It is a hot sticky night. There is a dove gray furry moth flitting across your ceiling and you can't decide whether you can bear to spend the night with him. You switch off the light and decide to take your chances.

Tonight your little boy is with his Dad. His absence making you vulnerable to unbidden thought.

It started with a lipstick. A clear MotherPucker gloss designed to enhance the pout you daftly imagine men find beguiling and know women find ridiculous. You like how it feels, how it tingles and swells your lips. You apply it every morning and somehow don't connect its lethal bee sting with a tongue so swollen it hurts to eat.
You go the pharmacist and demand something to take away the pain. Standing in the queue pulling tongues at her and reassuring her that the lump on the the left side of your tongue has been there five years. "I don't like it" she says "I want you to go to the doctors". She's a fusspot. The flick of her fringe says it all.

You put the lipstick in the bin and your tongue stops hurting,but then make the mistake of googling "lumps on tongue". Bad idea. There is only one diagnosis. All other explanations dismissed in your mind and the cutting away of your diseased tongue the only option. A world struck suddenly dumb. You make a doctors appointment.

He's lovely your Doctor. A gentle reassuring man who doesn't flinch when you stick out your tongue at him and show him the lump. He brings out a magnifying glass and pokes it with a stick. "Hmmm" he says as he is prone.  "Hmmm". Goodness.

You go away with a referral because the Doctor doesn't know what it is. Would like a specialist to take a look. You go home and phone your Mum sitting on your bottom scrubbing the kitchen skirting boards hard. Today is the day you need to turn those cupboards inside out. Get a grip of this raging silent chaos.

Now it is dark and hot. The windows of your bedroom are flung wide open and the local owls are hooting their evening lullaby. A couple go by arguing over what is to this eavesdropper an argument about nothing. Everything. "I can't live like this" she screeches. The lump on your tongue big enough now to swallow. It is five years old, came with the throbbing in your legs during pregnancy. Came to stay. Five years old. You'd be dead by now wouldn't you?

The moth settles on your naked shoulder and you sleep.

... these three little labels of fluttery loveliness, and just about everything else by Angela Harris on Etsy. Just thought I'd tell you.

I have recently taken delivery of a large collection of Christmas Edition 1950's women's magazines and while perusing them for Vintage Housekeeping inspiration, it struck me that it is the letter page that is the most telling of it's time...the page that reveals most about the women, etiquette, and relative innocence of the era, while I suspect, showing us that the world really hasn't changed at all...

"I saw her at a sherry party: the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. She was perfect, from her smooth gold curls to her dainty shoes. Her black dress fitted like a sheath and over one arm she carried a heavenly silver fox cape. This I thought, is how one should look, should dress. I moved closer and heard her saying to the man, "No, no, we won't be going away at all this year- too difficult to leave the hens."
E.W. Dublin.

"I'm a different woman now. Hubby's socks neatly darned (without a last minute plea from him), the Winters knitting taken from the drawer and completed, a library book read within the allotted time, hair carefully set at night, child in bed without fuss- and the reason? The televisions gone bust!!!"
R.C., Ilkley, Yorks. 

"At lunchtime I was sharing a table in a cafe with two ladies, who seemed to be well known to each other. One was very old and looked as if she had little comfort i life and few of this world's goods. Presently the other left, saying "Good Morning" to us. The little old lady then called for her bill. "But it is paid" said the waitress, "your friend paid it." "How could that be? I do not know her." She turned to me and I thought I saw tears of thankfulness in her eyes. "Well she has proved your friend hasn't she?" I said "And I know it has given her pleasure." I gave thanks that there are good Samaritans amongst us still."
D.P., Bristol.

"My Mother knitted my baby daughter a horror of a woollie- in old rose, bottle green and mustard. Two months later, I thought I'd better dress her in it as we were visiting Mother. Removing the child's coat, Mother said: "Goodness! Who on earth knitted that monstrosity?"
Mrs R.B., Kirkaldy, Fife.

"Noise from the neighbours may be tiresome, but I wish you'd try to think of it this way: The slammed car door noises may be the fault of the car manufacturers; the smoky bonfires were meant to flare out, burn the rubbish and then die quickly. One sometimes has to rev the car engine. The noisy door slamming inside was caused by a draught of wind. Have an inward when you hear your neighbours laugh loudly, and wonder what the joke is.
Perhaps the person who hammers in the evening has a very long day at work and is trying to build something that he can't afford to buy for his hardworking wife? Do find excuses for others, you'll be much happier... I know, I've tried."
Mrs. D., West Wickham, Kent.

"When my daughter first started school, I went along to meet her, and found a long line of children waiting expectantly. My child, a sweet look on her face, took me by the hand, and led me up to them, saying "This is my Mummy, isn't she lovely?". The children looked disappointed, because between you and me, I am a plain Jane. Though I have always seen the funny side of this incident, it brought tears to my eyes at the time."
A.M.W., Hastings.

Through bad luck, we have been almost stony broke; consequently, I have only been buying just enough food for husband, myself and two children. The other day- calamity!- we had unexpected guests to tea. In the cupboard was just enough bread for ourselves and a small tin of meat. We talked for a while, then I went to get tea ready. I opened the cupboard and behold! half a dozen tomatoes, a loaf and some biscuits! Staggered but overjoyed, I made quite a good meal. Afterward, the mystery was solved. My sister who lives down the street, had seen my visitors arrive, and, guessing my plight, sneaked in the back way while we chatted and did a fairy godmother act!"
J.W., Yorks.

Mummy and Daddy decide baby is no longer a baby and must have a room that both reflects new grown up status and rewards all round bravery and school report of wondrous excellence that made Mummy cry and Daddy wonder out loud if said child belonged to them. Mummy discusses matter over milky tea with baby who is a boy and is told in no uncertain terms that under no circumstances must anything be changed, or moved, or heaven forbid it, binned, but he will welcome the purchase of over-large portrait of The Three Ages of Woman by Gustav Klimt, if man who is handy with a drill will hang it over his bed for him. Mummy refuses to purchase said image on grounds of extortionate price and falls victim to tantrum of obscene proportions after which deal is struck that a) Mummy will not force upon child : scary duvet covers, cartoon pictures of anything, or a new rug. And that b) Mummy will not take down anything already attached to walls nor (upon pain of death) paint over his birds. Child goes to sleep and Mummy crawls around in the darkness snaffling broken plastic wot nots into a bin bag, then rings estranged Daddy to report results of negotiation. Argument breaks out. Daddy who doesn't live in house has very strong opinions. Mummy pulls tongues at him down the phone and resolves to go her own sweet way. Child goes to school and Mummy goes shopping for items that will not compromise existing decoration nor offend child's peculiarly adult taste. Debates aesthetically pleasing vintage style tin reproductions of Spider man covers circa 1950 but realize they break no-cartoon clause and shuffles back to square one. Buys Tomorrow is a Lovely Day print, blue gingham Laura Ashley rug, bookcase, small table, inoffensive duvet cover and cushion. Resists floral elephant (adorable) doorstop Nana says is deeply inappropriate. And girly. Mummy arranges for Daddy to come perform miracles. Sets child up with DS and a tray of treats and climbs the stairs ready to do battle with crayoned walls and flat pack furniture, while she kid's herself that life after pseudo divorce is all well and oh so civilized. Soon finds herself locked in small hot room with the Missing Link , who is armed with hammer and apparently on speed. Or miserable pills. Or both. Argument breaks out. Missing Link is bolshie. Mummy is too thick to be able to judge where furniture should live till she has seen it in situ. Missing Link leaves room to dampen steam coming out of his ears. Says this is why he left! Mummy ignores childish outburst and risks life and limb debating a whole new arrangement of furniture. Daddy drags bed across room and child comes up to investigate goings on. Child has fit because precious rabbits have been moved to make way for bookcase. Says he's leaving and going to live in Kath's house. Daddy very, very cross at ungrateful child and imbecile Mother. Daddy drags bookcase across floor and snaps off Bunny Rabbit two's tail. Mummy loses the plot and has to control violence in her fingertips. Child screams and adds to all round mayhem. Mummy wonders what she ever saw in Missing Link. Nana is called to remove child to safe place so estranged parents can kill each other in peace. Calm is restored when suitable arrangement of furniture is established. Mummy paints and Daddy drills and swear under his breath just like old times. Room comes together in a snap. Daddy goes downstairs singing and comes back carrying cheese doorstops and strawberry shortbread on coordinating crockery. Mummy recognizes Baby plate and long lost Charles and Diana mug as apology of sorts. She will not however concede that bald head and thirty seven years on the planet make him a suitable partner for a twenty two year old girl. Arranges photograph of said bald head on noticeboard so she can throw darts at it later. Tea tastes bitter. Child returns home and wants to know how we can be sure tomorrow will be a lovely day? Mummy and Daddy cheer because child who insists he cannot read, read it all by himself. Child fails to see the joke and fleetingly wears hunted look as if from now he will be relied upon to read The Times... Dove's fly, rabbits run, and pear shaped family lives to see another day.

Today's list of puttery treats is inspired by a myriad of gorgeous source's from around the internet: all at one time or another featured on the Brocante Pinboard. Read the treat, click the link to discover the visual inspiration and scroll down the image to visit the original source and hopefully set out on a journey of more scrumptiousness than any of us deserve on even the Summeriest of Summer evenings...

* Float a tiny length of blossom in a little finger bowl and put it in your bedside for gently fragrant oh so transient loveliness..

* Sit on the lawn and pick yourself a daisy bouquet...

* Use wine glasses and fabric covered coasters to create cloches for a collection of teeny treasures.

* No more waiting... apparently the time for change is now!

* Collage the inside of cupboard doors with images that make you smile

* Plant succulents in vintage tea-caddies and display in a row on your kitchen windowsill...

* Seek out a length of fabric to die for and use it create a show-stopping shower curtain guaranteed to add a little vintage floral delight to even the plainest of bathrooms...

* Hang a wreath over leaded windows... who said they are only for Christmas?

* Fall in love with Ralph Waldo Emerson. Adopt the pace of nature...

* Frame gorgeous sections of vintage embroidery in a variety of frames and let the gentle art of domestic craftsmanship speak for itself...

* Make and frame leaf silhouettes....

* Add lengths of gorgeous ribbon to the back of a chair for the sheer frippery of it...

* Spray glue starched linen (I can see no other way of doing it?) to the insides of glass fronted cabinets and wardrobes, and show off the intricacy of lace and cutwork...

* Stop saying LOL...

* Fill a jar full of scrap paper dreams, or wishes, or favorite quotes of really silly things the kids said...

* Stitch a doillie on to the front of the plainest tote...

* Fill the tiniest of kitchen wall gaps with a pretty collection of mounted saucers...

* Remember this...

* Sew yourself a Ra-Ra laundry bag...

* Know that "Life isn't about finding yourself, it is about creating yourself..."

* Make a glorious hydrangea garland...

* Let this be your mantra....

* Group really rather fabulous fabric covered bulletins together and re-invent yourself as super duper organized kinda gal...

* Line the inside of the teeniest of cabinets...

* Embroider words that matter to you onto a scrap of gorgeous floral fabric and frame it for posterity...

* Float the head of a pretty flower in a rose sprinkled cup and saucer.

* Get brave, free yourself, dance into the wind...

* Let the kids help you make a little garden in a jar...

* Sew frou frou net rosettes on to a pair of knitted slippers just for the happy loveliness of it...

* Scrawl one of your favorite quotes on to the wall.. you can always paint over it...

* Tie posy's in lengths of pretty lace before standing them in glass vases...

Season Two, in all it's scrumptiously fresh (probably slightly chaotic!) glory has arrived. Sign up here for the second season of The Vintage Housekeepers Circle and look forward to enjoying a Summer abundant with puttery treats, fresh food for domestic thought, and a hundred more reasons to don the prettiest apron you own... Click here to sign up quick!

So asks the blurb on the back of this little ode to housekeeping. This and... whose footprints are on your floor? If the kitchen is the heart of the home, what is the heart of the kitchen? If the purpose of cleaning is to remove dirt, what is the purpose of dirt? What fills empty spaces? And finally, what is the colour of clean? White, blue, or to my mind a certain shade of watery eau de nil...? Who knows? But this is exactly the kind of question I find myself meditating over while splashing about in washing up bowl full of frothy bubbles... After violet cremes, (lest they be forgotten) housekeeping and more than that, reading and writing about housekeeping remain my most enduring passions. While there will also be somewhere on my person or abandoned on my bedside table, a trashy novel or two, a fine example of early twentieth century domestic literature in the basket next to my reading chair, and the pages of a new to me recipe book waiting to be turned during idle kitchen time, I always, always, always have (oh joy!) a book of vintage household hints or the latest thoughts on homemaking on the go, desperately hoping, that by some form of literary osmosis I will be transformed into a Domestic Goddess. (Ahem... Oh alright: yes, the very same kind of Domestic Goddess I insist does not exist, but heavens, where would we be without ambition Darlings??) And so this week I am thoroughly enjoying Zen and the Art of Housework, which may not offer anything even remotely new in theories on homemaking, but is such a darling little reminder that a) Housework HAS to be done, b) Doing it mindfully makes it more tolerable and, c) Resentment gives you wrinkles. Well OK, I made C up but I stand by it because I am willing to grant permission to resent the air wayward husbands breathe but resenting something you have to do daily FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE is clearly ludicrous, and so applying a little Zen-mindset might just do the trick! At the very least knowing and understanding that your home is an inanimate object and not an evil monster intent on dictating every spare moment of your day with the relentless spillage of filth and chaos, should help you come to terms with how utterly daft it is to project human emotions on to something you are absolutely capable of getting a grip of, should you ever work up the energy to do so. What colour is clean anyway? P.S: The Vintage Housekeepers Circle will open for Season two sign ups tomorrow and in the meantime you can get into uber-vintage-housewife mode by downloading the best of Season One... Think zen Sweeties. Zen and vintage doilies...

I don't own a single good piece of jewellery. Not one. In fact at the moment the only jewellery I can find at all are the great big (£2.99) hoops I live in, the blingy ring I bought when I sold my engagement ring, and the vintage necklace with the little girls face on that is my pride and joy....

I buy bracelets and promptly lose them. I weigh down my neck with rows and rows of old and new strings of beads and the day after the jewellery fairy comes and steals them for herself.  (The little minx).  Rings slip right off my fingers, never to be seen again, and sorrowful orphaned earrings give up the ghost and tuck themselves down the back of the sofa forever after...

In my world pretty things just disappear, which is a shame because nothing has provenance like jewellery. Tiny trinkets of the past dull with all our yesterdays. Memories wrapped in silver plate and hope frozen in a band of gold...

So thank goodness for my Mum. Thinking the very same thoughts she turned her house upside down in search of every trinket she has has ever squandered her hard earned pennies on. Turning over every nook and crannie in search of lost earrings and abandoned bracelets. Every set of beads Helen and I have ever left behind, childhood hairslides, teeny tiny rings and watches  no longer working but resplendent with history...
And there it all was. A tangle of memories and jadeite. More diamante than you could shake a stick at and tiny pieces of nothing that had the years vanishing before my eyes...

The silver chain watch with the blue face that is all I remember about her arms as a child.  The carved bakelite green and amber beads that were the first piece of vintage anything  I ever bought. The tiny signet ring her Dad bought her as a child. The aluminium pendant Helen had carved the immortal words "I Love Parents" (all parents apparently!) on to in metalwork class...
All our yesterdays in a box. Precious moments remembering them with her.

Try it.  Root down the back of your sofa.  In every nonsense drawer you own. In all your old handbags.  Re-unite earrings. Find strings of beads  lost forever.  Wrap a little  bit of your mum around your wrist.  Take childhood rings and  thread them onto ribbon to wear around your neck.

Honour these tiny bits of momentary glamour. Be who you were when you wore them.

Smile. Cry.  And remember...

If Marks and Spencers (or Marksies as we like to call it round here!) ever went the same way as our much missed Woolworths, I really think I'd slit my wrists. While perusing the newest store in the area and feeling almost instantaneously cheerful looking at the gorgeous celebration windows, it struck me that my little world would be a sorrier place without this gorgeous stalwart of a shop and indeed their can't get enough of them Cornish Cruncher Burgers. And cranberry and pomegranate gums. And (oh my!) the gorgeous Cut Flowers candles which are to my mind the closest thing to couture candles on the high street... Now if they only stopped believing that the desperately smug Myleen Klass represented EveryWoman, I think we'd all be thrilled to sing Happy 125th Birthday to a store that is a National Treasure wouldn't we?

There is nothing quite like the appearance of a white rabbit to brighten up a lovely new day and the finnicky, anal side of me, is more than thrilled to discover a whole, beautiful, sunny new month starting on a Monday, because she who like's things to be neat and square and lined up nicely, truly believes that all new months should start on a Monday and life would be all together more oodley delicious if months were a nice square four weeks instead of causing much chaos, and all too often starting in disgraceful fashion on something awful like a Thursday or worst still, ye gads, a Saturday... Yes, I agree, I need to get a life, and thus stop dwelling quite so wholly on the shape of the calendar, because yes indeed it is June and June is positively delightful and packed full of loveliness like the school sports day, (egg and spoon anyone?) and a Teddy Bears Picnic and glorious sunshine and a laundry room that smells like a salad, and that slightly tight feeling your skin develops when you've wandered around in the hot sun for too long... It is June and there will be Big Brother (oh trashy joy of all Summery joys!) and Mary Queen of Charity Shops, and a fabulous article on all things pink from the divinely glamorous Plum Sykes in this months Vogue (who knew you could plant a garden full of pink daffodils??). There will be smoothies and cucumber by the stick-full and Skinny Cow lolli-ices by the freezer-ful and much hoopla upon visiting the madly silly and ever so hilarious website that is Moggit (What is With Men and Their Wood?? And We Did Not Know You Could Make A Light Fixture Out of Cotton Balls!?: titles, I think you will agree could give Take A Break's I murdered my Mother in Law With a Frozen Sausage style headlines a run for their money!). There will be the grand opening of our newly re-furbished local library and Clares' Mad Hatter Tea Party on Sunday (somebody find me a mad hat!). There will be towels crispy from the line and gin cocktails, (but not at the same time), and the long awaited re-opening of Heather Bailey's TO SELL YOUR MOTHER FOR, online shop, (Today Housekeepers!!). There will, no doubt, be harrowing tales from my ventures back into dating (It's Summer, somebody ask me out!), far too much time spent in the absolutely gorgeous new Cath Kidston store in Liverpool, situated, to my delight, next to the BlueCoat Chambers and it's lovely, lovely courtyard and gallery, and indeed, many a new pair of high shoes bought, that I will risk ankle and limb to totter about in and ultimately re-sell on ebay.... Not to mention hose pipes (I loooove hose pipes!) and sticks of Southport rock melted into bite-sized fairy cakes (I saw them do it once on Big Chef, Little Chef!) and a new French General book and feta cheese crumbled on to everything and lime squeezed into soda water and boules on the lawn and the noisy, lovely sound of faraway lawnmowers and rose scented Madeleines eaten under the shade of a tree and big fat peonies in a colour I can't describe stolen from Mum's garden. Oh and men in shorts. There will be men in shorts, Ladies! There. I've said it: I'm officially a girl pervert. Goodness. Did I tell you June makes me a bit giddy? There is nothing square about it is there? I'm going to lie down. The sun has gone to my head.

Do excuse me while I do the giddy mummy, yey he's back at school dance won't you? The house has barely survived the onslaught of another half term holiday and my little monkey is on the final leg of his very first year in big school, iced water bottle in hand and worry on his mind. When you are five the world is stuffed full of worries. There is the "What does God look like?" worry, because if nobody knows what he looks like, then he could be anybody, he could even be sitting on the train next to you and speaking of public transport, there is the "Who's driving his boat?" worry, which could quite frankly threaten the fun of a sail up and down the Chester waterfront, if said five year old refuses to step on the boat until the driver is in clear view. Then there is the "Pink icing" problem, because if Mummy squashes strawberries into icing sugar and dabs the whole lot on the top of a gluten free cake and the result is a girly muffin, then who knows what kind of shenanigans will occur in the lunch room, and yes, speaking of the lunchroom, how in the name of biscuits, will he survive his first school packed lunch in a few months? Will he be allowed to eat lunch with everyone else even though he's got a funny leg or will he have to sit by himself in the classroom and Mummy when the school goes to Chester zoo, what on earth should he do, because there is a whole lot of walking involved in looking at tigers and he can't walk so he will have to be pushed, which brings us neatly to the "Buggy or wheelchair?" debate, because if he sit's in a buggy, the kids will think he is a baby, and he's NOT A BABY, and if he sit's in a wheelchair, the kids will think he's sick and he's NOT SICK , so maybe he could just sit down and rest every five minutes or maybe have a little lie down after he's been in the batroom but oh no, he can't go in the batroom, because last time he went in there he did himself a damage with a big stick because it was very dark and he doesn't like strange dark, only his own dark and he definitely doesn't like having his photograph taken with strange Aunties from Ireland, so tell Daddy to never make him do that again or he will cry and cry and only a lolly ice will make him better, but lolly ices might have gluten in and grown ups can't be trusted to choose the right ones and oh no I dont want a new bedroom, and I don't want Daddy to change his car because I like my room and Daddies clapped out old shed on wheels is lovely and I don't want anything to change ever, ever, ever, so If I tell you my foot hurts, I want you to pretend you didn't hear me, because then you might take me back to the hospital, and I'll have to have another cast, and I like my leg as it is even though it is oddly hairy since the last cast came off, but could you ask the Doctor for something to fix my foot, but, you know DON'T MAKE A FUSS MUMMY... And on and on the onslaught goes... And I'm doing as I'm told, trying not to make a fuss, but he can't walk for longer than five minutes, walking now involving a limp, a hop, a skip and a jump as he tries to avoid bearing any weight at all while he tries and fails to play football or run with the other kids. It's heartbreaking, but short of keeping him permanently in a cast which may cause it's own problems, there is no solution until the necessary bone spontaneously reforms (as it does in 98% of cases) and so it really is a matter of pushing him around in a buggy, while avoiding the eye of frowning old ladies who believe I've got an over-sized lazy baby on my hands... It's quite the most awful thing not to be able to solve a problem for your babba. I can lead him to the man sailing the boat, and tell him to think up the most wonderful person he can possibly imagine and call him God (because if there is a god, he looks like Russel Brand in my warped head). I can compromise on the grand plans I'd made for his bedroom so I do not shatter his sense of security in a fit of decorating mayhem and I can swap the (absolutely scrumptious) strawberry topped cake for a more acceptable banana muffin. I can intervene in mad Irish Auntie photo sessions and monitor the gluten content of everything form lolly-ices to the glue on the back of postage stamps... but I can't perform a little miracle. I can't wish a bone back. And you know what? I really thought I could. I thought miracle working came with Mommy territory. But it doesn't. Oh what tiny cruelties we must endure...