What happened?
Nothing very much. VANDA VANE-DOTSON only lost her skirt in a bottle with the bramble bushes. Vanda is a country girl and it could happen to anybody in her kind of country where the brambles are an everyday hazard.
Her name is TERI MARTINE, she was born in Southend, lives in London, loves the swinging scene, Continental travel, good food and good movies. She’s twenty-one, her vitalistics are 37-24-36 and one day when the call of her own home and garden is too strong to resist she’s going to get married and settle down.
How lovely. Even lovelier for him.
This is nothing to do with people who’ve got wanderlust and kick around the world in restless pursuit of they know not what.
This is to do with local kicking around. To kick around it’s wiser to wear boots, then you can kick footballs, brown-paper parcels and bandits who try to snatch your bag in the supermarket.
Our lovely MARILYN WARD has just bought a pair. She bought them for their geary, modern look. She had no thought of using them to boot footballs into the air. Still, When she saw one in the garden she had a go. How did she get on?
“I missed it,” said Marilyn, “and fell flat on my back.”
If a girl can’t settle down for a quiet read without being bothered by a harvester it could mean sudden death for the insect. JANET GOODMAN is not the sort of girl who won’t fight back.
So round the room they went, the flighty harvester and the pretty girl, and whack whack whack went the girl and zing zing zing went the harvester. And just when Janet thought she’d got it she hadn’t and what a fall there was and what a bump. Oh well, you can’t win all the time.
How do you feel just before the croupier spins the roulette wheel and you've got all your fish-and-chip money staked on twenty-one? Do you savage your waistcoat buttons, gnaw your lip, tremble traumatically or what? Look all nonchalant and whistle a sonatal
Be like LIZ HARVEY. Take a chance and take it with a smile. Liz loves a gamble. Loses her shirt regularly but, as she says, it looks better on the croupier, anyway. She took a chance when she went for a film audition. Landed a small part in the Albert Finney classic “Tom Jones." It paid quite lovely lolly. Liz blued it all on mini-dresses and on a horse called Up The Creek.
Laughed her head off when it came out of the starting-gate wrong end first. That's the way to gamble. And, after all, said Liz, the bookies have to eat, don't they ?
I have recently been in contact with Heathers daughter Cherie.
Heather is doing well and now in her early 70’s. She recently celebrated her 50th wedding anniversary. She has had a good life as a home maker raising two children with her accountant husband.
That’s about it for the time being, I have sent her copies of all the books that she appeared in as she was keen to have another look at her fabulous pictures.
Thanks for taking the time to get in contact Cherie, its really great to hear that Heather is happy and well.
You’ve heard about the London Bobbies. It’s traditional for every visitor to say how wonderful they are. Occasionally they kind of let you down by nicking you for a traffic offence, but you can take it happily when they pat you on the head and see you on your way with their own inimitable cheer—“No hard feelings, sir, see you in court.”
There are other Bobbies in London, of course. There are quite beautiful ones like BOBBY SHAW, who is an absolute dreamboat at creating exquisite floral decorations. The only thing more exquisite is Bobby herself. In a sports car she’s more decorative than a cluster of orchids and as she rides by you go weak at the knees with the magnitude of your appreciation. Old ladies naturally think you’ve been drinking and next thing you know a kindly member of Alcoholics Anonymous is asking in the friendliest way if you’d like to be cured.
Cured?
What, and let all the beautiful Bobbies of London pass by without stirring those unforgettable deep-down pangs of appreciative anguish?
It’s all right, friend, just let me lie here.
Well, as LIZ McEWEN was telling her friend Lynda on the phone, it’s easy if your sister doesn’t mind you borrowing her record player and doesn’t yell her head off if she finds you’ve also borrowed her best nylons when you go out on a special date. And, as JENNIE McEWEN said, it’s no problem at all to become very fond of Liz and she would if only Liz didn’t hog the telephone all the time and wasn’t always leaving things like horse saddles around. “I’m fed up with tripping over them and falling flat on my face,” said Jennie.
Well, as Liz said, what’s a lovely elder sister for if not to tidy the place up occasionally ?
Some privileged guy called Willi Fritz, we think, is on the receiving end of this phone call from NINA WARTENBURG, blonde Berlin secretary who's wearing the boots to keep her toes warm.
We hope Willi is sufficiently appreciative of how attractive his caller is, even if Nina is only ringing to tell him to send over a small joint of Dutch veal. In fact, we hope any butcher's boy appreciates a pretty secretary as much as he does a young calf.
As sparkling as clear champagne is CRYSTAL FARMER, secretary and glamour girl.
It's a pity fellers can't win beautiful brides like Crystal in a decent competition, where if you can think of a suitable slogan for hot chestnuts, and send it in with three coupons, you stand a fair chance of winning.
Of course, you can't put birds in a lottery, it would send Women's Libbers raving bonkers— and cross as well—but if you could and if you did, who'd bother about football pools?
No one, if they stood a chance of winning a bride as gorgeously set-up as our Crystal.
When she left Hamburg some time ago to come to England, VICKY LANDAU thought well, it won't be long before I'm back, there's my dog Rupert and Willi Albrecht from the shipping company, they're both lovely.
But now Rupert the dog and Willi the shipper are both just a memory. Vicky is still here, established in a cosy flat in London and earning her keep by lucrative modelling jobs.
"Naturally," said Vicky in her fluent native tongue to Nigel Merry-weather in a London pub, "I shall go back one day, probably when I've made my fortune."
"Could you speak in English,” said Nigel, "as I only speak German like an incoherent Italian in a wine barrel."
"Oops, you are so funny," said Vicky.
"Actually," said Nigel, "I'm dead serious, you're the most devastating bird I've ever met, and I tell you frankly. I've got designs on you. Have two more double Scotches,"
"I think," said Vicky, "that you are trying to get me drunk.”
"I'll be truthful," said Nigel, "I'm that kind of rotter."
"Englishmen," murmured Vicky, "are fascinating but much too naughty," And she poured her drink down his shirt front and then conked him with a German candlestick she always carries in her handbag.
This could be anywhere, it could be in front of a door in a house in Boston, or outside a door in a house in Manchester, although it’s possible the discerning types would all be able to pinpoint the exact location from the knowledge they could draw from the copper pan above the door.
Any precise information would be received with courtesy rather than with relief as we admit to not being bothered about the location. What we do know is that the lady is LEILA SCHELL, who is French and must be adjudged lovely anywhere. And she couldn’t look more French than she does here, could she? Unless she hadn’t gone blonde.
Leila is an up-and-coming star of the Continental stage and films, so if you’re fond of Continental films and don’t get confused by all that dubbing, look out for her at the local Bijou.
THERE are some people who like the comfort and security of an armchair better than anything else. The only thing that gets them out of it is the chime of the ice cream van or the coo-hoo of the blonde who wants to share it. If Sir Francis Drake or Christopher Columbus had been like that, nobody would have gone anywhere and the Red Indians would still be undiscovered.
That might have saved Tarnation Jake from being scalped, but Jake being what he was it was the best thing that could have happened to him. To him the call of the wild meant getting there first and keeping it all to himself. Ornery old coot. After he lost all his hair it hurt him too much to keep his hat on and he got sunstroke. Poor old guy.
Nice to know the sense of adventure actuates CHR1STEL BIRKHOLZ, otherwise we wouldn’t see her in the great outdoors looking like an intrepid explorer’s beautiful dream. Intrepid explorers don’t only dream about hidden cities and odd-looking aborigines. They have moments when they’re just like the rest of us.
Christel, when she isn’t responding to the call of the wild and getting lost, is a West Berlin fashion model.
Wake up, Charlie, here comes the lollipop man. Go and get two orange-flavoured ones.
You don’t have to wear a big Stetson and be a Texas oil millionaire to enjoy life. All that money helps, of course, but it’s not a necessity. As a millionaire you can own an ocean-going yacht and still get lost in a storm at sea, and what has life to offer you then if there’s no lifebelt in sight ?
You’d be better off as an ice-cream man on the beach at San Remo. Girl who doesn’t own any oil wells and only takes home what she earns as a shorthand-typist in a London office is SUE SEYMOUR. Life to Sue is simply great. She’s eighteen years old and she swings along with the London scene.
Big business executives work late and get ulcers Sue twists and shakes on the dance floor and has fun. She likes a game of tennis, a galloping horse and the deep end of a swimming pool.
Millionaires sweat over the tape machines and bite the ends off their Havana cigars over each share fluctuation. Sue carries on making the most of life, and in her gay pursuit of the great outdoor pleasures she takes her tent in case of rain.
The weather was fine on this occasion and if you know of a more idyllic combination than a tent, a quiet glade and sweet Sue, then don’t keep it to yourself.
