There’s nothing about a typewriter that isn’t familiar to SYLVIA MARTIN, for Sylvia has seen many of her friends tapping away on one. So, she bought one. She had an idea for the most fabulous novel. All about a girl who finds a formula for turning uranium into gold. So, while the idea was hot she began tapping. And you can see what froze the idea eventually. It was the backache she got. Isn’t she a doll?
Up in the Scottish Highlands they play all those Scottish games, and one of our favourite pin-up girls, RUTH CAVENDISH, is quite good at tossing the caber, providing the caber is scaled down to the size of a walking-stick. "A girl," says Ruth, "should be noted for her charm and subtlety, not her muscles. Who wants muscles?" She was having a grand game doing the Highland Fling not far from the local loch, and then a Scottish terrier joined in and made off with most of her clothes, Ruth having taken them off to give herself more freedom of movement.
It was a new kind of game looking for that terrier, who was finding her terylene skirt tastier than a tin of dog meat. Still, Ruth made a lovely picture while it was all going on.
What with the boss having one of those weeks—he'd lost a contract and his wife was beating him—secretary SUSANNE KENT couldn't get away from the office fast enough on Friday. On Saturday, she plunged into the heart of the country north-west of Glasgow, hoping to find all that fresh air everyone says is so good for you if you've had a trying week with sir.
Susanne took a short cut by climbing a wall. It was a long short cut because she got chased by an Ayrshire prize-winner. It thought she looked like a lady bullfighter. Susanne ran for miles. Still, she looked ever so cheeky with her dress hitched and her legs flashing, and the bull just hadn't got the heart to catch her up and toss her over a country castle.
It just kept following her. And in the end, it turned out to be Tony and Tiny McNutty, circus twins. Tony was the front legs, Tiny the back. They'd enjoyed the chase tremendously. Susanne had her own back. She set a couple of frisky cows on them. Front legs and back legs vanished in a panic over the horizon, the intrigued cows in determined pursuit.
Hello—yes?
What happened?
What, what?
Where did you get to?
I never went anywhere.
No, I mean last night.
Yes, I do too. I never went anywhere.
Oh, thanks very much, very complimentary I must say. I fix to meet you at Willi's Wunder Bar and you decide not to turn up. Well, at least you're not making excuses, at least you're giving it to me straight.
I am so glad you like it straight. When did we decide to meet at Willi’s?
When we were at Fritzi's.
Who is this I am talking to, please?
Otto. Don't say you've forgotten me already, Helga.
Alas, Otto, this is not Helga, this is Renate. I am sorry you have the wrong number but if you would like to make your request on a postcard I will send you an autographed photograph. Otto who?
Otto Ombert and I am now about to drop dead from mortification.
Have a nice funeral.
(Otto’s wrong number was RENATE USADEL, German model and starlet, and you couldn’t really blame him.)
Just in case you thought it was papier mâché, NANCY COLLINS wants to emphasise her petticoat is genuine nylon, and every frill is guaranteed to billow.
If you don’t care about your garden and any old design will do, you can fill it with broken furniture and call it what you like. Funny thing is, people might fall over themselves to see it and then go away with the dazed look of those who have just seen the ultimate in horticultural architecture.
But if you care genuinely all you need to obtain to complete a garden design that will fill the beholder with delight is a garden seat containing NICOLA TAYLOR. For our money that’s the ultimate.
Around the fascinating street markets of London wander the seekers after the old and the ancient.
Among those with a keen eye for the genuine is MOLLY SHANNON. Whenever Molly can spare time from her job as a shorthand-typist she pops into the market throngs. Actually, Molly stands out in a throng. So, do most blue-eyed blondes with vitalistics of 36-24-37.
At seventeen she's already an expert on antique rings. She collects them and has bought the most fascinating ones for a song. So if you're dying to ingratiate yourself with her, and you'd be a hopeless case of fragility if you weren't, you couldn’t do better than give her a ring.
It has to be a ring of antique splendour, of course. Don't try and foist a fake on her. She'll never wear it.
They were waiting for their passports to be stamped, CAROL ANN LEDSAM and SANDRA MORRIS. A woman poked her head out and said, "Get undressed.” The girls thought it a bit odd to get undressed for passport-stamping, but helped each other until they both looked very chic in their undies. And then they found they were on the wrong floor, and they were nearly pulled into a sauna bath instead of receiving their passports.
Secretary SYLVIA STUART thought about going to the local fancy dress gala as a bird of the fifties. Well, her mum kept lots of well-preserved garments of that era in an old family chest, and Sylvia thought she could be utterly authentic if she borrowed some of them.
There was a recognisable bra—somewhat more to it than today's bras but a bra all the same—and there were also some quite wearable pairs of knicks.
"But, oh confusion," said Sylvia, when she put mum's old leg hose on, "how did mum keep them up? What's this, then?"
It was a genuine 1950 garter-belt, an utter mystery to Sylvia, who said she didn't know if it had to be worn around the neck or what. Mum came up and laughed her head off and then explained the intricacies.
Eventually, Sylvia looked lovely and old-fashioned, with everything properly done up and staying up.
If you were to get an invitation from Janet to dine at your most exclusive local restaurant, you would no doubt, providing you could afford it, be there like a shot.
So too, was our photographer, but he sneaked along to Janet’s place even before she was ready. He’s pretty keen on Janet, if you know what we mean ! What a shock he got though when he found out he’d been invited to the wedding !
In a penthouse flat in Ladbroke Grove, London, dwells one of the most popular girls as far as the balloon fanatics are concerned. We're talking about secretary HELENA CHARLES and what she looks like on a summer evening.
On a summer evening, you see, Helena sunbathes outside her penthouse. Her penthouse is much higher than the surrounding buildings and nobody can overlook her without using a fifty-foot periscope. Except the mad balloonists, who can sail to and fro with basket-swinging impunity and look down on Helena's form divine.
There's one feller in goggles and moustache who nearly swept her up and carried her off, and her without a stitch, by Venus. But at a critical moment his balloon fouled a television aerial and went pop. He sagged down into the street and Helena remained blithely untrammelled, if you know what we mean.
It was only a small dog, said ELIZABETH GALLACHER, but so adorable and I didn't know he wasn't with me until I got home with an empty lead.
No, it's difficult to describe him, sergeant, and he's hardly got any tail to speak of. And you can’t see his nose. But he does the cutest tricks if you offer him a bowl of redcurrant jelly. Yes, I know it's not the time of the year for fresh red currants but if you’ve got any frozen ones in the station freezer.
Yes, all right, sergeant, you are a dear. We call him Trixie. Well, someone said he was a girl when we first bought him and he was only about as big as a currant bun. So we called him Trixie but he answers to Trix and if you whistle like a squeaky cork coming out of a tight bottle he’ll answer to that as well.
He's black and white. Well, not all over. He’s a bit brown in front. He sits in the window and gets his face tanned.
Thoroughbred What’s that’ He's just a dog. He’s got four legs and all his teeth if that's what you mean. He likes pink slips. No, ladies’. If your wife has got one she doesn't t want.
Thank you, sergeant, you are a pet. You’re a real Trixie.
Dancer ANNABEL LANE has another passion besides choreography.
It's chess.
She's got lots of chess mates and can whack them all by concentrated dedication. One high-domed egghead who rather fancied himself got checkmated in six moves. When asked what it felt like to be annihilated he replied, "Dreamy, my dear—what a brain she's got to go with her measurements."
Annabel's measurements are all curvy.
You can say that about all kinds of things, like the latest detergent that washes frighteningly white—
“Here, watch it, birdbrain, you look like a ghost.” You can say that the ride from Marble Arch to Haywards Heath was pretty good, except that it was a pity about the traffic. You can say that Joe’s Pull-Up for hungry tramps Is pretty good, except watch out for his chips. You can say mum’s pretty good and the job’s pretty good.
And you can really say that SHEILA CAMPBELL is pretty good. Sheila is pretty and good. She’s eighteen, she’s delightful, she’s Scottish, and this Is her first time before the camera as a Highland pin-up. She’s got a thing about pop music—who hasn’t? —and a thing about going to Majorca for holidays. What we like uncommonly well about her, however, is that she thinks men are just super-duper great.
We’re probably not that good.
If you must know (said tall, willowy VANDA VANE-DOTSON who prefers riding a country horse to taking a town taxi) I’m on the wrong side and trying hard to ge* to the right side before it’s too late.
In some circumstances (said Vanda, who is our idea of a rural-loving debutante) either side can be the right side. It just so happens that the circumstances on this occasion were all bound up with the fact that there was a rather hefty-looking quadruped on my side and he had all the characteristics of a belligerent bull.
Therefore (said Vanda, who drives a whizz of a sports car with verve and application) I knew there was only one side of the fence I wanted to be and that was the other side. I didn’t actually fall flat on my face but I can’t say these tight mini-dresses give a girl maximum composure when she’s in the kind of hurry I was.
