Poppycock Doesn't Feel So Well

“Don’t be ridiculous, Maude,” Professor De Busque harumphed, sending the little tendrils of hair around her face flying. “There’s absolutely no such thing.”

“Actually, I do believe there is such a--” here Professor P’ohlig broke off to partake in a coughing fit, and then continued, “--thing. Yes yes,” she went on, rifling through a 1768 Encyclopedia Britannica, “Well, it doesn’t seem to have been discovered at the time. But there most certainly is such a thing as internal decapitation.”

“I knew it.” Maude said matter-of-factly.

“Although I doubt you’ve got it,” Molly muttered under her breath, sniffling.

“But look.” Maude shuffled over in front of the professors’ desks. “My head’s all wobbly. I suppose it will just always be like that now.”

“Nonsense,” Emily said, looking up from the text of “Gray’s Anatomy” that she was currently livening up, “It’s just that your humors are out of balance. It’s probably your phlegm.”

“No, Emily, I’m the one with the current phlegm problem, thank you,” she said, dabbing at her nose with a threadbare handkerchief that had belonged to Edvard Munch’s poor, poor sister. “Although I think, like poor Sophie here,” she waved the handkerchief limply, “I might actually be verging on the tubercular.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Emily said for the second time that day, and threw down her pen, which she shouldn’t have done, as it was F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Montblanc. “It’s just yellow bile!”

“How vile,” murmured Mr. Periwinkle, who was limping in the door. “There’s no post today, I’m afraid, young ladies. I just didn’t quite feel up to it.”

“Black bile, to be sure,” Emily proclaimed, to everyone’s horror.

“What on earth are you on about today, Emily?” said Molly, rubbing her delicate collarbone which always came up in a rash when she was feverish. “We’re all feeling positively rotten, and here you are calling us names. I think you’re being bloody awful, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“Precisely!” Emily shouted, and with a flick of the Trollope, dashed off into the house, leaving the other three members of Poppycock quite confused indeed.

***

“It all started with Hippocrates, you see,” said Emily a short time later in the kitchen, once she’d gotten everyone back on her side. “He believed in four humors present in the body, and sometimes one or another supersedes the others, and everything goes haywire, which seems to be what’s happening with all of us.”

“Doesn’t sound that funny to me,” Mr. Periwinkle sniffed. Molly and Maude giggled and Emily shot stern looks all round till they stopped. She straightened the kerchief that she tied on whenever a good deal of thinking had to be done.

“Maude, your humor right now seems to be phlegmatic, which means your brain’s a bit chilly. I think you’ve been eating too many of those tuna fish and onion sandwiches, my dear, so to liven you up a bit, it’s going to be lots of nice rich soups.” Maude sat back in her chair, quite pleased, and Molly and Mr. Periwinkle looked hopeful that they would get the same sort of prescription.

“Molly, you’re choleric.”

“I have cholera?!” Molly shrieked, jumping from her chair.

“No, dear,” Emily soothed, “Choleric. It means that you’re bad-tempered and a bit on the dry side, so I’m prescribing lots of rest and liquids and moisturizers.”

Molly twitched her nose and sat down. “Doesn’t sound like that much fun, but alright.”

“It’s not fun, that’s the point,” Emily said, looking over the pearly rims of Bette Davis’ old glasses from “Now, Voyager”, which made her eyes exceedingly large. “But it’s the kind of temperament that a lot of military dictators have, and we won’t have Napoleon here. I’m afraid I shall brook no argument. You’ve been a little on the bossy side lately.”

Molly shrunk in her seat a little bit, remembering how during Poppycock spring cleaning earlier in the week, she’d just left out bowls of ice cream and caramels for the Fwendy, instead of pitching in like everyone else.

Emily nodded. “I thought so.”

“And whatever is my problem?” Mr. Periwinkle sighed plaintively. “Can it even be cured?”

Emily sat down next to their bedraggled postman. “Poor melancholic Mr. Periwinkle. Too much gin in your spleen, I’m afraid. Perhaps a little champagne on the hour for the rest of the day?”

His wistful expression perked up immediately.

“Well,” Molly said timidly. “It seems we’re all on our way back to health. But you said there were four humors. And there’s four of us. So what does that make you?”

Three heads swiveled to the kerchiefed Professor. Emily smiled. “I’m sanguine.”

“And...and what does that mean?” Mr. Periwinkle asked hesitantly, not wanting a lengthy explanation to delay the promised champagne any longer.

“I’m fairly close to perfect,” she said, having the decency to blush a bit.

And once Emily had doled out the medications of soup and moisturizers and champagne, everyone thanked her with a hug. And another day at Poppycock ended as many of them did, with everyone in front of the fire under enormous duvets, watching an episode of “Upstairs, Downstairs”, waiting for their humors to realign.

Poppycock Loses the Plot

“This will be different, I promise! Please? Oh please?” Maude put on her best angelic face, looking up at the Professors, who were, at the moment, looking rather stern and unyielding.

“But Maudie dear, the documentary ended up being scrapped it was so bad. I think a reality show would just end in tears.” Professor De Busque reached out to retie an uncharacteristically bedraggled ribbon on one of Maude’s plaits.

“Darling, why are you in such a state over this, hm?” Professor P’ohlig raised an arched eyebrow at their young charge. “Don’t you think the whole thing a bit, well, silly?”

Maude pursed her mouth shut for a moment, then looked over her shoulder to make sure a certain postman hadn’t slipped in while she wasn’t looking. She pulled a much folded advertisement from her pocket and laid it out on the table, a gift from the estate of Anne Brontë. The desk was made from a curious combination of wood pulp and Anne’s actual original manuscripts. There wasn’t much else to do with her original manuscripts. (It wasn’t a particularly well-run estate.)

Emily balanced a sturdy pair of pince-nez on her nose, previously owned by the Spanish writer Francisco Gómez de Quevedo y Santibáñez Villegas. The heaviness of the frame only served to accentuate the delicacy of that little nose. “Reality TV Contest,” she read, “Have your house filmed for a week, compete in team-building tasks, and let the public decide the outcome of various competitions. At the end of the week, one contestant wins...a genuine velocipede. Oh.”

Now it was clear. Maude nibbled her lip. For as long as they had known Mr. Periwinkle, he had longed for a real, antique velocipede bicycle. And for as long as they had known Maude, she had longed to buy him one. But the editors kept coming up with all sorts of fiddly edits for her child-bride memoir, and no one could seem to tell her when publication would be. Molly and Emily gave each other the sort of knowing looks that would have made the Dashwood girls proud, and relented.

“Oh thank you thank you thank you!” Maude squealed, clapping her hands. But then she grew very serious for a moment. “Now, not a word to Mr. Periwinkle as to the real reason. We’ll just tell him we’re doing a....”

“...social experiment?” Molly said weakly, remembering the last social experiment they’d conducted, which involved everyone inviting a new friend to tea. No one had liked anyone else’s friends, and as a result, no one’s new friends lasted very long.

“We’ll say we need the publicity, since we ended up not getting any from the documentary,” Emily posited, chewing on the end of a pencil that had belonged to Charles Schultz. “And that we need some team-building exercises, I suppose.”

“And we must try to arrange it so Mr. Periwinkle wins,” Maude said, “And if he doesn’t, whoever does will give him the velocipede anyway.”

At that moment, Mr. Periwinkle rang the bell and came in anyway. Molly snatched the piece of paper off the desk and crumpled it into her mouth.

“Hallo, everyone,” he said in his usual jovial, yet slightly out of breath manner. “My goodness, that hill seems hard to climb every time. If only one had some sort of contraption so one didn’t have to walk,” He huffed himself onto his barstool, a special favorite of Hemingway’s from Harry’s Bar in Venice, and began to sort the morning’s mail. The girls suppressed smiles, and Molly went off to write down the details on the flyer before the ink began to run.

***

“Well so far I am not liking this at all,” Emily complained to the camera as she watched another box of books being carried out of the office. “Be careful with that young man, do you know how much a first edition of Fitzgerald goes for at auction these days?!”

The first rule the reality show producers had made was that the books would all be moved out for the week. The girls gritted their teeth and nodded, but to actually watch such a thing in progress was almost more than they could bear. Molly had already run after several moving men to bestow parting pats and kisses on some of the boxes.

It was the third day, and it wasn’t going too, too awfully. Yet. The girls felt they were spending an inordinate amount of time perfecting their makeup in the mornings, and would frequently flee to the bathroom for a little privacy. (Also, Mr. Periwinkle had installed a secret bookshelf behind the water tank in case of emergency.)

The cameras weren’t so bad this time, there were no interviewers, and they mostly just forgot about them after a few anxious hours of surreptitious peeping during work, just to make sure they were really on.

It was the games they didn’t like. Every morning when Mr. Periwinkle arrived, he would have all sort of packages and envelopes full of instructions. An obstacle course had been set up in the backyard which had to be run through several times a day, whenever a gong sounded. Maude consistently won, being the smallest and nimblest, and Mr. Periwinkle consistently lost, being the opposite of such. Molly frequently ended up bloodying a knee or elbow attempting a shortcut which always proved even longer, and Emily often ended up wandering off the course entirely, having spied a pretty flower or butterfly.

Sometimes music would start playing in the house, and they were meant to dance in a manner appropriate to the style of music. However, no one knew anything besides ballroom dances, so it was generally a jolly sort of game.

They had to eat funny foods, and have pie-eating contests (Mr. Periwinkle got ever so sick), and wear themed outfits for prizes. This was the best one, as everyone at Poppycock was quite used to themed outfits.

And then there were the question cards.

Every night they sat in a circle in front of the fire and had to ask each other questions from cards. At first they were fun: “Who would be the most likely to attempt to steal a painting from the Louvre?” (Molly) “Who would most likely forget to go on their own honeymoon if a new book had arrived?” (Emily) But then they turned a bit more personal than Poppycock would have liked. “Who drinks rather too much gin?” (Mr. Periwinkle) “Who drinks rather too much sherry?” (Mr. Periwinkle) “Who does the least amount of work at Poppycock?” (Maudie, but she was the youngest, although the question didn’t take that into account.)

The questions started to have longer and longer pauses before they were answered, and sniffy looks began to be bandied about. There were hurt feelings, and one or two smallish tears that everyone pretended they hadn’t seen.

By the last day though, it had reached fever pitch. No one at Poppycock was really speaking to each other anymore, apart from some overly polite asking for the salt to passed and such, and some thinly veiled remarks about one another’s shortcomings as exposed in the previous days’ questions.

It was with anxious trepidation that they all sat down for the final round before the winner was announced. The questions though, they were relieved to find, were quite innocuous this time. “Who is Molly’s favorite dead actor?” (Guillaume Depardieu) “What occupation would Emily most like to have?” (None) “What would Maude like to be when she grows up?” (Very rich indeed) “What is Mr. Periwinkle’s favorite beverage?” (What have you got?)

And then Maude picked the last question. “Oh, now this one everyone has to answer--” She stopped and her face went absolutely white. “It says....it says, which member of Poppycock isn’t necessary?”

There was a deathly silence and no one looked at anyone for a long, long moment. Everyone was intensely aware of the red light of the camera, trained on their little group. No one knew what to do. That is, until Mr. Periwinkle stood up defiantly.

“We’re ALL necessary, and that’s that! We won’t answer this question, and we don’t care if we don’t win any prizes at all!”

Maudie jumped up and tugged at Mr. Periwinkle’s sleeve. “Oh, no, we can’t do that, Mr. Periwinkle! Say it’s me, won’t you? Just say it’s me! I know I’m too little and I don’t help enough.”

“No!” shouted Emily. “It’s me, it’s definitely me! I’m always going off into a daydream! I’m useless!”

“Hold on!” Molly piped up. “How about me? I work myself into a fuss over something and then I’m rubbish for days on end! How could it be anyone but me?”

Mr. Periwinkle was most confused at this sudden violent lack of self-esteem, and looked bewildered from one to the other. “But girls, aren’t we all necessary?”

Maude burst into tears and shouted, “Just say it’s one of us, Mr. Periwinkle, and we can win you the lovely velocipede!”

Mr. Periwinkle gasped. “Velocipede? The prize is a velocipede?”

Emily nodded sadly. “It was Maude’s idea when she saw the contest.”

Molly slumped back to the floor. “But I suppose now we won’t get it after all since we wouldn’t answer their rotten question.” It was a very blue evening for everyone, and they decided to repair immediately to their rooms where the cameras couldn’t see their misery.

But Mr. Periwinkle had a little sunbeam inside as he drifted off that night, knowing how much he was loved.

***

Molly was wrong. The producers were so impressed that they bought velocipedes for everyone. Usually when they did this show, a minimum of two household members ended up with grave injuries. But Poppycock proved that each of the four was indeed necessary, and the next afternoon, after a champagne cream tea, they all rode off into a dazzling autumn sunset and everything was lovely, even if it did drizzle a tiny bit on and off.

Poppycock Erotica

The day was hot and heavy, and by early evening, Professors P'ohlig and De Busque were draped over their respective chaises in the Poppycock head office.

"How horrid this heat is," Emily sighed, fanning her adorably pink-flushed cheeks with a bloodstained Japanese fan from the estate of Yukio Mishima. "I don't feel like moving a muscle, let alone thinking. I believe I shall just continue to recline here for hours on end, and wait to see if anything happens."

Molly was slowly eating fat red strawberries, staining her Clara Bow lips the most delightful shade of crimson. "Not me," she said almost decisively, and with a great deal of effort forced herself upright. "I'm going right into the nice cool house for a nice cool bath."

Emily pushed a quaint tendril of hair from her forehead and said, "Alright, I'll see you later," as Molly pulled the Trollope and wafted away for cooler climes.

* * *

"Maudie? Mr. Periwinkle? Can you get the door?" Molly called from the door of the bathroom, where she was tying the belt of a flimsy flowered silk robe that had previously belonged to Marguerite Duras during her adventures in Indochina. Her bath had cooled her sufficiently, but the heat had tired her immensely.

"It's for you," Maude's voice floated up the stairwell. "I'll send them up."

Molly felt like grumbling, but she was too tired even for that. So she retreated into one of Poppycock's several parlors, and arranged herself attractively on a delicate pink loveseat. There was a tentative knock at the door.

* * *

Emily finally decided it was much too hot to leave the door closed any longer, so with a burst of energy, she rose, and flung it open, only to find Father Inigo standing on the other side. He stammered, "Why, Professor De Busque! I, I just happened to be, er, in the area, and was wondering if you might, erm, appreciate a cool beverage." He anxiously held up his gift before him. Emily was tempted to ask if he always carried around a Moët and Chandon bucket filled with ice and a bottle of champagne, but instead found herself blurting out, "What a lovely clerical collar, Father." Father Inigo was enveloped in a fetching blush, and murmured his thanks for the compliment as Emily gracefully stepped aside so he could come in.

"Shall I get...." Emily trailed off as Father Inigo produced two dainty glasses from out of nowhere.

"Please, Professor....sit down, and let me pour you a glass," Father Inigo said in a rather croony manner, seeming to have dredged some deep well of confidence all of a sudden. Emily was so surprised that she just did as he said without a word, and he was soon seated next to her on the chaise lounge.

* * *

"Come in," Molly said, heart beating faster as the face she hoped for appeared around the door. It was Mr. Denning.

"Ah, yes, Professor P'ohlig, I'm glad I caught you," he said, smartly stepping over to the loveseat in his smart Italian suit. "I just have a few business papers for you to sign, do you have the time?"

Molly shook her head ever so slightly, trying to clear the hot fog that the heat had left. "I mean, yes, yes I do. Do you have a pen, by chance?"

A silly question, and Mr. Denning smiled the sort of smile that knew that Molly knew how silly it was. Mr. Denning always had a pen, a lovely heavy fountain pen, and he drew it from his pocket to give to Molly. But as their fingers touched, the pen fell to the Indian rug that had belong to Rudyard Kipling. Mr. Denning darted a look at Molly and bent to retrieve it, but became lost in a reverie, so it seemed.

Molly felt a tiny bit awkward with her financial adviser staring, it seemed, at her feet. "Mr. Denning?" she queried, "Is everything alright?"

"Yes," he breathed, and slowly straightened, and then looked at her with the most lovesick expression she had ever seen, the one she had been longing to see. "Your ankles," he said, "How come I never noticed you had the most exquisite ankles God ever gave a woman?"

* * *

"Professor De Busque," Father Inigo said after quickly downing a glass of champagne, "I hope this doesn't shock you, but there's something I simply must tell you."

The heat and the champagne had all rushed to Emily's pretty head. She had never seen Father Inigo look so earnest before. She held her breath and looked at him expectantly. At last, he spoke.

"You must allow me to tell you how ardently and violently I adore your ears, your tiny, shell-like ears!"

* * *

"Professor P'ohlig...Molly...please answer me!" Molly heard Mr. Denning's voice as if from very far off. She had swooned. She came to with Mr. Denning's anxious face hovering above hers as he frantically patted her limp hand. "I'm so sorry if I....took liberties....I just couldn't stop myself."

She sat up carefully, clutching the robe around her shoulders. "No, Mr. Denning, I'm just sorry that I behaved in such a ridiculous manner. I think...that's the nicest thing that anyone's ever said about my ankles."

It was Mr. Denning's turn to blush. "Well," he said bashfully, "They really are lovely. So refined and ladylike, and, well," he said, with that old Mr. Denning twinkle in his eye, "Just a little bit saucy."

* * *

"Oh, Professor De Busque, you must have just a sip!" Emily opened her eyes to see Father Inigo pleading with her to have just a bit of champagne. She had swooned. "Really, it will do you good. Can you ever forgive me for my insolence?"

Emily took the glass and had a large, healthy swallow. She gave him a small smile. "Of course I forgive you, Father. I'm just not used to such things being said about my...ears."

Father Inigo seemed to get back a bit of his boldness as he topped up her glass. "I've been wanting to say it for ages, but I couldn't seem to work up the nerve." He ventured out a hand to touch one, and Emily held her breath, but he didn't have quite that much nerve.

* * *

"Well, Mr. Denning, I do appreciate your coming all this way with those....papers," Molly said, hastily adjusting the hem of her robe.

"Oh, not at all, not at all," Mr. Denning blustered, checking the creases on his Italian trousers, and realizing that Molly hadn't signed a single paper.

"Well....until next time then, Mr. Denning," Molly said, demurely proffering her hand to be shook. Mr. Denning gave a little bow, and a little click of his heels, and with one last longing look at Molly's ankles, he took his leave.

* * *

"I do, er, hope that you convey my best wishes to the nuns," Emily nibbled at her lower lip and smoothed an errant curl behind her shell-like ear.

"Oh, yes, yes of course I will," Father Inigo hastened to say, patting his neck to ensure that his collar was still intact.

"I hope that your work with the parish will bring you around this way again soon," Emily said, as they lingered at the door.

"So do I, Professor De Busque, so do I!" Father Inigo stole a final glance at Emily's ears, and he was gone.

* * *

Emily and Molly entered the kitchen at the same time. Mr. Periwinkle and Maude looked up from their game of gin rummy.

"Well," Mr. Periwinkle said, "Aren't hot days just the most boring?"

"Oh, I don't really mind them so much," Molly murmured. "What do you think, Emily?"

"Um, no, not so bad at all, I don't think. Does anyone want some...champagne?"

And even Maudie was allowed to have a glass.

Poppycock Branches Out (or Tries to)

"I'm just not entirely sure I think it's a very good idea," Professor Emilia DeBusque pushed the spectacles she didn't really need a little higher on her daintily upturned nose.

"Oh, but please?" whined Professor Molly P'ohlig from her writing desk, "I think it could be quite good publicity, and a little bit of a diversion from this dreary summer."

Emily put down the latest Alan Hollinghurst manuscript, into which she was trying to inject a little life, and gazed out of the Poppycock windows at the flatly grey English summer sky. "I just don't know, Molly. Do we really want the BBC nosing around in our lives for a whole week? How will we get any work done?"

"But I've always wanted to be in a documentary! And there's hardly much work going on in the summertime," Maude called from her chaise lounge bequeathed to her by the estate of Marghanita Laski, where she was roundly beating Mr. Periwinkle at a game of chess.

"She's right," Molly said, idly playing with some pearls that had once belonged to Julia Strachey, and wondered if an inkstain mightn't be curiously fetching on a wedding dress, "No one ever writes in the summer. It's much better to write when it's gloomy out and you can stay in by the fire."

Emily sighed, knowing that she could very rarely beat Maude and Molly once they'd teamed up. She turned back from the window to find three hopeful faces looking expectantly in her direction. "You're always saying we should try new things, Professor," Mr. Periwinkle said a little wistfully, as Maude's knight swooped down on his queen. "Even if it was Nabokov's chess set, we can't play all summer."

Emily crossed her arms and eyed Molly. "And what does Mr. Denning say? Did you bring it up at your meeting yesterday?"

Molly turned red and began to worry her pearls, mumbling, "Y-yes, I...I think he did say it was a good idea."

Emily bit her lip to hide her smile, and patted the lovely new crucifix around her neck, a gift from Father Inigo. "Alright," she said. "I'll call them tomorrow." Whoops of glee went up around the room, and no one did any work for the rest of the day.

***

(4 days later...)

"Young man, if you do not remove that camera from next to my face, there are going to be consequences," said Emily sternly, and the young man with the video camera nearly fell over his feet in his hasty retreat, having been given a long lecture the day before on the plot of E.M. Delafield's sadly under-appreciated novel.

"Oh, excuse me, dear fellow, but would you mind assisting me? There's a rather large parcel, and I need some help deciphering the return address," Mr. Periwinkle shunted the young man in question over to his mail bag, camera and all, before Emily did him a mischief. Maude was sat in front of the fire, trying to gently turn down the persistent overtures of the smitten young director. Try as she might, he just would not believe that she was coming out of a divorce and felt herself not ready for a relationship as yet. "Well," she said finally, in a bit of a huff, "I suppose you'll just have to wait until the book comes out!"

Molly had been soldiering on through an interview, but was finding that her carefully prepared answers about the best neglected English authoresses were not exactly fitting in with the questions.

"So," said the slick and smarmy young journalist, "Describe your inspirations for the...charming decor here at the Poppycock home office."

"Well, we've all obviously read "How to Run Your Home without Help"," Molly began, trying to hijack the conversation back to literature, "The delightful 1949 instructional manual for the newly servantless, and--"

"What's your opinion on Barbara Cartwright?" the journalist asked, smirking, as he smoothed down an eyebrow.

Molly sat up a little straighter. "Well, she certainly wrote an awful lot of books. Although if I'm looking for romance, I would turn instead to the works of Dorothy Whipple, who had some very keen observations on--"

"And how do you respond to the rumors that you are carrying on an affair with Mr. Denning?"

Emily gasped and Mr. Periwinkle knocked over an entire bottle of gin. Molly remained silent for a moment, and then said, "I believe we may have changed our minds about the documentary."

Maude hopped up and ran to open the door, and Mr. Periwinkle shooed the three horrid young men out. "Alright, I was wrong!" Molly shouted. "Poppycock isn't suited to the outside world at all, and we should have stayed our frumpy little selves all alone. What a disaster! How rude they all were!"

"And they didn't seem to care at all about books," Maude raised her eyebrows, "They just wanted to be...salacious."

"Oh dear, my girls, I think we all owe Emily an apology. I believe our heads got a bit swelled and we forgot who we are." Mr. Periwinkle was still sadly mopping up the gin, wondering only a little bit if he could just squeeze the towel out into a glass.

"And who are we?" Emily asked, putting her arms around Molly and Maude.

"We are...girls who love the Persephone bookstore," Maude said with a nod.

"Girls who like to make naughty asides while watching very prim films based on classic novels," Molly added.

"Lonely girls," Mr. Periwinkle said, dabbing at his nose with the gin-soaked towel.

"We are Poppycock girls," Emily said firmly.

And they loved her so much that they let her pick the miniseries for the afternoon.

The Lonely Girl Guide to Sartorial Matters

Picture the scene: It's 8:20 a.m., and you, Lonely Girl, should have left for work at 8:15. You're standing in front of your closet, befuddled. You wish it was 1815 so you could call in your ladies' maid, who would bring with her a lovely cream-colored poplin gown with delicate little sprigs of flowers all over it. Then you could call your other ladies' maid who would pop in to do up your hair. Come to think of it, you wouldn't have had to go to work either. And now it's 8:25 and you're still not dressed.

This. Won't. Do.

So it's Poppycock to the rescue, with the definitive Lonely Girl guide to properly dressing yourself for every occasion.

***

First things first, Lonely Girl, we need to start off with a comprehensive list of clothes items to be avoided at all costs.

- PANTS SUBSTITUTIONS

I think you know what I mean, but just in case you don't, here you go. There are several items of clothing that parts of the western world have begun to treat as pants, which are most certainly NOT pants. These include, but are by no means restricted to: leggings, tights, hotpants, and, above all things, underwear. This is a relatively easy one to avoid. If you know that you're not wearing a skirt or a dress, look at yourself in the mirror and ask this one simple question: "Am I wearing pants?" If the answer is no, it's back to the closet with you. (A trickier item is harem pants, which tries to deceive you by putting 'pants' in the name. If you're unsure, add this question: "Is there enough room in my pants for an incontinence garment?" That should do the trick.

- STANDING SHOES

Standing shoes are the sort of shoes that Lonely Girls often covet. They are generally too tall, too tight, and too expensive: too everything that matters in a shoe. And most importantly, nearly impossible to walk in without the assistance of a cane or the arm of a slow-moving friend. You will try them on in the store, and ooh and aah as you turn this way and that before the three way mirror. Stop it. Stop it now. These shoes are only good for standing, and only for half an hour at a time, as your back will soon give out. So if you have some sort of bizarre security job where you only work in twenty minute shifts and aren't required to go after anyone or anything, go ahead, although I doubt this job will pay for those shoes. Otherwise...alright, one pair a year.

- HATS

Now now now, settle down, I didn't say ALL hats. Winter hats, for example, fine and dandy, as long as they're not made of fur or decorated with pretend animal ears. You're not seven, after all. Sun hats, also acceptable, as long as it's actually sunny outside and you're actually outside in it.

I'm talking about all-the-time hats. Fedoras, cowboy hats, bowler hats, Greek fisherman hats, newsboy caps, stocking caps, and anything with the vaguest of Isabella Blow-ish pretensions. The problem is that at some point throughout the day, you will inevitably realize that you look stupid in said hat, but by that point it will be too late, because you will have irrevocable hat-hair. You will be too embarrassed to keep the hat on, but too ashamed to take the hat off, so you will go home, drink a bottle of red wine, eat an entire box of chocolates, and fall asleep with mascara streaming down your face. I'm just trying to prevent that, Lonely Girl. No hats.

- JUMPSUITS

Are you really that lazy that you need your shirt and pants sewn together? No. You are not. So skip it, likewise anything going by the name "romper", because if we give into that one, it's a slippery slope until we're all wearing "onesies".

- SHIRTS WITHOUT BRAS

I know, you've seen everyone else doing it. "But Poppycock," you say, "Even the store mannequins are going without bras on their perky plastic boobs." Take a look at the whole picture, Lonely Girl. The store mannequin is also going without a head, hands, or feet that fit into shoes. So unless it's one a'them fancy dresses where you're encouraged to get away with it, don't.

You are not a Hollywood starlet (and bless you for that, you don't want to star in two romantic comedies and then wind up selling crystal meth to your colleagues), you are not an ageing New Age artist with flowing grey locks (and if you are, what are you doing here? Get thyself to Eileen Fisher), you are not a teenager (I'm not even going to address you). You are a Lonely Girl, and Lonely Girls remember what their mothers have told them: Try and eat at least one green vegetable a day, wait for him to call you, be nicer to your brother, and no matter how tiny you may think you are, wear a bra.

- THOSE BIG STUPID BUG-EYED SUNGLASSES THAT THE OLSEN TWINS WEAR

If you need that one explained to you, you might not actually be a Lonely Girl.

***

Alright, now that we're done with things to steer completely clear of, let's take a look at some safe Lonely Girl options. As you well know, the most glaring problem that the Lonely Girl suffers from is her tendency to overdo it. At this precise moment, there is a member of Poppycock Enterprises whose closet contains, among other things: a pink plastic mini-dress, a blue and white Gothic Lolita costume, and a pair of lug-soled, plaid Mary Janes that say "Lucky" on one shoe and "Girl" on the other. The other member of Poppycock once wore a nightgown under a dress in lieu of a slip. To a job interview (which she consequently got, so, kudos anyway).

The point is, Lonely Girls too often enthuse over an outfit in private without really considering the consequences of public viewing. Lonely Girls have enough problems as it is, they should feel confident of going out into the world at large where people will hopefully think, "Hey, that girl over there sure is strange, but darn it all if she doesn't have a smart get-up on!" Or something along those lines.

A Lonely Girl will never look like the rest, so why should she try? Chain stores are all well and good for some items, but the day a Lonely Girl is kitted out head to toe in Banana Republic is the day a Lonely Girl will be taken away screaming by men in little white coats. Vintage clothing is nice, of course, but please, one piece at a time. You do not want to end up reeking of mothballs or looking like your grandmother. Who probably smelled of mothballs. Sometimes you may have the impulse to wear something childish, like, say, a pair of tights with one green leg and one pink leg, or an extra large tee-shirt from Gap Kids. This is all well and good, but moderation is key. The same goes with patterns. Clashing is meant to be very trendy these days, but the Lonely Girl doesn't do it because it's trendy, she does it, like Ronaldinho, just because she likes it. Try and walk that line somewhere in the middle, Lonely Girl, between trendy and tv test pattern.

Fashion magazines often talk about Must-Haves and Necessities and Things Every Right Thinking Woman Can't Live without If She Has Any Intention of Ever Finding Love or Happiness. This is not that. This is, Things a Lonely Girl Could Stand to Have Around.

1. How about a business suit? You know, for interviews and such? That way you don't have to wear your nightgown. You might feel like you're dressing up for Halloween like some sort of businessy-dominatrix, but once you've landed the job, you can put it back in the closet where it can't frighten you any more.

2. A nice pair of jeans. If you spend more than a hundred dollars, your Lonely Girl membership might be revoked. Just find a pair free of tricks or gadgets or zippers in mystifying places, that neither draw nor detract attention from your rear sector. Something that might inspire a thoughtful young man to say, "Gee, I wish I had a swing like that on my back porch!"

3. An elegant coat. Blue coats with toggles are all well and good for regular adventuring, but not so when the Lonely Girl is invited somewhere respectable, like the opera, or a fancy wine bar, or to a state dinner. It should probably be black, and I'm afraid it should lack a hood. You can do it.

4. A blazer. The wonderful thing about blazers is that they give any and everyone the distinct impression that the wearer is a grownup. Try to resist the ones with elbow patches, as this lessens the effect. You can still wear it with your tee-shirt and Converse, if you must.

5. A knock-down, drag-out, very sexy dress. Now, your mother is not going to be happy about that one. But just refer her to the section on Shirts without Bras, and she'll feel better that you at least took some of her advice. Pick your favorite feature and go shopping for a dress that displays it to its best advantage. No, not your ankles. Pick another. If you are careful with your resources, this can even be an expensive dress, if you like. You deserve it! Note: this dress needs to be saved for a bona fide date. Otherwise you'll just look slutty.

***

The thing is, Lonely Girl, you are entitled to wear whatever you want. But it is about time that Lonely Girls everywhere banded together in solidarity, finally possessing the courage to say things to one another like, "No, I don't think you should wear that out" or "Why shouldn't you have a yellow rain slicker and matching boots with handles? Of course you should!"

We here at Poppycock would never, ever want a Lonely Girl to blend in with the crowd. We're just helping you to camouflage a little bit until it's just the right time for the Gothic Lolita dress to come out of the closet.

Now get out there and get dressed.

A Poppycockian Intrigue

"No! No! I am positively not here!" Professor De Busque shouted in a rather agitated manner, rushing over to the Trollope and giving him an angry tug before disappearing off into the house. Professor P'ohlig looked over at Maude, who had caused all of the trouble by saying that she was wanted on the telephone.

"Whatever do you think all that was about?" Molly said, patting down her hair for a lost pencil that never did reappear.

Maude shook her head and uncovered the mouthpiece to say, "I'm most apologetic, I'm sure, Father, but there's a sort of a commotion going on at the moment and Professor De Busque seems to have gotten away from us in the affray....yes, of course I shall tell her that you called."

"Not Father Inigo again!" Molly said in amazement as Maude put down the receiver. "I do believe that something is afoot there, Maudie, that's the fifth time today!"

Maude nodded. "And he sounded more than a little distressed the last three times," she said with a knowing raise of her eyebrows as she went back to the task that had been interrupted by the phone call, dusting the Professors writing surfaces with a very lovely set of feather dusters that had been given to Poppycock by the makers of Masterpiece Theatre. Later on in the day there was to be a Poppycock showing of "Upstairs, Downstairs", Season Nine, in which the dusters themselves appeared.

Molly gave a sharp little nod of her pointy little chin, resolved. "I knew something was awry when two dozen roses arrived this morning for her rather than just the usual tulips. Maude, I think we must close up for the day and get this problem sorted. We must tread carefully, and we're going to need some help. Let's see..." she said, going over to the bursting bookshelves and having a little rummage. "Lawrence, Bronte, Shakespeare, Hardy, all excellent guides on how to ruin a romance. We'll leaf through a few of these to see what we need to avoid."

Maude put down the duster just in time to catch the first edition "Mrs. Dalloway" that Molly threw at her. "But I don't understand, I mean, I can see that we need to know what to avoid, but how will we know what we should do the might help Emily?"

"Mr. Periwinkle's due in just a few moments," Molly said, glancing at the grandfather clock, newly draped with a stuffed snake from the estate of Rudyard Kipling, for Poppycock's work on a kinder, gentler version of "White Man's Burden". She took a velvet ribbon (that Lytton Strachey's niece had worn for her first disastrous wedding) from around her neck and tossed it and the key on it to Maude. Maude looked alarmed, and Molly's visage was similarly grim. "Yes, Maudie. Tell him to go down to the cellar. I'm afraid we're going to require the Jane Austen."

***

"Oh, but I just don't know!" Emily moaned. "Of course, he's very kind and gentle--"

"And handsome!" Maude piped up.

"Yes, that too, and he's ever so helpful and thoughtful--"

"And pious!" Molly shouted, sloshing just the tiniest bit of wine out of her teacup. Emily shot her a vaguely dirty look.

"Yes, and that," she said drily. Then she slumped her pretty shoulders again, and pulled a little tighter the angora shawl that Maude had woven from one of the rabbits willed her by John Updike. "But he doesn't....he's not...."

"Emilia De Busque," Mr. Periwinkle said haughtily, lifting his pinkie finger as he savored a sip of one of the last bottles of Ernest Hemingway's brandy, "If you mention Mr. Darcy one more time, I will tell Professor P'ohlig to farm you out to edit Harlequin romance novels."

"Oh, Mr. Periwinkle, I do wish you'd behave," Molly huffed, and then turned her attentions back to the bigger problem at hand. "Look here, though, Emily, the thing about Mr. Darcy is that at the beginning even Elizabeth didn't know that he was Mr. Darcy!"

Emily looked up, bleary-eyed, and Maude passed her another handkerchief. "I've absolutely no idea what you're on about."

Molly smushed herself into the large leather chair next to Emily. "It's what happens in all of the books, dear! At the beginnings, the fellows who seem, well, not exactly what they were after, turn out to be just the thing! Dull Darcy, boring Edmund, old Colonel Brandon, unsuitable Wentworth, and persnickety Mr. Knightley! It just takes a little time. I doubt old Jane ever heard the phrase "love at first sight", but I don't doubt she would have put it down as absolute twaddle if she had."

"But how can you all lecture me so?" Emily pouted. "Especially you, Molly. I do believe you loved Mr. Denning madly from his first 'ello."

Molly blushed hotly. "Well, er, that was a special case. I've always been more of a Hardy girl myself. And you know how they end up! Drowned!"

"Girls, you're beginning to go in circles!" Mr. Periwinkle trilled. "Or is the brandy speaking? Anyway. Here's the thing of it: Love must happen the way it happens. All at once or little by little or never at all. And one must simply wait and see. There's no point rushing about, if things are meant to be then there's no way around them. My dear," he turned a little too sharply here and nearly fell into Emily's lap, but managed to right himself. "Father Inigo is indeed a worthy young man, but only time will tell if your affections wend the same way as his. For now, accept his roses and enjoy his frivolities. You should have an admirer. If someday you realize that your feelings for him are of a more...shall we say, "Manon des Sources" flavor, well, that shall be dealt with when the time comes."

Apart from his unusual proclivity for making obscure references to mid-twentieth century French novels, Mr. Periwinkle really could be quite sage sometimes.

***

"Did you have a nice time? Come and sit," Molly patted the carpet next to her, and Emily curled up in front of the fire. The flames flickered a charming reflection on their white nightgowns, a gift of thanks from a descendant of Louisa May Alcott, just a month after Poppycock had completely revamped the plot of "Little Women" to make it a little less twee. AND they let Jo and Laurie get married, while Amy ended up an old maid. Anyways, Molly and Emily sat in their nightgowns before the fire with mugs of hot milk and rehashed Emily's night out with Father Inigo.

"And after a lovely dinner we thought we might go dancing, but Father was wearing his clerical collar, so we decided on a lovely moonlit stroll along the lake instead." Emily put her dreamy drowsy head down onto a cushioned footstool. "He really is a darling, and I think someday I might....or I might not...but for now it doesn't matter. I'm just going to flit about in party dresses and dainty shoes for a while and not give it another thought."

"I think that's an excellent idea," Molly declared. "Now, who wants their hair braided?" And the two professors of Poppycock Industries stayed up late into the starry night, talking of what might and what could and what may, and not a word of what never could have been.