Exhibition
IF one leaves the Daily Mail Ideal Home Exhibition with the dan- gerous illusion that all is well with British industry, then at least, in these bleak days. it is a very sweet illusion. Indeed, to wander through the crowded thoroughfares of Olympia, past the stalls laden with goods which one had believed had disappeared from the shops for longer than an eternity, is to experience the newly-discovered emotions of anticipation and pleasure. Here, at last, is real evidence that Britain can make it, and make it in a fashion which, for the most part, seemed devoid of war-time austerity and economy. It is true that to stop and enquire about delivery dates is to experience a return of some of the accustomed feeling of frustration. And, if all must admire, few will share the feeling of optimism of the organisers, who announce that most of the goods on display are available for immediate purchase. But it is indisputably an advance on any recent exhibition that none of the goods is labelled "for export only." Probably no thanks are due to Sir Stafford Cripps.
This, the twenty-fourth of the series, seemed even better than its predecessors. All the familiar features of the pre-war Ideal Home Exhibitions have reappeared, and a number of new ones have been added. With over boo exhibitors in twenty-six different sections, it would be invidious to particularise. But, on a frigid morning, there is much to be said for starting with some free samples—they still exist!—of sandwiches, soup or coffee in the .Food and Cookery Section. Those who adopt this plan would be well advised to arm themselves with shopping-bags and ration-books. It is true that some of the most attractive of the exhibits are either not for sale or else made of cunningly contrived cardboard, but there is still a sufficiency of things that can be bought. Enough certainly to con- vince any woman that either her grocer is deplorably lacking in initiative or else he is an oaf who keeps his favours in the back of the shop. In this section I liked, as much as anything, the tins of self-heating soup which have long been the prerogative of the Services. but which now appear to be available—Mr. Strachey should look into this—for the unprivileged, the ordinary consumer. There was a scale-model of a vinegar brewery which held me in thrall. And there was a box of frozen strawberries which I was sorely tempted to thaw in the approved manner at the modest cost of a guinea.
Among the household necessities were the usual superb displays of labour-saving devices—delivery one to two years, Mr. Shinwell permitting—and among them was a beautiful little gadget, a com- bination clock, kettle and lamp, which performed the triple function of awakening one at a prescribed hour, lighting the bedside lamp and producing a pot of early-morning tea—all in one movement. Down- stairs is the somewhat whimsically named Village of Beginning Again, in which are exhibited some specimens of prefabricated houses built of different basic materials and in individual constructional designs. They are remarkable examples of functional planning at its best. Even those with more orthodox dwellings will be envious of the fitted labour-saving devices and the really admirable use of some- what restricted space. As an example of value for money it would be difficult to improve on the aluminium house put up by the Ministry of Supply. It is satisfactory to learn that more than 54,000 are due for erection this year.
Not far from the houses are—as one would expect—the gardens, and strolling among the blooming daffodils, tulips and hyacinths, attractively laid out in beds which skirt the lawns and streams with their little waterfalls, I found it difficult to realise that outside the thermometer had rarely, in past weeks, risen above freezing. A stringed orchestra contributes to the illusion. Here, in fact, within call of the Village of Beginning Again are the gardens in the Land of Make Believe.
Indeed, the atmosphere of Never Never Land pervades the whole • exhibition, from the cosmetics in their elegant trimmings to the Court of Fashion, which will be a magnet for every women visitor. If Lord Rothermere had arranged for a pumpkin to change into a Cinderella-carriage nobody would have felt any surprise. As it is, as one wanders from stall to stall, the last eight years drop away unnoticed and one is back in x939, when it really was possible to buv what one wanted in the shops Only the queues outside the buffets are a rude reminder of 1947. But at least we owe a debt of gratitude to The Daily Mail for giving us the opportunity of seizing
Previous page
