I can’t decide if the women’s page of the Evening Post in 1912 was satire or reportage.
I assume this is reportage:
It is difficult to understand the urge of some women in 1912 to be hobbled by their skirts.
But then Mr. Errors couldn’t explain this either:
I suppose this is quite handy when you need to go to the toilet but otherwise I can’t see the use of this fashion. The poor, emaciated boys who shuffle around with their underwear showing seem to be constantly pulling their jeans back up again. We can be thankful that this is a fashion paired with boxers and not briefs.
Although the reporter from the Evening Post is not impressed by a divorce being granted on the grounds of anorexia, many of the articles in this section are about fashion and beauty products. Which makes the following piece rather curious.
I can remember a time when makeup was considered the preserve of women of ill-repute. Perhaps this is what the writer is against. I’m afraid though, that we are not done with our guide to woman-hood. Here are two pieces that I assume are satirical. The first offers us a guide to determining the age of a dinner guest.
I am not sure what the cheese reference means. Mr. Errors enjoys cheese. He enjoys it so much that Ms Errors has to routinely berate him about the cost of cheese. Both of them are over 35 but there is, unfortunately, a distinct lack of game offered at the dining table. In fact, they eat a lot of foreign muck: pasta and rice and noodles. Personally I feel that they are dicing with their constitutions. What I wouldn’t give to come to dinner and find some nice chops and a mound of vegetables boiled for the requisite twenty minutes.
The final piece today is about dancing. I think this is definitely a satire on the various dance crazes that were sweeping the dance halls of the time.
I neither Grizzly Beared or Turkey Trotted in my time, although I came into the living the other day and found Mr Errors doing what I assume was the Grizzly Bear with his youngest daughter.
Next to this absurdity I think the Turkey Trot appears to be quite civilised. More civilised than the Bunny Hug anyway.