Leadenhall: More MEAT Plz

As it is related to things Beeton, I will share some photos of the Leadenhall Market in London, the covered Victorian market that Mr. Redux and I escaped into while being pelted with wind and rain.
While walking through the market, I noticed long rows of very scary hooks lining the walls. I asked the husband, who, being British, is an automatic Expert On All Things British, what the hooks were for.

"I don't know...probably for hanging up wares, like vegetables."

Now, I may not be an Expert, but I doubted that brussel sprouts needed such a formidable claw to be displayed. So I found an image of Leadenhall in its glory years, and lo and behold:

The original meat market, surprisingly not located in Picadilly Circus.

Luckily, the hooks are now only ominous reminders of the hundreds of beasties hung out in the element, which presumably is a perfectly safe and incredibly attractive way of displaying meat products. The Victorians thought so, which is why they spoke so highly of Leadenhall:

Leadenhall Market is the greatest market in London for the sale of country-killed meat, particularly beef, and was till lately the only skin and leather market in the metropolis.

Mogg's New Picture of London and Visitor's Guide to it Sights, 1844

Butchered beef and its skin: surely one of the finest sights London had to offer in 1844. But it wasn't all a delightful, bloody diversion.

It would scarcely be credited that, in splendid London, women are subjected to various kinds of severe and repulsive toil .... For example, the porterage of meat at the wholesale markets, as Newgate and Leadenhall, is performed by women, many of them old. You will see these wretched creatures stagger under the weight of a side of beef, or having an entire sheep upon their heads, conveying their burdens to the butchers carts, drawn up in the vicinity of the market ...

The World of London, by John Murray, in Blackwoods Magazine, July 1841

You may think John Murray is bemoaning the plight of poor Black Beauty and other sad workhorses, but he's talking about the most maligned pack animal of all: women! All I know is that if I could lift a whole sheep on my head, I would feel pretty damned proud of myself.

(source)

Freezing Scandanavian Cleanliness is Close to Norse Godliness

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CLEANLINESS IS ALSO INDISPENSABLE TO HEALTH, and must be studied both in regard to the person and the house, and all that it contains. Cold or tepid baths should be employed every morning, unless, on account of illness or other circumstances, they should be deemed objectionable.

This is one area where I inadvertently follow Mrs. Beeton's advice. The biggest challenge in this flat is staying warm. I must confess with the greatest affection that my other half is a major power miser. Living in Missouri in a house too large for just me, I kept the house always at a tolerable temperature and didn't even touch the water heater. I never experienced chill or hot water running out on me, and my bills were still fairly decent for a three-story place.

Cut to England: land of chill and damp. Not that I am surprised; England gets the reputation for being soggy and foggy. But even in this flat which you would think would be easy to heat, it is always chilly. And the hot water heater is the size of a teacup. Even if I remember to switch it on, I must wait for a good 30 minutes to have a fifteen-minute hot shower, which at the stroke of whenever magically turns into an icy waterfall. I realize fifteen minutes is long enough, especially for a girl with hardly any hair, but I have been accustomed to luxury 25-minute showers wherein I mostly just stand under the spray and think.


It is enough to make one a shut-in, shabbily piling on dressing gowns and not bathing for days, not stepping outside a four-foot radius of the radiator. I indeed have already spent two entire days inside (not in succession) because lets face it: it's hard to explore a new country when it's freezing and damp and horrible and you don't have a waterproof (or raincoat). Just a shoddy £2 umbrella.

London was even colder and wetter: as there wasn't much time to do something other than the party we were attending, I made plans to wake up early and we would walk down to the Thames, about 1 mile. We made it about .5 miles before we were soaked to the bone and miserable, and turned back. But not before exploring a -covered- Victorian market all done up for Christmas. Thank you, Victorians, for having the foresight to put a roof on top of your primitive shopping mall.

Our stop in Bath on the way home was more pleasant, and we shopped the outdoor Christmas market there in dry weather, ending with Moroccan at a fabulous restaurant.

The best part? The hotel bath tub/shower, which never quit its delicious supply of hot water. The little things.

On Sequined Petticoats and Grave Hues

IN PURCHASING ARTICLES OF WEARING APPAREL, whether it be a silk dress, a bonnet, shawl, or riband, it is well for the buyer to consider three things: I. That it be not too expensive for her purse. II. That its colour harmonize with her complexion, and its size and pattern with her figure. III. That its tint allow of its being worn with the other garments she possesses.


The clothing stores here are filled with the shiniest, sparkliest offerings one could imagine - it's rather disgusting really but I WANT something from Top Shop or River Island or T.K. Maxx (T.J. Maxx here, stretch I know) that is covered with baubles and sequins and feathers. Something akin to a figure-skating costume circa 1989. I know I will only wear it once in December, possibly on New Year's. I know it is bad move trying to match poor outfit decisions with these Hello! reading, like-to-think-they're-in-London-cause-they-can-shop-at-Topshop teens who I have to weave in and out of on my way to Poundland, but I WANT it. My two-suitcases worth of clothing options barely include any sparklers, and how will I go toe-to-toe in this country otherwise?

But, as Mrs. Beeton says, I must consider my purse. Which not only doesn't go with any of those spangly monstrosities, but is also considerably empty. I also don't think mirrored sequins harmonizes with my complexion. As a brunette, I must wear: silks of a grave hue. Sounds rather uplifting, doesn't it? Hey dark-hair, why don't you go vamp it up in yesterday's burial shroud while us blonde Betties have a laugh in sequined petticoats and dayglo bloomers.

Ah well. At least Mr. Redux and I are off to London tomorrow. We have a pretty posh hotel lined up and who knows what else we will discover. I will just have to do it wearing my old American frocks.