Amongst the vintage and decorative living fair cognoscenti, chicken keeping was a great passion. Like any epidemic, it started with one carrier and then the virus spread particularly affecting those wearing linen and visiting country vintage fairs. Suddenly, small talk was all about hen houses and where to obtain the best-looking hens and the procurement of various galvanised containers for feed and water.
Much like the hens themselves, there was a pecking order amongst the ladies. The Chief Henkeeper was a countrywoman of standing who bred hens from her picturesque but tumbledown cottage and gardens. Hens roamed freely in her wildflower meadow, housed in a variety of ramshackle timber buildings. Her word was law on the merits of different sorts and sizes of bird, types of hen house, feeding regimes and hen health. As Chief Henkeeper, she supplied her avid disciples with their livestock, having inducted them into the Dark Arts of hen husbandry at one of her jolly Hen Parties aka chicken keeping courses.
At a slightly lower ranking than the CH, Mrs Seasoned Henkeeper was another reliable source of handy hen hints. Not for her the fancy Frizzle or the pretty Pekin; her poultry de jour were rescue hens obtained from the Happy Hen Foundation. The HHF regularly liberated battery hens and then sought loving homes for their scraggy ex-captives. Mrs Seasoned Henkeeper was not deterred by the balding appearance of these unlovely creatures. A few weeks in her tender care and the little darlings would be sporting glossy feathers and beginning to enjoy their freedom. Mrs SH had a massive flock, being a soft touch for a sad story. This was alongside her motley menagerie of rescued dogs, stray cats, a one-legged parrot and two ancient sheep that occupied her very untidy garden. Neighbours had long given up complaining about the farmyard noises and smells, bought off with copious trays of free eggs.
The Young Pretender was desperate to achieve the heady heights of knowledge of the Chief Henkeeper. Not for her the shabby secondhand-on-Freecycle henhouse or the converted garden shed. She had been lured into buying an Heirloom Henhouse, as advertised in "Country Cottage and House" magazine. The pretty Gothic style structure, softly painted in eggshell Barrow and Fall Liberty Bodice pink created a perfect bucolic vision in her well tended gardens.
Mrs YP could not countenance anything less than "divine" or "pretty" in her line of vision and thus, rescued hens were not on her agenda. Poring over "Henkeeping Style - the magazine for the country home henkeeper" she was torn between Bantams,Silkies or even Pekins. The dainty bantam with its tiny eggs would be a fitting occupant of her chicken Doll House. But the Silkies were just so very lovely and as for the Lavender Pekins, she positively drooled over their pin-up portraits in Hen of the Month. Her husband, Jonty, sarcastically referred to these magazines as Chicken Porn. In the end, the Chief Henkeeper had graciously supplied her with 6 bantams and her 7-year apprenticeship had began. The CH's Hen Hotline was constantly engaged with lengthy calls about why one chicken was pecking another, or why no eggs had yet been laid.
Ms Urban Chick had a completely different style. Her longing for an aesthetic yet functionally designed hen house for her pocket-sized town garden had been assuaged by a trendy Egloo. A funky purple dome now stood on her tiny lawn complete with two brown hens. Whilst not the fanciest birds, there was something pleasing about their utilitarian shape and their willingness to produce regular brown eggs. Ms Urban Chick's reading matter "The Urban Hen" mixed helpful advice with fuzzy focus shots of pet hens and the poetic hen-inspired offerings of 9-year old girls.
Aspiring hen keepers could apply to join the ranks of the established Chicken Ladies, but would have to undergo a lengthy initiation first. Attendance at a Hen Party was the entry point; the purchase of a hen house painted a romantic pastel shade and almost the cost of a second home in France was also obligatory; a selection of hens chosen only for their pretty feathers and picturesque appearance was usually a requirement unless a special case could be made for rescue hens. Having passed through this process, piles of unread "Henkeeper's Weekly", regular visits to the country store and an ongoing battles against foxes, rats and red mite would become part and parcel of the newly sworn-in henkeeper's life. But the eggs looked so sweet for sale in their specially-sourced pink egg boxes.
Showing posts with label home making. Show all posts
Showing posts with label home making. Show all posts
Saturday, 22 August 2015
Thursday, 28 August 2014
Is this a cushion I see before me?
It was an unwritten rule that at any vintage fair or decorative interiors event, the number of cushions should at least be equal to the number of visitors in attendance. In fact, so consistent was the anecdotal evidence on this matter, that a team of crack mathematicians at the University of East Russetshire were researching the phenomena with a view to publishing a learned paper with full stastical proof. Visitors to any fair in Southern England pooh-poohed the need for such laborious investigation - they knew that cushion overload was a very real problem and that the evidence was clear to see to anyone with eyes.
Many stallholders saw running-up a few cushions as an easy way to utilise their limited sewing skills and to enjoy the creative process involved in machine sewing up four seams and inserting a zip, buttons or other more elaborate fastenings. And cushions filled up stall space, were nice and easy to pack and transported squashed around less yielding goods such as rusted garden furniture or large woodwormholed cupboards. Cushions could also be crafted from a limitless selection of otherwise unselleable textiles including old grain sacks; linen sheets too far gone to be repaired; distressed and fraying kelims and rugs; scrappy patchwork quilts; old woollen blankets made obsolescent by duvets and other sundry offerings. In fact all manner of textiles, old and new, were being re-purposed into cushions to suit every taste and pocket.
The cushion genus took many forms. In its lowest manifestation, the product would be fashioned from some rather poorly designed, garish and inevitably synthetic "vintage" print. The envelope fastening indicated the lack of sewing skills of the novice maker - zips and buttonholes were simply a step too far. Remnants of said fabric would then be turned into bunting - the edges pinked to save sewing and the flags tacked to bias binding. The cushion pad would be polyester, with not a feather in sight. However, the lure of the gaudy colours and bargain prices would be irresistible to cushion-hunting virgins, as yet unschooled in the whys and wherefores of prestige cushionery. And how lovely to be able to buy matching bunting, too!
Further up the ladder of cushion acquisitions, the more savvy buyer would seek out classy numbers featuring a combination of aged linen, patched with a favoured designer fabric. The mid-range status cushion would be one that boasted old soft linen, adorned with a scrap of Cauliflowers & Posies "Faded Floribunda" range. The canny cushion crafter would ensure that every leftover scrap of this "Faded Florrie" would be utilised for heart-shaped lavender bags; tiny, unusable pencil cases and miniscule make up bags. The correct response of the afficianado, on seeing such a cushion, would be a series of small shrieks and moans, "Oh, oh, oh....look at that darling cushion - that gorgeous material....it's sooooo pretty!". And as the process of making a cushion was not dissimilar to making a shoulder bag, the stall would also proffer a range of bags, similarly decorated with scraps of the desired fabric. No cushion on this stall would be supplied with anything less than a feather pad. The cost of such padded perfection was eye-wateringly high, but each buyer would be convinced of its uniqueness and beauty. Quibbling husbands who were suffering from cushionitis would oft be heard objecting - "Not Another Cushion". Naturally, their wives would ignore such petulant grumbles.
The pinnacle of cushion excellence was rarely to be found amongst the sea of cushion mediocrity or downright ugliness. However, the hawk-eyed cushion doyenne would be able to spot a glimpse of vintage Sanderson or finest crewel work at a thousand paces. Like a bloodhound on a human trail, said doyenne would hone in on the stall where such precious bounty was to be found. Cushions of this calibre involved a series of challenges that would put the labours of Hercules in the shade. Firstly, the vintage Sanderson, faded Victorian patchwork and ragged samplers would be tracked down at obscure country auctions or specialist and inaccessible textile fairs. The exquisite antique linen backing material would be sourced from France, via a specialist dealer who was a "dear, dear friend" of the cushion artiste; maker would be too lowly a title for such dedication and creativity.
Each cushion was a work of art, repurposing the fragile and the frayed into an object of loveliness. As the artiste's skill level was on a different plain to the average cushion crafter, further customisation ensued involving monogrammed initials cut from old French smocks and chemises, tiny mother of pearl buttons, hand sewn ruffles and frills and exquisitely embroidered flourishes. The completed artefact would be worthy of a showcase at the World Heritage Cushion Museum, if such a place existed. This cushion was the creme de la creme, the piece de resistance, the Cushion Olympics Gold Medallist.
Such loveliness would come at a massive price - but the salivating cushion addict would loudly justify her purchase to anyone within earshot. ""Well, it is my birthday in four months' time and Jasper can give it to me for my house present". Reverently, the artiste would place her masterwork, enveloped in acid-free tisssue paper, into a large white carrier bag, rope-handled, of course. With equal reverence, the cushion was borne away by its disciple and driven with great care to its final resting-place. Once there, the cushion was unveiled and threats issued to anyone who sat, leant, slept or ate anywhere in its vicinity. After all, you would not go to sleep or eat your supper by the Mona Lisa. Jasper was none too pleased about the Queen's Ransom that he was expected to stump up for this early birthday present - he knew that this would soon be forgotten and that further gifts would be required for the Big Day.
Many stallholders saw running-up a few cushions as an easy way to utilise their limited sewing skills and to enjoy the creative process involved in machine sewing up four seams and inserting a zip, buttons or other more elaborate fastenings. And cushions filled up stall space, were nice and easy to pack and transported squashed around less yielding goods such as rusted garden furniture or large woodwormholed cupboards. Cushions could also be crafted from a limitless selection of otherwise unselleable textiles including old grain sacks; linen sheets too far gone to be repaired; distressed and fraying kelims and rugs; scrappy patchwork quilts; old woollen blankets made obsolescent by duvets and other sundry offerings. In fact all manner of textiles, old and new, were being re-purposed into cushions to suit every taste and pocket.
The cushion genus took many forms. In its lowest manifestation, the product would be fashioned from some rather poorly designed, garish and inevitably synthetic "vintage" print. The envelope fastening indicated the lack of sewing skills of the novice maker - zips and buttonholes were simply a step too far. Remnants of said fabric would then be turned into bunting - the edges pinked to save sewing and the flags tacked to bias binding. The cushion pad would be polyester, with not a feather in sight. However, the lure of the gaudy colours and bargain prices would be irresistible to cushion-hunting virgins, as yet unschooled in the whys and wherefores of prestige cushionery. And how lovely to be able to buy matching bunting, too!
Further up the ladder of cushion acquisitions, the more savvy buyer would seek out classy numbers featuring a combination of aged linen, patched with a favoured designer fabric. The mid-range status cushion would be one that boasted old soft linen, adorned with a scrap of Cauliflowers & Posies "Faded Floribunda" range. The canny cushion crafter would ensure that every leftover scrap of this "Faded Florrie" would be utilised for heart-shaped lavender bags; tiny, unusable pencil cases and miniscule make up bags. The correct response of the afficianado, on seeing such a cushion, would be a series of small shrieks and moans, "Oh, oh, oh....look at that darling cushion - that gorgeous material....it's sooooo pretty!". And as the process of making a cushion was not dissimilar to making a shoulder bag, the stall would also proffer a range of bags, similarly decorated with scraps of the desired fabric. No cushion on this stall would be supplied with anything less than a feather pad. The cost of such padded perfection was eye-wateringly high, but each buyer would be convinced of its uniqueness and beauty. Quibbling husbands who were suffering from cushionitis would oft be heard objecting - "Not Another Cushion". Naturally, their wives would ignore such petulant grumbles.
The pinnacle of cushion excellence was rarely to be found amongst the sea of cushion mediocrity or downright ugliness. However, the hawk-eyed cushion doyenne would be able to spot a glimpse of vintage Sanderson or finest crewel work at a thousand paces. Like a bloodhound on a human trail, said doyenne would hone in on the stall where such precious bounty was to be found. Cushions of this calibre involved a series of challenges that would put the labours of Hercules in the shade. Firstly, the vintage Sanderson, faded Victorian patchwork and ragged samplers would be tracked down at obscure country auctions or specialist and inaccessible textile fairs. The exquisite antique linen backing material would be sourced from France, via a specialist dealer who was a "dear, dear friend" of the cushion artiste; maker would be too lowly a title for such dedication and creativity.
Each cushion was a work of art, repurposing the fragile and the frayed into an object of loveliness. As the artiste's skill level was on a different plain to the average cushion crafter, further customisation ensued involving monogrammed initials cut from old French smocks and chemises, tiny mother of pearl buttons, hand sewn ruffles and frills and exquisitely embroidered flourishes. The completed artefact would be worthy of a showcase at the World Heritage Cushion Museum, if such a place existed. This cushion was the creme de la creme, the piece de resistance, the Cushion Olympics Gold Medallist.
Such loveliness would come at a massive price - but the salivating cushion addict would loudly justify her purchase to anyone within earshot. ""Well, it is my birthday in four months' time and Jasper can give it to me for my house present". Reverently, the artiste would place her masterwork, enveloped in acid-free tisssue paper, into a large white carrier bag, rope-handled, of course. With equal reverence, the cushion was borne away by its disciple and driven with great care to its final resting-place. Once there, the cushion was unveiled and threats issued to anyone who sat, leant, slept or ate anywhere in its vicinity. After all, you would not go to sleep or eat your supper by the Mona Lisa. Jasper was none too pleased about the Queen's Ransom that he was expected to stump up for this early birthday present - he knew that this would soon be forgotten and that further gifts would be required for the Big Day.
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