Pop and Circumstance

Thanks to Facebook, of which I am not a member since an infant school comrade who I couldn’t say “you’re not my friend” to plastered a picture of herself at the top of my page with knickers down by her ankles and a tankard of scrumpy jammed on a toothless grin.

Check out my page and suddenly James McMenemy means worn out slag. Cheers. Who needs such circumstantial evidence on the web to ensure you never get that hoped for job or marriage into a minor royal family?

Anyway. Thanks to Facebook, I see that I’m not the only James McMenemy on the planet so maybe I got away with having mud girl tarnish a name that isn’t exclusively my own. Us James McMenemys are popping up all over the place and, if we believe in statistics, some are going to be more worthwhile than others.

Name- popping leads disingenuously to this week’s target: The Pop Up Shop where some are definitely more worthwhile than others.
Pop Up Shops: they’ve been around for some time but are now spawning with alacrity. If you were to amalgamate a “popping” track of each new venture its rhythm would echo the music from Jaws just before the eponymous actor bites a chunk from an unsuspecting midriff.

Bankers, Religions, Diet or Exercise fads; I tend to see anything that makes money as the shark and anyone who adds to its vault as the swimmer.
Although I'm now getting the urge to launch a fantasy on Pop- Up Banks and/ or Churches (no doubt they're coming), I'll stay on course and continue that this neatly coined moniker “Pop Up” artfully describes the “where did that come from” nature of the retail beasts who are luring us in with baits of novelty and limited availability.

Jump off the consumer wagon for a moment, grab hold of the creature and try pressing down its-a-stick-up fur. If you share my alphabet you’ll find the word IRRESPONSIBLE branded on a hide that has become even thicker from hunting in the dark of today’s economy.
Why irresponsible? Because this flash in the pan “we won’t be here for long” concept means that retailers/ restaurateurs/ clubs et al are able to present us with an improvised world where we still part with the cash but now get none of the frills that made it worthwhile. An exclusive price tagged on third world comfort.

limited pleasures

But I don’t want to undress squeezed behind the back seat before buying Tom Ford smoking on a traveling Fash Bus. I want coaxing within cherry- wood dressing rooms surrounded by full- length mirrors on Saville Row with three or four sycophants earning a fussing- sweat around me.
Surely we understand that business is also sprinting on worn out shoes? Help us stay afloat. Put up with our temporary space.
Tough.
I’m also not handing out 100 quid to sit on a tea chest in a disused abattoir to munch on tarted- up packet food whilst a waiter goads that I was lucky to get a table. It makes me wonder what the alternative was; lining up at that trough in the alley?

There’s a manic marketing strategy aimed to convince that Pop Up is some rare orchid that will flower for one night only. We’re whipped up in a frenzy to cram one naff venue after another lest woe- betide it’s suddenly game over and we have to confess: “I never got to taste that tomato soup”

cash up and go

Harold Skimpole from “Bleak House” springs to mind who, "in the habit of sponging his friends" often refers to himself as "a child" and claims not to understand the complexities of human relationships, circumstances, and society- when, in fact, he understands them all too well.
One doesn’t have to pry beneath the frothy façade of Skimpole’s profaned simplicity to realize that he would tug out his mother’s gold tooth if he could corner a buyer.

Established stores must be spitting out tried and tested expletives.

I can’t, however, entirely bite off the hand that’s feeding me (this week) and now that we’ve mentioned gold I’m going to embark on a precious review of one new establishment to enhance the London landscape- and guess what? It’s a Pop Up Shop and it’s fantastic.

reliably decadent

Step into 34 Marshall Street and you’ll enter “The Powder Room” a refuge reserved from any surrounding unpleasantness.
Fitted out in immaculate 1950’s chic, an aroma of pampering hovers in the air and tickles the senses into a happy state of being.
This is the new home of the renowned “Powderpuff Girls” - a chorus of costumed beauty professionals who for the past five years have been making women look and feel more gorgeous.
Already famous for their deft brush strokes at major events and openings, the girl’s wands are now able to cater for the individual glamour seeker.

Going to a premier after work with no time between to get home to the suburbs? The girls will make sure you’re the one who ends up being snapped by the Papz. Their combined abilities have been forged through years of working in Stage and Screen and (unlike many “specialists”) you actually can rely on their taste and talents to fabulise.

Like a private club without the annual fee, you can go there with your posse and fill the place with champagne laughter and gossip.
I’m writing this as a man who apart from hanging out with his girlfriend(s) or wife (even) would not necessarily need to move past the services of  mannisage (nails with shoulder rub) but then again, you don’t have to take the vows to visit the nunnery and it is a simply wonderful haven to be part of whilst the women do their thing. You can learn a lot when the fairer sex forget you’re there.

"A woman's face is her fiction" (Oscar Wilde)

In fact “The Powder Room” reminds me of the classic movie “The Women” albeit without the predatory Crystal Allen in attendance, which is perhaps my only axe to grind; I’d have enjoyed watching a lip-bitch fight through a powder storm but when Katie Reynolds, the proprietress, glides in, it becomes clear that any storm will remain in it's tea cup.

This Mistress of Savoir- Hair, Make-Up and Nails speaks volumes about style without having to utter a word. If I hone in on her I can see an Edwardian hostess from an Augustus John painting. Far too beautiful for a Duchess, she would have been a Right Honourable and London would have been held in her sway through the height of The Season.
If I blink and fast forward to The Thirties I can see her as muse to Paris with every Artist in residence vying to be taken as her lover.
I wouldn’t be surprised to see her, Orlando-like, take a transforming leap to 1989 and confront the tanks of Tiananmen Square, willfully standing for what she believes in. We’re talking about quality and this episodic time- travel paints a journey in life, which with accumulated knowledge is being put to use in the rituals of glamour and grooming.

Forget Pop Up and Scarper Off, I’m sure this establishment is here to stay: The Graces Of Now- Surfing (Talent, Dedication and Intelligence) are working overtime in Marshall Street. Conveniently located behind historically marvelous Liberty’s, it is a winning antidote to recessionitis (yawn).
“The Powder Room” provides a service of sincere decadence that makes the good times even better and lets dreams live when we’re down at heel.

Maybe I should get back on to Facebook, if only to post a tip for that childhood chum to grab a cab and visit Ms Reynolds for assistance. The results would surely do my name a favour.
“The Powder Room”
34 Marshall Street, London W1 F7
Tel: 0844 879 4928 or inform yourself by visiting

www.thepowderpuffgirls.com