A LETTER FROM HOME.

Otago Witness, Issue 3911, 26 February 1929, Page 63

A LETTER FROM HOME.

By

A Wanderer.

(Special for the Otago Witness.) Vanity Street. LONDON, January 3. This week Stephanie has given us an alternative to the eternal small felt hat, in the shape of one of beige velvet and silk of the same shade. You will see that the intriguing crown is of the former material, while the becoming brim is turned up with the silk, an ear of silk being slotted through the crown, and some of it being employed to bind the edge where the crown overlaps. This hat

has all the comfortable closeness of the übiquitous felt, and makes what an aged and ex-landlady of mine would have called “ a nice little change.” (This delightful old thing used to call everything pleasant and upleasant “ a nice little change,” and so firmly-rooted was this philosophy that I am sure she regarded death as “ a nice little change,” as indeed it may be, for aught I know!) Many of the felt hats have ears at all kinds of unexpected places—-cross-over in front like an epileptic rabbit’s; both together, and sloping towards the rear; anywhere you like, in fact, so long as they relieve any tendency to flatness on the part of the chapeau. Next, we have a charming evening gown in black and white georgette, embroidered in silver. The bodice is white, as you will see, and comparatively plain; the skirt is black in front and back panels and white at the sides, while there are two side flares of silver net to tone with the silver embroidery.

Quite an elaborate affair this sounds, yet, withal, the general effect is simple. Satin is enjoying popularity at the moment as a material for day frocks, and the circular skirt is favoured. In most cases the circular piece begins just round the hip line, but some skirts are made with quite a yoke, and the fullness

does not begin until well below the hips. Before deciding which line to adopt, you want to consider your figure, and if you are not so flat as you might be in the vicinity of your hips, I recommend the yoke.

Try This. Here is a nice little recipe for fish kromeskies. (I have no doubt your appreciative family will be content to call them “those little fish things,” but as our friend Mr Shakespeare so aptly remarked, “. What’s in a name ? ”) This, then, is the method. Remove the » bones and skin from some cooked cod, tinned or otherwise, about a pound in quantity, and flake the fish. Make a sauce with loz of butter, loz of flour and a gill of fish liquor and milk, and add it to the fish, together with the yolk of an egg and some pepper and salt, then turn the mixture on a plate to cool. Shape into long rolls on a floured board. Next cut the rind from as many slices of bacon as there are rolls of fish mixture, and fold a slice round each roll. Dip in batter and fry in hot fat. Garnish with lemon and parsley and serve on a fancy paper. The batter should be made previously and allowed to stand. Sift the flour (4oz) and salt, and make a hole in the middle; pour in a gill of tepid water, one tablespoonful of salad oil, stir smoothly and then beat well. Just prior to using the batter, fold in the stiffly-beaten whites of two . eggs. It is essential that you should use this particular batter if you want this dish to be completely successful.

la That So? It does not seem as though we are going to have Mr George Robey with us in London for long. No sooner does he return from one tour than another is planned. “In Other Words,” the revue now playing at the Carlton Theatre is booked for a South African tour at the close of its run here. Our picture is of Mr Robey’s leading lady, Miss Marie Blanche, a typical revue actress and the possessor of a fine voice, and, what is perhaps even more to the point, a most extraordinary quick-changing ability, for she tells me that she transforms herself

from a beef-eater to a Piccadilly flower woman in 55 seconds. If yon think of the respective costumes, you will see that this requires a bit of doing, even with efficient help; and stage-struck flappers who imagine leading ladies as always lolling on couches in flower-laden dress-ing-rooms would do well to contemplate this side of the picture. Another interesting personality this week—or any week, for that matter, because she is such a versatile young person what with her Sunday journalism and so forth!—is Lady Eleanor Smith, daughter of Lord Birkenhead. It has been announced that Lady Eleanor is to follow in her father’s commercial footsteps, and has been appointed to a full-time post on the staff of a West End store. Her job is described as that of “ Fashion Hostess,” which, interpreted, means someone who will receive and’ advise clients. What section of the community constitutes these fluttering females who need to be “ received ” and “ advised ” when they have a few pounds to spend on personal adornment or house furnishing, I cannot imagine. I, of

course, am of the common herd, but when I enter a large store, my one hope is that the lift will be going up when I want to ascend, and down when, in a state of physical and mental collapse, resultant upon seeking the right department, 1 am intent upon dashing into the street; and if a charming young person with a complexion straight from a beauty parlour, hair that makes my own look like the thing convicts pick, and a manner that makes ice seem a warm and comfortable thing, condescends to wait upon me, my gratitude knows no end. Consequently the idea of having someone like Lady Eleanor Smith to assist me to spend my £2 10s has never presented itself as a necessity in my scheme of things. However, doubtless Mrs Smith of Streathani will derive great social and mental superiority over Mrs Brown of Balham by being able to say; I thought you’d like these cushions, dear. Lady Eleanor advised them! What? Oh, Lady Eleanor Smith! No darling, not exactly a connection of ours, • • •” Well, anyhow, it’s very nice of the stores to exert themselves to be so amusing. I have a young friend who at the moment is getting £SOO a year simply for being what is called by her enterprising employer “the public.” She drifts round the store all day long, taking the public’s point of view, mingling wth them, and so on, and in the evening files her report and suggestions for making clients ever happier. I tell her her salary is, in the vernacular, “ money for jam.” She says it is earned through blood and tears! She expects daily to be blinded by a stumpy umbrella! The Street of Adventure.

If I recommend you to read a book on Russia under the Soviet regime, you will doubtless shrink away and think * am drying to be highbrow. Of course there is no earthly reason why you should read a book on Russia if you are not interested in that remarkable country; but if you are—and it is inconceivable that you are not—then you w . not, I am sure, mind reading one written in what might be termed a thoroughly ordinary fashion by Mr Alexander Wicksteed who lived there for 10 years, not as a professional investigator, but earning his living as teacher of English in a school. Having nothing whatever to do with the Soviet Government in particular, but as an interesting characteristic, we learn: No Russian is in the least ashamed of being seen looking at himself in the glass. He will often make the excuse of combing his hair, an operation freely wln°nf+ ed Py blic ’' but then again he h?? i f J^ n n“ ply Stand and contemplate blals el f . Particularly appertaining to tb ® koviet regime, though, is this: bofr.yJ 1 Cl . marriage is recognized before the law; each retains their own L°?i erty ’ a r d nelther can exert any iegal compulsion on the other. The cost or civil marriage is trivial, but each party has to produce evidence that thev -et " Ot a } read y marr ied. It is easier to oulw / T. th , an to " et carried.” I ?" gbt a o d tllat tbe b °ok is “Life Under the Soviets.”