THEY!

Otago Daily Times, Issue 19946, 13 November 1926, Page 15

THEY!

When I am rich enough and generous enough to give anybody a prize for anything it shall be offered to the practised assassin who will discover and put an end to the obscure creatures known as “ they ” who decide what we are to wear each season. . I cannot get anywhere in England a hat that I can bear to see myself in, because “ they are making them all the same shape, Modem, this year ” —that is to say, in the shape of an elephant’s thimble, or a waste-paper basket, or a jelly bag. “A nice soft straw, Modom; you can make it into any shape you like.” The young lady crumples it into folds that make it look even more grotesque, and inverts it on her own head. Very nice indeed; but not for me! The boss of my only hat shop, who is from across the Channel, and therefore at least pretends that she loves me, emerged at this moment from behind a screen. “What is this?” she inquired. “Pass the summer without a hat? What nonsense! We shall assuredly find madame a very nice hat, if you will not mind waiting till I finish with this lady.” I said I was in no particular hurry, and sat down in a shady corner. What a scene of degradation was before me! The lady with whom mademoiselle proposed to “ finish shortly ” had a pleasant face, rather like a faithful dog’s, and she had been subjected to the same indignities that the .family pet puts up with in every nursery.

First, my' merry little mademoiselle upset a waste paper basket on her head —a cinnamon-coloured basket with straw flowers on it. The patient maternal eyes looked out raffishly beneath the crinkled edge. “What do you think of it?” she inquired of the gloomy friend who always accompanies undecided characters into shops. “ I don’t know that I care for it as much as the blue,” replied the friend, wrapped in her characteristic darkness of thought. _ . • . “ Madame not being shingled, it is a little small,” said mademoiselle. She plucked the waste paper basket off and advanced, bearing a flexible workbag with a forlorn fretwork flounce. “You could put any kind of trimming you choose on to this,” she suggested ; “ a few leaves or a bunch of cherries ? ” She squashed it down over the faithful dog face, and my heart bled, but I longed to join in the game. What about a nice dish cover?” I thought, “ with the radishes from the tea-table, or any sponge bag, or one of Arthur s bed-socks with a rose at the side ? 1 “I think I like the olive one better than that,” said the victim, a little ruefully. The olive one was recalled, it s made in the shape of a cowl to prevent a chimney from smoking. Up -ts steep sides clambered creeping ribbon, fastened here and there with a pink and brown beaded slug. “I’d rather see you in something more of a mushroom,” murmured the pessimistic friend. “You are right,” Mademoiselle agreed; “the lower hat would suit Madame better, but they do not make them any more. They make nothing but the high crowns this year.” It is so like people who allow themselves to be described as “they,’ to insist on our all being dressed alike. Everything that I hear about “them” betrays their utter stupidity. They never employ a button to button anything. They sew a pocket on the outside of a skirt and put a button and buttonhole on it, and then machine-stitch the opening. “They” never take the least notice of weather conditions. For instance, in a' summer like this it would not surprise me at all to hear, “They don’t seem to be making any of the silk umbrellas this year, Modem—just the frayed paper, that’all. We might make you a silk one, of course, if you cared to buy the silk and the ribs. . . . not a steel framework, Modom, no; they’re not sending out any of the steel this‘year. . . Just the light matchwood and the paper covers. Very dainty, are they not, Modom? Just the pure rice paper" and a shower won’t hurt them provided you don’t go out in it. . . ’ Some years ‘“they” won’t even make use of any fur or any flower that an animal or a hee could put a name to. “Fur, Modom? ’Certainly. Did you wish the spun glass fur or the cotton milled?’" . . . Oh, no, Modom, I’m sorry. . . . not any real fur, no. They’re not using any of the real fur this winter. But no doubt if you care to tell the manager what kind you would like, he could send to Canada and have the exact animal killed for you.' . . Well, you see, there would be the special trapper’s expenses and the cable to Alaska, and the cost of the dressing, and the insurance, and the tax and the passport for the skin, and the preservative duty, and the double postage. . . and then you mightn’t (ret it this winter, Modom, on account of the time of year. . . but we would do our best. . . .” * * * Or else, ‘Shoes, Modem ? Shoes for the feet, you mean ? I’m sorry, they’re not making any shoes for walking this vear. We have the imitation diamond shoes for wearing round the neck, or the fancy leather shoe containing comb and lip stick, and if vou want anything for the foot we have the new paper boat or the sandal or -he skis for winter sports, or the moccasin for boudoir wear, or the hurting boot —that’s always nice if you have a horse to go with it, don’t you think ? But vou mean a shoe like they wore last year. Modom, don’t you? I daresay I could get vou one from left-over stock at the factory, if vou don’t mind a size eight in a health shoe with ventilating holes. . .” Assassins, forward, please! Yours will be a lone and arduous nuest. hut a mother’s Wessing and a half-a-crown. paid nuarterlv, awaits you for every head certified to belong to one of “them” that yon bring in.