Today
It being a Bank Holiday, Becky and I decided to walk to the village of Kilmersdon where it was their annual village day. The walk took about an hour and a half (we took a slight wrong turn near Lypyeate). Paul drove by and picked us up and we arrived in the village. This is Jack & Jill's village. We walked down the famous hill, passing a well (thoroughly scrubbed up as part of a millennium project) and an inscription. The village is rather a pretty one and was full of the usual cake stands, face-painting stalls and plant collections. There were also a large number of bric-a-brac stalls - where does all this rubbish come from? (well one could start in my loft, I suppose), and an attempt at a classic car display.
There were quite a few bouncy castles so the kids were happy. There were the usual suspect burger and chip vans and actually 2 hog roasts. The stand where you could buy a non-meaty snack was well tucked away. The event was themed around the Wild West with "Wanted" signs up all over the place and a totem pole which the children were helping to paint. The most original display was a creepy-crawly insect show.
We did our duty and took a chance with upturned egg-shells (would mine have a £5 underneath it?), I bought some unidentifiable annuals, and we bought some nice brie, bread and pickles from a coupler of rather classy food stalls. Then back home to feast on the cheese and pickles.
In My Day
Daddy (a true child of London) thought that the way to spend bank holiday was to go somewhere where there would be the maximum number of people. That meant London Zoo, Battersea Funfair or an excursion railway journey to Brighton.
He was perfectly happy as we crowded through the turnstiles into the zoo, and fought our way around the various attractions. Mamma loved the lion's feeding time which was always advertised and at the appointed time we'd crowd into the lion house with 100's of other Londoners and watch while hunks of meat were thrown to the animals. The smell of blood and leonine faeces was absolutelyy vile - was I the only one who thought so? (Perhaps that's where my preference for a vegetarian diet comes from.)
A visit to Battersea was another battle trip. I enjoyed the tree-top walk. It was at Battersea where I became clear about my aversion to heights. I wanted to go on the helter-skelter. Whereas many other attractions were free once you'd paid your entrance, this one cost a whole 6d. In return for this you were given a sort of coconut doormat and you walked up the steep staircase to the top. There was a long line of children. Eventually I got to the top. I looked down the slide and thought "no." I didn't panic; I just pushed my way past all the waiting children , back down the stairs till I got to the bottom. I demanded my 6d back - I think the helter-skelter man didn't want to waste time arguing.
We were allowed to eat all sorts of junk, such as candy floss, honeycombe and toffee apples (honeycomb won hands down as the best).
Journeys home, always on public transport, were tired and sticky affairs.
Still, that's what bank holidays are all about - shared fun.
Monday, May 30, 2005
Saturday, May 28, 2005
Today
This week I took the extreme step of deleting all the games off my computer. You know, the freebies - Freecell, Spider Solitare, Solitare, Hearts, Minesweeper. Time-wasters, all the lot of them. I had been doing Freecell & Spider Solitare in 100 game batches, after which I'd clear my scores and start again, always trying to beat my last average. Which says it all, really - I must have played 1000's of games, costing 100's of hours of my valuable life.
It's not as though I'm a great cards player. My sister loves to play internet cards and has made friends worldwide, and my Bridge-playing brother is involved in several Babu rings. More that I would have some chore to do, like writing the Parish Council Newsletter, and instead play several dozen games of solitare. I didn't get any better (about 60% was my best average in Spider) and still had to get the other job done, but with an added burden of guilt and often in a hurry.
Since taking this step I've sorted out the study (Hurrah!) and started to sort out Paul's business filing system. I've sewn buttons and stitched up hems on clothes that sorely needed a bit of TLC and finally re-hemmed the curtains for the 2nd window in the bedroom (after only about 9 months).
In My Day
Although we played games as children, our card games were limited to snap, cheat and pontoon. My parents played Canasta together using little scorecards with dials. My brother experienced an epiphany as a teenager when he learnt how to play bridge - later becoming a player of international stature. He tried to teach me but I was an inept student.
Mamma used to play patience a lot - Demon, Clock, etc, turning the cards over and over for hours. Perhaps this harked back to times when she sat up waiting for Daddy to come home from the House of Commons after a late sitting, with us in bed and only the radio for company. She was good at cards, learning bridge with Chris and playing in local clubs until shortly before her death. Perhaps spending time on patience games was a symptom of her never far away depression, as she was a creative person and there must have been many things she could have been doing. Or maybe they gave her a vacant space in her crowded-with-children life.
I do remember someone even giving her a book of patiences for Christmas once. I think there's a big difference between playing patience and other card games in that it's essentially solitary ("solitare", in fact!) and seems to be rather lonely.
Anyone got a pack of cards?
This week I took the extreme step of deleting all the games off my computer. You know, the freebies - Freecell, Spider Solitare, Solitare, Hearts, Minesweeper. Time-wasters, all the lot of them. I had been doing Freecell & Spider Solitare in 100 game batches, after which I'd clear my scores and start again, always trying to beat my last average. Which says it all, really - I must have played 1000's of games, costing 100's of hours of my valuable life.
It's not as though I'm a great cards player. My sister loves to play internet cards and has made friends worldwide, and my Bridge-playing brother is involved in several Babu rings. More that I would have some chore to do, like writing the Parish Council Newsletter, and instead play several dozen games of solitare. I didn't get any better (about 60% was my best average in Spider) and still had to get the other job done, but with an added burden of guilt and often in a hurry.
Since taking this step I've sorted out the study (Hurrah!) and started to sort out Paul's business filing system. I've sewn buttons and stitched up hems on clothes that sorely needed a bit of TLC and finally re-hemmed the curtains for the 2nd window in the bedroom (after only about 9 months).
In My Day
Although we played games as children, our card games were limited to snap, cheat and pontoon. My parents played Canasta together using little scorecards with dials. My brother experienced an epiphany as a teenager when he learnt how to play bridge - later becoming a player of international stature. He tried to teach me but I was an inept student.
Mamma used to play patience a lot - Demon, Clock, etc, turning the cards over and over for hours. Perhaps this harked back to times when she sat up waiting for Daddy to come home from the House of Commons after a late sitting, with us in bed and only the radio for company. She was good at cards, learning bridge with Chris and playing in local clubs until shortly before her death. Perhaps spending time on patience games was a symptom of her never far away depression, as she was a creative person and there must have been many things she could have been doing. Or maybe they gave her a vacant space in her crowded-with-children life.
I do remember someone even giving her a book of patiences for Christmas once. I think there's a big difference between playing patience and other card games in that it's essentially solitary ("solitare", in fact!) and seems to be rather lonely.
Anyone got a pack of cards?
Sunday, May 22, 2005
Today
Not a bad weekend on the whole. Not seething with gay socialising but productive, despite quantities of bucketing rain. This morning, I seized the carpe diem (to use a redundant translation) and did the front garden, rather than idly thinking "I'll do it after lunch" and then finding that it poured down. I really quite like it whenI get down to doing it. I don't even mind weeding. I dug over the bed and pulled out some splendid weeds. I mowed our little patch of grass. Took me all of 2 hours and it looks very nice indeed.
I've learnt that, as a full-time working person with many outside commitments, it's foolishness to commit to doing more gardening than you can do in a very short time. I've many times bought trays of bedding plants, only to see them gradually wither away as I didn't have the time to plant them. So I've now the space to put in some plants and am much more likely actually to plant some if I make the purchase part of another weekend's duties.
In My Day
Gardening at 4 Beulah Hill was much more of a military campaign that anything else. The back garden stretched for about 300 or 400 feet, was surrounded with mature trees and had a shrubby bank to one side. At the front was a gravel sweep with more beds and trees.
Mowing the lawn took the best part of half a day and was done from time to time. Mamma used to attack the flower beds on occasion, yanking out massive weeds and trying to keep at least the most visible tidy. This meant managing the two walled rose borders in front of the house, Looking after "Coronation Corner" and gazing at the rest of the garden in despair.
As Mamma was an experienced nursery gardener, this was simply another case of overload.
The mature trees, were a problem as well as they had a habit of falling over. On one occasion this happened after a heavy fall of snow and a large laburnum felt right across the road, blocking cars, buses and lorries for miles. We just all had to pitch in, carrying away loads of logs as Daddy sawed up the tree.
When Mamma and Daddy retired to Dorking Mamma's garden was a thing of beauty. She loved all sorts of plants and taught me a great deal.
The back garden still needs sorting out, though.
Not a bad weekend on the whole. Not seething with gay socialising but productive, despite quantities of bucketing rain. This morning, I seized the carpe diem (to use a redundant translation) and did the front garden, rather than idly thinking "I'll do it after lunch" and then finding that it poured down. I really quite like it whenI get down to doing it. I don't even mind weeding. I dug over the bed and pulled out some splendid weeds. I mowed our little patch of grass. Took me all of 2 hours and it looks very nice indeed.
I've learnt that, as a full-time working person with many outside commitments, it's foolishness to commit to doing more gardening than you can do in a very short time. I've many times bought trays of bedding plants, only to see them gradually wither away as I didn't have the time to plant them. So I've now the space to put in some plants and am much more likely actually to plant some if I make the purchase part of another weekend's duties.
In My Day
Gardening at 4 Beulah Hill was much more of a military campaign that anything else. The back garden stretched for about 300 or 400 feet, was surrounded with mature trees and had a shrubby bank to one side. At the front was a gravel sweep with more beds and trees.
Mowing the lawn took the best part of half a day and was done from time to time. Mamma used to attack the flower beds on occasion, yanking out massive weeds and trying to keep at least the most visible tidy. This meant managing the two walled rose borders in front of the house, Looking after "Coronation Corner" and gazing at the rest of the garden in despair.
As Mamma was an experienced nursery gardener, this was simply another case of overload.
The mature trees, were a problem as well as they had a habit of falling over. On one occasion this happened after a heavy fall of snow and a large laburnum felt right across the road, blocking cars, buses and lorries for miles. We just all had to pitch in, carrying away loads of logs as Daddy sawed up the tree.
When Mamma and Daddy retired to Dorking Mamma's garden was a thing of beauty. She loved all sorts of plants and taught me a great deal.
The back garden still needs sorting out, though.
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
Today
Yesterday Paul's aunt died. She must have been 90 and has spent the last 30 years of her life in an old folk's home, gradually slipping from slightly potty to non-compos. While Paul's Mum was able, she did visit her weekly and took care of many things. Latterly Paul and his sister had taken Mum to visit her and Paul's nephew and cousin occasionally saw her. Her own children, granchildren and great-grandchildren? Not been near her in at least 20 years.
So, I guess, since Mum's death, she'd probably not seen a soul from her family, except possibly our lovely nephew. It makes you wonder about the point of living; about the possibility of dying, not only alone, but without the knowledge that a single other soul loves you.
The funeral will probably make an uncomfortable contrast to Mum's, where the little chapel was full and we'd chosen hymns Mum liked and Becky read her favourite poem and the reverend had known her personally and was able to say some lovely things about her life.
In My Day
I saw many such lonely ends to life when I worked on the old people's homes, first as a student, then as a proper job. My summer job was at Orchard House in Annerly (now, I'm told, a young offenders' unit), which, while being run along workhouse lines, did have the merit of being very communal, with dormitories and dining rooms. This meant that the old geezers did have a lot of company of their own sort even if they never saw a relation.
At the second place, the D'arcy in Hove, residents all had separate rooms and were served meals in their rooms also. There was no communal space. Some of them never saw anyone other than the nurses. I remember having a little time one day and simply taking one old lady to visit other residents who were on the same floor. She was delighted with this social experiment and talked about it for days. Another lady was actually having a visitor; we helped her into corsets and a decent dress and to put on a little makeup. How we were told off for wasting time by the staff nurse!
One old frail lady was just a ripple under the bedclothes; she received no visitors and was months dying, but the nurse who cared for her offered her love; carrying her in her arms and tenderly helping her to eat and drink.
In the end that's what we should all strive for - to nurture and hold the love that's offered you.
Yesterday Paul's aunt died. She must have been 90 and has spent the last 30 years of her life in an old folk's home, gradually slipping from slightly potty to non-compos. While Paul's Mum was able, she did visit her weekly and took care of many things. Latterly Paul and his sister had taken Mum to visit her and Paul's nephew and cousin occasionally saw her. Her own children, granchildren and great-grandchildren? Not been near her in at least 20 years.
So, I guess, since Mum's death, she'd probably not seen a soul from her family, except possibly our lovely nephew. It makes you wonder about the point of living; about the possibility of dying, not only alone, but without the knowledge that a single other soul loves you.
The funeral will probably make an uncomfortable contrast to Mum's, where the little chapel was full and we'd chosen hymns Mum liked and Becky read her favourite poem and the reverend had known her personally and was able to say some lovely things about her life.
In My Day
I saw many such lonely ends to life when I worked on the old people's homes, first as a student, then as a proper job. My summer job was at Orchard House in Annerly (now, I'm told, a young offenders' unit), which, while being run along workhouse lines, did have the merit of being very communal, with dormitories and dining rooms. This meant that the old geezers did have a lot of company of their own sort even if they never saw a relation.
At the second place, the D'arcy in Hove, residents all had separate rooms and were served meals in their rooms also. There was no communal space. Some of them never saw anyone other than the nurses. I remember having a little time one day and simply taking one old lady to visit other residents who were on the same floor. She was delighted with this social experiment and talked about it for days. Another lady was actually having a visitor; we helped her into corsets and a decent dress and to put on a little makeup. How we were told off for wasting time by the staff nurse!
One old frail lady was just a ripple under the bedclothes; she received no visitors and was months dying, but the nurse who cared for her offered her love; carrying her in her arms and tenderly helping her to eat and drink.
In the end that's what we should all strive for - to nurture and hold the love that's offered you.
Saturday, May 14, 2005
Today
Recently I made the acquaintance of a new baby belonging to one of my colleagues. Lovely little thing, but the best thing about her was her name: Alice. The reason? That's my name. "But I thought you were Julia", I hear you cry. And that's quite true, I am Alice Julia. It seems that to be called by a name other than your first given name is not as rare as all that. Quite a lot of people choose for themselves. They say on, for example, their 18th birthday "I'd like you all from now on to call me "Maxine" or "Cosmo"" or something else. If they're lucky, people actually remember to do it.
At my place of work, the HR advisor at one time just got people to use a different variant of their names if there was already someone in the company with the same name. So Tricia, who is called Pat by family and friends outside work, was asked to adopt the name as we already had a Pat and so on. This became more difficult as the company grew - with four Janes, four David's, and so on, what do you do? Anyway, it's rather dubious practice in terms of fostering good employee relations.
In My Day
Mamma's first name was Alice; I was named Alice Julia (Julia for my grandmother) not Julia Alice because Daddy hated glottal stops. Inevitably I was always called Julia as this made practical sense. Now, don't mistake me, I have always rather liked Julia. It's a graceful, elegant name with overtones of snooty-ness, has never been commonplace but doesn't cause people to say "pardon, how do you spell that?" It has caused some people to try to call me "Julie" but I give them short shrift.
It has, however, caused me some identification problems.
On my first day at grammar school I was taken into the great hall (very Mallory Towers, my school was) where there were great big blackboards, one for each class, with all the names listed on it. You were expected to identify your name and then join the appropriate group. Well, I could see no sign of a Julia. This cause administrative chaos while teachers and secretaries ran around with bits of paper. Eventually, I was the only pupil left in the hall. It suddenly occured to me that they might have me down as Alice. I took another look at the board. Still no Alice Dixon. There was an Alice Duncan - could they have made a mistake? No - their lists showed an Alice Duncan and an Alice Dixon and that Alice Dixon had already been shown to her class. We rooted out Alice Duncan (couldn't she read? How did she get into Grammar school anyway?), sorted out the mistaken identity and I was ready. Well, almost - I'd missed being shown around the place and didn't know how to find the cloakroom or toilets and was too shy to ask....
Much later, during my early 20's I experienced similar confusion during a visit to the Family Planning clinic. I was unmarried and in the '70's that meant that you must be in need of counselling and advice. So I was sent to the youth advisory section (I was 23, for heaven's sake!) where they all assumed a partonisingly chatty and familar manner. I was waiting my appoinment, reading or dreaming and quite ingored the voice chirpily called "Alice". I'd expected a "Miss Dixon" or at least"Julia". So I read or dreamed on for some time before realising they meant me.
And then there was the time my boss gave me a bonus cheque made out to "Alice Julia ....." when my building society knew me as "Julia....." They didn't want to accept the money and told me that in future I should carry my passport with me at all times.
So, it's not all that simple - just don't call me "Julie", all right?
Recently I made the acquaintance of a new baby belonging to one of my colleagues. Lovely little thing, but the best thing about her was her name: Alice. The reason? That's my name. "But I thought you were Julia", I hear you cry. And that's quite true, I am Alice Julia. It seems that to be called by a name other than your first given name is not as rare as all that. Quite a lot of people choose for themselves. They say on, for example, their 18th birthday "I'd like you all from now on to call me "Maxine" or "Cosmo"" or something else. If they're lucky, people actually remember to do it.
At my place of work, the HR advisor at one time just got people to use a different variant of their names if there was already someone in the company with the same name. So Tricia, who is called Pat by family and friends outside work, was asked to adopt the name as we already had a Pat and so on. This became more difficult as the company grew - with four Janes, four David's, and so on, what do you do? Anyway, it's rather dubious practice in terms of fostering good employee relations.
In My Day
Mamma's first name was Alice; I was named Alice Julia (Julia for my grandmother) not Julia Alice because Daddy hated glottal stops. Inevitably I was always called Julia as this made practical sense. Now, don't mistake me, I have always rather liked Julia. It's a graceful, elegant name with overtones of snooty-ness, has never been commonplace but doesn't cause people to say "pardon, how do you spell that?" It has caused some people to try to call me "Julie" but I give them short shrift.
It has, however, caused me some identification problems.
On my first day at grammar school I was taken into the great hall (very Mallory Towers, my school was) where there were great big blackboards, one for each class, with all the names listed on it. You were expected to identify your name and then join the appropriate group. Well, I could see no sign of a Julia. This cause administrative chaos while teachers and secretaries ran around with bits of paper. Eventually, I was the only pupil left in the hall. It suddenly occured to me that they might have me down as Alice. I took another look at the board. Still no Alice Dixon. There was an Alice Duncan - could they have made a mistake? No - their lists showed an Alice Duncan and an Alice Dixon and that Alice Dixon had already been shown to her class. We rooted out Alice Duncan (couldn't she read? How did she get into Grammar school anyway?), sorted out the mistaken identity and I was ready. Well, almost - I'd missed being shown around the place and didn't know how to find the cloakroom or toilets and was too shy to ask....
Much later, during my early 20's I experienced similar confusion during a visit to the Family Planning clinic. I was unmarried and in the '70's that meant that you must be in need of counselling and advice. So I was sent to the youth advisory section (I was 23, for heaven's sake!) where they all assumed a partonisingly chatty and familar manner. I was waiting my appoinment, reading or dreaming and quite ingored the voice chirpily called "Alice". I'd expected a "Miss Dixon" or at least"Julia". So I read or dreamed on for some time before realising they meant me.
And then there was the time my boss gave me a bonus cheque made out to "Alice Julia ....." when my building society knew me as "Julia....." They didn't want to accept the money and told me that in future I should carry my passport with me at all times.
So, it's not all that simple - just don't call me "Julie", all right?
Thursday, May 12, 2005
Today
Paul's been worrying about the weather all week. This is because on Sunday it's the Mendip Classic Car Run and we're taking the Bentley out for a spin. Last year the weather was beautiful and we had a lovely picnic and enjoyed the final line-up in the evening sun on Wells Cathderal Green.
Frankly, it's chilly. The mornings are frosty and out of the sun you need to keep moving to keep warm. And we can't change it. So I plan to enjoy myself whatever.
I don't worry too much about the weather; it's one of the delights of living in England, after all.
Paul is convinced that the weather was better when he was young, which isn't terribly original.
In My Day
I simply don't have the gene that makes one think that the Summers were always lovely when one was a child. One thing I was rather good at was juggling with 2 or 3 balls against a wall (OK, mainly with 2). I often would go outside early on a sunny Summer morning and practice. I can remember how the first clouds would appear by 8 o'clock, and how the day would become overcast, even rainy by 10. I learnt to mistrust those super-bright 6 ams.
There were Summers when it seemed to rain every day. Winters rarely offered us much in the way of snow.
We did have days when we played under the garden hose, it was so hot. But then those days happen now (look at 2003!). I found my diary entry for the week at Challaborough Bay in Devon in 1957 - we had one nice day - every other day there was rain. And we were in a caravan (rented and 6 berth, but still a squish. And I managed to burn in that one day!
On Sunday, it'll be cardies, then. And the Bentley has picnic tables so we can munch under cover.
Paul's been worrying about the weather all week. This is because on Sunday it's the Mendip Classic Car Run and we're taking the Bentley out for a spin. Last year the weather was beautiful and we had a lovely picnic and enjoyed the final line-up in the evening sun on Wells Cathderal Green.
Frankly, it's chilly. The mornings are frosty and out of the sun you need to keep moving to keep warm. And we can't change it. So I plan to enjoy myself whatever.
I don't worry too much about the weather; it's one of the delights of living in England, after all.
Paul is convinced that the weather was better when he was young, which isn't terribly original.
In My Day
I simply don't have the gene that makes one think that the Summers were always lovely when one was a child. One thing I was rather good at was juggling with 2 or 3 balls against a wall (OK, mainly with 2). I often would go outside early on a sunny Summer morning and practice. I can remember how the first clouds would appear by 8 o'clock, and how the day would become overcast, even rainy by 10. I learnt to mistrust those super-bright 6 ams.
There were Summers when it seemed to rain every day. Winters rarely offered us much in the way of snow.
We did have days when we played under the garden hose, it was so hot. But then those days happen now (look at 2003!). I found my diary entry for the week at Challaborough Bay in Devon in 1957 - we had one nice day - every other day there was rain. And we were in a caravan (rented and 6 berth, but still a squish. And I managed to burn in that one day!
On Sunday, it'll be cardies, then. And the Bentley has picnic tables so we can munch under cover.
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
Today
Just got back from a spiffing weekend in Eastbourne catching up with family & friends. The weather was gorgeous. We stayed at the Hydro Hotel and, to atone for the amount of eating we'd done, we walked all the way to Paul's Sister's at Roselands. We walked along the seafront and saw the "Magnificent Motors" show get ready. Hordes of old cars - Austin 7's, Jags, Morris Minors, Bond Bugs, even Humbers. Paul was delighted and felt well rewarded for his effort. All along the way there were men saying things like "do you know that's a 1958 Rover blah-blah?"And their female companions were saying "Really, that's nice."
Paul got very cheerful over a white Daimler limousine and some rather nicely preserved Eastbourne buses (were they really that eggyolk yellow?) In fact, since marrying Paul, I've been involved with what seems like more than my fair share of older cars, from the frankly frightful, the possibly useable to the lovely Humber Imperial he's got now. And he's had some kind of car, with only one short intermission in 1977, since he was 15.
In My Day
Cars didn't feature so much in my childhood; living in London they weren't really necessary. My father used to talk about the Morris 8 he'd had in the '40s, and how one enthralled passenger had said with hushed awe to his wife "we are now going at 40 miles an hour."
So when Daddy got an old Daimler, nicknamed "Douglas" we were all very excited. I can't say I have any idea what model it was but it wasn't in the first flush of youth. We made a few trips, but its primary purpose was to pull a 4-berth caravan (Bluebird) that Daddy had also bought.
In the Spring of 1955 we set off to explore Wales. No motorways, so we took 3 days to get there. Each day had its special adventure.
Day 1
Found ourselves at Atherstone, near Birmingham. We decided to park on the common. Did so, then discovered that it was rather muddy and we'd got stuck. The next few hours, well into darkness, were spent sourcing a tractor to haul us out.
Day 2
Arrived near Shrewsbury. Everywhere very hilly. Chocked up the caravan and got some sleep. It must have been very cosy as it was a 4-berth and we were 6. In the morning off to buy breakfast and bits in town. In our absence the chocks gave way. That was bad enough, but the way we were sloping meant that all the cupboard doors flung open and there was washing powder mixed with the cornflakes, cups, saucers, knives, spoons etc.
Day 3
North Wales at last. Mountains, even. In the dark Daddy took a wrong turn and drove us with confidence into a slate quarry. Attempting to reverse out he drove over a railway line and fractured the exhaust and silencer. Eventually turned the caravan round manually, rehitched and resumed our triumphant progress with rattling and smoking exhaust, through sleepy Welsh villages.
Nothing daunted by this experience, Daddy set off again in the Summer with Bluebird and Douglas to explore Berkshire. Caravan seemed to be pulling a bit, but never mind.
In a narrow lonely lane Bluebird's axle gave way, spewing ball bearings all over the road. (Beatrice spent the next week collecting them.) From which you will surmise that we had no choice but to push the caravan into the hedgerow and have the holiday there, until we could get a transporter to take it home.
Douglas never recovered his equilibrium and died quietly and finally in the middle of London that Autumn.
Which set the tone for many years of incident-filled motoring with Paul.
Just got back from a spiffing weekend in Eastbourne catching up with family & friends. The weather was gorgeous. We stayed at the Hydro Hotel and, to atone for the amount of eating we'd done, we walked all the way to Paul's Sister's at Roselands. We walked along the seafront and saw the "Magnificent Motors" show get ready. Hordes of old cars - Austin 7's, Jags, Morris Minors, Bond Bugs, even Humbers. Paul was delighted and felt well rewarded for his effort. All along the way there were men saying things like "do you know that's a 1958 Rover blah-blah?"And their female companions were saying "Really, that's nice."
Paul got very cheerful over a white Daimler limousine and some rather nicely preserved Eastbourne buses (were they really that eggyolk yellow?) In fact, since marrying Paul, I've been involved with what seems like more than my fair share of older cars, from the frankly frightful, the possibly useable to the lovely Humber Imperial he's got now. And he's had some kind of car, with only one short intermission in 1977, since he was 15.
In My Day
Cars didn't feature so much in my childhood; living in London they weren't really necessary. My father used to talk about the Morris 8 he'd had in the '40s, and how one enthralled passenger had said with hushed awe to his wife "we are now going at 40 miles an hour."
So when Daddy got an old Daimler, nicknamed "Douglas" we were all very excited. I can't say I have any idea what model it was but it wasn't in the first flush of youth. We made a few trips, but its primary purpose was to pull a 4-berth caravan (Bluebird) that Daddy had also bought.
In the Spring of 1955 we set off to explore Wales. No motorways, so we took 3 days to get there. Each day had its special adventure.
Day 1
Found ourselves at Atherstone, near Birmingham. We decided to park on the common. Did so, then discovered that it was rather muddy and we'd got stuck. The next few hours, well into darkness, were spent sourcing a tractor to haul us out.
Day 2
Arrived near Shrewsbury. Everywhere very hilly. Chocked up the caravan and got some sleep. It must have been very cosy as it was a 4-berth and we were 6. In the morning off to buy breakfast and bits in town. In our absence the chocks gave way. That was bad enough, but the way we were sloping meant that all the cupboard doors flung open and there was washing powder mixed with the cornflakes, cups, saucers, knives, spoons etc.
Day 3
North Wales at last. Mountains, even. In the dark Daddy took a wrong turn and drove us with confidence into a slate quarry. Attempting to reverse out he drove over a railway line and fractured the exhaust and silencer. Eventually turned the caravan round manually, rehitched and resumed our triumphant progress with rattling and smoking exhaust, through sleepy Welsh villages.
Nothing daunted by this experience, Daddy set off again in the Summer with Bluebird and Douglas to explore Berkshire. Caravan seemed to be pulling a bit, but never mind.
In a narrow lonely lane Bluebird's axle gave way, spewing ball bearings all over the road. (Beatrice spent the next week collecting them.) From which you will surmise that we had no choice but to push the caravan into the hedgerow and have the holiday there, until we could get a transporter to take it home.
Douglas never recovered his equilibrium and died quietly and finally in the middle of London that Autumn.
Which set the tone for many years of incident-filled motoring with Paul.
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