I love her Russian velvet, a dark forest spanning the Ural mountains,
Let me ski, dear devushka, on those white slopes of yours,
Falling into a dark crevice,
A gulag of the soul.
Let me wander along your Nevsky Prospekt,
Smetana on the pavement.
Showing posts with label Russian Velvet. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Russian Velvet. Show all posts
Friday, 18 May 2012
Wednesday, 16 May 2012
Russian Velvet by Sam Smith
‘What about Russian Velvet?’ he asked, throwing the paper bag in the bin. He brushed some crumbs onto the pavement and a twitchy looking pigeon stared longingly at them, bopping around as if trying to find the best angle of approach.
I wanted him to know what a stupid suggestion that was, so I stopped mid chew, tilted my neck in a very odd fashion and raised an eyebrow. In case he didn’t get the message, I felt like I should probably verbalise some sort of response rather than just giving him the most unfriendly of looks. ‘You are the dumbest fuck.’
‘Why?’ he said. As he sat down on the bench, I continued to chew my bite of sandwich. I hoped that he would use this time to think about what he said and maybe offer an explanation. But no, he just kept looking at me, completely bemused as to why I thought “Russian Velvet” was horrific.
I finished chewing. ‘You have to understand what I am about to say is completely honest. We’ve known each other for a very long and I think we’re past the point of lying to make sure we don’t hurt the other’s feelings. Okay?’
He nodded.
I sighed. ‘Okay. So what you are telling me is that you want to name your child, your unborn daughter, “Russian Velvet”?’ I made sure to enunciate the last two words carefully just so he could hear how ridiculous they sound.
He nodded again.
‘That’s a fucking horrible name. It’s like you want her to become a stripper or something. You might as well name her “Tip Generously”.’ After thinking about it for a second, I felt the need to add, ‘Don’t even think about considering that as a name either.’
‘I wasn’t!’ he scowled.
To make a point, I tucked my sandwich in the paper bag. This showed him that I was mentally involved in the conversation. ‘Well I wouldn’t be surprised if you did! It seems you don’t have much talent in picking names and just read them off of toilet roll packages!’
He did something vague with his hand, like he was trying to discourage an eager bumblebee.
More of a point needed to be made, so I put my hand on his shoulder, a classic move by anyone’s standards. ‘You have to promise me. Do not utter those two words as a suggestion for your child’s name to your wife. Shit, don’t even say them together to anyone. Forget that one of those words exists. Probably velvet. I think you can get away with never saying velvet again. You would have a struggle not saying Russian at some point in your life. But, for the love of whatever, don’t name your child “Russian Velvet”.’
He rolled his eyes and nodded. The pigeon seemed to coo in agreement as it picked away at the crumbs of the floor.
I wanted him to know what a stupid suggestion that was, so I stopped mid chew, tilted my neck in a very odd fashion and raised an eyebrow. In case he didn’t get the message, I felt like I should probably verbalise some sort of response rather than just giving him the most unfriendly of looks. ‘You are the dumbest fuck.’
‘Why?’ he said. As he sat down on the bench, I continued to chew my bite of sandwich. I hoped that he would use this time to think about what he said and maybe offer an explanation. But no, he just kept looking at me, completely bemused as to why I thought “Russian Velvet” was horrific.
I finished chewing. ‘You have to understand what I am about to say is completely honest. We’ve known each other for a very long and I think we’re past the point of lying to make sure we don’t hurt the other’s feelings. Okay?’
He nodded.
I sighed. ‘Okay. So what you are telling me is that you want to name your child, your unborn daughter, “Russian Velvet”?’ I made sure to enunciate the last two words carefully just so he could hear how ridiculous they sound.
He nodded again.
‘That’s a fucking horrible name. It’s like you want her to become a stripper or something. You might as well name her “Tip Generously”.’ After thinking about it for a second, I felt the need to add, ‘Don’t even think about considering that as a name either.’
‘I wasn’t!’ he scowled.
To make a point, I tucked my sandwich in the paper bag. This showed him that I was mentally involved in the conversation. ‘Well I wouldn’t be surprised if you did! It seems you don’t have much talent in picking names and just read them off of toilet roll packages!’
He did something vague with his hand, like he was trying to discourage an eager bumblebee.
More of a point needed to be made, so I put my hand on his shoulder, a classic move by anyone’s standards. ‘You have to promise me. Do not utter those two words as a suggestion for your child’s name to your wife. Shit, don’t even say them together to anyone. Forget that one of those words exists. Probably velvet. I think you can get away with never saying velvet again. You would have a struggle not saying Russian at some point in your life. But, for the love of whatever, don’t name your child “Russian Velvet”.’
He rolled his eyes and nodded. The pigeon seemed to coo in agreement as it picked away at the crumbs of the floor.
Russian Velvet by Emily Chadwick
Marie looked at the fabric swatches spread out on the coffee table, a frown marring her delicate lips.
“What about this one?”
The tip of one slender finger touched a deep red velvet.
“Ah, that’s Russian velvet.” Anton clapped his hands together. “Very popular in the upper circles.”
“Are Russians well known for their velvet?”
“I don’t really know, madam.”
“Never mind, then. To be honest, I find velvet a rather heavy fabric, don’t you?” She paused. “Do you have any Russian silk?”
“Ah, no. For curtains?”
“I don’t know, I think silk curtains would be absolutely marvellous. They’d practically dance in the breeze.”
Anton dabbed at his forehead with his handkerchief.
“I… I can make some enquiries.”
“Good. Whilst you do that, could you also find out if Russia is known for its velvet? I’m curious.”
“Of course, madam.”
“What about this one?”
The tip of one slender finger touched a deep red velvet.
“Ah, that’s Russian velvet.” Anton clapped his hands together. “Very popular in the upper circles.”
“Are Russians well known for their velvet?”
“I don’t really know, madam.”
“Never mind, then. To be honest, I find velvet a rather heavy fabric, don’t you?” She paused. “Do you have any Russian silk?”
“Ah, no. For curtains?”
“I don’t know, I think silk curtains would be absolutely marvellous. They’d practically dance in the breeze.”
Anton dabbed at his forehead with his handkerchief.
“I… I can make some enquiries.”
“Good. Whilst you do that, could you also find out if Russia is known for its velvet? I’m curious.”
“Of course, madam.”
Russian Velvet by Lesley Whyte
"Had you considered velvet for the bedroom? We just received a shipment of this gorgeous plum velvet, Russian. It's divine."
"Velvet? It wouldn't look cheap?"
"No, no, not at all," Avery said, fixing her best professional smile in place. She'd been working with Jennifer Hill for years, she had helped pick out every single item in that woman's house and was offended by her comment. Jennifer Hill was no stranger to cheap, she spent a lot of money to get it. Avery had fought bitterly against the leopard-print satin bedsheets for the master suite last year. And the enormous crystal chandelier in the dining room. Not to mention to the faux polar bear rug in the study. All the money in the world couldn't buy you taste. Avery looked around the Hawaiian-inspired living room, thinking about what she would have done to the house if she'd been lucky enough to marry into the Hill family.
"I'm not sure. Do you have a sample?"
"Not on me, we only received the shipment this morning."
"Plum, you say?" Jennifer pursed her lips, looking at the swatches of fabric that were splayed over her bamboo coffee table. "Could we get it in red? You know how I like red."
"Velvet? It wouldn't look cheap?"
"No, no, not at all," Avery said, fixing her best professional smile in place. She'd been working with Jennifer Hill for years, she had helped pick out every single item in that woman's house and was offended by her comment. Jennifer Hill was no stranger to cheap, she spent a lot of money to get it. Avery had fought bitterly against the leopard-print satin bedsheets for the master suite last year. And the enormous crystal chandelier in the dining room. Not to mention to the faux polar bear rug in the study. All the money in the world couldn't buy you taste. Avery looked around the Hawaiian-inspired living room, thinking about what she would have done to the house if she'd been lucky enough to marry into the Hill family.
"I'm not sure. Do you have a sample?"
"Not on me, we only received the shipment this morning."
"Plum, you say?" Jennifer pursed her lips, looking at the swatches of fabric that were splayed over her bamboo coffee table. "Could we get it in red? You know how I like red."
Russian Velvet by Meg Burrows
‘Russian Velvet – eugh, it makes me feel so cheap!’
‘Anything’s going to make you feel cheap from here, besides, its for one time and one time only – just get it and we can go.’
‘What the…. What is a ‘Coxy Harrington’ meant to be?’
‘I have no idea. No. Sorry’
‘That just looks wrong – where are you meant to put things in that?’
‘Maybe you’re not.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re not meant to put them anywhere… you just, well, let them hang.’
‘They hang enough by themselves, the whole idea of this was to give me some oomph, some POW WOW – not POW – looking –like – a – cow. Oh, let’s just forget it.’
‘No, come on look, this ones ok. ‘Champagne Charisma’ – not too bad, not too many buckles, not too colourful…’
‘There’s no colour. It’s like cat’s sick or old porridge. No, I’d rather just leave it – if I can’t go with what I’ve got, there’s no point is there.’
‘Totally. Go with it, let it all hang – I mean flow, go with the flow.’
‘Anything’s going to make you feel cheap from here, besides, its for one time and one time only – just get it and we can go.’
‘What the…. What is a ‘Coxy Harrington’ meant to be?’
‘I have no idea. No. Sorry’
‘That just looks wrong – where are you meant to put things in that?’
‘Maybe you’re not.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re not meant to put them anywhere… you just, well, let them hang.’
‘They hang enough by themselves, the whole idea of this was to give me some oomph, some POW WOW – not POW – looking –like – a – cow. Oh, let’s just forget it.’
‘No, come on look, this ones ok. ‘Champagne Charisma’ – not too bad, not too many buckles, not too colourful…’
‘There’s no colour. It’s like cat’s sick or old porridge. No, I’d rather just leave it – if I can’t go with what I’ve got, there’s no point is there.’
‘Totally. Go with it, let it all hang – I mean flow, go with the flow.’
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