#adam macy

[a-man-for-hire-and-his-archives]

Andrew Wincott as Adam Macy in BBC Radio 4 "The Archers"

Source: BBC Radio 4, Radio Times, The Telegraph and the cherry one from adarlingmess on twitter (thank you!)

[bloogers-boogers]

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[cinemajunkie70]

Tonight I was able to see Boogie Nights again on the big screen since it first opened in theaters… and in 70mm!!!

[thenumberfives]

[genevieveetguy]

. He hates these cans. Stay away from the cans.

The Jerk, Carl Reiner (1979)

[macysparadeblog]

⚠️ NEW BALLOON ALERT ⚠️

[bozusuruz]

Altayın gitmesi cok uzuyo beni

[erstwhile-punk-guerito]

[princessholio]

ADAM DEVINE IN THE PARADE!!

[jiminysjournal]

Haley and Andy just sang “Take on Me” in the Macy’s Parade!

[a-man-for-hire-and-his-archives]

Article from Mail about Andrew Wincott in Colombia (scroll down to read the article)

Coming soon to The Archers...Adam Macy's cocoa farm in Colombia!

written by Andrew Wincott for Mail on Sunday Travel (31 March 2014)

Radio star Andrew Wincott is bewitched and bedazzled by a historic and colorful corner of South America

Oh dear! Really? Are you quite sure?' Such were the reactions of various acquaintances to my announcement that I was planning a trip to Colombia.

The fact that I have friends in Bogota didn't assuage their anxieties. And now even I started to imagine scenarios in which, having been kidnapped by some paramilitary renegades, I could possibly negotiate some sort of communication line down which I could record scenes for The Archers from my cell in Bogota. Perhaps Adam could have been on a trip researching cocoa farming, I reflected, and found himself deludedly diverted towards coca instead.

Such is the curious blurring between fiction and reality in The Archers that stranger things have happened.

Bogota is a dynamic city with a chaotic character all its own. At 8,500ft above sea level you would think the head-rush would be mandatory. The rush is all in the traffic: buses veer, bikes swerve, taxis vie for fares across choked lanes.

But in the tranquil historic neighbourhood of La Candelaria you escape to the city's Spanish colonial past. Amid the teeming hordes of students, travellers and local Bogotanos, the gold exhibits of the Museo D'Oro, such as the pre-Colombian gold raft sculpture from the Muisca era, are dazzling.

Alternatively one can enjoy the whimsical wit of Colombia's most famous artist, Botero. His porcine figures are found in a museum named after him and built around a charming 18th Century courtyard. Also housed here is part of Botero's personal art collection, including works by Monet, Renoir, Chagall, Miro, and Dali.

Taking in the view: Andrew at the Iglesia de Monserrate overlooking Bogota.

In the nearby Plaza de Bolivar I saw a llama sauntering by - they are used to give rides to giggling tourists. On one corner stands the Museo de la Independencia, housing artefacts and exhibits that fascinatingly illustrate the story of the 1810 Revolution: how the fight for independence began and how, some might contend, it is still being fought today.

Looking up from the plaza - high in the mountains to the east - you see the Iglesia de Monserrate, which is accessible within minutes by cable car. Here you find a sanctuary of tranquillity and spirituality, as though one has risen above the city while its secular urban unreality sprawls magnificently but chaotically across the plateau below.

If the tumult of Bogota becomes too much, a mere hour away lies Zipaquira and its cathedral, one of the most startling buildings in the world. With ingenuity, vision and audacity, a cavernous expanse 600ft below ground has been carved from a salt mine to form a space for worship.

Such is the combination of iconography, natural forms, colours, and carvings that you feel you're in a sodium-chloride art installation.

It's extraordinary to imagine that on Sundays and holy days 3,000 people come here to worship.

At Guatavita, the legend of El Dorado resonates from the pre-Colombian past. Cradled by crater walls is the lake on to which the Muisca tribe rowed their new cacique (king) on a raft before ritually immersing him, naked and covered in gold dust. In further homage, thousands of gold offerings were thrown into the lake by members of the tribe surrounding the shores.

Across the mountains, through the valleys, past polytunnels (Adam would have been pleased to note) the poncho - or ruana - wearing farmers tend the fields, ride horseback or stroll as though time has stopped. Being on the road is an experience in itself. Away from Bogota, down from the plateau and the temperate high ground, the temperature rises.

Roadside grills offer chorizos, chicken and cold beers to slake the thirst. Dogs slumber, sheltering in doorways to escape the heat while cats watch from the shadows.

If it's history you crave, about 90 miles from Bogota, in the Andes near Tunja, there is a tiny bridge over the Teatinos River, marking the site where the Battle of Boyaca was fought.

Here in August 1819 a decisive victory was won against the Spanish in the war for independence - with the help of the British - an event marked by imposing monuments to the generals Bolívar and Santander.

Soon you reach the white-washed walls, red-tiled roofs and cobblestone streets of Villa de Leyva, a preserved colonial town which, since 1954, has been a national monument.

The 17th Century architecture, featuring cool arcaded courtyards, fountains, and flower-festooned columns, is unspoilt. Dancing in the square and drinking aguardiente in the bars around here seem like timeless nocturnal pursuits.

Further afield, an hour's flight from Bogota on the shores of the Caribbean, lies the Unesco World Heritage site of Cartagena, a beautifully restored jewel of a walled Spanish city with perhaps the most impressive fortifications in Latin America, the Castillo de San Felipe de Barajas.

The stature of the walls and the tunnels beneath help the visitor understand why it was virtually impossible to defeat the Spanish here, and why they stayed until the 19th Century.

At night the sun-drenched Plaza de la Santisima Trinidad is transformed into a natural theatre. All life is here. Children race, dogs strut like horses, folk reflect and ruminate.

Locals and travellers mix over a beer bought from the shop across the square and a hot dog from a stand.

If you fancy a cocktail, perhaps a cuba libre, you can try to wake the old girl slumbering behind her stall to mix one.

Colombia is a country that defies expectations. It will bewitch and bedazzle you. The countryside is timeless and you'll find pure pleasure in the tranquillity and variety of the landscape and the charm of its people. If you're looking to escape from the greyness of the commonplace, the warmth, colour and natural beauty of Colombia elevate it to the dimension of another world. I shall certainly be going back.

Maybe that cocoa farm of Adam's wasn't such a bad idea after all.

[mercsandmonsters]

Tag Dump #3: Male Muses

Let's get these guys tagged.

[ladzwriting]

My 2022 in Reading: Jo Needs a Nap

My 2022 in Reading: Jo Needs a Nap

[goldustwomun]

slipping through my fingers (s.b.)

pairing: sirius black x younger potter!reader

summary: something about your relationship with sirius black had never sit quite right with you, and now that he's back after two years of travelling the world, you're beginning to think that you'll soon find out what'll happens if the two of you finally fall over the edge of whatever precipice you've been teetering close to all these years. plus, you've got to work with him all summer, so what's the worst that could happen?

warnings: allusions to sex (minors dni!!!), swearing, more of a miserable sirius this time, reader is self-deprecating and talks about not feeling 'enough' (you are babes x), loads of miscommunication or rather inability to say what you mean (it's me I'M READER), i love drama at a dinner a party sooo

wc: 3.3k+

note: somewhat proud of this so help a girl out by reblogging x

pt i. / pt ii.

Slipping through my fingers all the time I try to capture every minute The feeling in it

The rest of the week flew by much the same. You opened up the shop, shoving the collection of Dickens to stop the door from slamming into you, Sirius crashed in late everyday, so much so that you told him to not even bother apologising (that being said, he hadn’t apologised in the first place). When the two of you spoke, you tried your best to not catch his eye too often. 

Instead, you busied yourself with picking up a novel for you to read inbetween the morning and late-afternoon rush. There were always a few stragglers that ventured through the door in between peak hours, and it was only after the third or fourth go-around of a gaggle of teenagers that had stumbled in, giggling and hiding their grins behind their palms, that you realised they were more of a ‘Sirius Black’ fan club as opposed to actual customers.

You let them have at him considering the few moments of peace it gave you. 

And maybe if you put down your book or halted your busy hands whilst counting the cash or checking the inventory for the fourth time that day, you might just notice how much it bothered you. 

Growing up and finding Sirius in your midst more often than you'd have liked meant countless friendships made and lost over someone or the other wanting just a glimpse of his attention. Anytime you pass the ice cream parlour down the road from your house, you’re reminded of Macy Adams – a pretty thing with pin-straight, jet black hair and pouty lips to complete the look – using you to get to him. 

He never let anything go further than an odd flirty comment here and there with your friends (which you’ll admit was kind of him to do considering he was a hormonal teenager at the time), but you were frankly sick of it.

Because you’d never understand why.

Why him? And why you?

You’d never shared that same rose-coloured view of Sirius, never felt the same burst of butterflies from your first teenage crush being him.

Or maybe you had and it was just easier to hate him than it was to like, let alone love, him. 

So, yes. It was really starting to get on your nerves, if you were being honest. More than you’d ever care to admit.

What’s worse is that his words from days ago wouldn’t stop playing over in your head, like that one Pink Floyd tape you'd gotten stuck in the receiver and no matter or banging or prodding would get it loose.

And you had that he was right about it all -- that, in many ways, you were miserable about life and love (or lack thereof). Maybe forcing those around you to share those same feelings alleviated some of the pains and aches. 

'Cause yes, you were cranky and grouchy and frankly, a bit of a brat more often than not. You blamed it on being the baby of the family, call it youngest child syndrome, but damn it– you had been twelve and mourning your childhood, and now at twenty-something, those aches had yet to subside.

Yet you couldn’t stop it. The hate and the anger and the frustration at a world that had left you behind. Your stomach lurched at the sudden bites of sadness when a day had gone by and you’d not accomplished anything.

So when Sirius flaunts into your kitchen with a hangover and a few hickies down his neck, and your parents pat him on the back, congratulating him for his very existence (at least, you assume that's it) -- it stings. You've hated him for it, always have, but maybe you also loved hi–

No. You couldn’t.

One day, Sirius was scolding James for tugging at your pigtails, and the next, he was pulling them himself.

It didn’t matter anyway. Sirius Black would never be a pivotal part of your life. You’d keep him waiting on the sidelines, only to occasionally bump into him on holidays and during family gatherings. Sure, you you both tossed petty insults at each other every now and again, but other than that, you needn’t see him. 

Outside of your nine-to-five at the bookstore, of course. 

You returned to the words of the book you’d chosen, pleading with your mind to focus once more. You’d changed the sleeve, not wanting Sirius to see what you were reading so intently. 

Was it really so bad? A young girl – nay, a youthful girl, with interests, needs and desires that were essentially unmet for the time being. It was normal to want to read about whirlwind fictional romances, fantasise about having someone close, kissing you, touching you, being yours and no one else’s.

You weren’t about to add to Sirius’ list of things to tease you for by clueing him in on the fact that you were sitting right next to him, reading filthy, irredeemable smut with not a single suitor lined up to help you out. 

He was sat behind the counter with you, the store empty, with a journal and fountain pen in hand as he scribbled away about something or the other. You were convinced he was writing angsty poetry about the blonde who’d left him to travel around Amsterdam (yes, the same one he’d met only a week earlier), but something about the furrow between his brows had you questioning such a dismissive assumption.

Sirius peered over at you. You only knew because you’d grown accustomed to the sensation of his eyes watching your every week for the past week. Other than polite exchanges and a question every now and again about the dewey decimal system, you’d not spoken a word to each other.

You weren’t sure if the ceaseless, stabbing pain in your chest was relief or something worse.

Regret?

You were on the verge of telling him off for staring when the door jingled announcing someone’s arrival. Looking up from the blurring words on the page, you were met with the scheming grin of your brother, James.

“Hullo there lovely, lovely, people!” he hollered with only a smidge too much of enthusiasm. You worried his face might get stuck with how wide (and forced?) his smile seemed to be. 

“Why are you so happy?” you questioned abruptly, brow raised with suspicion.

“My sweet, innocent, little sister. Is your life so miserable that a singular smile makes you uncomfortable?” he teased in that boyish way of his.

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, reminded of the very similar accusations Sirius had thrown at you last time you two had dared to face each other head on.

You could see– no, feel him straighten next to you at James’ words, arm brushing against yours enough that you tried to discreetly move away. 

He looked almost upset when you did finally turn to look at him, but he quickly snapped his attention back to James instead. “Don’t be a dick to your sister, James,” he scolded, and James must not have thought much of the uncharacteristic chide because he continued unperturbed. 

“Yeah, yeah. Anyway. I’ve entered your humble store to invite the two of you to a dinner party tonight at ours’. Mum and Dad have offered to take Harry for the night, so a soiree of our first night back on the ‘scene’ since becoming parents seemed in order,” he explained, all flourishing hands and expectant smiles.

“So, can I take it that I'll be seeing the two of you later?”

Sirius nodded immediately but you struggled for an excuse reasonable enough to get out of it.

“I don't know, James. I have so much to do here and– you know– Dad wants the inventory done and all that. It’s really just– yeah. I don’t think so...” You cringed at how you'd managed to stumble over just about every word, hoping, praying, neither James nor Sirius would call you out on your barely concealed attempts to avoid Sirius for at least a few more days.

It was Sirius’ turn to tease you, despite having restrained himself from doing so all week.

“Well shit, mini Potter. You’ve managed to say so much and yet so little at the same,” he pointed out, nudging your side.

You scoffed at him in return, crossing your arms out of protest. “And I saw you do inventory already. In fact, I saw you do it, then do it again, then again and– ah, yes. Again.”

You aimed a glare right at him, and his only response was a hesistant smile.

James stepped in once more with an– “Alright-y then, I will be seeing you both tonight. 7:30pm. Bring a bottle because we don’t have any and Lily is dying for a glass now that she’s not breastfeeding.” He walked the short distance towards the door, called out– “don’t be late” –then disappeared into the bustle on the street. 

It took all of two seconds of James being gone before you spun to face Sirius, clouds swarming behind your eyes. “What’d you do that for, Sirius?” you questioned indignantly.

“Well, you see, you were lying and I corrected you. Now you’re going to your brother’s ‘soiree’. Really, I don’t think it’s that complicated, love,” he answered matter-of-factly. “It's not like theere's a genuine reason to not want to go, other than, let's say... avoiding me?" he asked, cautious as if worried you'd bite.

“Well– yes– but– I mean, no that's not it--”

“So I’m right. Right?” he cut in, standing up from the stool with a loud scrape against the floor. He squeezed your shoulder once as he moved out from behind the counter and headed for the aisles of books. “Great, so I’ll see you tonight.”

Well, fuck. 

You were reluctant when you stuffed your feet into your shoes and reluctant when you apparated to the (other) Potter’s doorstep, and reluctant, once more, when you knocked on the front door. Only seconds later was Remus swinging the door open. You offered him a shy smile– finding him to be both the most chivalrous and kind of your brother’s friends – before stepping inside and hanging your coat on the peg.

It was only 7:45 but there must have been at least twenty or so people hanging around the living room, glasses in hand with the crackling stereo speakers switching between the Beatles and Slade and the odd Blondie track you were sure Lily had threatened James to include. 

“Quite a crowd already,” you noted, hanging back, stiff and awkward, and feeling utterly out of place with your brother’s friends. They were all parents and spouses and had jobs that afforded them a house of their own. They were only a few years older yet miles ahead of where you were, and it was only seeing all of their faces in one room that you realised your own predicament.

“Yeah, I think we all realised it’s been a hot minute since anyone’s thrown any kind of party, so in our eagerness we all showed up about thirty minutes early,” he mused. “Lily was livid. Her hair was still in those curling contraptions.”

“You mean... curlers?” you pointed out, charmed. 

“Ah, yes. Curlers,” he teased back.

It was only then that you realised you hadn’t quite had a proper conversation with Remus since, well, ever. And it was nice, normal, and not nearly as infuriating as just about every conversation you’d had with Sirius.

You could feel him staring at you from the corner of your eye, so when he offered to get you a drink – “A raspberry cider, please. Lily keeps them in the cabinet in the kitchen for me,” – you accepted, taking a moment to internally scold yourself for instinctively thinking of him every time something happened to you.

While you waited for Remus to return, you ventured into the hall in search of James. You figured you better make yourself known so he doesn’t accuse you of skiving your own brother’s party. 

You only managed a step or two past the threshold when a hand reached for your own, tugging you into the closet.

It was pitch black and you’d been on the verge of letting out a blood-curdling scream before a dim, orange glow bathed the cramped room.

Your vision focused, first, on the hanging tether of the light, and then Sirius’ face behind it. He looked to be somewhere between panicked and restless, and really, it was appropriate considering the beating you were pondering laying out on him.

And you hated to even think it but he looked good. All scruff and unruly hair like he couldn't stop combing his fingers through the strands, and he smelled of pine and wood and books and--

“Sirius?!"

"I can explain--" he began but you held up your hand to silence him. He must have noticed the murderous rage brewing behind your irises because, for once, he did, in fact, stop talking.

"I'm not just-- you can't just-- what the fuck are you doing pulling oblivious girls into closets, you fucking weirdo!” you scolded, your voice coming out as more of a whisper than a shout so as not to alert anyone of your current situation. 

“No, Potter, you see, I just wanted to--” and it was amusing, really, to see him struggle for once. Tripping over vowels and consonants like he'd had you (you'd never tell him that though) and every other girl to enter within a metre's radius of him doing so.

“You just what?” you bit out, growing impatient as the seconds passed by.

You wondered if Remus was looking for you now, or if he’d grown bored and moved onto the brunette you knew he had pined after for years.

“Look– if you want to lecture me again about how I’m a miserable, terrible, fucking horrible, even, person– save it. I get it. I know. I’ve heard it from you and James and I’m pretty sure Mum said it to Aunt Ca–”

“No, love, no,” he cut you off, again.

You tried to ignore how that was twice, now, that he’d referred to you so endearingly, so out of character. It bugged you but not for reasons you were willing to admit.

“I mean– yes, I want to talk about that but not to lecture you. Not now. I wanted to apologise,” he continued, forgetting to breathe between words and phrases but it seemed he had set himself in-motion and couldn’t be stopped. “I’ve been a dick, I realise that. And maybe it was a fun little bit between us when we were younger and more stupid–” you frowned at that but let him continue anyway.

“-- But I think we’ve gotten carried away ‘cause, I mean, I sure think Ihave. I said some horrible, untrue things to you that I don’t, not one bit, mean or believe in anyway. And I should have apologised earlier but things were so, so, painfully awkward and you’ve been buried in that book of yours so I just–” he breathed, finally, “I wanted to say I’m sorry. I’m sorry, love.” 

You weren’t sure how to respond or if you were meant to, even, but he was staring all doe-eyed and expectant and freaking cologne of his was all you could smell and really, you blame the prospect of the cider and the scandalous books you’d been reading because you didn’t mean to tug the light off or lean forward and collide with him. 

It just happened.

It was dark and quiet and you could feel him go stiff and your own heartbeat droning on in your ears, but it was only when you began to pull away that he surged forward, too.

Pushing, scrambling, gasping into your mouth before shoving the pair of you into the opposite wall, his large palm covering the back of your head so that even whilst he was devouring you in every sense of the word, your heart raced at his tenderness. 

Your arms clung to his shoulders, pulling him in in in, until there was not an atom’s worth of space between you. The hand not currently cushioning your head moved to hook your leg around his waist, and you opened willingly, pleadingly, melting the moment he slid, firm, against you.

You sighed into his mouth with every caress of his tongue against your own, and questioned your sanity for following through with the very thoughts you’d fantasised about for weeks, months, maybe even years. 

Just as you were reluctant to attend the party in the first place, you were reluctant to pull back even just to breathe but he must have felt the air leaving your lungs as well because he moved to place open-mouthed, wet and searching kisses against your neck and collarbones– biting, sucking, nipping in all the ways he knew how. 

Fuck everyone who got him before you’d ever had the chance, but thank God for the skill he had acquired in the meantime.

“Potter,” he groaned against the dampness of your neck, sounding every bit in pain as you were. The coarse hair of his moustache scratched at your skin with every movement of his mouth, and you couldn't help but tangle your fingers into his long strands, holding him in place. “Fuck– I’ve thought about this–” and he never managed to finish before he grew impatient of even himself and returned his mouth to you. 

“I– Me too– Oh fuck!” He bit, hard, into your sensitive skin before soothing the sting over with his tongue, planting a final kiss to the spot before moving to cradle your face in his palms. He kissed you, once, twice, a third time for luck you assumed, before you managed to resist for long enough to get your words out. 

It took a second for the electricity thrumming inside of you to subside enough for your thoughts to order themselves once more.

You stared at him, pupils dilated, mouth wide in shock, and looking every bit of the mess you felt. 

“We shouldn’t have done that,” and they came out before you’d given yourself time to even really process what had just happened, or what you wanted your reaction to be.

You’d seen Sirius defeated, though only ever over the mundane and menial. A stubbed toe on the step he always forgot about that lead into your parents' kitchen, his favourite team losing a Quidditch match, or when the wrong order arriving from the chippy.

But the way his face fell-- sure it was dark but you could just tell.

He froze momentarily, before he stepped away, abrupt and robotic and so not-Sirius in every way you had come to know.

“Sirius I didn't–” you began, but he’d already tugged the light back on and with it, reality came crashing in, occupying the space he had only seconds ago. 

“No, no. You’re right, Potter,” he said, sounding every bit as lifeless as he looked now that you could actually see him.

He wouldn’t raise his gaze to meet your own, to see you pleading, silent, but pleading, that no, I lied, it wasn’t a mistake, in fact I want to do just that, more and more. And unlike every other moment in your life, for once, you couldn’t get the words out past your lips.

At least, not the right ones.

“I’m sorry,” you tried, gentle. You mourned the return of that sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach as your chest threatened to cave in on itself.

How was it that you felt worse than when you’d first gotten here?

Only this time it was no one’s fault but your own.

“No need to apologise, love.” He paused for a beat, glancing at the door before following through on the thoughts telling him to leave it at that before things got worse, and slipped out of the door. 

The light was still on and you noticed the shoes lined up neatly on one of the racks. Coats and jackets and umbrellas hung on the rod in front of you. Above it, there was a shelf with helmets, badminton rackets and a netball. 

There were things all around you, but you’d never felt so lonely.

You could feel the cold seeping into the space around you, one that was filled with his body heat only moments earlier.

It took everything in you to not break down right then and there.

Instead, you stepped out into the hall and plastered a smile on your face, hoping you’d make it to your room before the dam broke.

I have a rough plan of the final two chapters but eee i hope y'all enjoyed this :))

[amphibious-thing]

Pink is for Boys

"Pink or Blue? Which is intended for boys and which for girls? This question comes from one of our readers this month, and the discussion may be of interest to others. There has been a great diversity of opinion on this subject, but the generally accepted rule is pink for the boy and blue for the girl. The reason is that pink, being a more decided and stronger color, is more suitable for the boy, while blue, which is more delicate and dainty, is prettier for the girl." ~ The Infants' Department, June 1918

[Left: The Blue Boy, oil on canvas, c. 1770, by Thomas Gainsborough.

Right: The Pink Boy, oil on canvas, c. 1782, by Thomas Gainsborough.]

Pink is for girls and blue is for boys. But it hasn't always been this way. Colour coding infants as a way of denoting gender was popular in 20th century America. The problem? Pink and blue? Which is for boys and which is for girls?

In 1927 TIME Magazine asked ten of the "leading stores that sell baby equipment" which colour was for which gender. Four stores responded pink for girls and blue for boys; Macy's (Manhattan), Franklin Simon (Manhattan), Wanamaker's (Philadelphia) and Bullock's (Los Angeles). Five stores responded pink for boys and blue for girls; Best's (Manhattan), Marshall Field's (Chicago), Filene's (Boston), Maison Blanche (New Orleans) and The White House (San Francisco). Curiously Halle's (Cleveland) responded that pink was for both boys and girls.

This debate would continue and it wasn't until mid-20th century that pink for girls and blue for boys became firmly cemented in western culture.

However the idea of colour coding infants dates back to the 19th century. According to La cour de Hollande sous le règne de Louis Bonaparte in 1808 in Holland pink was used to announce the birth of a girl and blue a boy. In March 1856 Peterson's Magazine (Philadelphia, USA) advises that the ribbon on a christening cap should be blue for a boy and pink for a girl. On the 23rd of July 1893 the New York Times writes that for baby clothes it's "pink for a boy and blue for a girl!"

[The Oddie Children, oil on canvas, c. 1789, by William Beechey, via North Carolina Museum of Art.]

During the latter half of the 18th century one of the most popular outfits for young children, regardless of gender, was a white dress with a coloured sash tied around the waist. Pink and blue being the most popular colours, although other colours were worn as well. It would be tempting to assume that the colour of the sash indicated gender but there isn't clear evidence that this was the case. The Oddie Children (above) depicts Sarah, Henry, Catherine, and Jane Oddie. The three girls are all wearing white dresses; two with a blue sash one with a pink sash. We also see Henry Russell (bellow left) wearing a blue sash and Prince William (bellow right) wearing a pink sash.

[Left: Anne Barbara Russell née Whitworth with her son Sir Henry Russell, oil on canvas, c. 1786, by George Romney, via Woolley & Wallis.

Right: Prince William, oil on canvas, c. 1767, by Allan Ramsay, via the Royal Collection Trust.]

Pink was just one of the many colours popular in 18th century English womenswear and seems to have stayed popular throughout the century. On the 3rd of January 1712 The Spectator published an article in which a man recalls seeing "a little Cluster of Women sitting together in the prettiest coloured Hoods that I ever saw. One of them was Blew, another Yellow, and another Philomot; the fourth was of a Pink Colour, and the fifth of a pale Green". On the 1st of May 1736 the Read's Weekly Journal, or British Gazetteer reports that the ladies attending the royal wedding wore gowns of "Gold stuffs, or rich Silks with Gold or Silver Flowers, or Pink or White Silks, with either Gold or Silver Netts or Trimmings;" shoes either "Pink, White or Green Silk, with Gold or Silver Lace and braid all over." On the 24th of May 1785 Charles Storer writes to Abigail Adams advising that fashionable colours in English court dress are "pink, lilac, and blue" such "as is worn at Versailles".

[Left: Frances, Daughter of Evelyn Pierpont, 1st Duke of Kingston, oil on canvas, c. 1700-23, by Godfrey Kneller, via Art UK.

Middle: Mrs. Abington as Miss Prue in "Love for Love" by William Congreve, oil on canvas, c. 1771, by Sir Joshua Reynolds, via Yale Center for British Art.

Right: Mary Little, later Lady Carr, oil on canvas, c. 1765, by Thomas Gainsborough, via Yale Center for British Art.]

In particular pink was popular amongst young women as the colour was associated with youth. Older women who wore pink were mocked as vain for dressing in a way that was seen as improper for their age. On the 31st of January 1754 Lady Jane Coke writes to Mrs. Eyre criticising old women who wear pink:

As for fashions in dress, which you sometimes inquire after, they are too various to describe. One thing is new, which is, there is not such a thing as a decent old woman left, everybody curls their hair, shews their neck, and wears pink, but your humble servant. People who have covered their heads for forty years now leave off their caps and think it becomes them, in short we try to out-do our patterns, the French, in every ridiculous vanity.

[Folly Embellishing Old Age With the Adornments of Youth, oil on canvas, c. 1743, by Charles-Antoine Coypel, via Master Art.]

For Englishmen acceptable clothing way much more limited. In A Foreign View of England in the Reigns of George I & George II Monsieur César de Saussure writes that Englishmen "do not trouble themselves about dress, but leave that to their womenfolk". He explains:

Englishmen are usually very plainly dressed, they scarcely ever wear gold on their clothes; they wear little coats called "frocks," without facings and without pleats, with a short cape above. Almost all wear small, round wigs, plain hats, and carry canes in their hands, but no swords. Their cloth and linen are of the best and finest. You will see rich merchants and gentlemen thus dressed, and sometimes even noblemen of high rank, especially in the morning, walking through the filthy and muddy streets.

César de Saussure warns that "a well-dressed person in the streets, especially if he is wearing a braided coat, a plume in his hat, or his hair tied in a bow, he will, without doubt, be called "French dog" twenty times perhaps before he reaches his destination" and is not only at risk of "being jeered at" but also "being bespattered with mud, but as likely as not dead dogs and cats will be thrown at him."

[Reverend Charles Everard Booth, Captain Griffith Booth, and an Unidentified Man playing Billiards, oil on canvas, c. 1775-9, by John Hamilton Mortimer, via the Royal Collection Trust.]

For Englishmen dressing "plainly" mostly meant wearing blacks and browns. In his book on macaroni, Pretty Gentleman, Peter McNeil found that in contrast most English menswear that he describes as generally consisting of "monochrome broadcloth" macaroni wore a variety of colours including green, orange, yellow, violet, red, white, blue, gold, silver and of course pink.

But it's not just the macaroni of the 1770s & 1780s that wore pink. We see pink in descriptions of feminine men's dress (both real and fictional) throughout the 18th century.

On the 2nd of June 1722 Sarah Osborn writes to Robert Byng:

I believe the gentlemen will wear petticoats very soon, for many of their coats were like our mantuas. Lord Essex had a silver tissue coat, and pink color lutestring waistcoat, and several had pink color and pale blue paduasoy coats, which looked prodigiously effeminate.

On the 18th of October 1729 the Universal Spectator and Weekly Journal published a story where an "effeminate" man's clothes were described as follows:

He had a flower'd pink-colour Silk Coat, with a Green-Sattin Waistcoat lac'd with Silver. Velvet Breeches, Clock'd Stockings the Colour of his Coat, Red-heel'd Pumps, a Blue Ribbon at the Collar of his Shirt, and his Sword-Hilt he embrac'd under the Elbow of his Left Arm,

[Sir Miles Stapylton, 4th Bt of Myton, oil on canvas, c. 1730-35, via Art UK.]

In The Adventures of Roderick Random (1748) the effeminate (and queer coded) Captain Whiffle is described as follows:

our new commander came on board in a ten-oared barge, overshadowed with a vast umbrella, and appeared in everything the reverse of Oakum, being a tall, thin young man, dressed in this manner: a white hat, garnished with a red feather, adorned his head, from whence his hair flowed upon his shoulders, in ringlets tied behind with a ribbon. His coat, consisting of pink-coloured silk, lined with white, by the elegance of the cut retired backward, as it were, to discover a white satin waistcoat embroidered with gold, unbuttoned at the upper part to display a brooch set with garnets, that glittered in the breast of his shirt, which was of the finest cambric, edged with right Mechlin: the knees of his crimson velvet breeches scarce descended so low as to meet his silk stockings, which rose without spot or wrinkle on his meagre legs, from shoes of blue Meroquin, studded with diamond buckles that flamed forth rivals to the sun! A steel-hilted sword, inlaid with gold, and decked with a knot of ribbon which fell down in a rich tassel, equipped his side; and an amber-headed cane hung dangling from his wrist. But the most remarkable parts of his furniture were, a mask on his face, and white gloves on his hands, which did not seem to be put on with an intention to be pulled off occasionally, but were fixed with a curious ring on the little finger of each hand.

[Henry Ingram, 7th Viscount Irwin and His Wife Anne, oil on canvas, c. 1745, by Philippe Mercier, via Art UK.]

On the 28th of July 1780 the London Courant reports:

A few days ago, a Macaroni made his appearance in the Assembly-room at Whitehaven, in the Following dress: a mixed silk coat, pink sattin waistcoat and breeches, covered with an elegant silver nett, white silk stockings with pink clocks, pink sattin shoes and large pearl buckles, a mushroom coloured stock, covered with a fine point lace; his hair dressed remarkably high, and stuck full of pearl pins.

On the 6th of August 1792 The Weekly Entertainer published Sketches and Portraits form the Life by Simon Tueopnrastus which included the following description:

Mercator was a youth of some genius and expectation, but by a strange perverseness of disposition, notwithstanding the extreme natural stiffness of his limbs, he had acquired an early attachment to the most finical and effeminate finery; so that, while yet a boy, he would exhaust every expedient of a fertile invention to procure a laced waistcoat, or the most foppish toy; would dangle a watch-string, with brass seals, from each fob, at a time when the frugal care of his parents would not permit him to wear a watch in either; and would strut in a fine pair of second-hand pink silk breeches, and a light blue coat, with all the formal dignity of—a soldier upon the parade.

[Left: Thomas King in "The Clandestine Marriage", oil on canvas, c. 1792, by Samuel De Wilde, via Yale Center for British Art.

Right: Edward Payne, oil on canvas, by Arthur Devis, via Art UK.]

While pink is mentioned in these descriptions of feminine men's dress it's not singled out as the girl colour the way pink would become in the 20th century. I would argue pink is seen as effeminate not because pink is a uniquely feminine colour but because it was used in fashionable dress. In 18th century England being interested in fashion was seen as an frivolous female trait. Men who showed too much interest in fashion were mocked and ridiculed for their gender nonconformity. "A Man must sink below the Dignity of his Nature, before he can suffer his Thoughts to be taken up on so trivial an Affair, as the Chosing, Suiting, and Adjusting the Adornments of his Person," complains a letter published on the 8th of May 1731 in Read's Weekly Journal, or British Gazetteer:

Decency of Garb ought inviolably to be preserved; nor can there be possibly an Excuse for Dressing like a Merry-Andrew: Rich and coloured Silks are in themselves effeminate, and unbecoming a Man; as are, in short, all Things that discover Dress to have been his Study 'Tis in vain for a Fop of Quality, to think his Title will protect him.

[Left: Madame de Pompadour (detail), oil on canvas, c. 1756, by François Boucher, via Alte Pinakothek.

Right: Elizabeth Wrottesley, later Duchess of Grafton, oil on canvas, c. 1764-5, by Thomas Gainsborough, via National Gallery of Victoria.]

English fashion was highly influenced by French fashion. A popular colour scheme in French fashion was green and pink. A famous example of this colour pairing can be seen in François Boucher's portrait of Madame de Pompadour (above left), she is depicted in a green gown with pink bows and flowers. You can see and example of how this style inspired English fashion in Thomas Gainsborough's portrait of Elizabeth Wrottesley (above right), who is depicted in a green gown with a floral pattern adorned with pink, white and green striped bows.

[Left: Sir Harry Fetherstonhaugh, oil on canvas, c. 1776, by Pompeo Batoni, via Wikimedia.

Right: Francis Lind, oil on canvas, c. 1775, by George Romney, via Mackinnon Fine Art.]

Fashionable Englishmen were also inspired by these French designs. Horace Walpole refers to the popularity of the colour combination writing to Lady Ossory on the 19th of February 1774 "If I went to Almack's and decked out my wrinkles in pink and green like Lord Harrington, I might still be in vogue". Almack's is referring to Almack's Assembly Rooms on Pall Mall which is believed to be the inspiration for the Macaroni Club. (see Pretty Gentleman by Petter McNeil p52-55) In a letter to Lord Harcourt on the 27th of July 1773 Walpole writes of "Macaronis lolling out of windows at Almack's like carpets to be dusted."

[Left: Detail of Stephen Fox from The Hervey Conversation Piece, oil on canvas, c. 1738-40, by William Hogarth, via Fairfax House.

Middle: Sir William Jones, oil on canvas, c. 1769, by Francis Cotes, via Art UK.

Right: Portrait of a Gentleman, oil on canvas, by George Romney.]

Men who wore green seem to have been just as much, if not more, at risk of being ridiculed, or even assaulted, for the colour of their clothes as those who wore pink. In Pierre Jean Grosley's A Tour to London (originally published 1772) he recalls traveling with a young English surgeon who was harassed by Londoners due to his green French frock coat:

At the first visit which he paid me in London, he informed me, that, a few days after his arrival, happening to take a walk thro' the fields on the Surry side of the Thames, dressed in a little green frock, which he had brought from Paris, he was attacked by three of those gentlemen of the mobility, who, taking him for a Frenchman, not only abused him with the foulest language, but gave him two or three slaps on the face: "Luckily, added he in French, I did not return their ill language; for, if I had, they would certainly have thrown me into the Thames, as they assured me they would, as soon as they perceived I was an Englishman, if I ever happened to come in their way again, in my Paris dress."

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