Today
A couple of days ago, driving past Downside Abbey, I found myself thinking about monasteries, the kind of life monks lead and what induces someone to become a monk.
In My Day
To my knowledge I only ever knew one person who'd been a monk. His name was Tony White and we both worked for the Inland Revenue while I was at Lewes in 1977. He was a stocky man of about fifty, with a grey beard and uncompromising expression. It was he who dubbed the unborn Becky the "Sprog" after his naval days. As we got to know each other he told me firstly about his seafarings days and then about his life as a monk. I think he'd been at Buckfast, although I have to say that my memory is hazy on this. He was no singer of plainsong or meekly devout man and, by the time I knew him, seemed to have forgotten what took him into the cloistered life.
By nature a man of action, he eventually decided that he could live a devoutly Catholic life without shutting himself away, so he left. He married late in life and had one son, Jonathan, who gave him great delight and who seemed to be lots of fun.
The question of having a second child arose. He confided in me. "My wife is already in her late forties", he said "and the chances are that not only would a second pregnancy be difficult for her but she would also have a very high chance of having a Down's Syndrome baby." His solution was for them to adopt a Down's Syndrome baby instead, thus removing the physical risk to his wife, while augmenting his family and doing good for an unwanted child.
The child was a girl and he described how happy Jonathan was, how his wife was taking pains to give the girl as much mental stimulus as possible and how they hoped at least to be able to give her a good and happy childhood, even if she needed to be transferred into care after her teens. (Knowing Tony, I doubt whether he would have had the heart ever to do this last thing.)
Tony proved to me that there are many ways of devoting yourself to the ideals of your religion other than shutting yourself away from human joy, need and interaction.
I wonder if he is still alive, but I hope that both his children are and living the life that his generous and large spirit made possible.
Wednesday, May 01, 2013
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Terms of Endearment
Today
Cold callers, whether they are selling double-glazing or trying to persuade you that you unwittingly bought PPI against an unspecified loan and they are here to help you, like to time their calls just when you've finished your day's work and are settling down with a cuppa and "pointless" on TV.
This is what happened yesterday - the phone went at about five-fifteen. "It's for you", said Paul, handing over the phone.
A chappie with an unidentifiable Northern accent started up his spiel: "It's nothing to worry about, my love," he began "I'm calling from a public safety company; not trying to sell anything." "Was I expecting this call?" I asked, suspiciously "Which public safety company?" "Well, my love, we're just a public safety company and what it is, my love..." continued the caller. "Do I know you?" I countered. "Well, you see, my love...". "I wish you'd stop calling me "your love", I said "I am not your love and very unlikely ever to be so." "And I'll stop this conversation," was the tetchy response.
Now, I understand that these people are just trying to earn a paltry living selling unsaleable products, but I resent being addressed in a patronising and, dare I say it, covertly misogynistic, way by a complete stranger. What is wrong with "Mrs Barrett"?
In My Day
It was late 1989 and we decided that 7 Mead Close urgently needed decorating and recarpeting. The floors were bare and the furniture piled up an an unusable way. The new carpet was ordered, the delivery date whizzed closer and closer and we were still not finished. Work was interrupted for our annual Christmas Eastbourne visits, thus further reducing the available time.
Add to this that we hate decorating and aren't good at it, and you will understand that tempers were a little fractious. While Paul attempted to paint the artexed ceiling over the stairwell I started to varnish the banister rails. The doorbell rang.
I went to open it and was confronted by a very young door-to-door salesman. He looked about seventeen and his supervisor appeared to be in a car parked in the Close. Clutching the pot of varnish I looked grimly at this young man.
He twitched nervously, looked anxiously over his shoulder at the supervisor and decided he'd better get started. "Hello, my love..." He got no further. "I am not your love; how dare you address me in that way when you have never met me? Show some respect..." I went on in this vein for a time while he looked as if he was about to be engulfed in flames.
Eventually he shuffled off and I shut the door firmly. I stomped back up the uncarpeted stairs in my socks and grasped the paint brush. In my fury, I missed my footing and slipped down the stairs, narrowly missing the glazed front door. (Becky always says that she saved me from serious injury by catching me before I went through the glass.)
The pot of varnish flew through the air, describing an elegant arc, and came to rest upside-down on the floor, having managed to miss the three-piece suite. And I threw a genuine tantrum and refused to pick up a paintbrush again.
I love it when my friends and family use endearments, but when it comes to strangers I like to set my own terms.
Cold callers, whether they are selling double-glazing or trying to persuade you that you unwittingly bought PPI against an unspecified loan and they are here to help you, like to time their calls just when you've finished your day's work and are settling down with a cuppa and "pointless" on TV.
This is what happened yesterday - the phone went at about five-fifteen. "It's for you", said Paul, handing over the phone.
A chappie with an unidentifiable Northern accent started up his spiel: "It's nothing to worry about, my love," he began "I'm calling from a public safety company; not trying to sell anything." "Was I expecting this call?" I asked, suspiciously "Which public safety company?" "Well, my love, we're just a public safety company and what it is, my love..." continued the caller. "Do I know you?" I countered. "Well, you see, my love...". "I wish you'd stop calling me "your love", I said "I am not your love and very unlikely ever to be so." "And I'll stop this conversation," was the tetchy response.
Now, I understand that these people are just trying to earn a paltry living selling unsaleable products, but I resent being addressed in a patronising and, dare I say it, covertly misogynistic, way by a complete stranger. What is wrong with "Mrs Barrett"?
In My Day
It was late 1989 and we decided that 7 Mead Close urgently needed decorating and recarpeting. The floors were bare and the furniture piled up an an unusable way. The new carpet was ordered, the delivery date whizzed closer and closer and we were still not finished. Work was interrupted for our annual Christmas Eastbourne visits, thus further reducing the available time.
Add to this that we hate decorating and aren't good at it, and you will understand that tempers were a little fractious. While Paul attempted to paint the artexed ceiling over the stairwell I started to varnish the banister rails. The doorbell rang.
I went to open it and was confronted by a very young door-to-door salesman. He looked about seventeen and his supervisor appeared to be in a car parked in the Close. Clutching the pot of varnish I looked grimly at this young man.
He twitched nervously, looked anxiously over his shoulder at the supervisor and decided he'd better get started. "Hello, my love..." He got no further. "I am not your love; how dare you address me in that way when you have never met me? Show some respect..." I went on in this vein for a time while he looked as if he was about to be engulfed in flames.
Eventually he shuffled off and I shut the door firmly. I stomped back up the uncarpeted stairs in my socks and grasped the paint brush. In my fury, I missed my footing and slipped down the stairs, narrowly missing the glazed front door. (Becky always says that she saved me from serious injury by catching me before I went through the glass.)
The pot of varnish flew through the air, describing an elegant arc, and came to rest upside-down on the floor, having managed to miss the three-piece suite. And I threw a genuine tantrum and refused to pick up a paintbrush again.
I love it when my friends and family use endearments, but when it comes to strangers I like to set my own terms.
Sunday, March 17, 2013
The Game of the Name
Today
Of course baby clothes aren't the only subject of conversation; there is also the question of baby names. Becky and Richard have two lists (strictly confidential) set up on their I-pads. They range from the hilarious to the dull and I'm sure they'll come up with the perfect name. Of course, with modern scans, they'll be able to ditch one list entirely in a week or two.
In My Day
Naming the baby is always a matter for debate, unless you are just repeating mother or father's names. When we were expecting Lizzie, the sex of the baby wouldn't be known until the birth so we had to keep both lists open.
I had long thought that Elizabeth is the loveliest girl's name, so there was no discussion there. For some time we used to fantasise about having five girls, Bennett-fashion, and I had names for them all, How strange it is that I can now only remember three: eldest Elizabeth, next Rebecca, youngest Selena.
Boy's names seemed altogether more full of pitfalls. We had thought of Geoffrey after a family friend of Paul's "Uncle Geoffrey", but any other names produced the following type of response: "Timothy! Oh no; we had one at school and he was such a bully, Sebastian - that's so effeminate, Richard, heavens no, it'll be abbreviated to Dick." There didn't seem to be name in the entire male lexicon that didn't carry some unfortunate association. I also had difficulty envisaging myself with a boy so was little help in these one-sided discussions.
Then there was the whole question of second names, Here Paul showed himself adept at choosing elegant combinations: Elizabeth Alice and, later, Rebecca Louise.
It's easy to feel bullied by other people's opinions and Rebecca and Richard are probably right to keep their ideas to themselves for the time being. They don't seem to have a predilection for the absurd, and I feel sure that they'll steer clear from offending anybody.
I know that I will love Baby Donnelly, whatever the name (though I might have difficulty getting used to "Bugless" or "Isembard").
Of course baby clothes aren't the only subject of conversation; there is also the question of baby names. Becky and Richard have two lists (strictly confidential) set up on their I-pads. They range from the hilarious to the dull and I'm sure they'll come up with the perfect name. Of course, with modern scans, they'll be able to ditch one list entirely in a week or two.
In My Day
Naming the baby is always a matter for debate, unless you are just repeating mother or father's names. When we were expecting Lizzie, the sex of the baby wouldn't be known until the birth so we had to keep both lists open.
I had long thought that Elizabeth is the loveliest girl's name, so there was no discussion there. For some time we used to fantasise about having five girls, Bennett-fashion, and I had names for them all, How strange it is that I can now only remember three: eldest Elizabeth, next Rebecca, youngest Selena.
Boy's names seemed altogether more full of pitfalls. We had thought of Geoffrey after a family friend of Paul's "Uncle Geoffrey", but any other names produced the following type of response: "Timothy! Oh no; we had one at school and he was such a bully, Sebastian - that's so effeminate, Richard, heavens no, it'll be abbreviated to Dick." There didn't seem to be name in the entire male lexicon that didn't carry some unfortunate association. I also had difficulty envisaging myself with a boy so was little help in these one-sided discussions.
Then there was the whole question of second names, Here Paul showed himself adept at choosing elegant combinations: Elizabeth Alice and, later, Rebecca Louise.
It's easy to feel bullied by other people's opinions and Rebecca and Richard are probably right to keep their ideas to themselves for the time being. They don't seem to have a predilection for the absurd, and I feel sure that they'll steer clear from offending anybody.
I know that I will love Baby Donnelly, whatever the name (though I might have difficulty getting used to "Bugless" or "Isembard").
Saturday, March 16, 2013
Suited and Bootee'ed
Today
Becky is visiting this weekend and the talk turned, not surprisingly, to the subject of baby clothes. Her mother in law, Poppy, likes to knit; I like to sew, so between us we have it covered.
In My Day
When Lizzie was born, back in 1972 we were given some knitted gifts; two beautiful receiving blankets knitted by my Italian sister-in-law's mother and a floor blanket made by Mamma. Paul's sister had knitted two pairs of white leggings for Lizzie. "Just the job," I thought "with winter coming on and all."
"I washed them very carefully," Mum said as he handed me the package. Well, either she hadn't been careful enough or Jenny's tension was all over the shop. These leggings would have been loose on a six-year old.
I thanked Jenny and put the leggings away, wondering what to do with them, but feeling that it would be rude just to chuck them out.
Lizzie's cousin Katherine was born six months later with a congenital deformity in her hips. When she was about nine months old the decision was made to operate on the hips. Her little legs were plastered and splinted at a 180 degree angle, knees bent.
"She doesn't seem bothered by it,"said Chris "but it's winter and we have no idea what to dress her in." "Ah!" I said "I have the perfect thing!" Out came the leggings which stretched easily over Katherine's splayed and plastered legs. She wore these until the plasters came off, round about her birthday, by which time they were completely worn out and had given sterling service.
I don't think that leggings will be needed, Poppy, but if Becky and Richard's baby isn't the best dressed in Wandsworth, it won't be for want of trying. And I still have the blankets, after forty years and will shortly be resurrecting them for Baby Donnelly.
Becky is visiting this weekend and the talk turned, not surprisingly, to the subject of baby clothes. Her mother in law, Poppy, likes to knit; I like to sew, so between us we have it covered.
In My Day
When Lizzie was born, back in 1972 we were given some knitted gifts; two beautiful receiving blankets knitted by my Italian sister-in-law's mother and a floor blanket made by Mamma. Paul's sister had knitted two pairs of white leggings for Lizzie. "Just the job," I thought "with winter coming on and all."
"I washed them very carefully," Mum said as he handed me the package. Well, either she hadn't been careful enough or Jenny's tension was all over the shop. These leggings would have been loose on a six-year old.
I thanked Jenny and put the leggings away, wondering what to do with them, but feeling that it would be rude just to chuck them out.
Lizzie's cousin Katherine was born six months later with a congenital deformity in her hips. When she was about nine months old the decision was made to operate on the hips. Her little legs were plastered and splinted at a 180 degree angle, knees bent.
"She doesn't seem bothered by it,"said Chris "but it's winter and we have no idea what to dress her in." "Ah!" I said "I have the perfect thing!" Out came the leggings which stretched easily over Katherine's splayed and plastered legs. She wore these until the plasters came off, round about her birthday, by which time they were completely worn out and had given sterling service.
I don't think that leggings will be needed, Poppy, but if Becky and Richard's baby isn't the best dressed in Wandsworth, it won't be for want of trying. And I still have the blankets, after forty years and will shortly be resurrecting them for Baby Donnelly.
Friday, March 08, 2013
Second Best
Today
Last week my brother's mother-in-law died. She was ninety and had managed to live independently with her brother until a stroke carried her off rapidly.
I have many memories of Peggy who was an ever-smiling presence at many family events.
The family conducted the funeral service entirely themselves: Joan conducting the proceedings, David giving the address, Matthew leading prayers and another granddaughter giving the reading.
I spoke to Joan afterwards, "Well done - that can't have been easy." "Was it all right?" she asked anxiously "We couldn't get anyone so did it ourselves. Did it matter, having second-best?" "Second best!" I exclaimed "It was how it should be, the family saying goodbye."
In My Day
This made me think of the funeral of Paul's Auntie Joyce in 2005. She had led a grim life, starting with having her left-handedness beaten out of her at school which left her withdrawn and with a persistent stammer. She was married to abusive and drunken husbands. Her son had to be snatched away from the beatings given him by his stepfather and Paul's Mum cared for him on more than one occasion. Finally, totally adrift, she was admitted to care when she was fifty-nine and slowly dissolved into dementia. Her own children paid her less and less attention and she didn't see her grandchildren or great-grandchildren.
So when the funeral came round we went along in some anxiety, wondering who would be there and how the service would be conducted.
Although Joyce's son had refused to attend, her daughter was there and clearly in the role of host. We sat down to the service. The official began his address:
"There's no point in celebrating the life of Joyce," he said "there's not a lot to celebrate; she had a rough deal for most of her time. Instead I would like us to use this as an opportunity to learn about forgiveness; for Joyce's children to forgive her any wrong they may have felt she did them and for the rest of you to forgive those children for what you saw as neglect and to welcome them back fully into the family."
The daughter sat with the tears streaming and we all felt a lessening of a family burden. And Joyce, in death, had become a force for good as she had unable to be in her life.
I felt touched and impressed with the honesty and humanity of the officiating priest so that Joyce's funeral was as far from second-best as possible.
But, if, when I die, I have half as lovingly a delivered service as Peggy, I shall feel first-class.
Last week my brother's mother-in-law died. She was ninety and had managed to live independently with her brother until a stroke carried her off rapidly.
I have many memories of Peggy who was an ever-smiling presence at many family events.
The family conducted the funeral service entirely themselves: Joan conducting the proceedings, David giving the address, Matthew leading prayers and another granddaughter giving the reading.
I spoke to Joan afterwards, "Well done - that can't have been easy." "Was it all right?" she asked anxiously "We couldn't get anyone so did it ourselves. Did it matter, having second-best?" "Second best!" I exclaimed "It was how it should be, the family saying goodbye."
In My Day
This made me think of the funeral of Paul's Auntie Joyce in 2005. She had led a grim life, starting with having her left-handedness beaten out of her at school which left her withdrawn and with a persistent stammer. She was married to abusive and drunken husbands. Her son had to be snatched away from the beatings given him by his stepfather and Paul's Mum cared for him on more than one occasion. Finally, totally adrift, she was admitted to care when she was fifty-nine and slowly dissolved into dementia. Her own children paid her less and less attention and she didn't see her grandchildren or great-grandchildren.
So when the funeral came round we went along in some anxiety, wondering who would be there and how the service would be conducted.
Although Joyce's son had refused to attend, her daughter was there and clearly in the role of host. We sat down to the service. The official began his address:
"There's no point in celebrating the life of Joyce," he said "there's not a lot to celebrate; she had a rough deal for most of her time. Instead I would like us to use this as an opportunity to learn about forgiveness; for Joyce's children to forgive her any wrong they may have felt she did them and for the rest of you to forgive those children for what you saw as neglect and to welcome them back fully into the family."
The daughter sat with the tears streaming and we all felt a lessening of a family burden. And Joyce, in death, had become a force for good as she had unable to be in her life.
I felt touched and impressed with the honesty and humanity of the officiating priest so that Joyce's funeral was as far from second-best as possible.
But, if, when I die, I have half as lovingly a delivered service as Peggy, I shall feel first-class.
Thursday, February 28, 2013
Dangle
Today
For some reason today I found myself reading an article extolling the Scandinavian virtues of leaving baby outside in a pram in all weathers. Apparently this toughens them up nicely and helps them get a teensy-weensy dose of wintry sun to top up their vitamin D. Hmmm.
This triggered an avalanche of emails and one women described with great admiration how her mother shoved her outside for hours, only bringing her in when there was a freezing fog, because this gave her time to do the chores and settled the baby into a "routine".
In My Day
In the '40s and '50s the rule was that babies were fed and watered by the clock. In the intervening four hours they were to be left strictly alone, no matter how much they cried. I wonder who decreed the four hours rule and how they settled on this being the right time between feeds. I don't know how much heartbreak this caused new mothers who had to listen to their babies screaming; many of them parked the prams at the bottom of the garden so that they couldn't hear them.
At 4BH we had a "garden room". This room was at basement level but, the house being built on a slope, it opened directly onto the back garden. It held deckchairs and garden equipment and all the kinds of junk that people today shove into their garages.
I think I must have been about three years old. Mamma had parked Beatrice in her pram in the garden room. You certainly wouldn't have been able to hear Beatrice cry from there, unless you were in the garden. Beatrice was old enough to roll over and was fastened into the pram with a leather harness (you can see from this picture what an ill-fit it was). Mamma asked me to go down and check that Beatrice was OK.
It's a miracle that I remembered my errand all the way down to the garden room. Even more of a miracle that, when I saw Beatrice, hopelessly tangled with the harness around her neck, dangling out of the pram, I realised that this was an emergency and had enough savvy to go upstairs as fast as my little legs would take me to summon help.
Although I think that we are a little inclined to over-protect our children these days, I sometimes wonder what my parents were thinking and feel a little surprised that we all made it to adulthood intact.
For some reason today I found myself reading an article extolling the Scandinavian virtues of leaving baby outside in a pram in all weathers. Apparently this toughens them up nicely and helps them get a teensy-weensy dose of wintry sun to top up their vitamin D. Hmmm.
This triggered an avalanche of emails and one women described with great admiration how her mother shoved her outside for hours, only bringing her in when there was a freezing fog, because this gave her time to do the chores and settled the baby into a "routine".
In My Day
In the '40s and '50s the rule was that babies were fed and watered by the clock. In the intervening four hours they were to be left strictly alone, no matter how much they cried. I wonder who decreed the four hours rule and how they settled on this being the right time between feeds. I don't know how much heartbreak this caused new mothers who had to listen to their babies screaming; many of them parked the prams at the bottom of the garden so that they couldn't hear them.
At 4BH we had a "garden room". This room was at basement level but, the house being built on a slope, it opened directly onto the back garden. It held deckchairs and garden equipment and all the kinds of junk that people today shove into their garages.I think I must have been about three years old. Mamma had parked Beatrice in her pram in the garden room. You certainly wouldn't have been able to hear Beatrice cry from there, unless you were in the garden. Beatrice was old enough to roll over and was fastened into the pram with a leather harness (you can see from this picture what an ill-fit it was). Mamma asked me to go down and check that Beatrice was OK.
It's a miracle that I remembered my errand all the way down to the garden room. Even more of a miracle that, when I saw Beatrice, hopelessly tangled with the harness around her neck, dangling out of the pram, I realised that this was an emergency and had enough savvy to go upstairs as fast as my little legs would take me to summon help.
Although I think that we are a little inclined to over-protect our children these days, I sometimes wonder what my parents were thinking and feel a little surprised that we all made it to adulthood intact.
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
Combo
Today
I've just finished my lunch which was toasted crumpets with melted cheese. "Do you know," I remarked to Paul "when I was a child crumpets were always eaten with butter and golden syrup."
In My Day
As children we had a varied and fresh diet, but I think that many foods were served in strict combinations, almost as if it were the law.
The thought that I might put cheese or marmalade or Marmite on my crumpet was unimaginable.
Other regular unvarying food combinations were:
Sauerkraut with frankfurters and sauté potatoes, boiled ham and pease pudding, rissoles with mashed potatoes, carrots and frozen peas, rice pudding and tinned apricots, baked potatoes with winter salad, jelly and blancmange, tinned pears with chocolate custard, liver (always lamb's) and bacon. Even foods like cornflakes were only ever served with milk and sugar, Mamma being very scathing about the serving suggestions that showed fresh or dried fruit being added. I wonder what she would make of pouring yoghurt.
There were probably more and I expect my siblings can add to the list. The food combinations were all perfectly tasty (although David hated apricots and rice pudding and I was, and remain, unconvinced about sauerkraut) and nutritionally sound, but there was a deadly predictability about those meals. The only one on the list that varied was the winter salad to which Mamma liked to add a mystery ingredient - maybe walnuts or oranges.
The results of experiments could be strange, as when Weetabix were eaten with marmalade, resulting in a horribly dry, crumbly and sticky alternative to breakfast.
Maybe it was because we were more restricted by seasonal availability and a generally smaller range of foodstuffs or maybe we children demanded the safety of tried and tested combinations. Perhaps Mamma's busy life meant that it was easier to rely on the well-known meals that could be put together quickly. She was a good cook and I can't think that the whole thing was down to a lack of imagination on her part.
Cooking is easier these days, with microwaves, induction hobs and freezers. Crumpets can just be bunged under the grill, making the addition of cheese an easy option, rather than having to be toasted over the fire. And there's a huge range of fresh and interesting ingredients at the local supermarket which makes cooking predictable meals almost criminal.
Paul did suggest we put baked beans on the crumpets next time, but I'm not sure whether that won't be a step too far.
I've just finished my lunch which was toasted crumpets with melted cheese. "Do you know," I remarked to Paul "when I was a child crumpets were always eaten with butter and golden syrup."In My Day
As children we had a varied and fresh diet, but I think that many foods were served in strict combinations, almost as if it were the law.
The thought that I might put cheese or marmalade or Marmite on my crumpet was unimaginable.
Other regular unvarying food combinations were:
Sauerkraut with frankfurters and sauté potatoes, boiled ham and pease pudding, rissoles with mashed potatoes, carrots and frozen peas, rice pudding and tinned apricots, baked potatoes with winter salad, jelly and blancmange, tinned pears with chocolate custard, liver (always lamb's) and bacon. Even foods like cornflakes were only ever served with milk and sugar, Mamma being very scathing about the serving suggestions that showed fresh or dried fruit being added. I wonder what she would make of pouring yoghurt.
There were probably more and I expect my siblings can add to the list. The food combinations were all perfectly tasty (although David hated apricots and rice pudding and I was, and remain, unconvinced about sauerkraut) and nutritionally sound, but there was a deadly predictability about those meals. The only one on the list that varied was the winter salad to which Mamma liked to add a mystery ingredient - maybe walnuts or oranges.
The results of experiments could be strange, as when Weetabix were eaten with marmalade, resulting in a horribly dry, crumbly and sticky alternative to breakfast.
Maybe it was because we were more restricted by seasonal availability and a generally smaller range of foodstuffs or maybe we children demanded the safety of tried and tested combinations. Perhaps Mamma's busy life meant that it was easier to rely on the well-known meals that could be put together quickly. She was a good cook and I can't think that the whole thing was down to a lack of imagination on her part.
Cooking is easier these days, with microwaves, induction hobs and freezers. Crumpets can just be bunged under the grill, making the addition of cheese an easy option, rather than having to be toasted over the fire. And there's a huge range of fresh and interesting ingredients at the local supermarket which makes cooking predictable meals almost criminal.
Paul did suggest we put baked beans on the crumpets next time, but I'm not sure whether that won't be a step too far.
Monday, February 25, 2013
Helping Hand
Today
Recently a report stated that the standard of care given by home helps was poor, with many not taking time to communicate properly with their clients or understand their physical or emotional needs. Some turned up late, on the wrong day or failed entirely to turn up without notice.
http://www.cqc.org.uk/public/news/issues-affecting-delivery-good-home-care-services
When Paul's Mum had a home help a few years ago, we were invoiced for "cleaning and companionship". And, indeed, the sweet cleaning lady talked to Mum, even taking her out for a drive in the car if her other work was done.
"You know", I said to Paul "I used to be a home help".
In My Day
This was back in my Eastbourne teacher-training days in about 1970. I didn't have much money and was looking for a way to supplement it. How did I become aware that the home help service was looking for staff? Maybe there was a notice in the college common room or, more likely, information was passed around by the college jungle telegraph.
Anyway I turned up for this work and was allocated a few houses in Polegate. There was no mention of a care plan or any suggestion that I was anything other than a cleaner provided by the council.
At one place there was an elderly, slightly disabled, lady living with her bachelor son. I have an idea that this lady kept her house pretty immaculate and there wasn't much to do in the main house. What I was expected to do was clean the son's bedroom. He wasn't disabled in any way and I don't know why he couldn't clean his own room. It was a nasty bachelor muddle. There was a heap of undifferentiated objects clustered on his sticky and dusty bedside table. I'm sure, aside from the obvious coins and pens, that there were broken ink cartridges, unclean combs and nail-care equipment, congealing rubber bands and the like. There were probably also toenail clippings. I faced every cleaners' dilemma which is whether simply to clean underneath and put back the objects, including toenail clippings, or to take a view on stuff that should be saved. Thinking more of mum than son I took a draconian view and chucked out everything that was broken or simply disgusting. There were discarded clothes and smelly bedding to deal with and the whole room had a fusty, long-unwashed-underclothes kind of smell.
Another place was unusual in that the client no longer lived there. They had moved into smaller accommodation and couldn't handle sorting out the old place. This was not normally the council's job, my boss explained, but they'd made an exception. So I was given the keys to this old Victorian house and swabbed and cleaned and cleared away debris.
There were some homes, however, where companionship was by far the most important part of my job. The houses were often small and I suspect that some of the old people cleaned up in readiness for my visit. What they wanted to do was to talk and talk about their lives and their history. As I often had little to do, I would make tea and sit with them for the designated couple of hours. And I somehow forgot to mention to my bosses that no cleaning really needed to be done, so that visits could continue.
Sometimes, when I read reports about slapdash nursing or neglected patients and old folk, I wonder what happened to simple humanity. Targeted care plans are all very well but can never replace, only supplement, the kindness and respect with which we should treat other humans.
Recently a report stated that the standard of care given by home helps was poor, with many not taking time to communicate properly with their clients or understand their physical or emotional needs. Some turned up late, on the wrong day or failed entirely to turn up without notice.
http://www.cqc.org.uk/public/news/issues-affecting-delivery-good-home-care-services
When Paul's Mum had a home help a few years ago, we were invoiced for "cleaning and companionship". And, indeed, the sweet cleaning lady talked to Mum, even taking her out for a drive in the car if her other work was done.
"You know", I said to Paul "I used to be a home help".
In My Day
This was back in my Eastbourne teacher-training days in about 1970. I didn't have much money and was looking for a way to supplement it. How did I become aware that the home help service was looking for staff? Maybe there was a notice in the college common room or, more likely, information was passed around by the college jungle telegraph.
Anyway I turned up for this work and was allocated a few houses in Polegate. There was no mention of a care plan or any suggestion that I was anything other than a cleaner provided by the council.
At one place there was an elderly, slightly disabled, lady living with her bachelor son. I have an idea that this lady kept her house pretty immaculate and there wasn't much to do in the main house. What I was expected to do was clean the son's bedroom. He wasn't disabled in any way and I don't know why he couldn't clean his own room. It was a nasty bachelor muddle. There was a heap of undifferentiated objects clustered on his sticky and dusty bedside table. I'm sure, aside from the obvious coins and pens, that there were broken ink cartridges, unclean combs and nail-care equipment, congealing rubber bands and the like. There were probably also toenail clippings. I faced every cleaners' dilemma which is whether simply to clean underneath and put back the objects, including toenail clippings, or to take a view on stuff that should be saved. Thinking more of mum than son I took a draconian view and chucked out everything that was broken or simply disgusting. There were discarded clothes and smelly bedding to deal with and the whole room had a fusty, long-unwashed-underclothes kind of smell.
Another place was unusual in that the client no longer lived there. They had moved into smaller accommodation and couldn't handle sorting out the old place. This was not normally the council's job, my boss explained, but they'd made an exception. So I was given the keys to this old Victorian house and swabbed and cleaned and cleared away debris.
There were some homes, however, where companionship was by far the most important part of my job. The houses were often small and I suspect that some of the old people cleaned up in readiness for my visit. What they wanted to do was to talk and talk about their lives and their history. As I often had little to do, I would make tea and sit with them for the designated couple of hours. And I somehow forgot to mention to my bosses that no cleaning really needed to be done, so that visits could continue.
Sometimes, when I read reports about slapdash nursing or neglected patients and old folk, I wonder what happened to simple humanity. Targeted care plans are all very well but can never replace, only supplement, the kindness and respect with which we should treat other humans.
Sunday, February 24, 2013
Besetting Sin
Today
I've recently been having conversations with my brother about the nature of sin. I mentioned the idea of the "besetting sin" - the flaw that tracks your every action and how to recognise and tame it.
I said that I thought that mine is vanity. David wanted to know how this is defined - here we go then:
Vanity, Noun. Excessive pride in or admiration of one's own appearance or achievements
The question, as with many other "sins", is the extent to which it is bad or harmful and the extent to which it is empowering. "One element of vanity", I said to David "is self-respect; what makes you put your best self forward because of how you'll appear to others. That's a good thing, surely." I never slob around in a dressing gown or PJs, always being bathed and fully dressed before breakfast; after all you never know who might see you with your hair uncombed and without proper supporting underwear...
My mother frequently said "Julia, thy name is vanity". What drove her to make this unhelpful remark and why was I singled out for this? Do I have this tendency to think too well of myself? Looking back, I see that I was very aware of the external layers, the presentation layer. I loved to dress up and to feel that I looked pretty.
I can remember many of my dresses and how much I loved them and the way I felt wearing them. I was very conscious of how I appeared and by extension, conscious of how others appeared.
It was a delight to twirl around, gazing at the effect. I loved to act, provided that the part I played was capable of being made to look good - if I was a witch, it had to be a glamorous witch.
This near-obsession with my appearance came from pride in, rather than admiration of myself, I think. I don't know to what extent it was "excessive". There was always a dichotomy between how I felt inside and how I believed I looked to other people.
Mamma made it clear that Beatrice was the pretty one and that I, at best, could be called "handsome" - not an epithet to thrill a girl. So I think that the vanity came from trying to reconcile these two differences. The surface layer was a sort of disguise to fool the world into thinking that I was better-looking than I really was. I certainly identified with the Ugly Duckling but somewhere deep inside feel that I am still waiting for that swan moment.
I'm not sure that all this fooling of others really fooled anybody or gave me any real underlying confidence to match my exterior ebullience.
It's taken me a long time to see that I was actually rather a cute child and not a bad-looking teenager and to understand that external prettiness evens out as you get older.
Not that any of this stops me wishing that I was drop-dead gorgeous, buying too many clothes and shoes and dyeing my hair.
What I am not now sure of is whether this quality of mine is really vanity at all but some other unnamed sin.
I've recently been having conversations with my brother about the nature of sin. I mentioned the idea of the "besetting sin" - the flaw that tracks your every action and how to recognise and tame it.
I said that I thought that mine is vanity. David wanted to know how this is defined - here we go then:
Vanity, Noun. Excessive pride in or admiration of one's own appearance or achievements
The question, as with many other "sins", is the extent to which it is bad or harmful and the extent to which it is empowering. "One element of vanity", I said to David "is self-respect; what makes you put your best self forward because of how you'll appear to others. That's a good thing, surely." I never slob around in a dressing gown or PJs, always being bathed and fully dressed before breakfast; after all you never know who might see you with your hair uncombed and without proper supporting underwear...
In My Day
I can remember many of my dresses and how much I loved them and the way I felt wearing them. I was very conscious of how I appeared and by extension, conscious of how others appeared.
It was a delight to twirl around, gazing at the effect. I loved to act, provided that the part I played was capable of being made to look good - if I was a witch, it had to be a glamorous witch.
This near-obsession with my appearance came from pride in, rather than admiration of myself, I think. I don't know to what extent it was "excessive". There was always a dichotomy between how I felt inside and how I believed I looked to other people.
Mamma made it clear that Beatrice was the pretty one and that I, at best, could be called "handsome" - not an epithet to thrill a girl. So I think that the vanity came from trying to reconcile these two differences. The surface layer was a sort of disguise to fool the world into thinking that I was better-looking than I really was. I certainly identified with the Ugly Duckling but somewhere deep inside feel that I am still waiting for that swan moment.
I'm not sure that all this fooling of others really fooled anybody or gave me any real underlying confidence to match my exterior ebullience.
It's taken me a long time to see that I was actually rather a cute child and not a bad-looking teenager and to understand that external prettiness evens out as you get older.
Not that any of this stops me wishing that I was drop-dead gorgeous, buying too many clothes and shoes and dyeing my hair.
What I am not now sure of is whether this quality of mine is really vanity at all but some other unnamed sin.
Thursday, February 14, 2013
I've got my love to keep me warm
Today
It's Valentine's day and the clouds have parted long enough to give us a chilly, watery glimpse of sun. For this we are grateful and for the chance that the temperature might heave itself up above 5 degrees. The Met Office loves to offer comparisons against the norm, but there doesn't seem to be one for Valentine's Day.
In My Day
I am put in mind of two examples. Valentine's 1994; Paul was on late shift which meant that I could expect him home by about 11.45 pm. I bought a half bottle of champagne, thinking that we could toast the day before bedtime. Sometime during the evening, I noticed that snow was falling heavily. Paul called from the ambulance station at about 11.15 to say he was on his way. "It's snowing hard here, " I told him "take care..." The snow kept falling. I climbed into bed and kept warm with my book, placing the champagne & glasses by the beside. The time ticked by.I thought of Paul's journey home from Weston Super-Mare, up Burrington Combe. The snow thickened. The champagne warmed up. I repeatedly imagined that I heard the car in the drive. Eventually at 1.15 am Paul arrived home, having taken a longer route to avoid Burrington Combe and almost coming a cropper at Oakhill. "I've got some champagne," I said "but it's a bit warm; you probably won't want it." "Give it here!" he replied, snuggling into the warm bed where we toasted Valentine and Paul's safe arrival.
Moving swiftly on to 1998. February was warm. My diary records daffodils out by mid-month. On 14th the day dawned clear and warm with a temperature in the upper teens. I packed a picnic and we set off for the Swannery at Abbotsbury in Dorset. The weather stayed glorious and became warmer and warmer as we drove south. Eventually we arrived at the Swannery and ate our picnic in the car park (including champagne) and headed off towards the entrance. Alas for warm weather! The hot sun had brought in a sea mist.We stumbled around the Swannery, cold and damp, laughing our heads off.
All of which goes to show how irrelevant the weather is for the really important celebrations.
It's Valentine's day and the clouds have parted long enough to give us a chilly, watery glimpse of sun. For this we are grateful and for the chance that the temperature might heave itself up above 5 degrees. The Met Office loves to offer comparisons against the norm, but there doesn't seem to be one for Valentine's Day.In My Day
I am put in mind of two examples. Valentine's 1994; Paul was on late shift which meant that I could expect him home by about 11.45 pm. I bought a half bottle of champagne, thinking that we could toast the day before bedtime. Sometime during the evening, I noticed that snow was falling heavily. Paul called from the ambulance station at about 11.15 to say he was on his way. "It's snowing hard here, " I told him "take care..." The snow kept falling. I climbed into bed and kept warm with my book, placing the champagne & glasses by the beside. The time ticked by.I thought of Paul's journey home from Weston Super-Mare, up Burrington Combe. The snow thickened. The champagne warmed up. I repeatedly imagined that I heard the car in the drive. Eventually at 1.15 am Paul arrived home, having taken a longer route to avoid Burrington Combe and almost coming a cropper at Oakhill. "I've got some champagne," I said "but it's a bit warm; you probably won't want it." "Give it here!" he replied, snuggling into the warm bed where we toasted Valentine and Paul's safe arrival.
Moving swiftly on to 1998. February was warm. My diary records daffodils out by mid-month. On 14th the day dawned clear and warm with a temperature in the upper teens. I packed a picnic and we set off for the Swannery at Abbotsbury in Dorset. The weather stayed glorious and became warmer and warmer as we drove south. Eventually we arrived at the Swannery and ate our picnic in the car park (including champagne) and headed off towards the entrance. Alas for warm weather! The hot sun had brought in a sea mist.We stumbled around the Swannery, cold and damp, laughing our heads off.
All of which goes to show how irrelevant the weather is for the really important celebrations.
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
Clear Out
Today
My best friend has been recently struggling with the task of clearing her mother's house, following her move into residential care. Stuff that looks in good condition and has given sterling service is no good to anybody and some of it contravenes modern safety regulations. Other things trigger memories and are hard to part with, even when you know they'll probably end up in the loft or garage and never be looked at again.
Dealing with the detritus of a long life is always somewhere between heart-breaking and touching. What makes it doubly hard in this case is that my friend is an only child, so there are no siblings with whom to share both the emotions and responsibility in an equal way.
In My Day
I've had to do this task twice, once after Mamma died and once when Paul's Mum went into residential care. After Mamma died we made an immediate disposal of items and agreed to meet up a couple of weeks later for a thorough sort-out. What made getting through that day possible was that we four siblings somehow managed to turn the event into a jamboree, with laughter and silly family jokes and a decent lunch out. So the weight of the task was lifted by being shared.
And as for the stuff itself, there have been some strange relics. I took all Mamma's baking trays, but eventually realised that they were wonky and grimy beyond redemption and that new ones would cost about 75p each from the supermarket. And I still have and have used her wooden darning "mushrooms". For years David used the old "double saucepan" that Mamma used for making porridge. This bottom section of the object was never washed and was encrusted with forty years' worth of lime deposits. When David eventually announced he was throwing it out there was a family outcry and I think Beatrice took it to plant pansies in.
When Tricia went into residential care, the job was shared with Paul's sister and nephew. Paul and I had carried out a huge sort-out about a year previously, so that there was less pure junk than there might have been. On the other hand we had to decide what Mum might like to have in her tiny room and as she had been in a council flat we didn't have the luxury of much time.
Mum had absolutely loads of clothes - some of them representing chic purchases made in the '60s or '70s, others dating from her post-retirement scavenging forays into charity shops. Once we'd selected items suitable for Mum's new life we bagged up the rest to take to the charity shop. Jenny and I drove to the Langney Shopping Centre to dispose of the stuff. The carpark was fairly full and we had to park well away from the centre and at the top of a slope. I suggested to Jenny that we use a shopping trolley to transport the stuff. Jenny got a trolley and we started loading up. As I turned to close the boot of the car, the full trolley escaped and careered down the slope toward to centre entrance. The sight of Jenny (who's not especially fleet of foot) dashing after this trolley, trying to grab it before it smashed into a car or person was silly enough to make us both laugh and get companionably on with the rest of the task.
After this kind of experience, you swear that you won't allow your house to harbour useless clutter to save your children from this heartbreak job, but I suspect that for many of us it will be another thing that we never quite get round to. And your children will have to decide what goes and what is dumped and you won't be able to do anything about it.
My best friend has been recently struggling with the task of clearing her mother's house, following her move into residential care. Stuff that looks in good condition and has given sterling service is no good to anybody and some of it contravenes modern safety regulations. Other things trigger memories and are hard to part with, even when you know they'll probably end up in the loft or garage and never be looked at again.
Dealing with the detritus of a long life is always somewhere between heart-breaking and touching. What makes it doubly hard in this case is that my friend is an only child, so there are no siblings with whom to share both the emotions and responsibility in an equal way.
In My Day
I've had to do this task twice, once after Mamma died and once when Paul's Mum went into residential care. After Mamma died we made an immediate disposal of items and agreed to meet up a couple of weeks later for a thorough sort-out. What made getting through that day possible was that we four siblings somehow managed to turn the event into a jamboree, with laughter and silly family jokes and a decent lunch out. So the weight of the task was lifted by being shared.
And as for the stuff itself, there have been some strange relics. I took all Mamma's baking trays, but eventually realised that they were wonky and grimy beyond redemption and that new ones would cost about 75p each from the supermarket. And I still have and have used her wooden darning "mushrooms". For years David used the old "double saucepan" that Mamma used for making porridge. This bottom section of the object was never washed and was encrusted with forty years' worth of lime deposits. When David eventually announced he was throwing it out there was a family outcry and I think Beatrice took it to plant pansies in.
When Tricia went into residential care, the job was shared with Paul's sister and nephew. Paul and I had carried out a huge sort-out about a year previously, so that there was less pure junk than there might have been. On the other hand we had to decide what Mum might like to have in her tiny room and as she had been in a council flat we didn't have the luxury of much time.
Mum had absolutely loads of clothes - some of them representing chic purchases made in the '60s or '70s, others dating from her post-retirement scavenging forays into charity shops. Once we'd selected items suitable for Mum's new life we bagged up the rest to take to the charity shop. Jenny and I drove to the Langney Shopping Centre to dispose of the stuff. The carpark was fairly full and we had to park well away from the centre and at the top of a slope. I suggested to Jenny that we use a shopping trolley to transport the stuff. Jenny got a trolley and we started loading up. As I turned to close the boot of the car, the full trolley escaped and careered down the slope toward to centre entrance. The sight of Jenny (who's not especially fleet of foot) dashing after this trolley, trying to grab it before it smashed into a car or person was silly enough to make us both laugh and get companionably on with the rest of the task.
After this kind of experience, you swear that you won't allow your house to harbour useless clutter to save your children from this heartbreak job, but I suspect that for many of us it will be another thing that we never quite get round to. And your children will have to decide what goes and what is dumped and you won't be able to do anything about it.
Saturday, February 09, 2013
Unforgettable
Today
Last week I was in Paris for the day with Becky. In the Marche de St Orgueille we passed a bookshop which had a stand outside with Mr Men and Little Miss books, all in French.
With much amusement we browsed, eventually buying M Etourdi (Mr Forgetful) because we wanted to know how the transition between "There's a sheep loose in the lane" and "there's a goose asleep in the rain" was managed in French. Not rhymingly, we found, with "Un Mouton s'est echappe" becoming "Votre moineau s'est envole". (your sparrow has flown away). I guess you have to be a French child to see the connection.
In My Day
As a small child Becky absolutely loved her Mr Men books which started with the innocuous Mr Happy. Special favourites were Mr Noisy (when Becky brought her play-school volume voice into the kitchen all we had to yell was "Speak up, I can't hear you!" and she would immediately quieten down), Mr Messy, Mr Fussy (nephew Mark would read this to Becky, guffawing over Mr Fussy's cutting the lawn with nail scissors), and Mr Worry. Mr Bump was always useful when she'd had a tumble or knock (you can buy Mr Bump sticking plasters) and we all laughed at the solution to Mr Small's problem - lead boots.
But the incorrigible Mr Forgetful was far and away the favourite. We never tired of "There's a goose asleep in the rain" and it's got into our lexicon of daily phrases when messages are mis-heard or wrongly delivered. Becky would tuck Mr Forgetful under her pillow at night and was always happy to have it read to her.
Actually, Etourdi really means scatterbrained or feather-brained which isn't quite the same thing as being forgetful, but I hope to have the chance to enjoy these books in French or English with the next generation of young 'uns.
Last week I was in Paris for the day with Becky. In the Marche de St Orgueille we passed a bookshop which had a stand outside with Mr Men and Little Miss books, all in French.
In My Day
As a small child Becky absolutely loved her Mr Men books which started with the innocuous Mr Happy. Special favourites were Mr Noisy (when Becky brought her play-school volume voice into the kitchen all we had to yell was "Speak up, I can't hear you!" and she would immediately quieten down), Mr Messy, Mr Fussy (nephew Mark would read this to Becky, guffawing over Mr Fussy's cutting the lawn with nail scissors), and Mr Worry. Mr Bump was always useful when she'd had a tumble or knock (you can buy Mr Bump sticking plasters) and we all laughed at the solution to Mr Small's problem - lead boots.
But the incorrigible Mr Forgetful was far and away the favourite. We never tired of "There's a goose asleep in the rain" and it's got into our lexicon of daily phrases when messages are mis-heard or wrongly delivered. Becky would tuck Mr Forgetful under her pillow at night and was always happy to have it read to her.
Actually, Etourdi really means scatterbrained or feather-brained which isn't quite the same thing as being forgetful, but I hope to have the chance to enjoy these books in French or English with the next generation of young 'uns.
Thursday, February 07, 2013
Diminished Seventh
Today
One's life turns so much on tiny decisions made at unmemorable times in our lives and sometimes one can't help wondering where other paths might have led. Like the diminished seventh - the "Clapham Junction" of music, there are times when things could lead anywhere. This morning, while listening to a piece played by David Munro's Early Music Consort, I found myself thinking about my involvement in early music.
In My Day
Browsing the local paper in Worthing, one day back in 1969, I noticed an article featuring a local early music ensemble named Musica Antiqua of Worthing. There was a picture of the group and a description of their activities. I didn't buy the paper but memorised the name of the music director - Mike Uridge. This was an uncommon name and there was only one in the book. I wrote to the address and offered my services as an experienced early music soprano. I was politely turned down - they were at full complement.
I forgot about it and got on with my studenty life. A few weeks later, early (well, early if you're a student) on a Sunday morning there came a knock at the door of our student house in Station Road. Nobody else seemed to be stirring so I hastily scrambled into some sort of kaftan and opened the door. There stood a very respectable middle aged couple, dressed as though they'd just come from church. I clutched the bosom of my kaftan, hoping that it was actually covering my bosom and waited. They explained that they were from Musica Antiqua and would like to speak to Julia Dixon as they now had a vacancy in the choir. I introduced myself and agreed to go to their house a few days later for an audition. This I did, so impressing them with my sight-reading skills that I was immediately invited to join.
They later told me that they'd initially turned me down because my immaculate italic script in the letter made them think that I was an elderly person and it was only because of an unexpected resignation of a soprano that desperation drove them to seek me out. My semi-clothed and youthful appearance at my front door had been quite a surprise
The group comprised about ten people at the time - some instrumentalists, some singers, some both. Mike Uridge, an accountant in real life, turned out to be a small eager man who had a large and growing collection of medieval wind instruments. He had a passion for early music and made arrangement of pieces to suit our forces. At various times we had about 30 wind instruments, including sackbuts, cornetts, rackets, an instrument made out of a Swiss mountain goat's horns, and every conceivable type of recorder from deep bass to the "gartleinflotlein" (a word Mike so much liked saying that he introduced the instrument into everything possible), spinet, cello, violin, viols and drums. Mike would take a huge purpose-made suitcase onto stage and place it open on a table from where he would grab instruments as needed.
During my time we progressed from giving free performances in nursing homes to full-blown concerts. We participated in the Brighton Festival, sang in Coventry Cathedral, provided the entertainment for medieval banquets, and made two records.
I eventually left regretfully when the move to Eastbourne made weekly travel to Worthing too difficult and costly.
I lost contact with Mike for many years. When I met him again, nearly twenty-five years later, I discovered that he had become quite an authority on medieval instruments. I also discovered that Musiqua Antiqua had split over the question of whether to go professional or not.
"Supposing", I said to Paul "that I'd still been with them and we had gone professional - what would my life be now?" Different, that much is certain, and maybe our music would be played on Radio three as well as David Munro's.
One's life turns so much on tiny decisions made at unmemorable times in our lives and sometimes one can't help wondering where other paths might have led. Like the diminished seventh - the "Clapham Junction" of music, there are times when things could lead anywhere. This morning, while listening to a piece played by David Munro's Early Music Consort, I found myself thinking about my involvement in early music.
In My Day
Browsing the local paper in Worthing, one day back in 1969, I noticed an article featuring a local early music ensemble named Musica Antiqua of Worthing. There was a picture of the group and a description of their activities. I didn't buy the paper but memorised the name of the music director - Mike Uridge. This was an uncommon name and there was only one in the book. I wrote to the address and offered my services as an experienced early music soprano. I was politely turned down - they were at full complement.
I forgot about it and got on with my studenty life. A few weeks later, early (well, early if you're a student) on a Sunday morning there came a knock at the door of our student house in Station Road. Nobody else seemed to be stirring so I hastily scrambled into some sort of kaftan and opened the door. There stood a very respectable middle aged couple, dressed as though they'd just come from church. I clutched the bosom of my kaftan, hoping that it was actually covering my bosom and waited. They explained that they were from Musica Antiqua and would like to speak to Julia Dixon as they now had a vacancy in the choir. I introduced myself and agreed to go to their house a few days later for an audition. This I did, so impressing them with my sight-reading skills that I was immediately invited to join.
They later told me that they'd initially turned me down because my immaculate italic script in the letter made them think that I was an elderly person and it was only because of an unexpected resignation of a soprano that desperation drove them to seek me out. My semi-clothed and youthful appearance at my front door had been quite a surprise
The group comprised about ten people at the time - some instrumentalists, some singers, some both. Mike Uridge, an accountant in real life, turned out to be a small eager man who had a large and growing collection of medieval wind instruments. He had a passion for early music and made arrangement of pieces to suit our forces. At various times we had about 30 wind instruments, including sackbuts, cornetts, rackets, an instrument made out of a Swiss mountain goat's horns, and every conceivable type of recorder from deep bass to the "gartleinflotlein" (a word Mike so much liked saying that he introduced the instrument into everything possible), spinet, cello, violin, viols and drums. Mike would take a huge purpose-made suitcase onto stage and place it open on a table from where he would grab instruments as needed.
During my time we progressed from giving free performances in nursing homes to full-blown concerts. We participated in the Brighton Festival, sang in Coventry Cathedral, provided the entertainment for medieval banquets, and made two records.
I eventually left regretfully when the move to Eastbourne made weekly travel to Worthing too difficult and costly.
I lost contact with Mike for many years. When I met him again, nearly twenty-five years later, I discovered that he had become quite an authority on medieval instruments. I also discovered that Musiqua Antiqua had split over the question of whether to go professional or not.
"Supposing", I said to Paul "that I'd still been with them and we had gone professional - what would my life be now?" Different, that much is certain, and maybe our music would be played on Radio three as well as David Munro's.
Thursday, January 31, 2013
Bursting into Feeling
Today
There was a discussion on Radio Three this morning about listeners' first experience of opera. Responses varied from the magical to Radio Three's presenter Sarah Walker nearly having been put off for life by Pelias et Melisande as her operatic induction.
In My Day
Life at 4BH was permeated with music. My Parents ran the Henry Wood Gramophone Circle and my mother spent half the summer at the proms. So, when Daddy announced that he had bought a batch of tickets to hear the
Carl Rosa opera company, I accepted it as a treat that was well within the normal parameters of what might be expected. The company was performing at the Streatham Hill Theatre which made it both relatively cheap and very close by - just a few bus stops away from home. I think I was about nine or ten at the time.
I remember seeing Aida and La Boheme. I recall very clearly the final scene of Aida when Aida and Radames swear eternal love and agree to die together in the vault. Being so young I couldn't really understand why Radames might choose to die. But I do remember the slaves' chorus and could sing it.
The next time I remember going to the opera (if you exclude routine visits to hear G&S with D'oyley Carte) was when I went to Paris with Mamma and Daddy. We had tickets to see Madama Butterfly at L'Opera Comique. Half way there, Daddy realised that he'd left the tickets at the hotel, so we missed act one altogether. I mainly remember Co-Co Sian's death (I think they used a revolver) and the arrival of Mrs Pinkerton, looking puzzled, lost and alien.
Later Mamma took me to see Tannhauser and Die Meistersingers and the film (with Elisabeth Schwartzkopf) of Der Rosenkavalier; experiences which I remember much enjoying.
Now, I love opera, but I don't see these early experiences, patchy as they were, as having the kind of revelationary impact reported by contributors to this morning's programme. The enjoyment evolved slowly, alongside my own maturation.
Most operas deal with extremely adult themes and one needs to be an adult fully to engage with them.
My first deeply felt operatic experience was Monteverdi's "Orfeo" - the passion is expressed directly and I sometimes feel that no subsequent opera quite beats this first experiment with the medium. The only other opera that can compete, in my view, is Tosca - and I still listen to it spellbound. "Vissi D'Arte" will be with me on my desert island.
There was an interesting exchange in the film "The Quartet", along the lines that in opera and musical theatre, when you feel very strongly, you burst into song, whereas in rap you burst into speech.
What matters is that you can still feel strongly and find ways of expressing it
There was a discussion on Radio Three this morning about listeners' first experience of opera. Responses varied from the magical to Radio Three's presenter Sarah Walker nearly having been put off for life by Pelias et Melisande as her operatic induction.
In My Day
Life at 4BH was permeated with music. My Parents ran the Henry Wood Gramophone Circle and my mother spent half the summer at the proms. So, when Daddy announced that he had bought a batch of tickets to hear the
Carl Rosa opera company, I accepted it as a treat that was well within the normal parameters of what might be expected. The company was performing at the Streatham Hill Theatre which made it both relatively cheap and very close by - just a few bus stops away from home. I think I was about nine or ten at the time.
I remember seeing Aida and La Boheme. I recall very clearly the final scene of Aida when Aida and Radames swear eternal love and agree to die together in the vault. Being so young I couldn't really understand why Radames might choose to die. But I do remember the slaves' chorus and could sing it.
The next time I remember going to the opera (if you exclude routine visits to hear G&S with D'oyley Carte) was when I went to Paris with Mamma and Daddy. We had tickets to see Madama Butterfly at L'Opera Comique. Half way there, Daddy realised that he'd left the tickets at the hotel, so we missed act one altogether. I mainly remember Co-Co Sian's death (I think they used a revolver) and the arrival of Mrs Pinkerton, looking puzzled, lost and alien.
Later Mamma took me to see Tannhauser and Die Meistersingers and the film (with Elisabeth Schwartzkopf) of Der Rosenkavalier; experiences which I remember much enjoying.
Now, I love opera, but I don't see these early experiences, patchy as they were, as having the kind of revelationary impact reported by contributors to this morning's programme. The enjoyment evolved slowly, alongside my own maturation.
Most operas deal with extremely adult themes and one needs to be an adult fully to engage with them.
My first deeply felt operatic experience was Monteverdi's "Orfeo" - the passion is expressed directly and I sometimes feel that no subsequent opera quite beats this first experiment with the medium. The only other opera that can compete, in my view, is Tosca - and I still listen to it spellbound. "Vissi D'Arte" will be with me on my desert island.
There was an interesting exchange in the film "The Quartet", along the lines that in opera and musical theatre, when you feel very strongly, you burst into song, whereas in rap you burst into speech.
What matters is that you can still feel strongly and find ways of expressing it
Wednesday, January 09, 2013
Museum
Today
The move to Spencer House has highlighted what I already knew. Not only did we have too much stuff; a great deal of it had absolutely no function whatsoever in our daily lives. Much of it takes up significant space and adds a museum-like quality to the house; and the hundred and twenty teapots are still in store....
Paul's beautiful vitrine houses a collection of delicate cups, saucers and plates. There is a huge, quite unusable teapot filling up one window sill and a very pretty set of purple liqueur glasses and decanter on the landing cabinet that have never been used.
Looking at these glasses reminds me of one of those little niggling incidents of my childhood.
In My Day
At 4BH we did, indeed, have a "Museum". This was an ornate black lacquer and gold glass fronted cabinet that matched the hall table. It contained a number of items, not all of which I can remember - I expect family can help me out here. There was certainly an incendiary bomb that had landed on the roof of 4BH during the war (was it unexploded?). There were David's Coronation medals and Maundy Money from his time at St Paul's.
Sometime during my childhood - I think I was about six or seven - a friend of my parents gave me a delightful gift of a miniature decanter and glasses set on a cute tray. It was made of wood, hand-painted with red stripes and the whole thing was about eight inches in diameter. "Bohemian" Mamma called it, meaning it came from somewhere in Eastern Europe, I suppose.
How I looked forward to playing with it! I could give little tea-parties; a host of other fantasies crowded my brain. It was not to be. The gift was firmly taken away and placed in the Museum. I was allowed to look but certainly not touch.
In one respect, of course, Mamma and Daddy were wise; the item would probably have been lost or broken had I been allowed to play with with. But, on the other hand, if I couldn't play with it, what was it for? And I don't know what happened to it after Mamma and Daddy moved to Dorking.
And that's the whole issue surrounding these items; they have to play a significant part in our lives, at least the joy of handling and looking at them, if our homes aren't to turn into museums.
The move to Spencer House has highlighted what I already knew. Not only did we have too much stuff; a great deal of it had absolutely no function whatsoever in our daily lives. Much of it takes up significant space and adds a museum-like quality to the house; and the hundred and twenty teapots are still in store....
Paul's beautiful vitrine houses a collection of delicate cups, saucers and plates. There is a huge, quite unusable teapot filling up one window sill and a very pretty set of purple liqueur glasses and decanter on the landing cabinet that have never been used.
Looking at these glasses reminds me of one of those little niggling incidents of my childhood.
In My Day
At 4BH we did, indeed, have a "Museum". This was an ornate black lacquer and gold glass fronted cabinet that matched the hall table. It contained a number of items, not all of which I can remember - I expect family can help me out here. There was certainly an incendiary bomb that had landed on the roof of 4BH during the war (was it unexploded?). There were David's Coronation medals and Maundy Money from his time at St Paul's.
Sometime during my childhood - I think I was about six or seven - a friend of my parents gave me a delightful gift of a miniature decanter and glasses set on a cute tray. It was made of wood, hand-painted with red stripes and the whole thing was about eight inches in diameter. "Bohemian" Mamma called it, meaning it came from somewhere in Eastern Europe, I suppose.
How I looked forward to playing with it! I could give little tea-parties; a host of other fantasies crowded my brain. It was not to be. The gift was firmly taken away and placed in the Museum. I was allowed to look but certainly not touch.
In one respect, of course, Mamma and Daddy were wise; the item would probably have been lost or broken had I been allowed to play with with. But, on the other hand, if I couldn't play with it, what was it for? And I don't know what happened to it after Mamma and Daddy moved to Dorking.
And that's the whole issue surrounding these items; they have to play a significant part in our lives, at least the joy of handling and looking at them, if our homes aren't to turn into museums.
Sunday, December 30, 2012
Foiled
Today
At our family gathering yesterday my two-year old great niece Charlotte showed just how much she likes chocolate. I'd decorated a little tree especially for the children to enjoy and I offered each child a foil-wrapped chocolate bauble.
Charlotte ate hers with relish and quickly persuaded another relative to give her a second one. Later I noticed two or three empty foil wrappers still attached to the string and tree, showing that Charlotte had worked out how to help herself.
In My Day
When Caspian the dog came to live with us back in 1984, we were inexperienced in the ways and wiles of dogs. That Christmas we put the tree up in the window as usual with all its decorations. One evening we all went out to visit cousins, leaving Cas in sole charge.
When we returned, I did think it somewhat unusual to see Cas with his paws up on the window sill watching anxiously for our return. When we walked into the sitting room the reason for his anxiety was plain.
He'd eaten every single chocolate from the tree, leaving, as did Charlotte, the string and foil still hanging. One has to marvel at the dexterity with which he had achieved this feat without otherwise damaging the tree. He knew exactly what he'd done wrong, but he was quite unable to resist the temptation. We simply had to lock him away in future.
I hope it won't come to this with the delightful Charlotte and I now know the quickest way to her heart!
At our family gathering yesterday my two-year old great niece Charlotte showed just how much she likes chocolate. I'd decorated a little tree especially for the children to enjoy and I offered each child a foil-wrapped chocolate bauble.
Charlotte ate hers with relish and quickly persuaded another relative to give her a second one. Later I noticed two or three empty foil wrappers still attached to the string and tree, showing that Charlotte had worked out how to help herself.
In My Day
When Caspian the dog came to live with us back in 1984, we were inexperienced in the ways and wiles of dogs. That Christmas we put the tree up in the window as usual with all its decorations. One evening we all went out to visit cousins, leaving Cas in sole charge.
When we returned, I did think it somewhat unusual to see Cas with his paws up on the window sill watching anxiously for our return. When we walked into the sitting room the reason for his anxiety was plain.
He'd eaten every single chocolate from the tree, leaving, as did Charlotte, the string and foil still hanging. One has to marvel at the dexterity with which he had achieved this feat without otherwise damaging the tree. He knew exactly what he'd done wrong, but he was quite unable to resist the temptation. We simply had to lock him away in future.
I hope it won't come to this with the delightful Charlotte and I now know the quickest way to her heart!
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
The Great Escape
Today
We have decided to take Abby with us when we go to London for Christmas. She likes to be near us and to have human company. I'm sure there are people who'd pop in and feed her if we asked, but she'd be alone all the rest of the time and the cattery, however much they might like to give her attention, will have others to deal with.
In My Day
When we lived at Belmont in Brighton we illegally kept cats. At the time of David's wedding in 1972 we had Ajax, a bold little mackerel tabby and Annelise, a sweet tabby and white. Going away presented problems; we could hardly ask a neighbour to feed the cats, as our illegal ownership would then be rumbled, and affording a cattery was beyond our means, to say the least.
So we asked our friends at the Gatehouse in Wilmington to look after them for a couple of nights. They had plenty of space and were used to cats.
When we returned to Brighton after the wedding I phoned said friend to ask when it would be convenient to pop over to collect the cats. "Well", said Eileen "That's if you can find them." Apparently they'd both dashed outdoors at some point. The house at Wilmington was a level crossing house, and once the cats were loose, they were so spooked by the sounds of the crossing gates and the passing trains that they became completely elusive. Ajax did once appear, actually sitting on the windowsill, but Eileen and Andy were inept and let him escape.
We drove over and wandered around the garden, calling and calling. They didn't appear and I never saw them again. I hope that they found new and good homes and weren't run over by the trains, eaten by foxes or starved to death.
Somewhere in my heart is a grain of unforgiveness for Eileen and Andy, although we remained friends. And perhaps that's because there's a grain of unforgiveness for myself for allowing a situation where this outcome was possible to occur.
I feel certain that Abby will settle just fine and she may even get a bit of turkey dinner!
We have decided to take Abby with us when we go to London for Christmas. She likes to be near us and to have human company. I'm sure there are people who'd pop in and feed her if we asked, but she'd be alone all the rest of the time and the cattery, however much they might like to give her attention, will have others to deal with.
In My Day
When we lived at Belmont in Brighton we illegally kept cats. At the time of David's wedding in 1972 we had Ajax, a bold little mackerel tabby and Annelise, a sweet tabby and white. Going away presented problems; we could hardly ask a neighbour to feed the cats, as our illegal ownership would then be rumbled, and affording a cattery was beyond our means, to say the least.
So we asked our friends at the Gatehouse in Wilmington to look after them for a couple of nights. They had plenty of space and were used to cats.
When we returned to Brighton after the wedding I phoned said friend to ask when it would be convenient to pop over to collect the cats. "Well", said Eileen "That's if you can find them." Apparently they'd both dashed outdoors at some point. The house at Wilmington was a level crossing house, and once the cats were loose, they were so spooked by the sounds of the crossing gates and the passing trains that they became completely elusive. Ajax did once appear, actually sitting on the windowsill, but Eileen and Andy were inept and let him escape.
We drove over and wandered around the garden, calling and calling. They didn't appear and I never saw them again. I hope that they found new and good homes and weren't run over by the trains, eaten by foxes or starved to death.
Somewhere in my heart is a grain of unforgiveness for Eileen and Andy, although we remained friends. And perhaps that's because there's a grain of unforgiveness for myself for allowing a situation where this outcome was possible to occur.
I feel certain that Abby will settle just fine and she may even get a bit of turkey dinner!
Sunday, December 16, 2012
Rubies
Today
Today is the 40th anniversary of my brother David's wedding to Joan. He published a picture on Facebook of them on their wedding day. David is resplendent in top hat, tails and enormous amounts of facial hair. Joan looks sweet., almost engulfed in a furry white hood.
"Oh! I remember it well", I commented.
In My Day
When Paul and I planned to marry, David had expressed reservations about the concept. I think he just hadn't met Joan at that time, an event which clearly altered his attitude to the whole thing.
I don't think we had a great deal of notice of their wedding. Lizzie was about six weeks old and we were, as usual, broke. Paul was most touched to be asked to be best man and was flossied up in top hat and tails to match David (no facial hair, tho'). Having had a such a shoestring wedding myself I think I wasn't quite prepared for the more formal aspect of this one.
I scrambled together a dress from a remnant and cut a dash carrying a furry muff that had been a gift from Chris. We travelled up to London to David's house the night before, having first deposited the cats with friends in Eastbourne (who let them escape, never to be seen again, but that's another story).
Preparations were in full swing. Joan's father seemed to be still in process of papering the "grand room" to render it acceptable to guests and Joan was putting together a fleecy hooded cloak to go over her wedding gown. Full of pre-wedding nerves she struggled with a length of swansdown which was to go round the edge of the hood, "Give it here", I said, wanting to be useful. And, well into the night, I carefully stitched on this dainty trim.
We all fell into bed, I think all sharing the same room in a studenty kind of way.
The day, I seem to remember, went off pretty well. Paul made his speech and we had a sit down wedding breakfast. We then repaired back to David's where we partied hard in the newly decorated room. Paul, I think, found a very willing dancing partner in Joan's sister Beryl.
These photos, however fuzzy, conjure up the sharpest memories of the occasion and the people we met and loved, many of whom are no longer here.
Congratulations, David and Joan; and thank you, David, for giving me such a jewel of a sister.
Today is the 40th anniversary of my brother David's wedding to Joan. He published a picture on Facebook of them on their wedding day. David is resplendent in top hat, tails and enormous amounts of facial hair. Joan looks sweet., almost engulfed in a furry white hood.
"Oh! I remember it well", I commented.
In My Day
When Paul and I planned to marry, David had expressed reservations about the concept. I think he just hadn't met Joan at that time, an event which clearly altered his attitude to the whole thing.
I don't think we had a great deal of notice of their wedding. Lizzie was about six weeks old and we were, as usual, broke. Paul was most touched to be asked to be best man and was flossied up in top hat and tails to match David (no facial hair, tho'). Having had a such a shoestring wedding myself I think I wasn't quite prepared for the more formal aspect of this one.
I scrambled together a dress from a remnant and cut a dash carrying a furry muff that had been a gift from Chris. We travelled up to London to David's house the night before, having first deposited the cats with friends in Eastbourne (who let them escape, never to be seen again, but that's another story).
Preparations were in full swing. Joan's father seemed to be still in process of papering the "grand room" to render it acceptable to guests and Joan was putting together a fleecy hooded cloak to go over her wedding gown. Full of pre-wedding nerves she struggled with a length of swansdown which was to go round the edge of the hood, "Give it here", I said, wanting to be useful. And, well into the night, I carefully stitched on this dainty trim.We all fell into bed, I think all sharing the same room in a studenty kind of way.
The day, I seem to remember, went off pretty well. Paul made his speech and we had a sit down wedding breakfast. We then repaired back to David's where we partied hard in the newly decorated room. Paul, I think, found a very willing dancing partner in Joan's sister Beryl.
These photos, however fuzzy, conjure up the sharpest memories of the occasion and the people we met and loved, many of whom are no longer here.
Congratulations, David and Joan; and thank you, David, for giving me such a jewel of a sister.
Friday, December 14, 2012
Christmas Duty
Today
We're feeling very excited about our Christmas visit to Becky and Richard's. It'll be great fun to see how they manage things ("Give me champagne and I'll do what I'm told", I said).
Once we'd finished discussing the finer points of the nut loaf - which boil down to the fact that I'm making it - I told Becky not to feel in future years that she and Richard should dash about just to make sure that we're somehow fitted in over Christmas. I hear of people who never seem to stop travelling - Christmas day in one house, Boxing day somewhere else at the far end of the country - which makes it all sound like a chore to me and takes the fun and joy out of things.
In My Day
Once we all had our own domestic set-up Mamma took the same attitude. She'd ask us our plans for Christmas and was very happy that we all had satisfactory arrangements. I think we only once spent Christmas at Dorking and that involved an air bed on the living room floor. I do remember that Mamma was touched that I'd prepared stockings for all.
Chris generally shared his Christmas with David and often gave a big family party at his Hampstead house a few days later. These events were hugely entertaining and noisy and almost certainly were a factor in cementing the closeness between the cousins.
What is odd, I now think about it, is that I don't ever remember any suggestion that Mamma and Daddy be of the party. We could easily have picked them up en route. Maybe Chris suggested it and was turned down; I don't know. Perhaps Mamma felt that a whole day in another house would have been too much for Daddy. What it meant was that, once her children were independent, Mamma, who loved parties, missed out on the biggest one of the year .
My attitude is designed to help my children feel that they never owe me an onerous duty at Christmas, not to miss out on any parties that are on offer.
We're feeling very excited about our Christmas visit to Becky and Richard's. It'll be great fun to see how they manage things ("Give me champagne and I'll do what I'm told", I said).
Once we'd finished discussing the finer points of the nut loaf - which boil down to the fact that I'm making it - I told Becky not to feel in future years that she and Richard should dash about just to make sure that we're somehow fitted in over Christmas. I hear of people who never seem to stop travelling - Christmas day in one house, Boxing day somewhere else at the far end of the country - which makes it all sound like a chore to me and takes the fun and joy out of things.
In My Day
Once we all had our own domestic set-up Mamma took the same attitude. She'd ask us our plans for Christmas and was very happy that we all had satisfactory arrangements. I think we only once spent Christmas at Dorking and that involved an air bed on the living room floor. I do remember that Mamma was touched that I'd prepared stockings for all.
Chris generally shared his Christmas with David and often gave a big family party at his Hampstead house a few days later. These events were hugely entertaining and noisy and almost certainly were a factor in cementing the closeness between the cousins.
What is odd, I now think about it, is that I don't ever remember any suggestion that Mamma and Daddy be of the party. We could easily have picked them up en route. Maybe Chris suggested it and was turned down; I don't know. Perhaps Mamma felt that a whole day in another house would have been too much for Daddy. What it meant was that, once her children were independent, Mamma, who loved parties, missed out on the biggest one of the year .
My attitude is designed to help my children feel that they never owe me an onerous duty at Christmas, not to miss out on any parties that are on offer.
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
She ain't Heavy...
Today
I recently attended the wedding of my great Nephew up in the Midlands. We had a lovely time, and the most notably delightful aspect was the sense of family support and love. It was as though they were all holding out their arms to catch each other if needed.
In My Day
I remember a very literal example of this happening when I was younger. It goes back to the great Lake District jaunt of 1967 (or thereabouts). David, Chris, I and a couple of other friends went to the Lakes during the Spring Bank holiday period.
Chris was armed with maps and Wainwright guides and we tramped the hills, regardless of the grim weather. With Chris's help I tackled Jack's Rake ("the easiest climb in the Lake District", he told me "but still a climb, not a walk"). I nerved myself to do striding edge, which was fine so long as I didn't look down and we sensibly avoided going past the snow line.
There's a good rule when you are walking in well-mapped areas: if there isn't a path when it seems obvious there should be, there's probably a good reason.
We took a trip to one of the deeper lakes and, having skirted the higher part of the surrounding hills we took stock of our route home. These walks all had a way of taking longer than we expected and we felt that if we took the official path towards Red Pike we might get caught by darkness. There seemed no logical reason why we couldn't just cut across the front of the slope; it looked straightforward enough.
Once we'd got to the point of no return the reasons why there was no path became clear (see rule above). Firstly, the side of the hill was covered with tiny rills which not only made us wet; they destabilised the ground. Then we encountered a long spit of rock, just about as wide as the span of our arms and legs. One by one the others got across. I was last. By this time their efforts had turned the ground into a mush and as I started to cross, I simply slithered. There was nothing for me to grip.
There I was, spreadeagled on the mountainside. I think there was a moment of dumbfoundedness; then Chris, making his way back below the mush line, found himself some firm footholds, either side of the rock. He spread out his arms, palms upwards. "Walk!" he ordered. And I did, stepping on his hands as though they were made of steel. I can still see his face, concentrating on the effort.
We got back safely and I have always thought that I owed my life to Chris on that occasion.
Whether emotional, spiritual or physical, that's what we are here for; to hold out our hands.
I recently attended the wedding of my great Nephew up in the Midlands. We had a lovely time, and the most notably delightful aspect was the sense of family support and love. It was as though they were all holding out their arms to catch each other if needed.
In My Day
I remember a very literal example of this happening when I was younger. It goes back to the great Lake District jaunt of 1967 (or thereabouts). David, Chris, I and a couple of other friends went to the Lakes during the Spring Bank holiday period.
Chris was armed with maps and Wainwright guides and we tramped the hills, regardless of the grim weather. With Chris's help I tackled Jack's Rake ("the easiest climb in the Lake District", he told me "but still a climb, not a walk"). I nerved myself to do striding edge, which was fine so long as I didn't look down and we sensibly avoided going past the snow line.
There's a good rule when you are walking in well-mapped areas: if there isn't a path when it seems obvious there should be, there's probably a good reason.
We took a trip to one of the deeper lakes and, having skirted the higher part of the surrounding hills we took stock of our route home. These walks all had a way of taking longer than we expected and we felt that if we took the official path towards Red Pike we might get caught by darkness. There seemed no logical reason why we couldn't just cut across the front of the slope; it looked straightforward enough.
Once we'd got to the point of no return the reasons why there was no path became clear (see rule above). Firstly, the side of the hill was covered with tiny rills which not only made us wet; they destabilised the ground. Then we encountered a long spit of rock, just about as wide as the span of our arms and legs. One by one the others got across. I was last. By this time their efforts had turned the ground into a mush and as I started to cross, I simply slithered. There was nothing for me to grip.
There I was, spreadeagled on the mountainside. I think there was a moment of dumbfoundedness; then Chris, making his way back below the mush line, found himself some firm footholds, either side of the rock. He spread out his arms, palms upwards. "Walk!" he ordered. And I did, stepping on his hands as though they were made of steel. I can still see his face, concentrating on the effort.
We got back safely and I have always thought that I owed my life to Chris on that occasion.
Whether emotional, spiritual or physical, that's what we are here for; to hold out our hands.
Thursday, November 01, 2012
Unaccompanied
Today
Yesterday saw our first Hallow e'en in Oakhill. Despite the lashing rain we had a couple of visits from children who were excruciatingly polite and one tiny lad who seemed to think he should give Paul his treats!
What we have noticed is that the kids are generally accompanied by parents or responsible adults, even in these little close-knit villages.
In My Day
Of course there was no trick-or-treating when we were small but there were other occasions when you had cause to knock on doors.
We all went carol-singing. We were pretty musical and could hold a tune and, with help from choirboy David, some harmony as well. We lived on a main road in South London but as far as I an tell, were permitted to wander off in the dark evenings before Christmas, singing good cheer at strangers' front doors. Many of the houses were large Victorian piles divided into flats and you couldn't be sure who might open the door. I'm sure we met some Scrooges and got to know which doors produced the best pickings.
I think we gave good value and were rewarded with gifts and money. Beatrice took a dim view of gifts, once saying loudly in earshot as we left one house "What, no money?" We hustled her off. In fact, I think it was from that house that we received a beautiful full-colour geography book which I read again and again.
But the point is that there was no suggestion of being accompanied by parents, however much they kept in the shadows.
Was the world safer then? I doubt it. I think it's some other malaise that makes us more over-protective. And I have no idea whether that is better or worse for our children.
Yesterday saw our first Hallow e'en in Oakhill. Despite the lashing rain we had a couple of visits from children who were excruciatingly polite and one tiny lad who seemed to think he should give Paul his treats!
What we have noticed is that the kids are generally accompanied by parents or responsible adults, even in these little close-knit villages.
In My Day
Of course there was no trick-or-treating when we were small but there were other occasions when you had cause to knock on doors.
We all went carol-singing. We were pretty musical and could hold a tune and, with help from choirboy David, some harmony as well. We lived on a main road in South London but as far as I an tell, were permitted to wander off in the dark evenings before Christmas, singing good cheer at strangers' front doors. Many of the houses were large Victorian piles divided into flats and you couldn't be sure who might open the door. I'm sure we met some Scrooges and got to know which doors produced the best pickings.
I think we gave good value and were rewarded with gifts and money. Beatrice took a dim view of gifts, once saying loudly in earshot as we left one house "What, no money?" We hustled her off. In fact, I think it was from that house that we received a beautiful full-colour geography book which I read again and again.
But the point is that there was no suggestion of being accompanied by parents, however much they kept in the shadows.
Was the world safer then? I doubt it. I think it's some other malaise that makes us more over-protective. And I have no idea whether that is better or worse for our children.
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Roaring 40s
Today
It's hard to believe, but Lizzie turned forty yesterday. There's a level at which I don't feel that I can be old enough to have a daughter this age.
In My Day
I was just under twenty-five when Lizzie was born and in many ways I wasn't old enough to have a child. It seemed like a good idea at the time when I chucked away my pills, but as the pregnancy progressed I seemed to understand less and less.
I blithely assumed that I would carry on working full-time after she was born; otherwise we couldn't even have afforded the rent. I didn't factor in the possibility of a: the baby needing some special care b: me being unwell c: being unable to find a childminder. I assumed that I could cope with working full-time and providing breast milk for my baby.
I talked pretty big about the whole thing and read a book about psychoprophylaxis which basically said that childbirth is painless so long as you breathed right - what a lie that was.
In other words, I hadn't a clue.
It didn't help that the dates were all in confusion and the due date came and went without any sign of a birth; Lizzie eventually making her appearance six weeks later. Despite having read all these books, I didn't recognise the classic sign that labour was about to start, which was that I started spring-cleaning the flat and preparing enough food to last Paul six months. When I started to wash the kitchen floor at midnight Paul asserted himself and marched me to bed.
When I awoke later that night with the first contractions, I briefly fell apart, sitting on the edge of the bed and shaking. In some ways my profound ignorance was helpful; otherwise I might have been more anxious about how long the process was taking and questioned the midwife's cheery assurance that the second stage would be over in about six hours.
In fact, I'd say that the first few years of caring for Lizzie, despite my outward assurance, were more based on a wing and a prayer than anything else. We really did our growing up together, Lizzie and I.
At any rate, at the party on Saturday I've absolutely no intention of behaving as though I'm old enough to have a forty-year old daughter.
It's hard to believe, but Lizzie turned forty yesterday. There's a level at which I don't feel that I can be old enough to have a daughter this age.
In My Day
I was just under twenty-five when Lizzie was born and in many ways I wasn't old enough to have a child. It seemed like a good idea at the time when I chucked away my pills, but as the pregnancy progressed I seemed to understand less and less.
I blithely assumed that I would carry on working full-time after she was born; otherwise we couldn't even have afforded the rent. I didn't factor in the possibility of a: the baby needing some special care b: me being unwell c: being unable to find a childminder. I assumed that I could cope with working full-time and providing breast milk for my baby.
I talked pretty big about the whole thing and read a book about psychoprophylaxis which basically said that childbirth is painless so long as you breathed right - what a lie that was.
In other words, I hadn't a clue.
It didn't help that the dates were all in confusion and the due date came and went without any sign of a birth; Lizzie eventually making her appearance six weeks later. Despite having read all these books, I didn't recognise the classic sign that labour was about to start, which was that I started spring-cleaning the flat and preparing enough food to last Paul six months. When I started to wash the kitchen floor at midnight Paul asserted himself and marched me to bed.
When I awoke later that night with the first contractions, I briefly fell apart, sitting on the edge of the bed and shaking. In some ways my profound ignorance was helpful; otherwise I might have been more anxious about how long the process was taking and questioned the midwife's cheery assurance that the second stage would be over in about six hours.
In fact, I'd say that the first few years of caring for Lizzie, despite my outward assurance, were more based on a wing and a prayer than anything else. We really did our growing up together, Lizzie and I.
At any rate, at the party on Saturday I've absolutely no intention of behaving as though I'm old enough to have a forty-year old daughter.
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Diversion
Today
On Tuesday, anxious not to be named and shamed as a late arriver at choir, I set off in plenty of time. Best laid plans, alas! As I approached Havyatt on the Glastonbury road I saw the blue lights ahead. Cars were turning back. What to do? I turned left, taking the turning to Baltonsborough. The lanes were dark and narrow and I lost all sense of direction. Other cars had also gone this way but they all seemed to know where they were going. I didn't know whether I'd end up back in Pilton or in a ploughed field. Eventually, I saw a sign marked Glastonbury and found my way, across the marshes road, to the rehearsal. I was about ten minutes late and slunk into my seat.
In My Day
I remember a similar occasion about fifteen years ago. I set off for choir. This time the road closure was at Steanbow, just west of Pilton. "Easy!" I thought "I can pick up the Wells Road via North Wootton".
I turned right and soon was lost in a maze of dark and tiny lanes. The banks pressed in closer and closer. There was no other traffic and I had no idea where I was. There were no road signs; I suspected that I was going in circles.
I turned another dark corner and suddenly there in front of me was a new born calf. It was lying in the road and didn't get onto its feet as I approached. It was clearly alive, but only just. I sat there for a while. There were no signs of habitation nearby. The road was so narrow that I doubted my ability to turn round in the space.
At last I got nervously out of the car. How hurt was the creature? Suppose I couldn't shift it. Suppose a car came fast round the corner and hit me and the calf! Suppose there was its mother close by, all ready to biff me if I touched her baby. It was such a dark night; I could barely make anything out. Gently I pushed the calf into hedgerow. It let me move it and made no attempt to escape.
Gingerly I squeezed past it. The next house I saw was all in darkness. I had no mobile signal. At last I reached the Wells Road. I stopped when I had a signal and called the police, although I'm not sure how explicit I was able to be about the position of the calf.
I got to choir half an hour late and was roundly told off by the music director, who didn't appear to believe my story.
On Tuesday, anxious not to be named and shamed as a late arriver at choir, I set off in plenty of time. Best laid plans, alas! As I approached Havyatt on the Glastonbury road I saw the blue lights ahead. Cars were turning back. What to do? I turned left, taking the turning to Baltonsborough. The lanes were dark and narrow and I lost all sense of direction. Other cars had also gone this way but they all seemed to know where they were going. I didn't know whether I'd end up back in Pilton or in a ploughed field. Eventually, I saw a sign marked Glastonbury and found my way, across the marshes road, to the rehearsal. I was about ten minutes late and slunk into my seat.
In My Day
I remember a similar occasion about fifteen years ago. I set off for choir. This time the road closure was at Steanbow, just west of Pilton. "Easy!" I thought "I can pick up the Wells Road via North Wootton".
I turned right and soon was lost in a maze of dark and tiny lanes. The banks pressed in closer and closer. There was no other traffic and I had no idea where I was. There were no road signs; I suspected that I was going in circles.
I turned another dark corner and suddenly there in front of me was a new born calf. It was lying in the road and didn't get onto its feet as I approached. It was clearly alive, but only just. I sat there for a while. There were no signs of habitation nearby. The road was so narrow that I doubted my ability to turn round in the space.
At last I got nervously out of the car. How hurt was the creature? Suppose I couldn't shift it. Suppose a car came fast round the corner and hit me and the calf! Suppose there was its mother close by, all ready to biff me if I touched her baby. It was such a dark night; I could barely make anything out. Gently I pushed the calf into hedgerow. It let me move it and made no attempt to escape.
Gingerly I squeezed past it. The next house I saw was all in darkness. I had no mobile signal. At last I reached the Wells Road. I stopped when I had a signal and called the police, although I'm not sure how explicit I was able to be about the position of the calf.
I got to choir half an hour late and was roundly told off by the music director, who didn't appear to believe my story.
Friday, October 12, 2012
Milko-o-oh!
Today
As we now live in a village without a shop, we can no longer just "pop out" to top up on bread or milk. It involves heaving out the car and driving to the next village or to Tesco.
So we were very interested indeed when a chap called a week or so ago offering us a doorstep milk delivery service. Apparently they offer more than just milk. He did emphasise that the milk would again be delivered in "proper" glass bottles but I can't say that altered the attraction for me.
"Will the milkman have a horse?" I joked.
In My Day
When I was a child in London, milk was delivered daily by the Express Dairy, from a man driving a horse and cart. I think that the horse was called George, unless that was the milkman. We were very fond of both milkman and horse. The milkman would signal his arrival with a muezzin-type call - "Milko-o-oh" with a rising cadence at the end.
We would go out and talk to the horse who was very docile and the milk would be brought in.
At that time the milkman delivered milk. the pint bottles were taller than today's more stumpy ones and you could get silver top (the ordinary kind), gold top (Jersey creamy milk) red top (homogenised) and sterilised milk which came in a slightly different design of bottle and which looked slightly brownish, and cream. The days of delivering juices, bread etc were firmly in the future. In fact, I think that Mamma and Daddy saw it as the start of the decline of the great British Milkman, descending into milk delivery anarchy.
We were also fiercely partisan over the delivery company; only Express Dairies were any good; perish the thought of buying milk from United Dairies (now Unigate)!
The demise of our horsedrawn milk delivery system, replaced by milk floats delivering also orange juice and bread seems to be one of those moments, like the end of steam or the trams, that mark our movement out of childhood.
Returning to doorstep deliveries, after years of buying milk in plastic containers from Tesco, is going back in a good way, I feel. And so far, so good, the milkman has successfully delivered milk & juice as requested all week. No horse, though.
As we now live in a village without a shop, we can no longer just "pop out" to top up on bread or milk. It involves heaving out the car and driving to the next village or to Tesco.
So we were very interested indeed when a chap called a week or so ago offering us a doorstep milk delivery service. Apparently they offer more than just milk. He did emphasise that the milk would again be delivered in "proper" glass bottles but I can't say that altered the attraction for me.
"Will the milkman have a horse?" I joked.
In My Day
When I was a child in London, milk was delivered daily by the Express Dairy, from a man driving a horse and cart. I think that the horse was called George, unless that was the milkman. We were very fond of both milkman and horse. The milkman would signal his arrival with a muezzin-type call - "Milko-o-oh" with a rising cadence at the end.
We would go out and talk to the horse who was very docile and the milk would be brought in.At that time the milkman delivered milk. the pint bottles were taller than today's more stumpy ones and you could get silver top (the ordinary kind), gold top (Jersey creamy milk) red top (homogenised) and sterilised milk which came in a slightly different design of bottle and which looked slightly brownish, and cream. The days of delivering juices, bread etc were firmly in the future. In fact, I think that Mamma and Daddy saw it as the start of the decline of the great British Milkman, descending into milk delivery anarchy.
We were also fiercely partisan over the delivery company; only Express Dairies were any good; perish the thought of buying milk from United Dairies (now Unigate)!
The demise of our horsedrawn milk delivery system, replaced by milk floats delivering also orange juice and bread seems to be one of those moments, like the end of steam or the trams, that mark our movement out of childhood.
Returning to doorstep deliveries, after years of buying milk in plastic containers from Tesco, is going back in a good way, I feel. And so far, so good, the milkman has successfully delivered milk & juice as requested all week. No horse, though.
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