Today
Actually managed to get to choir last night. I found that it was easier to hit the top notes than the bottom ones, which were either missing or squeaky. I don't know why that is. My neighbour (a recent joiner with whom I still have to come to terms) expressed surprise. It might be that my voice naturally lies in the higher register; if I was an alto, perhaps it would be the other way round. Who knows; it just happened that way.
Really find this person hard work. Somehow what she says seems so inappropriate. She complained about being hot - was wearing huge jumper and surely knows by now how hot St John's vestry can become with 30 can beltos carrying on. She asked me at what point we were picking up a piece (or I thought she did). When I told her, she said, very loudly, "Don't be so bossy!" I hold up my hands to being bossy on occasions, but on this one I was genuinely trying to help. And she didn't keep her voice down. So I felt a bit annoyed and found myself thinking "Newcomer! Who does she think she is?"
In My Day
Back at the start of the 80's, my sister Beatrice and I joined a chamber choir in Eastbourne. (What was it called? - I can't remember.) The choir rehearsed each week at Eastbourne College under the direction of a somewhat callow youth. Most of the members were music teachers and had known each other for years on the local circuit. For reasons that I cannot fathom we just joined and were never asked to audition. So this may have put noses out of joint.
Whatever the reason, nobody ever spoke to us. At the break, we discovered that people brought their own refreshments, but we weren't offered so much as a sniff of coffee or told the general drill. Given that it was the sort of choir that generally outnumbered its audience by a factor of 3, it wasn't exactly the creme de la creme.
So what I want to know is, am I merely being territorial with a new member or is she actually truly dreadful?
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Sunday, April 24, 2005
Today
Another evening with Wine Circle last night. This time it was the Mendip Wine Circle's annual competiton and dance. These frolics were conceived when nobody had any money, neither club nor participants, so the BYOWFKF&S is the norm. Actually that suits Paul & me as we'd rather have a small late supper and the food at a sit down dinner is generally awful, unless you're paying at least £30 per head.
So we flossied ourselves up in our sparkly best, either deliberately or accidentally, (depending on your viewpoint) avoiding the need to dress in Mediaeval costume for the St George's Day theme.
God! We only go about 2 of these doos a year. And an evening like last night reminds you why. 3rd rate performers (at least this gang had backing tapes and were under 65), the best decorations that can be shoved up in a school hall in a couple of hours and some seriously odd people.
Still, we were with friends and danced away to Buddy Holly, Billy Fury and Beatles hits of the 60's and 70's. The band had the wit to realise that the number of people that could actually do a quickstep was limited and getting smaller, heart attack by heart attack.
In My Day
When Paul was at Eastbourne and Lewes ambulance stations we used to be the movers and shakers in getting dance evenings going. I remember begging the remains of foil after the cutting out of yoghurt pot lids from the local dairy so that we could cover the walls in sparkle. We slaved producing buffet food (none of your BYOWFKF&S for us! And got a disco.
It was all right in the 70's to dance to "YMCA" and "Brown Girl in the Ring" or at least it seemed so at the time and there was always "Saturday Night Fever". And nobody seemed to want to dance a quickstep.
I always enjoyed getting up to dance and Paul didn't seem to mind. His dancing style has barely changed - moved to the left, bring your right foot up, move to the right, bring your left foot up, stare into the middle distance. Repeat ad nauseam. That's unless you want to do a bit of air guitar. They don't play much "Status Quo" these days, though.
Actually, I'd love to rekindle my knowledge of the quickstep. Strictly Ballroom, anybody?
Another evening with Wine Circle last night. This time it was the Mendip Wine Circle's annual competiton and dance. These frolics were conceived when nobody had any money, neither club nor participants, so the BYOWFKF&S is the norm. Actually that suits Paul & me as we'd rather have a small late supper and the food at a sit down dinner is generally awful, unless you're paying at least £30 per head.
So we flossied ourselves up in our sparkly best, either deliberately or accidentally, (depending on your viewpoint) avoiding the need to dress in Mediaeval costume for the St George's Day theme.
God! We only go about 2 of these doos a year. And an evening like last night reminds you why. 3rd rate performers (at least this gang had backing tapes and were under 65), the best decorations that can be shoved up in a school hall in a couple of hours and some seriously odd people.
Still, we were with friends and danced away to Buddy Holly, Billy Fury and Beatles hits of the 60's and 70's. The band had the wit to realise that the number of people that could actually do a quickstep was limited and getting smaller, heart attack by heart attack.
In My Day
When Paul was at Eastbourne and Lewes ambulance stations we used to be the movers and shakers in getting dance evenings going. I remember begging the remains of foil after the cutting out of yoghurt pot lids from the local dairy so that we could cover the walls in sparkle. We slaved producing buffet food (none of your BYOWFKF&S for us! And got a disco.
It was all right in the 70's to dance to "YMCA" and "Brown Girl in the Ring" or at least it seemed so at the time and there was always "Saturday Night Fever". And nobody seemed to want to dance a quickstep.
I always enjoyed getting up to dance and Paul didn't seem to mind. His dancing style has barely changed - moved to the left, bring your right foot up, move to the right, bring your left foot up, stare into the middle distance. Repeat ad nauseam. That's unless you want to do a bit of air guitar. They don't play much "Status Quo" these days, though.
Actually, I'd love to rekindle my knowledge of the quickstep. Strictly Ballroom, anybody?
Saturday, April 23, 2005
Today
You'd think that a little house like mine would only need a little bit of cleaning. Not so. Decided to do a Spring-clean. I asked our lovely cleaning lady, Rebecca, if she'd like to do a whole day, took an afternoon off myself and we got stuck in. It's true that nobody cleans your house as well as you do. By the time I got home the fridge and cooker had been cleaned (inside, out and behind) and about half the kitchen cupboards had been done. Rebecca then took on the unenviable task of dusting the fineline blinds in the lounge and Paul did the bookcases. I blitzed the rest of the kitchen, Paul was raving about some new cleaner that's been advertised on TV. "Don't know about a cleaner with a cilly name", I muttered as I scraped away at the cupboard over the cooker, "this needs hydrochloric acid or maybe sandblasting!"
It's amazing just how much muck we live with.
Rebecca and I washed all my teapots as well. In the end, by dint of much sweaty effort we did the kitchen, lounge and dining room in a total of about 15 person-hours. The rest of the house now holds all the items we didn't know what to do with and I prefer not to go into the utility room just at present.
In My Day
A schoolfriend of mine once said to me, "Your house is the most lived-in I've ever seen." Which just about sums it up. We had a cleaning lady who did the hall, stairs and landings of our rather large Victorian pile. Her name was Tillie Lawrence and she really did wear a scarf over rollered-hair and had varicose veins. The rest of the house sort of relaxed into a huge muddle. My mother did very little housework in terms of tidying, vaccuum cleaning and dusting. She did a lot of ironing - timing exactly how long it took her to do one of Daddy's shirts, and cooking. And until 1959, when we acquired a washing machine, she had to do the washing by hand. Sheets and shirt collars went to the laundry, but the rest she did, no mean task when there are 4 children. I did a lot of washing up, a job I could spin out for hours.
If visitors came, the best one could do was to pile all the junk onto a big armchair, cover it with a throw and hope that no-one tried to sit on it or thought that you were concealing Grandma's corpse. When I visited other houses I was always amazed by the effortlessly spotless look that they had. They probably shoved everything into cupboards.
Every now and then I would tackle the gargantuan task of tidying up. The method I used was to put all inappropriate items onto the big dining table, clean everything else, then work through the pile, putting things away, a system I still use today.
Interestingly, once my parents had retired to their little bungalow in Dorking, my mother kept it beautifully. So perhaps it was just the pressure of managing the vast house, 4 children and a myriad of outside interests that prevented her from doing the same by our place, rather than innate untidyness.
It does look nice and shiny downstairs, though!
You'd think that a little house like mine would only need a little bit of cleaning. Not so. Decided to do a Spring-clean. I asked our lovely cleaning lady, Rebecca, if she'd like to do a whole day, took an afternoon off myself and we got stuck in. It's true that nobody cleans your house as well as you do. By the time I got home the fridge and cooker had been cleaned (inside, out and behind) and about half the kitchen cupboards had been done. Rebecca then took on the unenviable task of dusting the fineline blinds in the lounge and Paul did the bookcases. I blitzed the rest of the kitchen, Paul was raving about some new cleaner that's been advertised on TV. "Don't know about a cleaner with a cilly name", I muttered as I scraped away at the cupboard over the cooker, "this needs hydrochloric acid or maybe sandblasting!"
It's amazing just how much muck we live with.
Rebecca and I washed all my teapots as well. In the end, by dint of much sweaty effort we did the kitchen, lounge and dining room in a total of about 15 person-hours. The rest of the house now holds all the items we didn't know what to do with and I prefer not to go into the utility room just at present.
In My Day
A schoolfriend of mine once said to me, "Your house is the most lived-in I've ever seen." Which just about sums it up. We had a cleaning lady who did the hall, stairs and landings of our rather large Victorian pile. Her name was Tillie Lawrence and she really did wear a scarf over rollered-hair and had varicose veins. The rest of the house sort of relaxed into a huge muddle. My mother did very little housework in terms of tidying, vaccuum cleaning and dusting. She did a lot of ironing - timing exactly how long it took her to do one of Daddy's shirts, and cooking. And until 1959, when we acquired a washing machine, she had to do the washing by hand. Sheets and shirt collars went to the laundry, but the rest she did, no mean task when there are 4 children. I did a lot of washing up, a job I could spin out for hours.
If visitors came, the best one could do was to pile all the junk onto a big armchair, cover it with a throw and hope that no-one tried to sit on it or thought that you were concealing Grandma's corpse. When I visited other houses I was always amazed by the effortlessly spotless look that they had. They probably shoved everything into cupboards.
Every now and then I would tackle the gargantuan task of tidying up. The method I used was to put all inappropriate items onto the big dining table, clean everything else, then work through the pile, putting things away, a system I still use today.
Interestingly, once my parents had retired to their little bungalow in Dorking, my mother kept it beautifully. So perhaps it was just the pressure of managing the vast house, 4 children and a myriad of outside interests that prevented her from doing the same by our place, rather than innate untidyness.
It does look nice and shiny downstairs, though!
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
Today
Photos. What a wonderful invention. It allowed people a wholly new opportunity to record history. I've been going through all our photos. It's been about fours years since my last big album update and there are about 2,000 photos at least that require cataloguing. I really enjoy doing it. I've got a system; Photos with us, family, friends and significant locations related to events (such as snow in the Close) go in the big family album - now on volume 5. I cut up quite a lot of them and paste them into collages representing various occasions. The Family albums are big, black paged, glue 'em in jobbies. I use a silver pen to write appropriate comments.
For other holiday pics I simply slip them into wallet-style albums with suitable labelling. I have 3 albums devoted to our 30th wedding anniversary; one uncritically has all the pictures taken on the disposable cameras that we left lying about. The other two were lovingly compiled by my half-brother Keir who used Paul's SLR to take them. We also have some albums that we put together for Paul's Mum when she got to the point of being very likely to forget within minutes that she'd just been to a Christmas party or something. These have narrative as well.
I also don't chuck out pictures just because they don't show me in a good light or something. Even if I look 20stone and drunk, in they go!
So it's quite a labour, not made easier by the fact that Paul owns an SLR, a digital camera, a digital camcorder and camera phone and I own a digital camera.
In My Day
We also had family albums. My father was a keen photographer and had a darkroom, I remember being allowed in there with him sometimes. There were dim red-toned lights that wouldn't fog the film. He would have dishes of developer and fixative. I used to love watching the pictures emerge. Timing was all - leave it too long and the picture would be too dark, too short and a pallid photo would be the result. No-one was allowed to disturb him on his darkroom sessions and once in the room with him you couldn't go out, not even to the bathroom.
He used photos to make our annual Christmas card; once even playing with effects - choirboy (David in his St Paul's rig) in a bottle. There was an exciting series of pictures taken when they knocked down two houses opposite with great big iron balls on chains and there were the usual family photos.
Daddy made the albums, using his bookbinding skills, and put in the photos much as I do today. They were all black and white, of course.
Much later came the cine camera, colour and my Mother's twin-lens reflex which was used to produce slides.
I loved them, and love them still. The family album is shared out amongst us siblings and I just love to look at it.
In fact, I wonder who's got it at present? I think it's time I borrowed it.
Photos. What a wonderful invention. It allowed people a wholly new opportunity to record history. I've been going through all our photos. It's been about fours years since my last big album update and there are about 2,000 photos at least that require cataloguing. I really enjoy doing it. I've got a system; Photos with us, family, friends and significant locations related to events (such as snow in the Close) go in the big family album - now on volume 5. I cut up quite a lot of them and paste them into collages representing various occasions. The Family albums are big, black paged, glue 'em in jobbies. I use a silver pen to write appropriate comments.
For other holiday pics I simply slip them into wallet-style albums with suitable labelling. I have 3 albums devoted to our 30th wedding anniversary; one uncritically has all the pictures taken on the disposable cameras that we left lying about. The other two were lovingly compiled by my half-brother Keir who used Paul's SLR to take them. We also have some albums that we put together for Paul's Mum when she got to the point of being very likely to forget within minutes that she'd just been to a Christmas party or something. These have narrative as well.
I also don't chuck out pictures just because they don't show me in a good light or something. Even if I look 20stone and drunk, in they go!
So it's quite a labour, not made easier by the fact that Paul owns an SLR, a digital camera, a digital camcorder and camera phone and I own a digital camera.
In My Day
We also had family albums. My father was a keen photographer and had a darkroom, I remember being allowed in there with him sometimes. There were dim red-toned lights that wouldn't fog the film. He would have dishes of developer and fixative. I used to love watching the pictures emerge. Timing was all - leave it too long and the picture would be too dark, too short and a pallid photo would be the result. No-one was allowed to disturb him on his darkroom sessions and once in the room with him you couldn't go out, not even to the bathroom.
He used photos to make our annual Christmas card; once even playing with effects - choirboy (David in his St Paul's rig) in a bottle. There was an exciting series of pictures taken when they knocked down two houses opposite with great big iron balls on chains and there were the usual family photos.
Daddy made the albums, using his bookbinding skills, and put in the photos much as I do today. They were all black and white, of course.
Much later came the cine camera, colour and my Mother's twin-lens reflex which was used to produce slides.
I loved them, and love them still. The family album is shared out amongst us siblings and I just love to look at it.
In fact, I wonder who's got it at present? I think it's time I borrowed it.
Sunday, April 17, 2005
Today
Weekends are funny things. Even if you've been off work all week you still think that the weekend's a failure if you haven't got your social life sorted. On Friday was wine circle. We met at Gill's house. She's relatively new to the circle and doesn't have much wine-making knowhow or many wines on the go. Instead she had gone through the somewhat eclectic and miscellaneous wine & liqueur collection that her late husband had stashed in the garage. Half of the labels had come off in the damp and she was vague as to when they had been bought.
Would a 25-year old Spatleser be drinkable? And how about Austrian red? So, over a very nice and leisurely supper, we tried some of this, some of that. The Spatleser was rather nice, if a trifle oxidised. And Austrian red a pleasant surprise. In fact, her husband had obviously had a predeliction for Germanic wines. These days with German wines rather out of favour since the days of Blue Nun and Black Tower it was good to rediscover them.
Once we were tucking into the cheeses (we had more disagreement about the Brie than the wine - being divided between those who reckon that it should be running all over the plate and those who think that it should just be bulging a tiny bit.), Gill then heaved out the liqueurs. Wild orange Grand Marnier, Benedictine (better than Benylin for my throat, although Benylin tastes better), Ancient brandy, Bols melon liqueur, Anisette, Creme de Menthe. And so on. And I wasn't driving that night.
So a very jolly and interesting evening - none of us got drunk, we all got very cheerful and learned something more about the amazing world of alcohol.
In My Day
My father's attitude to alcohol was very different. Being the son of an habitual drunkard, who had seen his mother being reduced to doing menial tasks because her husband, who had a perfectly respectable trade as a bookbinder, drank away his wages, he was at best very cautious about drink. He hated whisky because that had been what his father used to drink. And, in fact, spirits made a very late appearance in our household. He himself drank very little; a sherry and some wine at Christmas.
My mother was more relaxed. She did love her German wines. When the whole family gathered each year at their retirement bungalow in Dorking to celebrate Mamma's birthday in October, Mamma would have laid in stocks of Goldener Oktober wine; I can still taste that autumnal, generous flavour. She would even drink Liebfraumilch (this was before the days when nasty northen pubs offered it on tap to hen night groups).
Wine was strictly for celebrations; Birthdays, Christmas and the like. I was always allowed a taste but didn't like it much. One reason was that wine was relatively more expensive than it is now and much less easily available. You couldn't just pop down the supermarket any time of day or night and pick up a few or email The Sunday Times Wine Club for a case of Claret. And, although my father earned a good salary at Hansard, we were never rich.
I didn't really start drinking until I went to college and then we drank cider and the most apalling cheap wines.
So I've come on a long way since then. Or have I?
Weekends are funny things. Even if you've been off work all week you still think that the weekend's a failure if you haven't got your social life sorted. On Friday was wine circle. We met at Gill's house. She's relatively new to the circle and doesn't have much wine-making knowhow or many wines on the go. Instead she had gone through the somewhat eclectic and miscellaneous wine & liqueur collection that her late husband had stashed in the garage. Half of the labels had come off in the damp and she was vague as to when they had been bought.
Would a 25-year old Spatleser be drinkable? And how about Austrian red? So, over a very nice and leisurely supper, we tried some of this, some of that. The Spatleser was rather nice, if a trifle oxidised. And Austrian red a pleasant surprise. In fact, her husband had obviously had a predeliction for Germanic wines. These days with German wines rather out of favour since the days of Blue Nun and Black Tower it was good to rediscover them.
Once we were tucking into the cheeses (we had more disagreement about the Brie than the wine - being divided between those who reckon that it should be running all over the plate and those who think that it should just be bulging a tiny bit.), Gill then heaved out the liqueurs. Wild orange Grand Marnier, Benedictine (better than Benylin for my throat, although Benylin tastes better), Ancient brandy, Bols melon liqueur, Anisette, Creme de Menthe. And so on. And I wasn't driving that night.
So a very jolly and interesting evening - none of us got drunk, we all got very cheerful and learned something more about the amazing world of alcohol.
In My Day
My father's attitude to alcohol was very different. Being the son of an habitual drunkard, who had seen his mother being reduced to doing menial tasks because her husband, who had a perfectly respectable trade as a bookbinder, drank away his wages, he was at best very cautious about drink. He hated whisky because that had been what his father used to drink. And, in fact, spirits made a very late appearance in our household. He himself drank very little; a sherry and some wine at Christmas.
My mother was more relaxed. She did love her German wines. When the whole family gathered each year at their retirement bungalow in Dorking to celebrate Mamma's birthday in October, Mamma would have laid in stocks of Goldener Oktober wine; I can still taste that autumnal, generous flavour. She would even drink Liebfraumilch (this was before the days when nasty northen pubs offered it on tap to hen night groups).
Wine was strictly for celebrations; Birthdays, Christmas and the like. I was always allowed a taste but didn't like it much. One reason was that wine was relatively more expensive than it is now and much less easily available. You couldn't just pop down the supermarket any time of day or night and pick up a few or email The Sunday Times Wine Club for a case of Claret. And, although my father earned a good salary at Hansard, we were never rich.
I didn't really start drinking until I went to college and then we drank cider and the most apalling cheap wines.
So I've come on a long way since then. Or have I?
Friday, April 15, 2005
Today
Still off sick, so spent some time yesterday sorting out picture disks. These covered photos taken on Paul's SLR between 2001 and 2003. I decided to check the contents of each disk so that I could reliably label them.
Never, never again will I let myself get to that size! I looked at the 2001 and 2002 pictures with horror. Did I really have that extra chin? Massive front? Huge rear? I remember now why "Diet Trials" was such a life-saver. I have always been a careful dresser and it's not that the pictures show me wearing frightful clothes that should never have rolled off a production line, let alone be bought and worn. (You know like those "before" pictures that show the now successful slimmer wearing some shorts and a T-shirt on holiday that show they weren'tonly fat but certifiable.)
No, it's the pictures of me in my smarties that make me shudder even more. I didn't at the time feel especially ugly; there were enough indications that I was even considered by quite a few chaps to be attractive, but I was truly large. Chins! Uggh!
It is a continual struggle to maintain the weight I achieved 2 years ago; in fact, I'm a little over it at the moment (not for much longer, though!). People who organise these diet plans (WW included, it must be said) forget to mention that it's a lifelong thing. Losing the weight's only a quarter of the battle.
It's not a new thing for me; since I was 18 I've continually struggled to keep to a reasonable size. It's only thanks to that effort that I haven't got even bigger. It would have been so easy.
In My Day
According to my Mother I had fat everywhere it was possible to have fat when I was born, at 10lbs. I was born a few days' late, being suspicious about what privations might await me in the outside world, I'd obviously been stocking up. So far, so good. But I continued as a fat child (as did my sister; my brothers were both skinny streaks). I can remember how uncomfortable it made me, certainly from the time I started school. It attracted adverse comments, not just from my peers (and I never developed equipment to deal with their taunts), but also from the teachers when I could'nt keep up with the simplest sports or exercise.
My mother used to weigh herself regularly at the chemists; she would report a weight of around 15st with no apparent concern. Certainly she never mentioned dieting and I can't remember any restraint being advised at our generously loaded dinner tables. We didn't eat badly; we had fresh, home cooked meals with lots of veg and there was always a fruit bowl. However, I also remember being permitted to eat suger sandwiches and crisp sandwiches!
We children bought sweets once a week with our sixpence pocket money; the trick there was to buy as much for the money as possible, which meant halfpenny chews, sherbert dip, liquorice strings. Chocolate was far too expensive. Sweets were also bought on occasions when we sat down to play family games (Monopoly could last for hours). Either Daddy or one of the boys would walk up to the Cinema (the only place open on a Sunday afternoon that had sweets) and buy toffees. This would keep you going as you watched your older brother buy up all the hotels and fleece everybody that passed through.
Add to this the fact that exercise was positively discouraged and you have it.
So, the bandwaggon rolls on with me still counting points and battling to stay at size 12. Summer's coming and the loft's full of clothes that I could wear 2 years ago. I will wear them this year!
Still off sick, so spent some time yesterday sorting out picture disks. These covered photos taken on Paul's SLR between 2001 and 2003. I decided to check the contents of each disk so that I could reliably label them.
Never, never again will I let myself get to that size! I looked at the 2001 and 2002 pictures with horror. Did I really have that extra chin? Massive front? Huge rear? I remember now why "Diet Trials" was such a life-saver. I have always been a careful dresser and it's not that the pictures show me wearing frightful clothes that should never have rolled off a production line, let alone be bought and worn. (You know like those "before" pictures that show the now successful slimmer wearing some shorts and a T-shirt on holiday that show they weren'tonly fat but certifiable.)
No, it's the pictures of me in my smarties that make me shudder even more. I didn't at the time feel especially ugly; there were enough indications that I was even considered by quite a few chaps to be attractive, but I was truly large. Chins! Uggh!
It is a continual struggle to maintain the weight I achieved 2 years ago; in fact, I'm a little over it at the moment (not for much longer, though!). People who organise these diet plans (WW included, it must be said) forget to mention that it's a lifelong thing. Losing the weight's only a quarter of the battle.
It's not a new thing for me; since I was 18 I've continually struggled to keep to a reasonable size. It's only thanks to that effort that I haven't got even bigger. It would have been so easy.
In My Day
According to my Mother I had fat everywhere it was possible to have fat when I was born, at 10lbs. I was born a few days' late, being suspicious about what privations might await me in the outside world, I'd obviously been stocking up. So far, so good. But I continued as a fat child (as did my sister; my brothers were both skinny streaks). I can remember how uncomfortable it made me, certainly from the time I started school. It attracted adverse comments, not just from my peers (and I never developed equipment to deal with their taunts), but also from the teachers when I could'nt keep up with the simplest sports or exercise.
My mother used to weigh herself regularly at the chemists; she would report a weight of around 15st with no apparent concern. Certainly she never mentioned dieting and I can't remember any restraint being advised at our generously loaded dinner tables. We didn't eat badly; we had fresh, home cooked meals with lots of veg and there was always a fruit bowl. However, I also remember being permitted to eat suger sandwiches and crisp sandwiches!
We children bought sweets once a week with our sixpence pocket money; the trick there was to buy as much for the money as possible, which meant halfpenny chews, sherbert dip, liquorice strings. Chocolate was far too expensive. Sweets were also bought on occasions when we sat down to play family games (Monopoly could last for hours). Either Daddy or one of the boys would walk up to the Cinema (the only place open on a Sunday afternoon that had sweets) and buy toffees. This would keep you going as you watched your older brother buy up all the hotels and fleece everybody that passed through.
Add to this the fact that exercise was positively discouraged and you have it.
So, the bandwaggon rolls on with me still counting points and battling to stay at size 12. Summer's coming and the loft's full of clothes that I could wear 2 years ago. I will wear them this year!
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
Today
The Laryngitis got the better of me today. Yesterday I soldiered on. Went into work, emailed staff to say that phoning was off and got on with a busy day. Rather croaky and some people thought that to pretend to use sign language was funny. "No, I'm not deaf - I just can't actually speak." Funny thing; when your voice's all funny you can't control your intonation or expressiveness. I realise that I sounded more than usually aggresive because it was such an effort to say anything at all, and my laugh came out as a frightful high-pitched squeak.
Still I spent some extra time in bed this morning, after a night spent coughing. (There's only so much a Meggezone can do.) Eventually the sunshine and sounds of the outside world beckoned and I got up at about 11.00.
After my bath I mooched for a bit, then spent time sorting out the receipts for Paul's business, which have been piling up in a box labelled "receipts" which is great, but you are expected to sort then eventually.
I got loads of washing sorted, cooked a nice lunch and went out for a walk in the later afternoon sunshine. So quite a useful day, despite the laryngitis
In My Day
As I think I've said before, as a child, I was hardly ever ill, which meant that I never got to stay off school. How I envied those who did and planned all sorts of things to do if ever I was off sick. Eventually the time came - I had a rather nasty bug that involved a high temperature and a lot of vomiting. What I hadn't reckoned on was, that if you're too ill to go school, you probably feel like shit. So you might have many ideas about exciting ways to spend your day, but what really happens is that you lie in bed saying "I don't feel very well", are sick a lot and have those horrible nightmare/visions that come with a fever.
I remember being given a book which described a fever driven vision of a sick child all based around a very rich life based on the counterpane on the bed of said child. I wonder what it was called....
My Mother didn't especially reward illness; she doled out medicine, mopped up vomit without comment and kept out of the way. I tend to the same method of mothering myself - the girls had to be practically dead before I'd let them off school.
So, none of this whimpishness, Mrs Barrett! You've a business to run!
The Laryngitis got the better of me today. Yesterday I soldiered on. Went into work, emailed staff to say that phoning was off and got on with a busy day. Rather croaky and some people thought that to pretend to use sign language was funny. "No, I'm not deaf - I just can't actually speak." Funny thing; when your voice's all funny you can't control your intonation or expressiveness. I realise that I sounded more than usually aggresive because it was such an effort to say anything at all, and my laugh came out as a frightful high-pitched squeak.
Still I spent some extra time in bed this morning, after a night spent coughing. (There's only so much a Meggezone can do.) Eventually the sunshine and sounds of the outside world beckoned and I got up at about 11.00.
After my bath I mooched for a bit, then spent time sorting out the receipts for Paul's business, which have been piling up in a box labelled "receipts" which is great, but you are expected to sort then eventually.
I got loads of washing sorted, cooked a nice lunch and went out for a walk in the later afternoon sunshine. So quite a useful day, despite the laryngitis
In My Day
As I think I've said before, as a child, I was hardly ever ill, which meant that I never got to stay off school. How I envied those who did and planned all sorts of things to do if ever I was off sick. Eventually the time came - I had a rather nasty bug that involved a high temperature and a lot of vomiting. What I hadn't reckoned on was, that if you're too ill to go school, you probably feel like shit. So you might have many ideas about exciting ways to spend your day, but what really happens is that you lie in bed saying "I don't feel very well", are sick a lot and have those horrible nightmare/visions that come with a fever.
I remember being given a book which described a fever driven vision of a sick child all based around a very rich life based on the counterpane on the bed of said child. I wonder what it was called....
My Mother didn't especially reward illness; she doled out medicine, mopped up vomit without comment and kept out of the way. I tend to the same method of mothering myself - the girls had to be practically dead before I'd let them off school.
So, none of this whimpishness, Mrs Barrett! You've a business to run!
Monday, April 11, 2005
Today
The best thing about the English spring is the way it teases you. A few snowdrops here, a catkin there. A warm day, followed by 3 weeks of frost with a hint of snow. Today, after a beautiful day yesterday, we started with mist. It had that quality which made you think the sun was going to burst through. So I decided to do the big walk: the one all the way down Entry Hill. This despite the laryngitis. However, the mist resolved into a cloud layer and it was still quite chilly. And I hadn't got a coat.
The walk back up tonight was nice, though; there was some blue sky. I saw primroses, celandines, violets and cowslips, as well as the ubiquitous daffs. Cowslips are making a comeback, having been practically obliterated during the 70s and 80s.
In My Day
To my Mother spring meant the opportunity to get into the country and pick flowers. On some Sunday or other in March or April, armed with an Ordnance Survey map and picnic, she'd herd us all onto a bus going South. Eventually the London Country Bus (Green Line) would deposit us at whatever place she had decreed was the starting point and off we'd go, struggling over stiles and barbed wire, slipping in the mud. At some point we'd lose my father, who'd stop "to take pictures" which really meant having a snooze under a tree. Mamma would decide that it was time for the picnic so we'd sit on our coats, dealing with spiders, earwigs and unexpcted (at least to Mamma) drops of rain.
Then the trek back to a bus stop where, with luck, we'd catch the last bus back to Godstone or some such place. It wasn't for nothing that Daddy nicknamed Mamma the "never-get-there". Mamma, as a German, never got the hang of the vagaries of the English spring and we never picked any flowers: they were always either over or not started yet or didn't flower in that part of Britain.
Spring, though. It never really lets you down, does it?
The best thing about the English spring is the way it teases you. A few snowdrops here, a catkin there. A warm day, followed by 3 weeks of frost with a hint of snow. Today, after a beautiful day yesterday, we started with mist. It had that quality which made you think the sun was going to burst through. So I decided to do the big walk: the one all the way down Entry Hill. This despite the laryngitis. However, the mist resolved into a cloud layer and it was still quite chilly. And I hadn't got a coat.
The walk back up tonight was nice, though; there was some blue sky. I saw primroses, celandines, violets and cowslips, as well as the ubiquitous daffs. Cowslips are making a comeback, having been practically obliterated during the 70s and 80s.
In My Day
To my Mother spring meant the opportunity to get into the country and pick flowers. On some Sunday or other in March or April, armed with an Ordnance Survey map and picnic, she'd herd us all onto a bus going South. Eventually the London Country Bus (Green Line) would deposit us at whatever place she had decreed was the starting point and off we'd go, struggling over stiles and barbed wire, slipping in the mud. At some point we'd lose my father, who'd stop "to take pictures" which really meant having a snooze under a tree. Mamma would decide that it was time for the picnic so we'd sit on our coats, dealing with spiders, earwigs and unexpcted (at least to Mamma) drops of rain.
Then the trek back to a bus stop where, with luck, we'd catch the last bus back to Godstone or some such place. It wasn't for nothing that Daddy nicknamed Mamma the "never-get-there". Mamma, as a German, never got the hang of the vagaries of the English spring and we never picked any flowers: they were always either over or not started yet or didn't flower in that part of Britain.
Spring, though. It never really lets you down, does it?
Sunday, April 10, 2005
Today
Actually, instead of the sneezing, I've developed laryngitis. A great boon, given my propensity for excessive talking, some might say. We've got our friends the Stewpots visiting this weekend, as well as our daughter Becky, so I expect they'll all report coughs and colds in a day or so. It's surprising what a strain it is when you can't actually talk, except in a hoarse whisper. I felt quite tearful last night.
There's no reason why Paul should whisper as well, but that's exactly what he was doing this morning, as though someone had decreed that we should all be sotto voce for the day! "Why are you whispering?" I asked. "Dunno." was the reply (in a whisper).
In My Day
When I was singing with Musica Antiqua, back in the 70s, we had a concert as part of the Brighton Fringe. Very excited, we were, at this opportunity to increase our audience. However, I developed laryngitis, as now. Now I realise that you don't sing with your throat, but you do need to be able to pass air over the vocal chords in a controlled fashion and you can't do that with laryngitis. So I explained that I coudn't sing.
Clearly this was just seen as a feeble excuse (though why I should want an excuse not to sing, I can't imagine). Our musical director told me to stand with the others and mime! This I attempted to do for the 1st half (It's not as easy as it looks so I take my hat off to all those pop groups on TOTP). However, it's quite a strain (see above), and I became much more exhausted that I would have done with actual singing. So I rebelled for the 2nd half and went home.
Could that be why the group never achieved international recognition?
Actually, instead of the sneezing, I've developed laryngitis. A great boon, given my propensity for excessive talking, some might say. We've got our friends the Stewpots visiting this weekend, as well as our daughter Becky, so I expect they'll all report coughs and colds in a day or so. It's surprising what a strain it is when you can't actually talk, except in a hoarse whisper. I felt quite tearful last night.
There's no reason why Paul should whisper as well, but that's exactly what he was doing this morning, as though someone had decreed that we should all be sotto voce for the day! "Why are you whispering?" I asked. "Dunno." was the reply (in a whisper).
In My Day
When I was singing with Musica Antiqua, back in the 70s, we had a concert as part of the Brighton Fringe. Very excited, we were, at this opportunity to increase our audience. However, I developed laryngitis, as now. Now I realise that you don't sing with your throat, but you do need to be able to pass air over the vocal chords in a controlled fashion and you can't do that with laryngitis. So I explained that I coudn't sing.
Clearly this was just seen as a feeble excuse (though why I should want an excuse not to sing, I can't imagine). Our musical director told me to stand with the others and mime! This I attempted to do for the 1st half (It's not as easy as it looks so I take my hat off to all those pop groups on TOTP). However, it's quite a strain (see above), and I became much more exhausted that I would have done with actual singing. So I rebelled for the 2nd half and went home.
Could that be why the group never achieved international recognition?
Thursday, April 07, 2005
Today
More on colds and cold cures. Everytime I dozed off in the night, Paul awoke me by a prodigious amount of coughing. Am I sorry for him? Of course not! I need my rest. He tried simply suppressing the cough - nearly burst a blood vessel. Water and cough linctus merely briefly palliative. I recommended a soother that I'd discovered when I developed bronchitis some years ago about four days before singing "Judas Maccabeus".
Take one Meggezone pastille and lodge it between your cheek and gum. It will slowly dissolve and send its soothing juice down your throat at a metered rate. Works, too. He stopped coughing and I got some sleep.
I managed to sing "Judas Maccabeus" all those years ago with one stuck to my hard palate.
In My Day
A much preferred preventative, when I was a young 'un, would occur some day in March/April. Daddy would keep us all off school, regardless of our state of health, and take us all on the first train heading for the South Coast. Our proximity to East Croydon meant that it was nearly always Brighton. We would get off the train and walk towards the sea. Daddy would buy us each a pint of shrimps in a paper bag (I wasn't so keen on that bit). Then we'd either walk the undercliff walk and have fish & chips at Rottingdean or get the open-top bus to Birling Gap or parade along the pier. "That'll blow away the winter colds," Daddy would proclaim. I didn't remind him that I hadn't had any colds and just enjoyed this parentally sanctioned way of bunking off school.
I fear that today will be one of those sneeze every 5 second days. Hey-ho!
More on colds and cold cures. Everytime I dozed off in the night, Paul awoke me by a prodigious amount of coughing. Am I sorry for him? Of course not! I need my rest. He tried simply suppressing the cough - nearly burst a blood vessel. Water and cough linctus merely briefly palliative. I recommended a soother that I'd discovered when I developed bronchitis some years ago about four days before singing "Judas Maccabeus".
Take one Meggezone pastille and lodge it between your cheek and gum. It will slowly dissolve and send its soothing juice down your throat at a metered rate. Works, too. He stopped coughing and I got some sleep.
I managed to sing "Judas Maccabeus" all those years ago with one stuck to my hard palate.
In My Day
A much preferred preventative, when I was a young 'un, would occur some day in March/April. Daddy would keep us all off school, regardless of our state of health, and take us all on the first train heading for the South Coast. Our proximity to East Croydon meant that it was nearly always Brighton. We would get off the train and walk towards the sea. Daddy would buy us each a pint of shrimps in a paper bag (I wasn't so keen on that bit). Then we'd either walk the undercliff walk and have fish & chips at Rottingdean or get the open-top bus to Birling Gap or parade along the pier. "That'll blow away the winter colds," Daddy would proclaim. I didn't remind him that I hadn't had any colds and just enjoyed this parentally sanctioned way of bunking off school.
I fear that today will be one of those sneeze every 5 second days. Hey-ho!
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
Sore Throat
Today
Woke up with a sore throat this morning. For this I squarely blame my husband, Paul, who's had a shocker all week. I don't really do colds, believing that prevention's better than cure. So I'll probably attempt to soldier on, ignoring it.
I don't take Vit C pills or echinacea or any of that rubbish. In fact, a recent bit of research suggests that the best Vit C can do is lessen the symptoms. I prefer to pretend it isn't happening and help the healing process with red wine. It's all those antioxidants, you see.
In My Day
My father, who did do colds, decided to implement the prevention's better than cure policy by purchasing an enormous jar of cod liver oil & malt. My mother offered me a spoonful (why me? I didn't get any more colds then than I do now). I thought it was honey and opened wide. Splat! That was the sound of me spitting it out into the washing up water (the task I was engaged in). I was roundly ear-clipped and made to have a spoonful daily - not as a punishment but because Daddy really believed in it. I spent unmeasured hours of my childhood with a mouthful of vile tasting stuff thatI couldn't bring myself to swallow and didn't think to quickly spit it into the pot plants or something. Yuk.
I think that Daddy and my sister, who shared his tendency to colds, really liked it and went on getting as many colds as before.
My throat hurts.
Woke up with a sore throat this morning. For this I squarely blame my husband, Paul, who's had a shocker all week. I don't really do colds, believing that prevention's better than cure. So I'll probably attempt to soldier on, ignoring it.
I don't take Vit C pills or echinacea or any of that rubbish. In fact, a recent bit of research suggests that the best Vit C can do is lessen the symptoms. I prefer to pretend it isn't happening and help the healing process with red wine. It's all those antioxidants, you see.
In My Day
My father, who did do colds, decided to implement the prevention's better than cure policy by purchasing an enormous jar of cod liver oil & malt. My mother offered me a spoonful (why me? I didn't get any more colds then than I do now). I thought it was honey and opened wide. Splat! That was the sound of me spitting it out into the washing up water (the task I was engaged in). I was roundly ear-clipped and made to have a spoonful daily - not as a punishment but because Daddy really believed in it. I spent unmeasured hours of my childhood with a mouthful of vile tasting stuff thatI couldn't bring myself to swallow and didn't think to quickly spit it into the pot plants or something. Yuk.
I think that Daddy and my sister, who shared his tendency to colds, really liked it and went on getting as many colds as before.
My throat hurts.
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
In My Day
The title for this Blog derives from a question asked me some years ago by one of my daughter's teenage friends: "Mrs Barrett", she said, "In your day..." I interrupted her and pointed out that I was still alive and therefore hadn't yet had my day and would prefer it if she rephrased the question along the lines of "when you were my age".... Not very kind of me but, there, you have to make the point.
Each entry will have a spot for Today with a reference or comment from my past.
However, I am sure that today it's still "my day"!
Each entry will have a spot for Today with a reference or comment from my past.
However, I am sure that today it's still "my day"!
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