel, much as I might occasionally dream it to be so. It is a nothing more than a series of days, strung together like a row of pearls. Each one is subtly different - some glow a little brighter, some are dulled by the patina of time - but, from a distance, they all look much the same. It is in the uniformity and in the whole, not in any one component, that the real beauty lies.
Marie recently quoted Jeffrey Eugenides on marriage. He wrote, "to be happy you have to find variety in repetition", and it's lingered with me since. I think there is certainly some truth in it; swooning won't last forever. Frankly it would just get exhausting. And from what I've experienced so far of marriage, the small daily acts of love are worth a thousand grand gestures or passionate speeches.
But even a married lady is allowed to spend an occasional rainy afternoon swooning over a hot man in a pair of breeches, no?
Dresses by Louche, available at Joy. All images from Jane Eyre
