WTFashion??

Motte and Bailey are on a brief hiatus while the scriptwriter works on her thesis and prevaricates between eating bacon Frazzles and prawn cocktail Skips. Their adventure will be resolved soon, complete with latent sexual tension and horrific puns. In the meantime, a little light amusement in the form of fashion. All of the pictures in this post are of real garments currently for sale via a well-known online retailer. I won’t say who because I’m kind, and because contrary to the appearance of this terrifying selection, they do sell some Nice Shiny Things.

MOTTE AND BAILEY: part ye thirde

Previously on Motte and Bailey: Baron Camelotto-Rollovyr explains the mysterious death of the castle jester, with limited assistance from Robert de Milton Keynes, inventor of the Lolle-Catte. Motte and Bailey decide to go to the dungeon to examine the body.

Scene 4: The castle dungeon

Quickly! Everybody search this disproportionately small castle for clues!

MOTTE AND BAILEY: part ye seconde

Previously on Motte and Bailey: The intrepid duo have arrived at Castle Fillion, home of Baron Camelotto-Rollovyr, in connection with a mysterious death.

Scene 2: At the castle gate

MOTTE AND BAILEY (CSI: Wessex)

I have given into peer pressure and drafted the pilot episode of my medieval detective show, Motte and Bailey. I expect it to be picked up by a major TV network approximately never. (Cookies for every pun/historical reference you spot).

It is a well-known historical fact that horses were much droopier in ye middle ages.

CAST

Sister Bonne Motte: A nun with an eye for crime and no tolerance for jesters. There’s wit underneath the wimple.

Sir Liqueur Bailey: Renegade knight. A bit too fond of mead but handy with a mace. Soft spot for Motte.

Baron Camelotto-Rollovyr: Luxuriantly-moustachio’d local lord and inhabitant of Castle Fillion. Has a gambling problem.

Geoffrey Saucer: Bard and crockery aficionado. Pops up at inappropriate moments to SIIIIING.

Robert de Milton Keynes: Scholar and local abbot. Loves scrolls and also kittens.

Goodwyfe Maud: Housekeeper of Castle Fillion. Generally jolly.

Clegge: Village idiot.

Lady Bechdelle Testte: Ward of the Baron. Attractive, I guess… but in, like, an obvious way. Pssh.

Gruesomely murdered corpse: Was once the castle jester.

Assorted peasants

In Praise of the Arts and Huge Manatees, or, Where’s My Job?

You can't be mad at me for leaving the blog for months, not if I bring you A UNICORN!!!

Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence

– Carl Sagan

Well, HELLO AGAIN, you fabulous unicorns of delight! I have been away from the bloggernet for a while. You might have assumed that I was gone for good, but in actual fact I was just busy slaying the Balrog in the depths of Moria. By ‘Balrog’, I mean ‘thesis’, and by ‘Moria’ I mean ‘the library’. Although both processes may result in an elderly man shouting ‘YOU SHALL NOT PASS!’

Having recently staggered out of the university library after a long imprisonment*, pale and shaking, my thoughts turn once again to the Great Big Real Job In The Sky, to which all good PhD students hope to ascend if they are very good and commit no heinous sins, such as Chicago-style referencing, or citing Wikipedia as a source. Given that I’m in the final year of my socially and culturally invaluable doctorate (snort!), my thoughts have been turning to the GBRJ for some time now. And I conclude, after extensive empirical research, that there is no GBRJ and that all arts and humanities students are doomed – doomed! – to work either in call centres or, if we’re really really lucky, to become hipster baristas at the local artisanal-organic-cooperative coffee place. I’d like to offer a suggested revision to the well-known ‘Kids! Don’t do drugs!’ slogan: KIDS, DON’T DO HISTORY. OR LITERATURE, OR ART, OR PHILOSOPHY. If my predictions for the future are correct (based mostly upon Futurama and old episodes of The Jetsons), we’re all being replaced by robots and the Internet anyway. When machines inevitably rise up against humanity, you’ll find me making a valiant and glorious last stand in a library, fighting off hordes of malevolent Kindles while defiantly yelling out quotations from Pope and Balzac and Waugh. While Dukas’ The Sorcerer’s Apprentice plays in the background.

Doin’ the Hustle With Darcy Bussell

Steppin’ and Funkin’ with Isadora Duncan

A very quick update before my proper post on Serious Bizniz, which I keep promising to finish and commensurately failing. Guess what? (“WHAT?”) I’m starting ballet classes! Caveat: Beginner Adult ballet classes. I’m unlikely to rival Moira Shearer any time soon, even if we did share a birthday (Wikipedia is your friend here). But it’s very exciting, not only because I might finally overcome my epic lack of poise and balance, but also because I recently sustained a bit of a back injury – apparently sneezing will make you pull a muscle! Who knew? Having had to go to A&E because of the pain, and not even getting the proper X-Ray and wheelchair treatment (outrage!), I’ve spent a miserable couple of weeks having to be hauled out of chairs and waited upon by long-suffering friends. So being able to go to ballet is a) a sign that I’m almost better, and b) a possible means of gently stretching and healing the injured muscles. In the spirit of my excitement, I present you with a doodle that imagines the likely outcome of my first class (click to enlarge)…

On The Tellybox…

I recently started drafting a rather doleful piece about residual guilt and being Brought Up Catholic. However, I’m in an insufficiently gloomy/self-indulgent mood to finish it and post it at the moment, so that’s postponed for now, and the Vatican are just going to have to wait a little longer for my scathing critique. They’ve waited for Jesus to come back for about 2000 years, so I figure they can hold out another week or two for my blog. Although, maybe not. Maybe the Pope sits there in front of his laptop, constantly refreshing WordPress and occasionally updating his Tumblr (‘FuckYeahRedShoes’). Anyway. Instead, I thought I’d treat – yes, treat! – you – yes, you! – to a quick nostalgic run-down of late 1990s/early 2000s TV (And Why It Was Awesome)…

Blow up? Or blow dry?

Stop thinking about cleavage. Disgraceful. Here's a picture of a kitten instead.

“Take the men if you’re going in that dress and hat,” Rebecca Dew had advised. “I’ve had a good bit of experience in canvassing in my day and it all went to show that the better-dressed and better-looking you are the more money . . . or promise of it . . . you’ll get, if it’s the men you have to tackle. But if it’s the women, put on the oldest and ugliest things you have.”

L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Windy Willows

Ok, it’s another post involving gratuitous references to boobs. (Boobs and Anne Shirley in the same post?! Mind. Blown.) This one, though, is written by popular demand. I recently linked to an interesting article on my Facebook page, relating to the recent publication of Honey Money: The Power of Erotic Capital by LSE academic Catherine Hakim. Reduced to essentials, the book basically argues for the contentious idea that it’s acceptable – even desirable – for women to use their physical and sexual attractiveness to get ahead in life and in the workplace. This blog is prompted by the flurry* of comments posted on my page in response to the article, debating the failings and merits of the argument within a framework of feminist principle vs. ‘real-world’ pragmatism. It strongly resembled a Socratic dialogue, if Socrates and Plato had been able to ‘Like’ each other’s comments.

Girls! Girls! Girls!

Female Nude - Amedeo Modigliani (1916)

I like naked ladies. There, I said it. I should qualify that, in the context of this post at least, I’m talking about naked ladies of the painted variety. Oil on canvas makes everything more socially acceptable, no? Take the lovely on the left – Amedeo Modigliani’s Female Nude (1916) – who currently resides on my bedroom wall in print form (and in the Courtauld in her original state). It’s a beautiful painting; one of my favourites, in fact. I love the peaceful look on the woman’s face, and her relaxed posture. The fact that she’s nude is secondary to that air of relaxation, and yet at the same time it’s integral to the painting’s intimacy and naturalness.

It occurred to me recently, while dragging someone round a gallery, that most of the paintings that I pointed out as ‘favourites’ focused upon the female nude as their primary subject. That’s quite a disconcerting conclusion for a female (and feminist) art historian to reach, given the connotations of patriarchal dominance and sexual objectification inherent in the idea of the naked woman painted by the male artist.

Of Youth, Of Age, And Of The Weird Bit In The Middle

Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale

Her infinite variety

Antony and Cleopatra, Act II Scene II

Hell yeah, DJ Granny!

Looking in the mirror these days tends to confirm the inevitable – I am getting older. Of course, we’re all getting older, and always getting older. But the process is more noticeable at some points in life than others. The first fine lines. The realisation that people I went to school with are getting married. The impending need to find a Real, Grown-Up Job after years of higher education. Traditionally, the process of recognising of one’s aging (and, by extension, one’s eventual mortality) is regarded as an intimidating and depressing one. In reality, though, I haven’t found it to be so. It’s incremental, full of surprises, and even rather interesting. Bring on the grey hairs!