A LETTER FROM HOME.

Otago Witness, Issue 3870, 15 May 1928, Page 66

A LETTER FROM HOME.

, I>y Sheila Scobie Macdonald. (Special for the Otago Witness.) March 26. I am tired of the King and Queen of Afghanistan, and I am also tired of listening to all the pros and cons of the “flapper” vote, as it is called. Why “ flapper ” no one knows, for assuredly girls of 21 have ceased to flap, if ever they did do such a thing. But what a commotion it is causing, and what bitterness is resulting! I don’t for a moment think that the bill would have met with much opposition, if any, if

it weren’t for the deplorable fact that in Great Britain women so greatly outnumber men. I drifted into a political meeting the other day, and it was obvious that the fear of a legislation controlled by women was a positive nightmare to the majority of the men speakers. Come to think of it, I’m not at all sure that I’m not that way of thinking myself, for much the same reason, I suppose—foolish to a degree as it is—that I patronise neither the woman dentist nor either of the two women doctors in my little town. In fact, I’m much of the same way of thinking as my very decrepit odd-job man, who, gazing aloft at a squadron of 12 aeroplanes doing some marvellous practice stunts for King Amanullah’s benefit the other day, announced with conviction: “ I don’t hold wi’ ’em. I don’t know why for sure; I only knows I don’t hold wi’ ’em.” And that’s just how I feel towards a possible feminine government.

Now, to hark back to “ the Afghanistan,” as I heard our royal visitors called the other day. One can’t get away from them in London, for either they or their huge suite are on the move cn masse somewhere or other, with a consequent blocking of crowded streets and quite possibly a missed train for everyday folk. As for the cinemas, one rather wonders how they managed to scrape up enough topical pictures before Queen Souriya appeared. If she is as tired of her clothes as I am of the sight of her wearing them, then I’m sorry for her. I hear that she is fascinated with our furniture, and is buying quantities to take back with her "to Kabul, but she isn’t enthusiastic about our clothes or our shops. She is also interested in our English gardens, but, of course, she has not seen them at their best. An .English garden in .June —and by garden I ’mean the exquisitely laid out grounds surrounding one of our stately homes—is one of the most beautiful sights on earth. The ground is so very rarely parched and dry, the delicate tinting of flower petals so rarely sun-scorched or faded, the lawns of a greenness and smoothness bevond description, and the trees—those marvellous oaks and elms and limes, with silver birch glades and larch plantations as a background—are indescribably lovely, and so typically and utterly English to boot.

I was motoring last Sunday, and on the top of Reigate Hill we halted for nearly half an hour to feast our eves on the bursting of green leaf in Gatton Park, once upon a time the seat of an ancient Surrey family, and now belonging to a member of the new trade aristocracy. The larch plantations were a shimmering greenish mist only, and behind them towered the sturdier green of gigantic elms, with armies of rooks building clumsy nests in the budding branches, and over all the soft glinting of fhe spring sunshine. A cuckoo, too 3 , there was Io complete it all. King Ainanullah can take a good many things back to Afghanistan with him, but he can’t take that.

Queen Souriya, by the way, has the most beautiful hands I have* ever seen, with, filbert nails trimmed according to western ideas. Her feet and ankles leave much to bo desired, but her hands are models for an artist. Well, the royal pair will return to their far-away country with a pretty fair idea of the mighty resources of the British Empire, or at

least let’s hope they will. But I don’t think that any of these outwardly admiring, open-handed eastern gentry ever really give a westerner a chance to see any distance into the workings of the astute brain behind those sleepy eyes. So that’s that, and exit the Afghanistans. * * * I was taken to see the artificial silk exhibition the other day, and was quite frankly astounded. Last year the goods shown were most interesting, but this year they are more than that—they are staggering. The crepe de chine, for instance, is almost too good to be true, of a thick, “ flopping ” quality, and with a lustre and loveliness of colouring that takes one’s breath away in envy. It isn’t cheap, of course, but its beauty is undeniable. Mannequins paraded continuously, wearing frocks and undies fashioned entirely of artificial silk. There is a .wonderful advance in stockings this year, the higher-priced ones having lost that glittering sort of creased look, so typical hiterto. But what I liked most was to listen to the comments of an American buyer sitting just in front of me at the mannequin parade. “ Gee! but that’s great. Wai, you’d hardly think a Britisher was up to ail this,” and so on for the best part of an hour. _.Very comforting! The colouring of the silks was exquisite, and a great fuss was made of the new colour called “mavis,” a delicate blue, the exact tint of a thrush’s egg. It is exquisite, but rather trying even to the majority of the radiant young mannequins. One lovely creature, with a figure that made one envious, and hair of that- natural Titian red that goes with grey eyes and the blackest of lashes and eyebrows, looked a dream in it, but the others were not quite so successful. Anyway, it looks like being a “ blue ” year all round, for even navy has come into its own again, and love-in-the-mist blue evening frocks are the rage. The audience was a mixed one, but the mannequins displaying underclothing sauntered about as nonchalantly as if they were wearing sports suits. Once or twice, so very lightly clothed were they, that I caught myself rather envying their careless indifference, but then, as I was told afterwards, my Victorian ideas are utterly out of date. They certainly appear to be, but I’m not sure that on occasions it isn’t a pity for all that. Some of the silk and satin sleeping suits designed for the stage and the Lido look as if they had walked out of the Arabian Nights for splendour, and I am sure no one could sleep restfully in such fragile, marvellously trimmed and embroidered garments. Shrieks of laughter greeted the apparition of two mannequins, one arrayed for the slumber of 1928, the other in the night garb of 1900. I laughed, too, for well I remember ruffling up yards and yards of laceedged frills, and running miles of tucks and insertions for just such another ludicrous garment as that worn by Miss 1900. But even with the lace and insertion thrown in, the cost of a “best” nightdress in those days didn’t approximate what it does to-day, and as for stockings and underclothing generally, well! Mr C. B. Cochran, talking of .the cost of dress etceteras alone on the stage at the present time, told the public the other day that Miss Maisie Gay’s silk stocking bill is £8 a week, which he pays in addition to her salary. By way of explanation he added, that on the musical comedy stage an actress must “ dazzle,” and if she doesn’t dazzle then she’s not a success. Which I suppose explains why we have to pay what we grudgingly do for a theatre ticket. * * # There is a novel idea afoot even in this world of new ideas to purchase theatre tickets on the instalment plan—so much cash per week! If a play is popular, one can rarely book a seat under three weeks, so in that case it might be an advantage. Already Noel Coward’s revue, presented last wSek by C. B. Cochran, is such an overwhelming success that every seat is booked for more than a month ahead. The critics say that it is the cleverest, wittiest revue ever written, and such praise in London is some praise. As the cheapest bookable seat is 8s 6d, Mr Coward should make quite a good thing out of it. It’s called “This Year of Grace,” ami if all reports are true, should last the year out. I haven’t got the revue complex, so I shan’t bother to book on the instalment plan, or any plan at all. But there are some people —the Prince of Wales amongst them—who wilLprobably go to see that revue 20 times over and still enjoy it. They belong to tho same persuasion of theatre enthusiasts as some dozen or more folk I was reading about the other day, who, as “firstnighters ” of the. most virulent description, have already booked seats for the first night of the opening performance at a theatre not yet built! , “ Dogged as does it ” doesn’t do justice to such ardent souls,-who really require a new expression coined to describe them.