The women of Roman Britain used a foundation made of animal fat, starch and tin oxide, said Pliny the Elder, this morning.
Well, I said. How come you didn't know that yesterday?
I did, said Pliny. I forgot.
That happens, I agreed. Foundation, you say? So it wasn't a lipstick.
No, said Pliny. It was a face whitener.
Then what's it doing in my shimmering brown Dangerous Diva?
Shimmering, said Pliny.
Was it poisonous? I asked.
I don't know, said Pliny, But I believe it used to set quite stiffly on their faces.
That would have been the starch. How is it we know what the ingredients were?
A little pot of grayish cream was dug up in south London, said Pliny. It had fingermarks on the lid, and in the cream. It dated back to the second century AD.
How did they know what it was for?
At first they thought it might be toothpaste, but....
But?
They analysed the ingredients and decided it must have been a facial cream. Either that or...
Yes?
A cream for smearing on to sacrificial goats.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Dangerous Diva
Pliny the Elder disagreed with me about crinolines being worn by fashionable ladies in pre-revolutionary France.
I believe you are wrong, he said.
Oh? I said. Why is that?
Because, he replied, crinolines were not invented until the 1830s. The skirts worn by ladies in pre-revolutionary France were padded out on the sides with panniers. I'm surprised you did not know that.
I did know that, I just forgot, I said. I'm surprised that you knew it, though.
You forget, said Pliny, that I take an interest in everything.
I do forget that, sometimes, I agreed. But since you do take an interest in everything, what do you know of the ingredients used in ladies' lipsticks?
Do you have a particular reason for asking? asked Pliny.
I do, I said. I am wondering whether tin oxide is a proper ingredient in a lipstick.
Offhand, said Pliny, I do not know, but it sounds quite a dangerous substance to be painting on one's lips .
That's what I thought, I said, when I read the ingredients of my new lipstick this morning. The last ingredient was tin oxide.
Let us try and find out more, said Pliny, helpfully. Now, I believe ladies' lipsticks have names. What is the name of yours?
Dangerous Diva, I replied.
Pliny seemed about to say something, but, uncharacteristically, held it back.
I believe you are wrong, he said.
Oh? I said. Why is that?
Because, he replied, crinolines were not invented until the 1830s. The skirts worn by ladies in pre-revolutionary France were padded out on the sides with panniers. I'm surprised you did not know that.
I did know that, I just forgot, I said. I'm surprised that you knew it, though.
You forget, said Pliny, that I take an interest in everything.
I do forget that, sometimes, I agreed. But since you do take an interest in everything, what do you know of the ingredients used in ladies' lipsticks?
Do you have a particular reason for asking? asked Pliny.
I do, I said. I am wondering whether tin oxide is a proper ingredient in a lipstick.
Offhand, said Pliny, I do not know, but it sounds quite a dangerous substance to be painting on one's lips .
That's what I thought, I said, when I read the ingredients of my new lipstick this morning. The last ingredient was tin oxide.
Let us try and find out more, said Pliny, helpfully. Now, I believe ladies' lipsticks have names. What is the name of yours?
Dangerous Diva, I replied.
Pliny seemed about to say something, but, uncharacteristically, held it back.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Ensemble Le Monde
" As you sit here, contentedly awaiting a pleasant lunch hour concert of music by a great composer you probably know and love, imagine being in a considerably more apprehensive audience 210 years ago, about to hear Beethoven's Septet for the first time..."
Wah! Who expects to read something like that in the program notes! It quite put me off. Firstly, I do not know-and-love Beethoven. He is merely an acquaintance.
Secondly I felt obliged to imagine the dratted thing.
So I'm listening to the music, which is nothing to be apprehensive about by the way, and I'm trying to imagine what I'm wearing. It's 1800, and I'm at a soiree in the Royal Imperial Court Theatre In Vienna.
This is mental! What did ladies wear in 1800? I know what they used to wear in France before the Revolution. Big crinoline dresses ! And I know what they used to wear in England in Jane Austen's day. Diaphanous high waisted dresses. But 1800 is just in between.
And here I am, trying to imagine that I'm at this freaking soiree, in an unspecified sort of dress, possibly with large feathers in my hair, or possibly jewels, and I'm sitting behind row after row of people wearing jumpers. Not only that but on the very front row, I can see this chap with greasy grey curly locks and an orange jacket with a thin polyester hood askew about his shoulders.
Aren't we all imagining we're in Vienna?
Wah! Who expects to read something like that in the program notes! It quite put me off. Firstly, I do not know-and-love Beethoven. He is merely an acquaintance.
Secondly I felt obliged to imagine the dratted thing.
So I'm listening to the music, which is nothing to be apprehensive about by the way, and I'm trying to imagine what I'm wearing. It's 1800, and I'm at a soiree in the Royal Imperial Court Theatre In Vienna.
This is mental! What did ladies wear in 1800? I know what they used to wear in France before the Revolution. Big crinoline dresses ! And I know what they used to wear in England in Jane Austen's day. Diaphanous high waisted dresses. But 1800 is just in between.
And here I am, trying to imagine that I'm at this freaking soiree, in an unspecified sort of dress, possibly with large feathers in my hair, or possibly jewels, and I'm sitting behind row after row of people wearing jumpers. Not only that but on the very front row, I can see this chap with greasy grey curly locks and an orange jacket with a thin polyester hood askew about his shoulders.
Aren't we all imagining we're in Vienna?
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
After, and Before
After the Rubber Band Debate we decided to go for a walk. I remember thinking, during the walk, that if the Tour de France was over, I would be paying more attention to my surroundings.
That is not to say I was thinking about the Tour De France.
I was coasting, observing nothing properly.
How lucky I was to have had that thought. For, from the moment that I thought it, I began to observe things properly again, but in a different way.
That was last Saturday. Let us see how long the proper memory has lasted.
We left mum sitting on a seat. No, that's wrong, we left her just about to sit down on a seat. She probably sat down on it after that. But by then we were walking south along the footpath towards Seacliff.
The sea was on our right, slopping and gleaming like molten steel in a bowl. Then the sand heaps, ugly. Then the dunes and struggling grasses. Then the gnarled and twisted bushes, the decrepit fence, the footpath, and us walking on it, towards Seacliff.
We were talking about something in Latin. That is not to say we were speaking Latin. We can't do that. We were talking about a word, errato, and whether it existed....
After that we fell silent. There was a sound, probably of the sea, slopping. What else could it have been? And another sound, probably of rustling bushes, or a bouncing car. Whatever the sounds, they were enough to make me think about listening, so then I heard another car, and several birds.
On the way back, northwards, towards Hove, we seemed to be somehow tilted towards the sky. I suppose the path must go uphill very slightly. In any case, I remember looking at the clouds which looked like solid lumps of dirty yellow wadding. Far away above the horizon a slash of blue sky promised the sun, by means of a triangulation of sunbeams. But minutes before it appeared, we had to turn up Smith Street.
That is not to say I was thinking about the Tour De France.
I was coasting, observing nothing properly.
How lucky I was to have had that thought. For, from the moment that I thought it, I began to observe things properly again, but in a different way.
That was last Saturday. Let us see how long the proper memory has lasted.
We left mum sitting on a seat. No, that's wrong, we left her just about to sit down on a seat. She probably sat down on it after that. But by then we were walking south along the footpath towards Seacliff.
The sea was on our right, slopping and gleaming like molten steel in a bowl. Then the sand heaps, ugly. Then the dunes and struggling grasses. Then the gnarled and twisted bushes, the decrepit fence, the footpath, and us walking on it, towards Seacliff.
We were talking about something in Latin. That is not to say we were speaking Latin. We can't do that. We were talking about a word, errato, and whether it existed....
After that we fell silent. There was a sound, probably of the sea, slopping. What else could it have been? And another sound, probably of rustling bushes, or a bouncing car. Whatever the sounds, they were enough to make me think about listening, so then I heard another car, and several birds.
On the way back, northwards, towards Hove, we seemed to be somehow tilted towards the sky. I suppose the path must go uphill very slightly. In any case, I remember looking at the clouds which looked like solid lumps of dirty yellow wadding. Far away above the horizon a slash of blue sky promised the sun, by means of a triangulation of sunbeams. But minutes before it appeared, we had to turn up Smith Street.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
IKEA
What's IKEA? I repeated. Pliny, don't you know?
No, I don't, said Pliny. What is it ?
It's a place, a huge, vast, enormous place, where you go with your mum to look at furniture and furnishings and knicknacks, and, as you tend to fall into a sort of trance there, the time goes by until you realise you are going to be obliged to buy some lunch.
That sounds good, said Pliny. Lunch.
Little you know, I replied, remembering the greenish layers on the salmon chunks, and how they had disagreed with my mother afterwards.
In any case, it doesn't matter, said Pliny. I don't suppose I will ever go there.
No, I'm sure you won't, I said. Were there any other questions?
Yes, said Pliny. What was that about placing a rubber band around your mother's curtain rod, and a subsequent debate?
Oh, that's a funny story, I said. I made her some nice blue curtains with the stuff we bought at IKEA, and took them round on Saturday. The curtain rod was too long and needed to be cut, so we measured it and marked it with a rubber band, so that the handyman would know where to saw it off on Tuesday.
That's not very funny, said Pliny.
Wait, I said, it becomes funny. Then mum said, perhaps we should mark it with a marking pen.
We marked it with the rubber band, I said.
What if it moves? she said.
Why would it move? I said.
Someone might move it, she said.
Why would they? I said.
I don't know, she said.
I'm sure no one will move it, I said.
Alright, she said. But it's risky!
Well, mark it, I said.
But she didn't.
Dear me, said Pliny, not laughing. I can't help thinking that one of you was being deliberately obtuse.
No, I don't, said Pliny. What is it ?
It's a place, a huge, vast, enormous place, where you go with your mum to look at furniture and furnishings and knicknacks, and, as you tend to fall into a sort of trance there, the time goes by until you realise you are going to be obliged to buy some lunch.
That sounds good, said Pliny. Lunch.
Little you know, I replied, remembering the greenish layers on the salmon chunks, and how they had disagreed with my mother afterwards.
In any case, it doesn't matter, said Pliny. I don't suppose I will ever go there.
No, I'm sure you won't, I said. Were there any other questions?
Yes, said Pliny. What was that about placing a rubber band around your mother's curtain rod, and a subsequent debate?
Oh, that's a funny story, I said. I made her some nice blue curtains with the stuff we bought at IKEA, and took them round on Saturday. The curtain rod was too long and needed to be cut, so we measured it and marked it with a rubber band, so that the handyman would know where to saw it off on Tuesday.
That's not very funny, said Pliny.
Wait, I said, it becomes funny. Then mum said, perhaps we should mark it with a marking pen.
We marked it with the rubber band, I said.
What if it moves? she said.
Why would it move? I said.
Someone might move it, she said.
Why would they? I said.
I don't know, she said.
I'm sure no one will move it, I said.
Alright, she said. But it's risky!
Well, mark it, I said.
But she didn't.
Dear me, said Pliny, not laughing. I can't help thinking that one of you was being deliberately obtuse.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Three Weeks
Aha! said Pliny the Elder. The Tour de France is finished. What shall we do next?
I don't know about you, I said, but I am going to catch up on all the things that have happened at home in the last three weeks.
But that might take three weeks, said Pliny.
No, it won't, I said. Watch this:
Thursday: mum doesn't like her chickenless caesar salad at the library
Friday: photograph pineapple in bicycle helmet
Saturday: replace bedroom curtain which has mysterious rents
Sunday: daughter deactivates twitter account; giant saucer placed under mum's tree
Monday: daughter deactivates facebook account; I realise we are still nonvirtual friends
Tuesday: Qi Long looks at me when I say hello to him several times
Wednesday: think about tomorrow
Thursday: fall over dramatically on the way to a lecture, graze knee
Friday: headache
Saturday: election called; I hope Julia wins!
Sunday: daughter returns from London in shorts
Monday: washing and ironing
Tuesday: Li Feng gives me two pieces of warmed up cake to eat
Wednesday: IKEA
Thursday: Pi Approximation Day: watch movie Pi and eat pies at the science exchange
Friday: very cold day.
Saturday: put a rubber band round mum's curtain rod, debate with her its merits as marker
Sunday: Masterchef full of preposterous drama; Adam wins
There, Pliny, I said. That's what happened. Is there anything you would like me to elaborate upon?
Pliny looked perplexed.
What's IKEA? he said.
I don't know about you, I said, but I am going to catch up on all the things that have happened at home in the last three weeks.
But that might take three weeks, said Pliny.
No, it won't, I said. Watch this:
Thursday: mum doesn't like her chickenless caesar salad at the library
Friday: photograph pineapple in bicycle helmet
Saturday: replace bedroom curtain which has mysterious rents
Sunday: daughter deactivates twitter account; giant saucer placed under mum's tree
Monday: daughter deactivates facebook account; I realise we are still nonvirtual friends
Tuesday: Qi Long looks at me when I say hello to him several times
Wednesday: think about tomorrow
Thursday: fall over dramatically on the way to a lecture, graze knee
Friday: headache
Saturday: election called; I hope Julia wins!
Sunday: daughter returns from London in shorts
Monday: washing and ironing
Tuesday: Li Feng gives me two pieces of warmed up cake to eat
Wednesday: IKEA
Thursday: Pi Approximation Day: watch movie Pi and eat pies at the science exchange
Friday: very cold day.
Saturday: put a rubber band round mum's curtain rod, debate with her its merits as marker
Sunday: Masterchef full of preposterous drama; Adam wins
There, Pliny, I said. That's what happened. Is there anything you would like me to elaborate upon?
Pliny looked perplexed.
What's IKEA? he said.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Les Champs
The final day of the Tour de France! Team Philosophe is riding towards Paris and drinking champagne from plastic flutes.
The VeloDone: Ah Paris! At last! I was born here, you know.
Jean Paul Sartre: So was I. And so was Simone.
Le Bon David : Not me. I was born in Edinburgh.
The VeloDrone: I sometimes forget. But you are an honorary Frenchman.
Le Bon David: Thank you. Oh I am glad the Tour is over. Will we three be in it next year? What do you think?
Jean Paul Sartre: I am negotiating to get back with Team Existentialiste.
The VeloDrone: Oh?
Jean Paul Sartre: 'Fraid so. I am more in tune with their mode of thinking.
Le Bon David: Haven't we got on alright?
Jean Paul Sartre: You called me a weasel.
Le Bon David: That was in the heat of the moment, when you were being a weasel.
The VeloDrone: It doesn't matter. We are negotiating too, Jean Paul.
Jean Paul Sartre: Oh, who with?
Le Bon David: Yes, who with?
The VeloDrone: You know, David. It is someone much younger.
Jean Paul Sartre: Wittgenstein?
Le Bon David: Younger.
Jean Paul Sartre: Who then?
The VeloDrone: It's Alain de Botton.
Jean Paul Sartre: What has he got to offer?
The VeloDrone: Don't you know? He's a sprinter.
The VeloDone: Ah Paris! At last! I was born here, you know.
Jean Paul Sartre: So was I. And so was Simone.
Le Bon David : Not me. I was born in Edinburgh.
The VeloDrone: I sometimes forget. But you are an honorary Frenchman.
Le Bon David: Thank you. Oh I am glad the Tour is over. Will we three be in it next year? What do you think?
Jean Paul Sartre: I am negotiating to get back with Team Existentialiste.
The VeloDrone: Oh?
Jean Paul Sartre: 'Fraid so. I am more in tune with their mode of thinking.
Le Bon David: Haven't we got on alright?
Jean Paul Sartre: You called me a weasel.
Le Bon David: That was in the heat of the moment, when you were being a weasel.
The VeloDrone: It doesn't matter. We are negotiating too, Jean Paul.
Jean Paul Sartre: Oh, who with?
Le Bon David: Yes, who with?
The VeloDrone: You know, David. It is someone much younger.
Jean Paul Sartre: Wittgenstein?
Le Bon David: Younger.
Jean Paul Sartre: Who then?
The VeloDrone: It's Alain de Botton.
Jean Paul Sartre: What has he got to offer?
The VeloDrone: Don't you know? He's a sprinter.
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