In the Weekend Journal of the WSJ (Feb.22) I find the thrilling confirmation of my deepest instincts: “The New Wrinkle” relates the oncoming fashion trend of SLOPPINESS, something I have always cherished and in which I have been a true trendsetter. In high school the poor nuns gave up and let the ugly forest green uniform remain wrinkled and stained, the oxfords permanently scuffed, the nylons perpetually crooked at the seams, the brimmed hat on backwards. This was not affectation but true style: quite frankly I never gave a damn for appearance. Appearance was strictly for the peasants who tried to impress their superiors.

England was ergo a natural and the 12 damp years I spent there, in my gorgeous 20s and 30s, were blissfully free of style. The upper classes and minor aristos with whom I associated in the Lake District looked disheveled all the time. Lord Strickland of the magnificent 15^th century thoroughly intact Sizergh castle with its topiary art unsurpassed in the universe looked like a common Streetwise beggar with long herringbone wrinkled overcoats, working men’s caps… he was often mistaken for the gardener. On the continent the same syndrome existed. Hence Countess Theodora von Bolschwing my husband’s aunt Dorli Lang looked like a washerwomen with a babushka and carrying a billfold in a paper bag. When she picked us up at the station in Munich I thought they had sent the maid.

True class is in the details of manners and refinement – yes we know that. Hey relax – it’s not THAT boring!!! Back in Angleterre an arcane fact we al knew: the Cockneys from Battersea whom we Americans often mistake for True Brits put all their money on their backs on clothing and cars and live with a bare lightbulb in a derelict room. We were fond of saying that only scrap metal merchants drove Jaguars – we of course piloted the Rovers and Morris Minors.

Quentin Bell, Virginia Woolf’s nephew, was my Major Professor (in art history) at Leeds Univ. in Yorkshire. He looked like a garage mechanic and we often drove to see the art collection at Temple Newsham in his old Renault with one windshield (in the north that is suicide) and once a tire fell clean off when we rounded a corner to avoid a black faced sheep. He often laughed at the materialism and appearance obsession of those across the Atlantic, but alas he didn’t have to worry about me, the original Camouflage Queen.

RIP

Princess Margaret Rose, born on my birthday August 21^st, though many years before, will be forever remembered in Chi Town here for calling the Irish ‘pigs’ at a dinner at then Mayor Jane Byrne’s. In the NY Times obit they mentioned the incident. Will we never stop being Runyonesque?

A Bient?t, Lucia Adams

Hello, dahlinks… we’re back!  It’s been awhile, to be sure…

We (and it’s still the Royal) wound up hanging out in Manhattan and Long Island (all too pretentious to simply say The Hamptons) for a little Euro holiday – after the end of July column was published last year.  Some call it August.  We travailed.  And just as we were about to re-launch in the early part of September, well, we all know what happened.  I’d been in New York City just the week previous – with a fabulous column (if I do say so myself) that will forever remain in the vault.  And somehow it just didn’t feel right to publish in such a time of disparity – all of our fluffy, superficial rants, raves and otherwises.  But it’s now a new year, a new season, a new anew… our apologies to anyone we forgot to mention last fall into winter – rest assured, we’ve not forgotten our friends (nor our foes)… so here goes.  Let’s start with me favourite Holy-day, Saint Valentine.  Onward and upward, peeps

And hey, don’t forget to get your tix for Lounge Night at Lyric Opera Thursday, February 28… sponsored by the Auxiliary Board of the Lyric Opera of Chicago.  “Johnny B” will most certainly be there!

LOVE ‘EM & LEAVE ‘EM
Take yer pick, babies… “My Bloody Valentine” or “Valentine’s Day Massacre.”  The holiday has past – and thankfully – but where WAS the LOVE?  I couldn’t find it, that’s for sure – save for a few ‘feeble’ attempts, at best.  Here’s a personal fave – so so and so is traveling in an exotic locale – yeah, there had been words prior to (and during, for that matter) their departure.  So what’s an easy out?  Pick up items of local note (read a buncha junk), put it in FedEx, and ship it off to the honey.  Included in this mockery of gift (coconut honey butter banana car wax and crap of that ilk) was a chic simple little book – “Tokens of Love” or some such rot.  Yep.  Stuff like diamonds, roses, chocolates, flowers, perfume and dare we say silk, er, linger-ay?  So when ‘the other’ decides to place the “do not disturb” message on their hotel telephone – the next day, when queried as to “how did you like my gift to you,” the recipient responded, “well, ya know, Dingbert (not their real name, dahlinks), funny that you present me with a book ‘tokens of love’ but you’ve never actually presented me with one… howzabout a “group OUCH” for this team player.

But the beat goes on.  Here ya have a great couple – super dooper guy – and what does he present his gal?  His gal of sophisticated wit, humour and charm?  A dazzling beauty in coiffured couture?  A pocket full of posies (well done and thoughtful, pal) and c’mon, guess:  Quelle Horreur – one of those card store Moments de Precieux (yeah, a frickin’ Precious Moments figurine).  Can you say Hummell Bummer three times fast?  Guessin’ it’s the thought that counts.

And as for you, Mister Player, we’re onto ya and we knows who ya are.  When the little (or NOT so little, actually) red haired girl is off doing who knows what (she’s not the brightest, even shiniest bulb on the tree – a true dullard, but that’s another story), her sweetie pookie pot pie in white cotton gloves (filled with lotion) is off sending Valentine’s to all the other girlz on the playground… via EMAIL, no less. How’s that for a dope? Even Charlie Brown had a bigger brain.  Nothin’ like that forward button… if only SHE knew that he was off smoochin’ (at least trying) all the other babes when she’s not around.  Presumably his hands are smooth – smooth enough for petting the poor horse faced girl… funny thing is, she’s presumably stabled at his place (read:  she’s live in help).

Oh, so “Funny Valentine…” send ‘em somethin’ nice – and thoughtful – out of the goodness of your heart – and receive nary a response, much less a thank you.  I guess a GIFT in return is too much to ask for.  We all know how hard it is to shop for a greeting card (even the Precious Moments gifter knew how to find the nearest Hallmark).  In this day of greed, insolence and self-absorption, it’s no surprise after all.  And funnier yet, it’s those who claim to know so much…

Cheers, Jonathon Wells