Most of you know that adaptability and housewifery go hand-in-hand. Take the case of MAUREEN BEECH, for instance. Maureen not only runs a home, she is also a fashion model and the holder of the title " Miss Brighton and Hove Albion 1965.” Besides adaptability, how's that for getting around?
The best secretaries today all seem to be raving beauties, and if they'd been part of the scene in Dickens' time he'd have dispensed with Little Nell and filled his books with heroines who had far more vibrations, and who were full of the joys of life.
One of the joys of life today is secretary JOY HARRIES.
Here she is on the seat at the bottom of her garden in Hertfordshire.
We know you'd all like one like Joy at the bottom of your gardens, but supposing suddenly you did have? You'd only go all non-compos mentis and quivery and inarticulate. What the one cool man in a hundred would do would be to bow slightly, extend a hand and say, "Ah, my dear Miss Harries, shall we take tea on the lawn or shall I show you the conservatory?"
Joy would like that. She can take tea or leave it, but she adores conservatories and hot plants.
Oui !
Girl with the engaging smile and a natural flair for looking lovely in white lingerie is LIZ McEWEN.
Liz spent a holiday in France this year. She went with some girlfriends. Naturally, they all wanted to test their French. Liz saw the most ravishing gendarme, lean, long, shatteringly Gallic and absolutely dishy. “When the traffic stops,” she said, “I’ll pop over to him and ask him the way to the Eiffel Tower.” “But we're not going to the Eiffel Tower,” said Shirley,” we went there yesterday.” You can't do anything with a girl as unimaginative as Shirley, so Liz just gave her a look and popped over to ask her dishy gendarme the way to the Eiffel Tower. As soon as the gendarme saw her coming he blew his whistle and all the traffic went into reverse. He bowed when Liz arrived and Liz, in her best French, which is not at all bad, popped the question apropos the location of the Eiffel Tower.
She returned to her friends dreamy-eyed and in an ecstatic tizzy, as they say in all the modern novels. “Well?” said Shirley. “He said it was twenty minutes after eleven,” said Liz tenderly. “Some answer,” said a girl called Daffodil, “he couldn't have understood your French.”
“His name is Maurice,” said Liz,” and when he comes to England he's going to bring me one of those big bunches of onions.”
It was just one of those days. JOANNA CARLTON went out shopping and came back with the wrong change. It could happen to anybody, and it certainly happened to Joanna, a Nottingham housewife.
“Yes, I know,” said Mr. Carlton, “but it happened last Christmas as well. Back to the blackboard for you, dear wife, and we'll start with practical mathematics and end with trigonometry, and though it'll hurt me more than it’ll hurt you we’ll both feel all the better for it.” “I don’t think it will make me feel better at all,” said Joanna. “Can't I just go out to knitting classes?"
“Back to the blackboard,” said hubby and back to the blackboard it was, and Joanna started with how many beans make five and what happens when you buy seven oranges and give a quarter of them to that nice bus conductor on the way home.
Then she went on to practical mathematics and wished fervently she'd stayed with the five beans and seven oranges, because she was never very good at any kind of mathematics and likes just being a happy housewife and a good cook and a great help to her husband when he's having trouble mending a fuse.
“What,” said hubby, “is the distance between A and C?”
“Five and a half oranges,” said Joanna.
Never mind, it was a gallant try and she felt all the better for it, even if he didn’t.
Year of origin 1945.
That was the year when we all stopped throwing hot lead and sizzling iron at each other and the sexy but militant girls in the Army, Navy and Air Force went happily back to civvy street to forget their militancy and rehabilitate their wriggles.
It was also the year when lovely LISA SCOTT was born. It was a vintage year for babies both beautiful and cuddly. When Charley Grapevine was born the top fell off a mountain somewhere and in the Falkland Islands it rained for six months solid. Charley’s year was non-vintage.
Latterly a secretary, Lisa’s current ambition is to be a successful model, and she’s got a yen for eating candy or washing whiter than white in TV commercials. Well, if we have to have all those soap flakes, let’s have them wrapped around Lisa.
Washing-machines and soap powders are purely utilitarian.
But washing-machines and soap powders and Lisa are delightful. “Mum, come and turn the telly off—dad's temperature’s gone up again.”
Caught with a slipped clip as she prepares to alight from her car is KARIN REALI, West German film starlet, wondering, like so many other girls, why nobody makes a car from which a lady may alight without a leg show.
One can’t help but follow them these days.
Down the Strand, up Regent Street, down the Mall and all the way along the Embankment.
They’re a joy to the eye and one’s feet hardly notice at all, though the big toes don’t half play up when one at last gets home.
Cast an eye upon JACKIE TAYLOR, for instance. One could follow her from Land’s End to Edinburgh Castle and never notice a single blister.
Here she is against London backgrounds, and the whistles could be heard from every window.
It’s a bit of a problem when you want to change your dress in the back of a car, for there’s always the possibility that some knickerbockered bird watcher may be looking or so thought HELEN BAXTER.
And when you have changed, isn’t it just absolutely ridiculous to find your dress caught up in the car door and that tweedy-headed B.W. twittering at you over the hedge
If you want to keep in touch with the fascinating world of the future, take a look at future-minded DEIRDRE VASCOE.
Deirdre reckons she's just masterminded the simplistic everyday outfit of the future. There'll be no such things as cold temperatures and wet rain to worry about, and girls will just wear boots, futuristic tights and what you might call half a pair of knickers.
Anyone for Mars?
"I don’t usually appear out-of-doors like an absent-minded professor," said ANNE SCOTT.
"What brand of absent-mindedness did you have in mind?"
"Oh, you know." A bit of a giggle here. “The ones who leave for work minus their trousers. I didn’t leave home minus my dress, I assure you. It’s the weather."
"What weather?"
"All this gorgeous hot stuff. I didn’t think there was any left."
"Oh, come now, Miss Scott, weather has always been a matter of the four seasons."
"Do you have to talk like some diddly-fiddly old dodderer from the Ministry? I’m only trying very simply to explain why I look like this."
"No explanation necessary. Miss Scott. It’s all a very natural development process singularly special to lovely young ladies, and there’s no one it pleases more than an old dodderer from the Ministry."
“There’s no need to make all that much of it. It just happened to get a lot hotter than I expected, so I thought I’d do some cooling off."
"Pardon us while we go jump in the lake. It’s the only way to get our temperature down.”
Having fought her way home from the office, AMANDA CASE thought she'd take a bath instead of a shower, then sit down refreshed to chicken and asparagus pie.
She ran the bath and was quite unready for what happened next.
She fell in.
She wasn't at all undressed for it.
Just a few buttons undone. Then what?
“I was wet all over," said Amanda, and so was everything else.”
A work of art more often than not is something they put on a pedestal or hang on a wall and is frequently called a museum piece. There’s the Mona Lisa and the Venus de Milo and MAGGIE McCULLY, only don’t try hanging Maggie on a wall, even at a Bond Street gallery, or you’ll find yourself in a six-foot frame and with a bump on your head that’ll fit a half-pint skid-lid.
Of course, if you’re a lover of art and subject to fragilistic trembling’s in the presence of the Mona Lisa or the Venus de Milo, you won’t be without palpitations in the presence of Maggie, either. As the epitome of all that is inspiring about the modern girl,
Maggie is even better than a work of art.
She lives and breathes and loves a sleigh ride.
What was needed by her parents' fireplace, thought LOUISE CRAWFORD, was a nice rocking-chair. Grandpa had had one and gave Louise rides on his knees when she was a little girl.
Louise still has a yen for a rocker, and for want off one by the fireplace she has to sit on that fur rug. All we can say is that if any decoration goes really excitingly with a fireside fur rug, it's Louise.
She looks good whatever she's doing. She plays a smashing game of tennis and a shapely game of basketball. She's not the best of footballers, however, but she looks gorgeous in her short soccer shorts.
Oh, come up to our sports shop sometime, Louise.
"Not unless I'm wearing my shin-pads," said Louise, "I know you”.
Now that MELANIE DARKAN has entered that stage of her life where she has to make a career for herself, before she marries a tall lovely man with a fascinating job of his own, she has decided to go her own way rather than be guided into an office vacancy.
Melanie has made up her mind to become a model.
She has the figure. She's 36-23-36. She has the smile and she has the dedication. Modelling school means all kinds of disciplined training, but what's that if it's the way you want it?
Melanie lives in Sheffield, where they make the best knives and forks in the world. It's just cutlery to Melanie.
Having created one image for herself as a top pop star,
NANCY SINATRA is now being groomed for a different role.
It was those boots which did it. Everyone heard her when she arrived and those who are in business to bring the world to those who want it decided Nancy had what it takes to become a film star.
So, in a new cloak-and-dagger story called “The Last of The Secret Agents,” Nancy will project her new image as a sex kitten. She’ll be seen, for instance, in this outfit made of sexy lace complete with garters and if that doesn’t launch Nancy into an exciting world of film fame it won’t be her fault.
It’ll be because people have gone off garters.
