#Carpetbag Collections

[maddyvast]

Gladstone Bag vs. Mary Poppins Bag

When it comes to statement-making, functional, and elegant carpet bags, the Gladstone Bag and the Mary Poppins Bag are two standout options. Both pay homage to the Victorian era's timeless charm while balancing modern practicality. But which one is the right fit for you? Here's a breakdown of their features to help you decide.

Craftsmanship & Materials

Gladstone Bag

The Genevieve Gladstone Bag is all about luxury and refinement. Crafted from rich burnout velvet, leather trim, and adorned with hand-polished brass hardware, it exudes Victorian-era elegance. Its cotton canvas lining adds durability, and the bag is designed to last a lifetime—a true heritage piece you can pass down to future generations.

Mary Poppins Bag

The Mary Poppins Weekender embraces sophistication with a functional twist. Made from thick chenille carpet material paired with genuine leather handles and belts, it's as tactile as it is beautiful. The heavy cotton canvas lining ensures sturdiness, while its bronze stands provide excellent stability when placed down—a small detail but oh-so practical!

Verdict

If you're looking for a bag that emphasizes opulence and heirloom-worthy craftsmanship, the Gladstone shines with its timeless design, meticulous attention to detail, and premium materials that exude sophistication.

For those seeking a more modern balance of luxury and functionality, the Mary Poppins delivers with its sleek silhouette, smart organizational features, and versatile style that seamlessly transitions from day to night.

Style & Design

Gladstone Bag

This bag leans slightly toward a structured, elegant design. Its framed compartment opens wide for accessibility, and a secure clasp lock adds a touch of sophistication. The burnout velvet aqua blue color, combined with brass accents, makes this bag a showstopper.

Mary Poppins Bag

Fusing the classic charm of a Victorian carpet bag with functional practicality, this weekender features a timeless navy hue. It’s perfect for carry-on luggage, offering both aesthetic appeal and a nod to practicality with its bronze stands and chenille shoulder strap.

Verdict

Love a structured bag that doubles as a centerpiece to your outfit? Gladstone fits the bill with its timeless design and elegant lines, perfect for adding a touch of sophistication to any look.

Want something slightly more versatile but equally chic? Mary Poppins takes the lead with its practicality and effortless charm, offering plenty of space without compromising on style. Whether you're dressing up or keeping it casual, these bags have you covered.

Storage & Organization

Gladstone Bag

Organization is where the Gladstone excels. Inside, you'll find multiple compartments, including zippered pockets (perfect for securing valuables) and slip pockets. There's even a padded pocket for a tablet or iPad. Despite its luxurious design, it doesn’t skimp on practicality.

Interior Highlights:

Interior Highlights:

Dimensions (closed): 15”W x 9"D x 10”H

Adjustable shoulder strap length up to 48"

Weight: 4 lbs.

Mary Poppins Bag

Dimensions: 19.25”W x 8.25”D x 14.125”H

Shoulder strap length up to 55"

Verdict

While both bags offer portability with adjustable shoulder straps, the Mary Poppins' slightly larger size makes it better for travel. The Gladstone, being more compact, is fantastic for daily use or shorter trips.

Price

Gladstone Bag: $279

Mary Poppins Bag: $196

Verdict

If you're looking for a more affordable option that doesn't compromise on quality, the Mary Poppins bag wins on price. However, if you’re investing in a luxury heirloom piece, the Gladstone justifies the higher cost.

Final Thoughts & Recommendation

Choose the Gladstone Bag if you want to make a statement with timeless elegance. It's a perfect blend of luxury and practicality, offering refined materials, excellent organization, and an heirloom feel. Great for work, special occasions, or adding a touch of elegance to your day-to-day life.

Choose the Mary Poppins Bag if you're seeking a versatile, stylish bag with a slightly roomier design. It's perfect for weekend trips, carry-on luggage, or anyone who prioritizes vibrant material, functional practicality, and affordability.

No matter which bag you choose, Max Carpetbag Works by MCW Handmade offers both options that promise to bring a touch of Victorian craftsmanship and modern charm into your life. Which one speaks to you? Leave a comment below—team Gladstone or team Mary Poppins?

[metmuseum]

Carpetbag. ca. 1860. Credit line: Brooklyn Museum Costume Collection at The Metropolitan Museum of Art, Gift of the Brooklyn Museum, 2009; Gift of Mae Schenck, 1963 https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/158812

[wernher-von-brawny]

IDK if that’s the “saddest part” of 2016. Personally I think it was sadder that these were the two choices forced on us by corrupt political elites gaming a broken electoral system.

Trump is a piece of shit, but his supporters were madly passionate about him personally.

And like Obama, Trump was pretty much a blank slate of hope and change, with no actual record to put the lie to his promises.

Meanwhile, while Hillary had plenty of folks “on her side”, it wasn’t until her brief crying incident that it felt like we all collectively felt a human connection with her. And then that moment passed.

She also had 30 years of bad fashion choices behind her, starting with Bill — the Albatross around her neck — and the then-emergent awareness of what their “Two For The Price of One” Clinton administration had actually done to America.

Then there was her carpetbagging a Senate seat in New York, and her Kissinger-fangirling antics as Secretary of State, including chortling “We came, we saw, he died” after she led the operation to carpet bomb Libya from a prosperous country into yet another charred, dystopian neocon success story.

She and Trump were “pals of political convenience” back in the 90s, and you can see why: they’re both narcissists, bullies, and Boomers to the core.

But where Trump was able to spin these qualities into entertainment for the masses, Hillary’s expression of these traits — remember her saying on the debate stage that “Nobody likes Bernie”? — just came off as being a mean jerk.

It’s clear that while Trump is a piece of shit down to his core, Hillary is just one of your garden-variety ambitious, careerist, and quasi-socipathic political ideologue with very (berry) poor taste — Goldwater, Nixon, Kissinger — in role models.

It is definitely sexist that Trump gets points for his asshole behavior, while Hillary get demerits for her slightly more benign version of same.

But it's still not, IMO, the "saddest" thing about 2016.

These two being our only choices in 2016? And Joe and Donny giving us “the lesser of two evils” redux in 2024?

To me at least, that's waaay sadder.

[desertdollranch]

Caroline’s Expanded Collection, Book 6: Changes for Caroline

As part of an ongoing project, I am attempting to fill in the gaps of Caroline’s collection by imagining and creating what I think she would have been given had she been released in the Pleasant Company era. She was only available for three years, and had only a few outfits and accessories before she retired. As I’ve been rereading her stories, I’ve tried to identify exactly what elements in her books could have been turned into clothes and playsets.

Caroline is pictured here with the things I’ve made for her that are related to her sixth story, Changes for Caroline. In this book, Caroline must leave Sackets Harbor and stay at her cousin Lydia’s home to help care for the farm while Aunt Martha is away and Oliver is still in the military. Caroline helps out with the gardening, cooking, milking their cow Minerva, and caring for Minerva’s calf, Garnet. But she and Lydia suspect someone has been stealing food from the farm, they worry that the cows may be also soon be stolen, and they take action to find the thief. When Caroline finally returns home, Papa has a very special surprise for her. 

Even though Caroline isn’t wearing this dress on the cover of Changes for Caroline, I would still choose this one to be connected to her book’s collection, since it has more relevance to the events of the story. The dress is American Girl brand, her boots are Blaire Wilson’s, and I made her round-eared cap that ties at the chin. Next to her is Garnet the calf, who is one of my favorite doll pets. She’s so soft and cute. 

Her small accessories include a milking bucket, a crock of fresh butter, a green carpetbag, an 18-star flag for the Independence Day celebration, some potatoes dug up from the garden, and a basket of pretty flowers and wild herbs. 

If this were being made to sell I would include a few more clay vegetables, but my storage is a bit messy right now so the potatoes were all the foods I could find. The burlap basket, which I also made, has flowers that are standing in for the wild leeks and dandelion greens that Caroline gathered around the Livingstons’ farm. And I copied the basket and carpetbag from a vignette illustration at the end of the first chapter. 

And I would include her skiff in this book’s collection as well.

It’s an American Girl brand product, one of the few things they did right about Caroline’s collection. Someday I plan to figure out how I can DIY this, since it’s expensive secondhand. 

[changesforminnesota]

I'm obsessed with people luggage, so of course I’m also obsessed with doll luggage. I have Kirsten's carpetbag, Felicity's trunk, and Molly's trunk. The trunks were a bit smaller than I expected and don't fit a lot. The carpetbag is my favorite so far, either because of the soft sides (you can really shove a lot into the carpetbag), or that I had lowered my expectations after the trunks! I thought the carpetbag would be smaller than it is. 

  Felicity's trunk holds the random few things I have for her right now: her nightie, mules, and hornbook (there's more of her collection at my parents'). I'd barely be able to squeeze much else in here even if I did have it.

Molly's trunk holds her socks and ribbons, her dickie and some camp outfit accessories. Molly's luggage is the only one with a secondary pocket, which should be REQUIRED in all bags. It's perfect for her ribbons.

Kirsten's carpetbag, similarly, holds ribbons and socks, along with her scarf and mittens. I could definitely fit more in here!

[smilton]

Stopped short along Gate Street, Timothy Howell rushes up in relief. "You're here." He says, quite obviously, his post master's hat askew. Fishing wildly in his satchel, he withdraws a parcel: brown paper, twine, three lines of familiar handwriting scrawled across the front. "I didn't know how I was going to get this to you with the tracks down." From Sallie's mother, inside is a dress -- black -- and an invitation to Grand-Cousin Hartmut's funeral.

A stone’s throw from the Milton farm on Hickory Hill || September 4, 1923

"Thanks, Tim. You might want to, er–" Sallie gestured down the dusty lane where a trail of letters marked the post master's wandering path.

She stuck the envelope between her lips to free her hands and ripped the parcel open. Black cotton spilled out from the gash in the wrapping, bleak and ominous.

Sallie's breath stopped. No.

Was this why she had been called back, to bear witness to death? To remind her that it couldn't be outrun? Timing was everything, and it was more poetic to have her face that realization when she was just down the lane from home; a step away and still too late.

The package was from mama, the bell couldn't have tolled for her. Ben had always been hardy. Could it have been Tommy?

Etta.

Sweet, birdlike Etta with her fine hair and brittle bones, who sat alongside death daily. Etta, who was still so little and had so much growing to do.

Fabric fluttered to the ground. Sallie only had eyes for the envelope, tearing at it, nearly ripping the note inside in half.

Oxygen filled her lungs in one staggering, relieved breath.

On the note, now revealed to be an invitation, in solemn serif: 

Your presence has been requested in observation of the funeral rites for–

HARMUT WOLGEMUTH

It went on, but Sallie didn’t need to read it to know the finer details. Harmut Wolgemuth, son to Uwe and Susanne, born 1832 and apparently, passed 1923. 

Hands shaking, she picked up the dress, dusted it off and picked up her pace. 

__

If Sallie had be touched by the chill of death outside, stepping into her home was like receiving the breath of life.

Gershwin could be heard floating down the steps from the second floor, tinny as it filtered through the speaker of a phonograph. At the other end of the hall, warm afternoon light stretched through the kitchen doorway, illuminating the photos and paintings that crowded the walls. When the front door snicked shut behind Sallie, the foundation of the old farm house sighed as if in relief. 

Thump, and her carpetbag was left waiting by the door. Someone was cooking potatoes, Mama no doubt; Sallie could smell the frying oil and hear the sizzling as a wooden spoon scraped against cast iron. 

The deep maroon runner covering weathered hardwood muffled her footsteps as she crept down the hall, woven by a great-aunt thrice removed. Past a pile of work boots, past the door casing marked with the height of the Milton children, past the little hints of life and family and belonging that could only be collected when a place and its people bound themselves together and laid down roots. 

She paused on the threshold. Her mother was at the stove, a sight Sallie had seen a hundred times over, but today, after so long, it was born new. She’s old. With a heart was already so full, the thought only squeezed it tighter. Sallie’s hazel eyes roved over her mother, taking in the new wrinkles, the floral apron that bore patches that hadn’t been there before, shoulders that were rounder than they had been. 

Finally, not when she had gotten her fill but instead realized it would never be enough, she wet her lips and spoke. 

“Mama?” 

But it wasn’t Dorothy who answered, it was Ben who had gone unnoticed. He had grown into his long, gangly limbs and odd angles to become sinewy with a sharp jaw. He looked less like a boy and more like a man, unimpressed. 

He was posted at the table, shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows with a pen knife in hand. The blade slide through the skin of an apple, leaving a trailing tail of red and yellow honeycrisp behind in its wake. He didn’t have to watch his hands as he peeled, and it reminded Sallie so much of her father, of the quiet steadiness he carried, that it hurt all the more when Ben said: “Tommy's gonna be pleased.” Shhhwp, shhhwp, shhhwp went Ben’s knife. “I owe him ten cents since you bothered to show up.”

[echoes-lighthouse]

Hiya! how about 12 -trying on each other’s clothes with Death or Mary?

Thank you so much for the ask!

This story is set the evening after I met Mary (some very cruel parents were firing her as their children's nanny, and I stepped in and ended up offering her a place to stay the night, since she wanted to go back and argue for the position again tomorrow).

I had no idea whether to write it in third, second, or first person.... that's the one downside of these writing prompts! Anyways, I wrote it in third person, which was strange because I've never written a character who uses they/them in third person before, but here I am. Here's my story for Mary and me!

(f/o writing prompts)

--

12: Trying On Each Other's Clothes

“You’re not going to sleep in that, are you?” Echo tilted their head, gesturing at the close-buttoned blouse and floor-length skirt that Mary was wearing.

“Of course not!” Mary said, sounding affronted. “I’m sure there’s a proper nightgown in my bag somewhere.” She hoisted the carpetbag onto the bed, nearly slamming it into Echo’s leg on the way. Echo shifted over a bit, laughing at how briskly Mary swung the heavy bag around.

“Let’s see, here’s my hat, and there’s my collection of children’s stories… no, it’s not by the lamp, and there are some extra shoes…”

Echo watched Mary lean further over the bag, tossing things in all directions as she searched. There was a heavy old book, and five sets of shoes, and a set of fencing foils… a birdcage, a bag that rattled when Mary threw it on the bed, and still the search continued.

“Are you sure you don’t want to borrow something? Honestly, it’s no trouble.”

“Ah!” Mary emerged from the carpet bag, tossing her hands up in frustration. “It’s no use, I must have forgotten it.”

“I’m sorry,” Echo grimaced. “I hate when I forget to pack my pyjamas. We can buy you something tomorrow, though.”

“Yes, that will work,” Mary said, tucking back the hair that had come loose in her frantic search. “I am sorry to intrude.”

“I keep telling you, you’re not intruding! I’m just sorry that family treated you so badly. I don’t know why you still want to work for them.”

“The children aren’t to blame for the actions of their parents,” Mary remarked. “They still need a good nanny.”

“I suppose so. Well, maybe I should take the two of them in as well, if their parents are that horrid.” Echo laughed, and Mary laughed too… after a moment of thoughtful silence.

“Here, I have nightgowns in the closet if that’s what you like, they’re more likely to fit you than my pyjama pants anyways.” Echo rose and opened the closet doors, tugging out the soft dark dresses that they wore to bed in the summer. “They’re plain, but I can’t sleep in complicated fabric.”

“This should do nicely.” Mary picked up the longest and held it up in front of herself, revealing that it fell to just above her knee. “Yes, this will do.”

“I’m glad.” Echo returned to the bed, almost crushing one of Mary’s hats as they sat down. They swiftly rescued it and popped it on top of their head. “I love your clothes, do you make them yourself?” They adjusted the brim of the hat, smiling up at Mary from beneath it.

“Most of them. My friends help, though.”

“That’s nice.” Echo had only known Mary for a few hours, but they’d already learned not to ask too many questions, or Mary would start to get terse. “I’ve always wanted to make my own clothes, but I’m terrible at sewing.”

“Then you should have learned,” Mary said.

It always sounded so simple with Mary.

“Maybe I should have. But I could always make friends with people who sew, and sweet-talk them into making me things.” Echo did their very best eyelash-batting, and Mary laughed.

“I’m beginning to think you’re a mischievous thing, Echo.”

“Well, then you’re starting to get to know me.” Echo grinned as Mary laughed again, delighted to pull such a sound from her twice in a row. This was something they could get used to.

[enchantedxrose]

The Monster of West End: Chapter Four (follow the link to read on AO3)

A retelling of the fairy tale set in the early Victorian Era.

Viola Weston is desperate to pay off her family's debts. Stubborn and self-reliant, she would rather look for work than seek an advantageous marriage. She is utterly unprepared for her eccentric new employer's beastly appearance--but quickly charmed by his warm heart and cheerful disposition.

Albert Carlyle is lonely: cursed from birth with a monstrous form, but coldly tolerated by society for his wealth. People are afraid of him, no matter how hard he tries to make himself agreeable. He has resigned himself to a quiet life collecting butterflies and ignoring judgmental whispers--until Viola upends his comfortable, complacent existence.

Can Viola set aside her pride long enough to accept his help? Can Albert find the courage to make his affections known? Or will the cruelties of the world tear their budding relationship apart?

          Miranda insisted on accompanying Viola to the courtyard, on the pretense of helping her carry her meager luggage. From the firm grip her sister kept on her arm, Viola knew she was hoping to speak privately to her. The intense questions began as soon as they were out of their father’s earshot, though the elder sister maintained a veneer of polite curiosity.

           “So. Covent Garden. Your employer must be quite well off. New money, I expect?”

           “I believe so. I didn’t interrogate him on the subject.”

           “Does he have any family in London? Where are his people from?”

           “I have no idea. All I know is that he lives alone, so I assume he is unmarried.”

           Miranda raised her eyebrows. “A bachelor? Is he very old?”

           “No, I shouldn’t say a day over five-and-twenty.”

           Viola didn’t know why that reply had slipped out (in truth, it was difficult to tell Mr. Carlyle’s age given his unusual appearance) but she wished her sister would come to the point, instead of pursing her lips in silent disapproval.

           Conversation halted as they came to the front gate of the prison. The gatekeeper nodded civilly to them both as he let them out onto the cobblestone street, where Eustace Stubbs was keeping a carriage waiting for them. As usual, Miranda hardly spared her drab, colorless husband a glance as he helped the women into the cab.

           Viola had yet to unravel Miranda’s reasoning for marrying Eustace—she seemed to regard him with more annoyance than affection, and that was when she noticed him at all. He was a clerk in a solicitor’s firm, and in his seven years there, had yet to advance or distinguish himself in any way. He tended to blend in with the very wallpaper of their home.

           Perhaps Miranda had simply allowed Eustace to rescue her from the family troubles. After all, she now had a comfortable enough roof over her head, and was able to send a few shillings to the imprisoned Mr. Weston every month. But now with a child on the way, Viola doubted they could even set aside that much.

           “You seem to know very little about your new employer,” Miranda observed as they settled into their seats. It was a tight fit: the carriage was only meant to accommodate two passengers. “Did you not ask any questions about his background?”

           Viola colored slightly, but she tried to maintain a cool demeanor. “It seemed impertinent to pry, and I didn’t wish to be rude. Especially not when he had behaved so graciously toward me.”

           Miranda frowned, perplexed. “These are perfectly ordinary inquiries—why on earth should that be impertinent?”

           Viola shrugged, trying to end the conversation by staring out the window as though fascinated. What could she say? She could not even find the words to describe her employer’s curious visage—her sister would think she had gone mad.

           “Vi, please be careful,” Miranda said in a low voice. “Promise me. You’ve never been away from home for such a stretch of time.”

           “You don’t need to worry about me so much. Mr. Carlyle is a gentleman and he’s been very kind to me already.”

           “People aren’t always what they seem.”

           That bleak warning hung in the air between them for a moment. They both knew exactly who Miranda was thinking of, though neither wanted to speak his name.

            “It’s stopped snowing,” Eustace observed softly, more to himself than to Miranda and Viola. “Hopefully they can begin clearing the roads.”

           Neither sister took up this feeble attempt at a new conversation topic. A frigid silence pervaded the rest of the journey.

           “Vi, I know you can look after yourself,” Miranda said at last, twisting her gloves in her hands. “I know this must all sound patronizing from your point of view. I am only asking you to be careful. It’s a dangerous world for a woman alone.”

           “I’m quite aware,” Viola snapped. Miranda’s direful warnings were not exactly encouraging, and Viola resented the constant reminders of her vulnerability.

           But their father’s gentle admonition rang in her ears: Be kind to your sister. Through the haze of her annoyance, she felt a stab of guilt in her stomach. She inhaled sharply through her nose, trying to regain her composure.

           “I’m sure you mean well, Miranda,” she said at last. “But things are finally beginning to look up for our family. I suppose I had rather hoped you would be more excited about my prospects.”

           Before Miranda could respond, the carriage lurched to a halt. She peered curiously around the curtains.

           “This is the house here? Number twelve, with the green shutters?” She appraised it with wide eyes.

           “Yes it is,” said Viola, unable to suppress a hint of smug satisfaction: her sister was impressed at her employer’s house. “Well. Goodbye, Miranda, I shall see you for dinner on Sunday.”

           “Eustace, will you bring her luggage to the door?”

           “That’s—that isn’t necessary,” Viola said quickly, heart racing. What if they caught a glimpse of Mr. Carlyle himself? What would her sister have to say about that? She scooped up her carpetbag and jumped from the carriage before they could say another word. Her palms were sweating so excessively that her bag nearly slipped from her grasp as she strode toward the front door.

           What had come over her? She wasn’t embarrassed of Mr. Carlyle, was she? Why had she been so eager to hide him from her family?

           She felt suddenly sick with herself.

           Viola’s abstraction prevented her from noticing that there was already a figure on Mr. Carlyle’s threshold: a young woman dressed in plain muslin, hunched over as she scrubbed something off the door. She seemed quite engrossed in the task, so Viola cleared her throat loudly to make her presence known.

           “Good morning,” Viola called cheerfully. “I’m sorry to interrupt your work—”

           The maid startled, clutching her heart. “I didn’t see you there, Miss.”

           Up close, Viola could see now that the maid was just a girl—scarcely fifteen or sixteen—and though her hands were chapped and her arms quite muscular from hard work, she had a plump, cheerful face with dimples. Strands of red hair escaped from under her plain linen cap. The maid stood, wiping her hands self-consciously on her coarse apron.

           “I wonder if you could show me where the servants’ entrance is,” Viola said. “I should hate to make a poor impression on my first day.”

           The girl’s face brightened with understanding. “Oh, you must be Miss Weston!”

           “I take it I’m expected, then?”

           “I’m Molly, the housemaid. I would shake your hand, but…” She held up her dirty hands sheepishly. “If you’ll just follow me, Miss Weston, I can take you to the servants’ hall.”

           As Molly stepped away from the door, Viola realized she had been halfway through washing away what appeared to be graffiti, scribbled in childish writing with a piece of coal, a half-faded word in all capitals, stark against the bright green paint: MONSTER.

           Molly followed her gaze. “It’s…neighborhood children, I think,” she said in an undertone, twisting the rag in her hands. “They don’t know any better. But I always try to wash it off before Mr. Carlyle sees.”

           Viola frowned. “Does this happen often, then?”

           “Often enough.”

           Without another word, Viola took out her handkerchief and helped Molly erase the rude message from the door. She then followed the maid around the back of the building, to a set of stairs leading to the garden-level door.

           “Please call me Viola,” she said as they entered the servants’ hall. “We are going to be working in close quarters, after all.”

           Molly’s eyes widened. “Oh, Mrs. Hutchinson wouldn’t approve of that, Miss. I’m only the housemaid, you see—it would be impertinent if I spoke to the upper-servants on terms of equality.”

           Viola sighed. It seemed there were rules of etiquette in this line of work of which she knew nothing.

           Molly lowered her voice to a confidential whisper. “First time in service?”

           “Is it that obvious?”

           “Don’t fret about it. Mr. Carlyle is a very patient employer and he doesn’t easily take offense. It’s Mrs. Hutchinson you must be careful of.”

           Viola chuckled, some of the tension in her shoulders relaxing. This assurance fit into her early impressions of Mr. Carlyle’s character, but it was nevertheless a relief to have it confirmed by someone who knew him better.

           “How long have you worked here?” she asked.

           “Three years this February.” Molly drew herself up proudly.

           “How many other servants are there, apart from ourselves?”

           “There’s Mrs. Palmer, the cook, and Eliza the scullery maid, and Mr. Stockington, the groom—but you shan’t see much of him, as his rooms are above the carriage-house and he never takes his meals with us.”

           “No butler? No footmen?” Viola’s knowledge of service was admittedly limited, but she knew it was a bit peculiar for a gentleman of means not to have a proper manservant. “Surely Mr. Carlyle has a valet, at least?”

           Molly shifted her weight from one foot to the other, biting her lip. “Perhaps I ought not to mention it. I don’t want you to think I’m a gossip…”

           Viola suppressed a grin. It was evident that Molly in fact longed to divulge the story and would do so with very little encouragement. “I promise to be discretion itself,” she said solemnly.

           Molly dropped her voice to a stage-whisper. “There was a valet, up until a year ago. But he was dismissed”—she paused dramatically—“for stealing.”

           Viola raised her eyebrows.

           “Poor Mr. Carlyle did not want to believe it at first,” Molly said, shaking her head. “He kept insisting the ivory cufflinks had only been misplaced. Then his gold watch-chain went missing—and a silver teaspoon—the evidence kept mounting until even he couldn’t deny it any longer.”

           “Good heavens. What a dreadful situation.”

           “And even after all that, Mr. Carlyle couldn’t bear to dismiss him without a reference. Said the man would never find honest work again without a reference, and he’d have no choice but to revert to his criminal ways. Mrs. Hutchinson was fairly apoplectic about having to give a sneak thief a glowing character, I can tell you.”

           “I can imagine,” Viola muttered darkly. It was no wonder Mrs. Hutchinson was so protective of her employer—he was determined never to think the worst of people, even when they gave him ample cause to.

           Their conversation was interrupted by the entrance of another servant—a broad-shouldered woman that Viola deduced from the flour dusting her apron must be the cook.

           “Molly, have you been given a holiday that the rest of us don’t know about?” the cook barked. “I cannot think of another reason you would dawdle about in such a way.”

           “No, Mrs. Palmer.” Molly quivered under her glare. She added in a whisper to Viola, “Come along. I’ll show you around, so that you can get settled.”

           Molly led her on a quick tour so that Viola could begin to familiarize herself with the house. It was all just as comfortable and charming as the rooms she had already seen, but there were indications of Mr. Carlyle’s solitary bachelorhood: the stately drawing-room looked seldom used (indeed, the chairs looked so pristine that Viola doubted anyone had ever sat in them since the day they were purchased); and the guest bedrooms smelled stale, as if no one had ever set foot in them.

           Mr. Carlyle also seemed to have occasionally eccentric tastes. The cavernous dining room, dark and shadowy with the curtains shut tight, was decorated with an odd centerpiece of interlocking antlers. It was hardly unusual for an ordinary man to display hunting trophies, but Viola found it curious for Mr. Carlyle. She couldn’t imagine him taking pleasure in killing creatures for sport.

           Finally, Molly opened a door across the hall from Mr. Carlyle’s study. “This is to be your workroom, Miss Weston.”

           Viola’s carpetbag fell from her fingers to the floor, disregarded. “This is for me?”

           Molly smiled. “I’ll leave you to examine it, then. I must get back to my work, or Mrs. Hutchinson will have my guts for garters.”

           “Of course,” said Viola, distracted. “Thank you, Molly.”

           It must have once been a morning room intended for the lady of the house, for it had large east-facing windows that bathed the daisy-flecked wallpaper with golden sunlight. To her delight, she found it had already been repurposed as a workroom for her. There was a long table in the center, where she could cut and measure fabrics. A basket at the end overflowed with spools of thread dyed in every imaginable color, prickly pincushions, and tailor’s chalk.

           She pulled open a drawer in the oak bureau and found it stuffed with bolts of fabric. She ran her fingers longingly over the black satins and jewel-toned velvets.

           This will be perfect, she thought with a satisfied nod. It was a small room, but her supplies were higher-quality than she had ever worked with before. Her employer really seemed to have thought of everything. There was even a rocking chair in the sunniest corner, so that she could take advantage of the light when embroidering fine details.

           She knocked on Mr. Carlyle’s study door with only a hint of trepidation. When there was no response, she called his name.

           “Come in, Miss Weston,” he responded in a distracted tone, and upon entering she understood why. He was hunched over his desk, intently studying a tiny object with a magnifying glass: a squirming beetle with iridescent orange wings, which he had trapped in a jar. He was sketching its likeness onto the journal spread out before him.

           He did not look up from his beetle at her entrance, but he must have known she was approaching, for his long ears swiveled ever so slightly in her direction.

           She craned her neck to look at his sketch of the insect. “That’s quite an accurate likeness, sir.”

           Mr. Carlyle glanced up at her with wide eyes. “Do you think so, truly?”

           Viola shrugged. “I’m hardly an expert, so I suppose one ought to take my opinions with a grain of salt. What exactly is that you’re sketching?”

           He took a deep breath, as if to launch into a detailed explanation—but his enthusiasm deflated an instant later. “I won’t bore you with all of that,” he said quickly, shutting his sketchbook and turning his chair around to fully face her. “I trust you had a more pleasant journey back to us this morning than you did last night?”

           Viola suppressed the urge to reply, Not exactly, since I had to ride with Miranda. “I did. Thank you, sir.”

           “And do you have everything that you require, Miss Weston? I confess I’m not terribly knowledgeable on the subject and there was a certain amount of guesswork involved.”

           “I believe so, sir. But today I shall take a proper inventory of all my supplies, and then I can inform you if I’m lacking anything important.”

           “If you draw up your list tonight, I can give you money in the morning for anything you still need.”

           “Oh.” Viola froze, taken aback. That Mr. Carlyle would trust her with any amount of his money, after knowing her so short a time—after learning of her family’s sordid history—was surprising to say the least.

           “Unless you’ve some objection,” he added quickly, brow furrowed in concern at her hesitation.

           “No, no,” she assured him, moving toward the door; “I’ll begin right away.”

[thisbentleyplaysqueen]

The Angel, the Demon, and the Not-so Holy Ghost

                                                  Chapter One

Thank you to SuperiorDimwit for helping me by editing this chapter!

Next Chapter

Soho, London, 1881

    The sun has just risen over the city, but Aziraphale had never gone to sleep. Rather, he sets down the book he had been rather engrossed in as the sun slips through his dirty windows. With a small sigh, he pushes to his feet and begins his morning routine by putting the kettle on.

Angels needn’t sleep. This was true, and Aziraphale never had seen any reason for sleep. However, he prided himself in a concise morning schedule: put the kettle on, make some bread and jam, enjoy a nice cup of tea while deciding when to open the store for the day- or whether to open at all! He loves the liberty of choice. 

 A gentle smile graces his face as he considers the loaf of bread, just bought the day previous. He slices the first slice. The butt of the bread is viewed differently among different cultures. Some treasure the first slice, others find it beneath them to eat such a piece. For Aziraphale, he couldn’t bear to throw out even a morsel, no matter the meal. Crowley would always flash him a knowing smile, aware of the angel’s concerns, and would always slide his barely touched dish over. Crowley always seemed to know the perfect time to ‘tempt’ him…

 A frown grows and he finds he had long stopped slicing the bread. He sighs, and sets down the knife and allows his hands to unclench. Even as his hands relax, a knot begins in his stomach. He turns away from the bread and intends to cross the kitchen for a deep breath at the window, but freezes at the sight of the book on his countertop. Any previous trace of a smile has long been forgotten as he slowly nears. 

The book seems to be his instruction on the birds of Europe. It is still open, and the only sketch on the page is of a duck. Aziraphale cares not to read what type of duck it is as his fingers trace the sketch. 

‘Do ducks have ears?’ The voice in his head wonders, in that familiar lilt. ‘Must. How would they talk to other ducks?’

Aziraphale’s lips twitch at the thought, but then immediately disappears at the recognition of the voice and the memory drags its burdens along. He slams the book shut much harder than he intends, but merely huffs as he moves the book off the counter. He turns back to the bread, cutting the second slice with much less grace before turning to the jam.

It has been twenty years since his argument with Crowley, and he hasn’t heard from the demon since. As an angel, he shouldn’t worry, let alone about a demon...but Aziraphale has never been very good at angelic things. He ate, he drank, and he worried about demons who he had refused a means of suicide. At the time, he thought it was wise to not give in to Crowley’s request. Now, he wonders if Crowley even existed anymore, or if he had found his own means...oh, he can’t bear to think of it-

The door opens and slams shut, and Aziraphale jumps. Instantly dragged from his brooding, he stiffens and calls. “We’re closed!” 

Now that he thinks about it, the door had been locked…

Catching a breath he didn’t need, he holds it as he creeps around the corner into the shop. This wouldn’t be the first time he’s had to stop his shop from being robbed, he thinks as he gathers his angelic power, but he didn’t think it would ever happen this early. Why it wasn’t even noon yet…

“Aziraphale!” Aziraphale jumps at his name, and whips around, hand poised to defend himself. He freezes, though, as he connects the familiar voice to the face. 

“Gabriel?” He lowers his hand, before hurriedly clasping them behind his back as he clears his throat. “I...I wasn’t expecting you.”

Gabriel waves him off. “Just dropping by for a quick word.” He glances around, “I see you’re still attached to this...mortal collection.”

“The bookshop.” Aziraphale clarifies before nodding. “Yes, it helps establish a cover for me and connects me with many humans-”

“That’s great, Aziraphale.” Gabriel interrupts, sitting down in Aziraphale’s favorite chair. The other angel tries not to make a face at that as his superior relaxes into it. “We need to talk.” 

“What...what about?” Before Gabriel can answer, the kettle begins to whistle shrilly from the kitchen. Gabriel covers his ears and glares. 

“What is that infernal sound?”

“Oh, that’ll be the kettle. I will take care of it.”

Aziraphale bustles off to the kitchen, and hurriedly moves the kettle to a cooler plate on the stove. The kettle quiets, and he reaches up into the cabinet and pulls down two teacups. 

“What is that?” Aziraphale nearly drops a teacup as he whips around to find Gabriel in the doorway, nose wrinkled. 

“Erm, tea.” He places the tea leaves before pouring the hot water. “Would you like a cup?”

The wrinkle in Gabriel’s nose grows and Aziraphale’s smile fades as he sets the kettle down. “Right.”

“Right.” Gabriel agrees, before clearing his throat and crossing the room. “Now about that business…” 

Aziraphale is cornered against the counter as Gabriel towers over him. 

“Normally this would be a mission reserved for angels of…” He decides not to finish that sentence, instead giving him a grin and a chuckle that seems forced. “However, seeing as you are the only unassigned Earth agent, this will be your mission. You need to go to Paris.”

“P-Paris?” Aziraphale stutters out, remembering his last experience in France. That time in the bastille was simply awful, he really had been lucky Crowley had been there… His thoughts break off at the demon’s name and at Gabriel’s sharp look. 

“Yes, Paris. To one of those human...singing places. The unangelic ones. I believe it has something to do with the word Populaire…”

“The Opera Populaire?” Of course, Aziraphale knew of that! Before the French revolution, Aziraphale had taken quite a liking to the opera, especially in Paris. However, it’s been so long since then… “What about the opera?”

“There have been...rumors.” Gabriel raises his eyebrows at that. “The humans have been letting their imaginations run away with them, it seems. Talking of a spirit terrorizing the place, scaring the humans that are there. I’m sure it’s nothing, just a silly story. However, if there is a spirit, then you must stop them. They do not have permission to remain on Earth and must be dealt with accordingly. Do you understand?”

Aziraphale nods. “Just...how exactly am I supposed to find this spirit?”

Gabriel grins and claps a hard hand against his arm. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out. But get to Paris, and stop that spirit.”

With that, Gabriel snaps and disappears. 

“...Right.”

                                                          ---

The next day, Aziraphale finds himself in a train car, watching the world pass him by as he attempts to read. This train would take him to the Channel, where he could take a ferry across, and then another train to Paris. It was much less convenient than a miracle, but he had no doubt Gabriel would consider it ‘frivolous’, especially when he might have greater needs for miracles on this journey. 

Most spirits are content to pass from Earth to the afterlife. After all, they are the souls of humanity, and many have been told of a paradise or of a new life waiting for them. Some got lost on the way, and so angels would be sent to guide them to their judgment, whether it be the paradise of Heaven or the heat of Hell. Those spirits (ghosts, as he learned humans called them) were often apologetic, and pliant the rest of the journey. 

However, there were some who had become attached to Earth. Aziraphale couldn’t necessarily blame them, but everyone had their time to take their leave. He dreads the day, but he would go willingly when called. That’s what these spirits don’t understand. They drag their feet, clinging to a belonging treasured  from their life that is often in the hands of another human, bringing terror to the new owner. Removing those spirits were nasty business: attachments were destroyed, humans were traumatized, and often that earned the spirit a one-way ticket to Hell. The memories and stories of those spirits send a shiver down his spine as he clutches his long-forgotten book between his hands. He may need every miracle and power in his inventory. Who knows if this spirit has simply lost their way, or has no desire to travel to the afterlife at all? 

For the moment, he needs a plan. He needs to sneak into the Opera Populaire himself and see if he can reach out to the spirit, show himself to be a peaceful guide to the afterlife. That will be much harder with humans in the way, and he would rather not force many humans to look the other way. No, that will gather too much attention...

He blinks and suddenly realizes the train has come to a stop. The scent of salt in the air and the muted cry of seagulls turns his attention to see the train station and the docks beyond. His ferry waits for him, and he still has not a single plan. Perhaps he’ll think of something while crossing the Channel.  

“This is my stop.” He says to no one but himself, closing his book and slipping it into his carpetbag. He rises and reaches above his head for his suitcase. With a huff, he grips both bags, and shoulders his way out of the compartment. He hears a gasp of air wrenched from his someone’s lungs and a loud BAM. A cane clatters to the floor, and Aziraphale drops his bags in horror. 

“Oh, my dear boy, I am so terribly sorry!” Aziraphale fumbles for an apology, and instantly bends to grab the cane. Unfortunately, so does the man, and their foreheads collide. Stars dance in front of Aziraphale’s eyes as he winces, both men clutching their heads. “Oh, how clumsy of me.”

“Satan’s sake! This is the last thing I needed this morning!” 

Aziraphale freezes and the man suddenly stops when he finally looks at Aziraphale. 

I know that voice…

 After a pause, as he prays his eyes aren’t deceiving him, Aziraphale’s gaze travels up, meeting the shaded gaze holding what he knows to be snake-like eyes blown wide, just like his own. 

“...Crowley?”

[maddyvast]

Versatile and Stylish Carpet Bags for Every Occasion

Carpet bags have long been a symbol of versatility and stylish functionality. Today, Max Carpet Bag Works (MCW) Handmade brings this classic accessory into the modern era with a collection that blends vintage charm with contemporary design. Whether you are a fashion enthusiast, a trendy shopper, a vintage lover, or a working professional, MCW's carpet bags offer something unique for everyone. With their distinctive appearance and practical features, these bags can effortlessly transition from casual outings to formal events.

Exploring the Fashion and Function of Carpet Bags for Work Totes

When it comes to work totes, MCW's carpet bags stand out for their blend of fashion and function. Imagine walking into your office with a bag that not only complements your outfit but also keeps your essentials organized. These bags offer ample space for your laptop, documents, and personal items, while their stylish designs ensure you make a statement. The intricate patterns and rich textures of MCW's carpet bags add an element of sophistication to your professional look. Pairing it with a Purple Clutch adds a pop of color and flair, perfect for transitioning from day to night.

Highlighting the Fall Collection of Tote Bags for Work

This fall, MCW Handmade has unveiled a stunning collection of tote bags and Chatelaine Purses designed specifically for the workplace. The fall collection features warm tones, intricate patterns, and luxurious fabrics that capture the essence of the season. Each piece in the collection is carefully crafted to provide ample storage space and easy access to your essentials. With reinforced handles and durable materials, these bags are built to withstand the demands of a busy workday while keeping you looking chic and polished.

Pair MCW's Totes for Work with Your Outfits

One of the best things about MCW's carpet bags is their versatility. Here are a few tips on how to pair your tote with different outfits:

Business Casual: Pair a neutral-toned carpet bag with tailored pants, a crisp blouse, and loafers for a polished yet relaxed look.

Formal Attire: Settle on for a richly patterned bag that complements your suit or dress. This adds a pop of color and texture to your formal ensemble.

Casual Friday: Match a colorful carpet bag with jeans, a simple top, and ballet flats for a comfortable and stylish outfit that transitions seamlessly from office to weekend plans.

Remember, the key is to choose a bag that complements the colors and style of your outfit, creating a cohesive and fashionable look.

All In All

MCW Handmade carpet bags are truly versatile accessories that cater to a wide range of styles and needs. From the office to casual outings, these bags offer practicality and elegance in equal measure. If you're looking to elevate your fashion game while staying organized and prepared, MCW's carpet bags are the perfect choice. Explore their collection today and find the ideal bag for every occasion.

[dm-clockwork-dragon]

Question, do you have any feats or magic items in mind for your Necroficer? My DM is giving me and our party the choice between a feat, ability score, and an item under legendary for the holidays and I figured I'd ask ya know.

So this is actually something that I’ve been working to figure out for my own campaign. The necroficer is an odd case because it functions as a summoner, but doesn’t use spell or magic by default. It doesn’t benefit a lot from the same kinds of magic items you might give a rogue or a fighter, and cant make use of the spell-boosting items that a mage might find useful. I also generally avoid most of the well known magic items of dnd, just because I prefer more unique and interesting new finds. I’ve found that it can come down a lot to your style of play, both for feats and items. A Flesh-Sculptor can get some good benefit out of items that increase their ability to take hits or deal out damage, while a Soul-binder can make use of feats to extend the spells they know, or empower the ones they have. Corpse collectors can be trickier, but items that can be used to empower their horrors (like some of those meant for a ranger’s companion) can be a good choice, as can feats that increase the effectiveness of summoned creatures - as long as your DM is willing to treat horrors as such for the purposes of the feat. My wife has been playing a Flesh-sculptor, and has been taking feat after feat (I have my own rules for earning them based on inspiration points) to increase her speed and mobility, which lets her dart between targets while her undead minions reign death from above. The Krissknife from my new magic item collaboration would be a great fit for a flesh sculptor For a soul-binder, any feat, like arcane initiate, the lates them gain spells from other schools can be useful. Items like a necronomicon that contain a vast number of shiny new necromancy spells or empower your creatures and casting would be great. Corpse collectors are trickier, but consider feats or items that can increase their con above 20, which in-turn gives them more creatures. Or even powerful items that they could equip their horrors with. Another potentially usefull item -though not legendary, is an enlarged bag of holding variant, such as my Collector’s carpetbag. Undead don’t need to breath, so having a large extradimensional space you can store them in until a fight breaks out can be super useful, especially when you are carrying around an entire army. I had a player once who would keep massive swarms of low CR creatures in bags of holding, and throw them like grenades at his enemies. Never underestimate the power of a bag of holding filled with Zom-Bees!. Beyond that, thematic wondrous items like the Saddle of Undeath (also form my latest collection) or maybe even a potion of lichdom can be very fun for a class that works with undead. Hopefully that give you some good ideas ^^, and don’t be afraid to reach out in PMs or on my discord for more advice. I love hearing about the characters people create using my work!

[cetaceanhandiwork]

Ragridius Grinn

Based on the character by Cory “Ovid” O’Brien. Built partly using Chuubo’s Marvelous Wish-Granting Engine, and partially using technology found in Glitch (kickstarter coming soon).

Hard-pressed you feel?—fey fever-ill?—and yet you must. And yet you must!

A spirit-seizing vision is unfurled.

This is the Warmain whose test is the fruit of knowledge. He will offer to sell you quixotic genius on a seven-year instalment plan - a transformative vision of what might be - the kind of vision that “turns tinkerers into deviant scientists and painters into artists”. He will offer to sell you “a madness”, and his only condition is that you be able to bear it until he returns in seven years to collect.

Many of his clients break before the term is up. It’s not easy to stay functional - to remember to eat, to pay the bills, and so forth - eaten up inside by a vision like that. The jewels of lost Ninuan he scatters, like that mythical sower, will only flourish in a particular kind of soil.

But occasionally he finds someone able to ride that wave of otherworldly genius, to flow with it between the Scylla of failure and the Charibdis of self-destruction. It is these, to whom he returns seven years later, to reap the harvest of what he’s sown - soil and all.

Ragridius is unusually selective about whom he even attempts to Test. He only sells to people willing to buy, and only those he thinks have good chances to succeed. Every sale seems to cost him something ineffable - as though he himself is in debt to the Not, and his business is driven in part by a desperate need to keep those debts from coming due.

Creature of Fable 2

Between the Boundaries: Despite never taking payment in cash for his wares, Ragridius never really has to establish how he supports himself in the mortal sense. There’s always enough cash in his bag for a cheap motel and a Denny’s plate. It just sort of... takes care of itself, between scenes, so long as he can think up a lie to tell the world about where he got it.

Strange Rules: There’s no such thing as a “Madness Salesman”, and yet he seems to be implausibly good at making it work. He can spot a mark, and suss out what kind of vision would best suit them. And he can get people to play along - to understand what he’s selling, to countenance the idea that he might really be able to provide it, and to be distracted from thinking too hard about what exactly they’ll be paying.

Iconic:

“He is tall to the point of absurdity, and augments the effect with a stovepipe hat, from beneath which strawlike hair tries desperately to escape. He dresses like an inappropriately cheerful undertaker, or a second-chair jazz musician in the orchestra of hell.”

“His clothes are a heap of lies, of purely technical truths. He wears no shirt beneath his coat. The triangle of dress shirt that bears his bow tie is just that – a charefully cropped cravat with buttons down the front, matched by the two disembodied cuffs poking out of his sleeves. He is totally bald – the strawlike hair is glued to the inside of his hat brim. The lenses of his glasses are painted black[...]” (in this instance, to hide his Rider-eyes).

Cut the Soul: In the circumstances that Ragridius needs to use this power, it manifests as pure force-of-presence. A smile too broad, a shadow too long, and all his clients’ wondrous devices and inventions fail before him.

Entice: One of the secrets of marketing, is making your customers come to you thinking it was their own idea.

Allegory 1

Role: The Madness Salesman.

Failing: Debt. His troubles arise from it - both the trouble he sometimes has collecting what he’s owed, and the debts he himself incurs every time he reaches into his carpetbag.

Truth: “My wares were the cornerstone of Friendship Playland - and I was the one who devoured it in the end.”

Legendary Weapon: His carpetbag full of visions, and his ability to bestow them on his clients as a Superior or Magical Skill. This is not strictly a weapon, although it can theoretically be used as one; it’s mainly statted up this way because it’s a “scary, powerful miracle, represented by a physical object, that costs him a lot to use.”

A Tangled History: Being the secret inspiration of quixotic auteurs tends to get your name around.

Mechanism of Transport: He drives a convertible, which gets suspiciously good gas mileage for the way he drives it. (Also, it can navigate Waylets.)

Affliction: People recognize me in the eyes of my clients. (1)

Skills:

(Superior) Madness Salesman 4

Never Stop 2

Sentimental 1

Style 1

Perk: (Superior) Ninuanni Convertible 2

Perk: Superior Hunter 2

[angel-macabre]

dreamt i found a Vivienne Westwood corset collection in an old carpetbag in an antique store for $30 in total........................ why must i torment myself

[starspangledbanner27]

**CHAPTER UPDATE – Chapter 6 posted**

Fandom: Saving Mr. Banks (AU)

Description: AU take on the movie, exploring what might have happened if the author of the Mary Poppins books had been someone very different from P. L. Travers.  For Carrie Schultz, the chance to collaborate with Walt Disney Studios to bring Mary Poppins from the page to the screen is a dream come true.  However, matters grow complicated when animated penguins prove to be a point of contention, a friendly working relationship turns into more than she bargained for, and Carrie struggles to prevent Walt’s team from discovering her own hidden afflictions.

Characters: Carolina “Carrie” Schultz (OC), Don DaGradi, Walt Disney, Richard M. Sherman, Robert B. Sherman, Ralph

Rating: T

Genre: Drama/Romance

Language: English

Read on Fanfiction.net, AO3, Wattpad, Quotev, or below.

From the beginning on Fanfiction.net, AO3, Wattpad, or Quotev.

My motivation to update finally returned from a three-week hiatus.  To those of you who’ve been awaiting this next chapter, thank you for your patience. I hope you enjoy it. :)

~~~~~

Chapter 6

“Well, everybody . . .” Don adjusted himself in his seat, “this is it—the last scene.  What do you say we finish this up and then take a break?”

Dick threw his hands up and stretched over the back of his chair.  “I say hallelujah!”  

“I concur with Dick,” I replied.  After almost two solid hours of going through the script—reading, revising, and even returning to earlier scenes to make changes—the four of us were eager for a respite.

“All right, then.”  Don glanced at me over the top of his glasses.  “Carrie, why don’t you read for Mary Poppins; Bob, you read for Michael; and I’ll read for Jane.  Dick, you can start us off with the scene heading.”

“You got it.”  Dick looked down at his copy of the script.  “‘Scene 12—Nursery and Living Room.   In the living room, a worried Mrs. Banks, Ellen, and Cook are talking amongst themselves while the Constable talks on the phone.  In the nursery, Michael and Jane are watching Mary Poppins pack her carpetbag.’”

“‘She doesn’t care what will happen to us!’” Bob read Michael’s line.  

Don cleared his throat, raised his eyebrows, and adopted a girlish falsetto.  “‘She only said she would stay until the wind changed.  Isn’t that right, Mary Poppins?’”  Unlike Dick and Bob, who used their normal voices regardless of whose lines they were reading, Don fully assumed the persona of every character he read for; and I couldn’t help chuckling to myself at his impersonation of Jane.  However, I managed to suppress my amusement long enough to read Mary Poppins’s part.

“‘Will you bring me my hat, Jane?’”

“‘Mary Poppins, don’t you love us?’”  Don pulled his face into such an exaggeratedly pathetic pout that I burst out laughing.

“‘And what would happen to me, may I ask, if I loved all the children I said goodbye to?’” I gasped amidst a fit of giggles.

“There, Don—look what you did.”  Bob gestured to me and shook his head with mock exasperation. “You broke her.”  

By that time, I had almost succeeded in bringing my laughter under control, but Bob’s dry remark set it off all over again.  Then, suddenly, that all-too-familiar tightness took hold in my lungs; and I crumpled forward, pressing one hand to my mouth and the other to my chest as a series of coughs racked my body.  Don and Bob ceased their banter and looked at me with concern.  “You all right, Carrie?” Don asked.  

I nodded.  Liar, taunted a voice in the back of my head, but I ignored it.  Then, mustering all my strength, I drew a long, deep breath and held it, straining against the urge to cough again.  After five seconds, I blew it out slowly, then reached for my glass of water and took a drink.  When I finished, I looked up to see the three men staring at me.

“Sorry,” I sighed.  “I guess I haven’t laughed that hard in a while.”  

“Are you okay now?” Don asked.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” I assured him.  

Dick pointed to the script.  “Should I read the next part, then?”

I nodded.  “Go ahead.”

“All right, where were we?”  He scanned over the page.  “Oh, here we are.  ‘Mary Poppins continues to silently pack her bag.’”

Don took the next part.  “The Constable, talking on the phone, says, ‘Yes sir . . . George W. Banks.  17 Cherry Tree Lane.  About six foot one.  Yes, we rang the bank.  No sign of him!’”  

I read Ellen’s line.  “‘Wouldn’t hurt to let them drag the river!’”

“‘Really, Ellen!’” Bob read for Mrs. Banks.

“‘He seemed to be such a fine, stable gentleman, sir!’” Don read for the Constable again.  “He’s still speaking into the phone at that point,” he clarified.

“That’s the last line on the page,” I observed.  “But that’s not the end, is it?”

“No, it’s not,” Don confirmed.  “The ending is a . . . work in progress.”

“Do you have a concept in mind?”

He sighed.  “Not exactly.  We’ve been tossing ideas around for over a week now, but we haven’t come up with anything satisfactory.”

I nodded thoughtfully.  “I see.  Well, maybe I can help.”

“That’s what we were hoping,” he confessed with a grin. Then, taking a deep breath, he flipped his copy of the script shut and folded his arms on the table.  “All right; now that we’ve made it through that, let’s take a break and meet back here in ten minutes.”

“Finally,” Dick sighed with relief as the four of us rose from our chairs.  

Bob grabbed his cane and headed for the door.  “I’m gonna go ask Dolly to bring in some sandwiches and fruit.”

“Good idea,” Don agreed.  

After Bob left the room, I meandered over to one of the pinup boards and scanned my eyes across the various sketches that were tacked to it.  “What are all these drawings for?” I inquired at last.

“That’s some of the concept art for the movie,” Don explained, coming to stand beside me.  “We find it’s helpful to have a visual—plus, it’s fun.  This one here is Michael in his chalk world outfit.”  He pointed to the one I was looking at, which depicted a young boy clad in white shorts, a blue-and-white pinstriped jacket, and a yellow straw hat with a blue ribbon.  

I smiled.  “They’re charming.  Who draws them?”

“Most of them are drawn by our concept artists—people from the animation department,” he replied.

“Don’s too modest,” Dick interjected from across the room.  “At least half the drawings in here are his work.”

I turned to Don.  “Is that true?”

A self-conscious smile tugged at his mouth.  “Well, since he mentions it, yes, I did draw some of them.”  Returning his gaze to the board, he reached out and straightened a few of the sketches that were hanging crookedly.  “I started out here at Disney Studios working in animation, and most of us animators tend to think in terms of storyboards.  So when I’m working on a screenplay like this one, I’ll often make sketches to help us visualize the story.”  

“He can make entire scenes come to life on paper,” Dick affirmed.  

“That’s quite impressive,” I remarked.

“Well, Dick is rather liberal in his praise, but thank you,” Don replied with a smile.  “I was originally thinking we’d go over the concept art with you tomorrow,” he continued, “but since it’s only 3:30, we might be able to do it before you leave today.”

I nodded eagerly.  “Yes, that’d be good.”

Just then the door opened, and Bob entered the room with Dolly close behind, pushing a cart with a plate of sandwiches and a fruit tray. “Here you go, gentlemen,” she announced. “Oh, and Carrie, your ride’s waiting outside.”

“What?” I asked, bewildered.  “I thought he wasn’t supposed to pick me up till five.”

“Well, Walt figured you might be a little tired after your first day here, so he had me call your driver and ask him to come early,” she explained.

“Oh, he did, did he?” I muttered.  Aloud I replied, “Thank you, Dolly, for letting me know. I’ll be right down.”  Dolly nodded, smiling, and began laying out the food.

With a small sigh of annoyance, I returned to the table to collect my jacket and purse.  “Well,” I said to the three men, “it appears I have to go now.  Thank you for a wonderful first day; I really enjoyed it.”

“Good, we’re glad to hear that,” Bob replied.  Dick, who had just taken a large bite of sandwich, expressed his agreement with a thumbs-up.  

I nodded.  “Well, then, I’ll see you all tomorrow.  Have a good evening.”  

“You too!” chorused Bob, Dick, and Dolly.

“I’ll walk you out,” Don said, opening the door for me.

As we strode through the hallway, I heaved another sigh. “I’m sorry we couldn’t go over the concept art.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” Don reassured me. “We’ll just do it tomorrow.”

“But we had enough time; we could have done it today.” I shook my head in frustration.  “Walt didn’t even ask whether I wanted to leave early.  If he had, I would have said no.”  

He shrugged.  “Well, that’s Walt for you.  I’m sure he didn’t mean any harm by it.”  

I pursed my lips.  “Hmm.”

After several moments of silence, Don changed the subject. “I noticed you spoke up a lot more during the second half of the reading.”  

“Just following some good advice,” I replied with a smile, glancing up at him as I did so.

He caught my eye and grinned.  “I’m glad you did.”  

We made it to the front door; and as we emerged from the air-conditioned building into the sun-baked heat of the afternoon, Don asked, “Well . . . anything else before you leave?  Any other comments?”

I opened my mouth to say no, but then I remembered something that had been tugging at the back of my mind for most of the afternoon.  “Actually, yes, there is,” I confessed.  “Mr. Banks—his character in the script seems so . . .”  I trailed off, unsure of what exactly I was trying to convey.

“What?” Don prompted.

“I don’t know, just . . . something about him . . .” After another few seconds, I shook my head.  “Never mind. I’m not quite sure what it is.”

“Well, let us know if you figure it out,” he said. By that time, we had arrived at the spot along the sidewalk where Ralph had parked the car and was standing patiently beside it with his hands clasped.

“Ready to go, Miss Schultz?” he asked.

“Well, Mr. Disney seems to think I am,” I replied wryly. Ralph’s face registered confusion, but he smiled anyway.  Meanwhile, I turned once more to the man still standing beside me.  “Thank you for everything, Don.  I have to admit, I was a little nervous at first; but you and the Shermans made me feel comfortable here.  I really appreciate that.”

A warm grin spread across his face.  “The pleasure is all ours, Carrie.  It’s wonderful to have you here.”

I flushed with delight.  “Well . . . I guess I’d better go now.”

He nodded.  “See you tomorrow.”

“Looking forward to it.”  With a final parting smile, I climbed into the car.  

Ralph shut the door behind me, then hurried around the other side and climbed into the driver’s seat.  As the car pulled away from the sidewalk, I looked out the window to see Don waving goodbye.  I lifted my hand and waved back.

“Nice guy,” Ralph remarked after I turned around.

“Yes, he is,” I murmured, smiling to myself.

~~~~~

Back in my hotel room, I set my purse on the nightstand, kicked off my pumps, and collapsed onto the bed with a sigh.  After staring at the ceiling for several seconds, I turned my head to look at Mickey Mouse where he sat on the floor by the dresser. “Well, we made it through the first day,” I remarked to him.  “And it wasn’t so bad after all.”  

He smiled as if he’d known all along.

With a soft chuckle, I let my eyelids fall shut.  Just a quick rest . . .

~~~~~

When I opened my eyes, the room was dark.  Disoriented, I sat up and looked at the clock on the nightstand.  7:36.  I covered my face with my hands and groaned. How had I let myself fall asleep—for three and a half hours, no less?  At last, with a sigh of resignation, I stood up, stretched, and staggered over to the closet to find a more comfortable dress.  

Once I had changed, I sat down on the bed again and ordered up a belated dinner tray.  Then I propped the pillows against the headboard, retrieved the contract and a pencil from my purse, and settled down to comb through the pages of legalese.

When at last I reached the dotted line, I gave a nod of satisfaction.  The terms of the contract were exactly as my agent had described, including the two most important stipulations—live-action, script approval—all right there in black and white.  Just as I was searching through my purse for a pen with which to sign, the phone rang. I glanced at the clock—8:30.  Forgetting the contract, I set my purse aside and leaned over to pick up the phone.  “Hello?”

“Hey, Carrie, it’s Sam.”

“I figured as much,” I replied with a smile.  “But I didn’t expect you to call this late! It’s, what, 10:30 your time?”

“Oh, yeah.”  She giggled sheepishly.  “James took me out to dinner tonight.  We got to talking and lost track of the time.”

“So I take it you enjoyed yourselves?”

“We did.”  She gave a sigh of delight.  “But enough about me.  How was your first day at the studio?”

“It was great,” I affirmed.  “Everyone was very nice, especially the three men I’m working with.  We spent most of our time today going over the script.”

“And you like it so far?”

“I think so.  There are a few things I might like to change, but I think they’ve got a good start.”

“Good.”  She paused, then spoke again.  “So . . . three men, huh?  Are they cute?”

“They're married!” I exclaimed indignantly.  “Well, two of them are.”

“And the third one?”

“Don’t even go there, Sam.  I can’t be thinking about stuff like that; I need to focus on making this movie.  Not to mention there’s this thing called professional conduct.”

“Aw, too bad,” she lamented.  I rolled my eyes.  “Well, tell me more about these men,” she prompted.  “What exactly do they do?”

“Well, Dick and Bob Sherman are the songwriters,” I explained.  “They showed me some of what they’ve come up with so far—and, Sam, it’s amazing!  I can't wait to hear the rest.  And then there’s Don DaGradi, the scriptwriter—he’s pretty much the one in charge of this whole project.  I think you’d like him.  He was very welcoming, and he seems open to my suggestions, which is a pleasant surprise.”

“Ah,” she said knowingly.  “I’ll bet he’s the one who’s still single, isn’t he?”

“Sam, for heaven’s sake—”

“I knew it!” she exclaimed.  “So, is he attractive?”

I shook my head.  “You are incorrigible, Samantha.”

I could practically hear her triumphant grin.  “And proud of it!”

“Anyway,” I pointedly changed the subject, “things went very well today.  I think this whole thing is going to work out even better than I expected.”

“Well, I’m glad you had a good time,” she said.  Then, after a pause, “So, did you get to meet . . . him?”

“Walt, you mean?”

“Yeah.”

“Yes, I did.”

“What’s he like?” she asked.

I furrowed my brow thoughtfully.  “You know, I’m not quite sure.  I mean, when I first met him, he came across a lot like he does on television—all warm and fatherly, like the sort of guy everyone would want as a friend.  But now . . . I don’t know, I’m starting to get the sense that there’s another side to him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s just . . . never mind.  It’s too complicated to explain.  Whatever it is, I doubt it’ll cause any problems.  Oh, and speaking of which, I just finished looking over the contract.  Everything seems to check out, so I’m going to sign it and hand it in tomorrow.”

There was a moment’s pause before she replied.  “You sure you want to do that now?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” I asked, surprised.

“I don’t know . . . maybe no reason,” she answered hesitantly.  “It’s just that I know how much Mary Poppins means to you, and I’d hate to have you run into any unpleasant surprises. And maybe you won’t; maybe it’ll all go smoothly, like you said . . . but if I were you, I’d hold off on signing the contract a little while longer, just in case you need that extra leverage.”  

“I see your point,” I conceded, “but I honestly don’t think it’s necessary.  The terms I specified are right there, and legally, that’s all that matters.”

“I know,” she said.  “But please, will you at least hold onto it for one more day?  And then if you still feel fine about it, I won’t try to talk you out of signing.”

Though I didn’t understand why she was so concerned about it, I also didn’t see any point in causing her needless anxiety.  “All right,” I agreed.  “If it means that much to you, I guess there can’t be any harm in waiting.”

“Good.”  She sounded relieved.  “I know you think I’m silly for worrying about these things.  I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“Thanks, Sam.  I really do appreciate it.”  I drew a deep breath.  “You know, I wish you were here right now.  It feels strange being out here all alone.”

“But you’re not alone, Carrie, not really,” she assured me.  “I’m right here, whenever you need me.”

I smiled.  “Thank you.”

“Anytime.”  After a few moments, she spoke again.  “So, you’re still doing okay, right?  You sound really tired.”  

“Sam . . .”

“I know, I know.  I’m sorry.  I just . . . I had to ask.”  

“I’m fine,” I assured her.  “Really.  It’s been a long day, that’s all.”  

“Okay.”  She heaved a sigh.  “Well, in that case, you should get some sleep."

“You're right,” I agreed.  “I love you, Sam.”

“Love you, too, sis.  Talk to you tomorrow!”  With that, the line clicked shut; and I hung up the phone, put the unsigned contract back in my purse, and got up to prepare for bed.  

~~~~~

Half an hour later, I climbed into bed, turned off the lamp, and lay there staring at the wall as my mind replayed the most significant parts of the day—including what my sister had asked me about Don.  “So, is he attractive?”  Earlier, I had managed to dodge the question; but lying in the still darkness, alone with my thoughts, I had to admit that indeed he was.  

But so what? I asked myself.  Heaven knows, I have much more important things to worry about.  Sam had only been teasing, after all; there was no reason to take any of it seriously.  And the strange little flutter I felt every time Don smiled at me?  That was nothing, absolutely nothing.  Thus reassured, I turned over and closed my eyes . . . but the last image that hovered in my mind before being overtaken by sleep was that wide, playful grin with the twinkling brown eyes and the deep dimples in the cheeks.

~~~~~

Tag list… let me know if you want to be added or removed!  

@iwillalwaysreturm | @writings-of-a-narwhal | @24hourshipping

[changesforminnesota]

Kirsten’s Collection

My (original) Kirsten Collection is almost complete! I got an amazing lot yesterday and, along with the trunk, got some of the accessory sets I didn't want to spend big bucks on, including her summer stuff and uncut paper dolls (!!).

It was so fun setting up this photoshoot today! I put everything neatly in the trunk yesterday. I decided I'd rather fit all the accessories in there snugly and neatly than make room for the bed and have to put some things on top of the bed. Although I don't have room for the bed on display right now so I might have to re-arrange, but I do like the way the trunk looks like this. Everything packs away neatly. The clothes are on the right side. On the other end is her nightstand and the rest of her clothing accessories like shoes and her carpetbag with socks and ribbons. In the middle is everything else, including her wreath and straw hat (which don't fit on the sides) and other accessories.

I set up her bedroom like this. Her bedroom stuff makes me want to take a cozy sleep in a cold Minnesota winter.

Here are some of the best treasures from yesterday’s treasure hunt!

Food, school, etc. I have a Dala horse (an ornament) for her. The little silver box has an apple on the top and keeps her amber necklace and her walrus brooch (an AMAZING button I found and stuck on a pin).

Here is he sports section, including a homemade jump rope. Sports. <3

And the entire collection. Sorry I don’t have a closeup of her clothes area. I feel so lucky to have got almost her whole collection.

All I'm missing is her bench, pail and dipper, her two tone boots (which go for like $40 so....), her pottery and party treats (also $$$$), and her cat and kittens and quilt (never been too interested in the pets, and I made my own quilt and ended up loving it so much, I don't think I want the real one). I also don't have cream ribbons, and only have one light blue ribbon from her meet outfit. I’ve looked ALL OVER Etsy for similar spools of ribbon, but zero luck. I am thinking about weaving or tying them friendship bracelet style out of embroidery floss. Has anyone done that?

I can't believe I'm this close though! 

[eurosong]

2018 vs 2019: Semi-final 1

Hey there, folks! Every year after the national final season is over, one of the first things I write about Eurovision is a comparison of the new year’s songs with those of the previous year. Often it gets folk unfollowing the blog even though it’s almost entirely posts about ESC statistics and only a relatively small amount on rating the songs here. These are just my thoughts and no offence intended to anyone who thinks otherwise. Without further ado, click below to take a look at my thoughts on semi-final one!

◯ Australia – 2019 – Last year, Oz sent “We got love” (or “We got l’œuf” as I renamed it), which was a dizzying collection of clichés, got a mediocre placement and might well have been the impetus for them finally biting the bullet and getting the punters involved in the thitherto long mooted national final. This decision might not benefit their chances of keeping up their qualification record in the long run – but it means, for once, that Australia can move outside a narrow box musically and send things that would never be picked by internal selectors. “Zero gravity” was a less astute choice than “2000 & Whatever” would have been, I feel – it sounds to be like something that people think is so Eurovision who haven’t seen it in some time. Nonetheless, homegirl has pipes, the tune is quite catchy and it’s a hell of a lot more interesting than last year’s song.

◯ Belarus – 2018 – whilst I’ll be talking about 2018 vs 2019, I have to take a quick detour almost right away to 2017. It was the first time that Belarus managed to sustain my interest and get into my personal top 10 since their début, and they did so by going authentic and finally showing some love for their national language on the ESC stage. One year later, and I certainly wasn’t enthused by a carpetbagging victory of a non-local singing a rather ordinary song in English or some approximation thereof.

And yet, “Forever” and its earnest performer grew on me, especially the strange dissonance between the hopeful lyrics and the very melancholy music. After a similar number of repeated listens, “Like it” has not sparked even the briefest flame. Musically, this starts off with an inoffensive if very 2005 Spanish guitar riff, arrives at a decent-ish bridge and then throws itself off it head first into an absolutely dreadful thumping, repetitive chorus which is reprised way too much in the rest of the song. Lyrically, they put about as much effort into the words as they did into the “screensaver with default font” they were using as a background as Zena performed. She repeats “yes, you’re gunna like it” 40 times in the space of 3 minutes – one every 4.5 seconds. Maybe she’s trying to psychologically condition us, but no, Zena, I ent gunna like it at all. In a delicious bit of irony, it’s also at time of writing the least “liked” ESC ’19 song on Youtube. Strong preference to 2018.

◯ Belgium – 2019 – It can be difficult for a country to come back after a peak moment for them with something equally good that also manages to win over the fans and juries. We’ve seen it in Latvia after “Love injected”, in Estonia after “Goodbye to yesterday” and I think we’re seeing it once again with Belgium after “City lights”. Neither this year’s song nor last’s comes anywhere near the anthemic, emotional power of Blanche’s song. Both are nice enough, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Eliot struggled much as Sennek did last year. I give it a slight preference, but both songs are really let down, I feel, by choruses that don’t pay off the drama built in the verses.

◯ Cyprus – Neither – I try to limit myself to as few “neither” choices as possible in these games because the fun is in having to choose, sometimes, between two difficult options. Nonetheless, I abhorred “Fuego” in every conceivable way and this aptly-named “replay” offers little different to those who weren’t fans of it. If I had to pick, I’d go with 2018, because at least it doesn’t have the sadness of attempting to catch lightning twice in the same jar attached to it.

◯ Czechia – 2019 – Two years, two rather uncomfortable entries from the Czechs in a row. Last year, we had a predatory “Blurred lines” light, while this year, whilst less lyrically degrading, still has weird lines about eavesdropping on people having sex through the walls(?)… but it’s enough to secure a slight preference.

◯ Estonia – 2018 – It seems like such a long time has passed since the days when I consistently found Eesti Beesti, since those days when Eesti Laul seemed experimental and had a decent number of songs in their native language. I’m no fan of popera, but at least Elina was a local talent. It’s bewildering when a country with so many great artists can’t find someone with any real association with it to sing for them. Though both are ultimately derivative, I prefer La forza to what is essentially an aviici b-side.

◯ Finland– 2018 – I have a pet peeve for national finals where you are presented with a single choice of artist. Unless said artist is very versatile (say, Frances Ruffelle, who took on dark pop, ballads and gospel-tinged anthems in her solo national final back in 1994), you are restricted to a narrow set of genres. If you don’t like that artist or their style, then you’re shit out of luck. That’s been the case for the last few years with Saara Aalto and now Darude. I didn’t really like ány of either’s songs and miss the days of a diverse choice in UMK. I pick Saara because her throwback was slightly more tolerable.

◯ Georgia– 2018 – Fair play to Georgia, who always dance to the beat of their very own peculiar drummer. You’d think that the shift to the X Factor format to pick their representative, combined with the cold reception for their “ethno-jazz” last year, would have led to them playing it safe to try to avoid three DNQs in a row. Instead they’ve gone for something downbeat, angry and almost oppressive in its ambiance, i.e. something even less accessible to the general viewer than last year. This feels like the rock song equivalent to a war crimes tribunal. I preferred last year’s effort, which was rather more uplifting, and which I felt was unfairly underrated for a genuinely well-composed piece of music steeped in tradition.

◯ Greece – 2019 – A number of people around me were raving for Oneiro mou last year. I wasn’t one of them and suspected it would fail to qualify from the get-go. Instead of “Greece returning to form”, it felt like them attempting to do so but ending up with a nationalistic pastiche instead. This year, they’ve taken their usual mould and smashed it with a hammer, going in a very different direction with a delightfully husky-voiced singer and a musically anthemic piece that manages to compensate, for me, the song’s lyrical shortcomings. I enjoy it a fair bit more.

◯ Hungary – 2018 – This is one of the hardest ones of this semi final to choose, as “Viszlát nyar” and “Az én apam” are chalk and cheese, but both highly qualitative and with meaningful lyrics. Joci’s other ESC song, Origo, beat Viszlát nyar for me, but his 2019 effort doesn’t have quite the same visceral punch to it, so I think I’m going to have to give the edge to AWS this time around.

◯ Iceland – 2019 – Another country giving us night and day, but this time, I like neither of the two choices. Last year certainly put the “cheese” in the old “chalk and cheese” saying, an unbelievably overwrought and soppy Christmas charity-esque tune that somehow ended up at ESC. This year, it’s something rather acerbic, dingy, grating and ultimately gimmicky. In these times, “hate will prevail” is the last message we need. I will take it over Ari any day though, as that was just squirmworthy.

◯ Montenegro  – 2018 – It seemed that, last year, Montenegro was back to doing what it has always done best – a haunting, beautiful Balkan ballad after a few bizarre years of experiments gone wrong. Unfortunately, Inje got slept on despite its quality and couldn’t bring about an end to CG’s DNQ streak. There were many candidates in this year’s Montevizija that could have gone one better and done just that – but instead, bewilderingly, we got this unspeakable jumble which sounds like it was a rejected b-side for a mediocre mid-90s boy band, but with the addition of Random Casio Noises® in the background. Comparing Inje to it is likening fine wine to a bottle of Panda Cola that has been left with the cap off in the sun for 2 weeks.

◯ Poland – 2019 – Last year, Poland sent a middle-aged man in a hat doing a cringey snake dance whilst a young, inexplicably Swedish guy sort of sang and the whole thing sounded like the soundtrack for a Coke advert gone wrong. This year, they’ve got some women swaying like maniacs in a forest where they probably buried their patriarch. Not much of a step up in theory, but a big step up nonetheless…

◯ Portugal– 2019 – Portugal is a country that could have peaked with their first win, or fallen into a niche in a sad attempt (*cough* Cyprus *cough*) to recapture that glory. Instead, they are challenging all the tropes and have a national final with some serious diversity. I loved “O jardim” and it deserved way better, but this year’s song, “Telemóveis”, exceeds even that. It’s a haunting but catchy as hell rumination on mortality, technology and saudade with a musical backdrop whose influences transcend continents. If it’s not in the running to win the whole thing, I will be disappointed.

◯ San Marino – 2018 – I cannot get my head around the enthusiasm for “Say na na na”, which seems to have been contracted not only by postmodern pisstakers but by many folk who genuinely like it. It makes me cringe 10x more than Jenny B’s not quite sick rap skills last year, and that’s saying something. Plus, they had robots.

◯ Serbia – 2019 – They seemed like really nice people, but I found last year’s Serbian entry itself to be a bit of a minestrone into which a dozen elements of other songs were chucked in, and thus was lacking a bit in coherence. “Kruna”, on the other hand, is perfectly-formed, poignant, beautifully orchestrated and one of the best Balkan ballads in the past few years.

◯ Slovenia – 2018 – Fair play to Slovenia for picking themselves up and dusting themselves off after a few rough years. Hvala ne was backed by almost no one to qualify but I had faith in it early on and Lea benefited from being able to make a real connection with the crowds. Sebi is a very different beast entirely. Whilst Hvala ne had a defiance and a frenetic energy, Sebi is contemplative and melancholy. Both have great lyrics, too. I am going with Slovenia at the minute as it’s stood the test of time, but really the better of the two songs is really a question of mood.

And the automatic qualifiers of this semi-final:

◯ France – 2018 – It’s a battle between two songs written by the same writers, and since I loved their 2018 work, their follow-up should have a chance of making this a closely-run thing. Shóúld. Instead, they went from writing an understated song about humanity to writing an overbearingly pompous and self-important song about ego. This is the worst French song to me since 1988.

◯ Israel – 2018 – I wonder if Israel’s broadcasters remember how their predecessor, the IBU, won on home soil in 1979. I have the feeling they might well do, and as a result ensured it wouldn’t happen again with this song. There are elements of the song I really like, but it’s let down for me by a snivelly, exaggerated voice and a rather self-indulgent chorus. I was no great fan of “Toy”, but can listen to it with more pleasure than this.

◯ Spain – 2018 – I remember when “Tu canción" came out and I was completely in love with it. The unfortunate thing about songs sung by starry-eyed young loves is that their relationships often end up star-crossed. Now, Almaia is no more, and the song has a hugely bitter aftertaste. Nonetheless, I prefer it to La venda, which is a rather empty song lyrically but which I still found the best of a bad lot in the Spanish national final.

Coming up in the next instalment, my thoughts on SF2’s songs and how they shape up to those from last year!