Today
I've been in Brighton all week at a conference. The weather's been boiling hot and I've had to wear smart suits and try not to look as though I'm sweating freely when visitors came to our stand. People said, "what beautiful weather", and I said, "I haven't seen it yet!"
One the day's work is done, there is the pleasure of being in Brighton with all its lovely cafes and street scene. Partly for this reason and partly because of the proximity of friends and relations, Paul likes to accompany me.
Our bedroom at The Metropole purported to have airconditioning, which at no time purported to be actually working. Our room overlooked the back and was overshadowed by other tall buildings, so not a breath of air ever made it into the room.
So sleep was a fitful affair and taken lying starkers on top of the bed.
In My Day
Which takes me back to the Brighton conference in 1994. Equally hot, maybe more so. Our hotel (The Old Ship) didn't even pretend about the aircon. One night, after a particularly pleasant evening involving a fair amount of alcoholic intake, we went to bed hotter than ever. Middle of the night, I need to use the facilities. So, barely conscious, I stagger, starkers, out of bed and make for what I believed to be the bathroom door. I open the door and find myself staring down a long corridor with a carpet that I don't recognise. A voice from behind me says "What are you doing?" "Going to the loo," says I. "Well, the bathroom's that way!" explains my rather more wide awake spouse. I shut the main bedroom door and do what I have to do.
By the time I got back to bed I was fully awake and running a variety of "Carry On" scenarios through my head. What if the bedroom door had closed behind me? What if Paul hadn't been with me? How would I have got back into the room? Visions of me, naked, carrying a pot plant to hide myself, or ripping down curtains to drape around me while I woke up the night porter horrified me for the rest of night.
Which explains why I like to take Paul with me on these bashes.
Sunday, June 26, 2005
Monday, June 13, 2005
Today
Some more about the Silverstone jaunt
Although this June is still beastly chilly, there is at least some sunshine. So on Saturday Becky and I put on summer skirts, both in trendy black and white. I really like my skirt which is a slightly mad affair, cut in a fullish A-line over a white net underskirt.
Felt rather special in our rather special car. Only problem, given that I wasn't wearing tights, was that my legs felt scratchy with sitting on the net and I had little miniature criss-cross lines all over my thighs.
In My Day
I remember the great late '50's fashion for net underskirts. These skirts were separate from the main skirt (so you could have several skirts to one underskirt). They were intended to be visible, especially when you went jiving. Mine was lemon yellow and I loved it. It had several layer of net and some yellow lace, for good measure. I wore it under full-skirted shirtwaister dresses, mainly. There were rather hard to care for and magazines gave all sorts of advice on how to restore that desirable scratchy stiffness after washing. We weren't used as a nation to these sorts of fabrics (stiffness was generally reserved for cotton shirt collars and fronts and involved starch which clearly wasn't going to work here). The most bizarre was the recommendation that you rinse them in sugar. The water would evaporate, leaving behind the crunchy sugar, was the theory.
I didn't dare try that one, for fear of stickiness and of attracting lots of wasps. So I think the underskirt just got greyer and greyer.
They do say that fashion repeats itself.
Some more about the Silverstone jaunt
Although this June is still beastly chilly, there is at least some sunshine. So on Saturday Becky and I put on summer skirts, both in trendy black and white. I really like my skirt which is a slightly mad affair, cut in a fullish A-line over a white net underskirt.
Felt rather special in our rather special car. Only problem, given that I wasn't wearing tights, was that my legs felt scratchy with sitting on the net and I had little miniature criss-cross lines all over my thighs.
In My Day
I remember the great late '50's fashion for net underskirts. These skirts were separate from the main skirt (so you could have several skirts to one underskirt). They were intended to be visible, especially when you went jiving. Mine was lemon yellow and I loved it. It had several layer of net and some yellow lace, for good measure. I wore it under full-skirted shirtwaister dresses, mainly. There were rather hard to care for and magazines gave all sorts of advice on how to restore that desirable scratchy stiffness after washing. We weren't used as a nation to these sorts of fabrics (stiffness was generally reserved for cotton shirt collars and fronts and involved starch which clearly wasn't going to work here). The most bizarre was the recommendation that you rinse them in sugar. The water would evaporate, leaving behind the crunchy sugar, was the theory.
I didn't dare try that one, for fear of stickiness and of attracting lots of wasps. So I think the underskirt just got greyer and greyer.
They do say that fashion repeats itself.
Saturday, June 11, 2005
Today
We went to Silverstone today in the Bentley to mark the 50th anniversary of the launch of the Bentley S series. Our beautiful 1958 (OK, not quite a demi-centagenerian) silver S1 Bentley handled the dual carriageways to the manor born. We gathered alongside other Bentleys, from the "WOs" (meaning, Paul told me, those manufactured under the great man's direction) to a new Phantom. We chatted to other Bentley owners and enjoyed the sunshine.
Gracious beasts, the S class Bentleys, with their lovely voluptuous lines and imposing size. The Rubens of the car world. We all set off sedately around the race track while a scattering of spectators filmed and waved.
After a nice sushi picnic we drove home, this time via A & B roads through delightful Berkshire and Wiltshire towns and villages. We saw 3 white horses - Pewsey, Devizes and Westbury. "Just like motoring was in the '50s" sighed Paul joyfully.
In My Day
I'm not a regular visitor to racetracks and take no interest in the sport on TV. And it's only with the acquisition of the Bentley that I've even become interested in cars as any kind of hobby.
Back in the '60s my boyfriend Bob used to take me to the banger and stock car racing. That used to be some fun. Racing cars, after all, all look much alike. But these cars were as varied as the owners cared to make them and nobody much minded how bashed-up they got as they were all pretty well bashed up before they got there.
So the event was more for the entertainment value than anything else. I remember that the noise and smell were appalling but that I used to feel very jolly after seeing all these otherwise no-hope wrecks deliver their swan-songs on the dirt track.
I really hope that the Bentley doesn't come to such a sticky end.
We went to Silverstone today in the Bentley to mark the 50th anniversary of the launch of the Bentley S series. Our beautiful 1958 (OK, not quite a demi-centagenerian) silver S1 Bentley handled the dual carriageways to the manor born. We gathered alongside other Bentleys, from the "WOs" (meaning, Paul told me, those manufactured under the great man's direction) to a new Phantom. We chatted to other Bentley owners and enjoyed the sunshine.
Gracious beasts, the S class Bentleys, with their lovely voluptuous lines and imposing size. The Rubens of the car world. We all set off sedately around the race track while a scattering of spectators filmed and waved.
After a nice sushi picnic we drove home, this time via A & B roads through delightful Berkshire and Wiltshire towns and villages. We saw 3 white horses - Pewsey, Devizes and Westbury. "Just like motoring was in the '50s" sighed Paul joyfully.
In My Day
I'm not a regular visitor to racetracks and take no interest in the sport on TV. And it's only with the acquisition of the Bentley that I've even become interested in cars as any kind of hobby.
Back in the '60s my boyfriend Bob used to take me to the banger and stock car racing. That used to be some fun. Racing cars, after all, all look much alike. But these cars were as varied as the owners cared to make them and nobody much minded how bashed-up they got as they were all pretty well bashed up before they got there.
So the event was more for the entertainment value than anything else. I remember that the noise and smell were appalling but that I used to feel very jolly after seeing all these otherwise no-hope wrecks deliver their swan-songs on the dirt track.
I really hope that the Bentley doesn't come to such a sticky end.
Thursday, June 09, 2005
Today
Took a lovely walk with Paul up the lane last night. I noticed (and photographed) the beautiful campion. The hedgerows were very lush and green (plentiful rain does have some virtues). Everything was especially fragrant: the elderflower, remains of the hawthorn, crushed wild garlic leaves, philadelphus in people's gardens. Regrettably, the farm was also fragrant in its own special way.
Did Paul appreciate this? Not at all; he was too busy sneezing. The hayfever season's started. Each year we say "it's not too bad this year" then off he goes. Anti-histamines seem to give him every possible side-effect and turn him into a homicidal maniac to boot. Even those that claim not to make you sleepy, have him snoozing in seconds and as for tried and trusted Piriton - he passes out for days.
When I'm feeling especially wicked, I think that he somehow enjoys the sneezing. I know this can't be true, but they are certainly a great show. On occasions he even works up to a sneeze and nothing happens! And he's not alone; Lizzie sneezes almost constantly with almost no provocation and Becky does seasonal rhinitis with the best of them.
In My Day
I remember Paul once saying to me, back in about 1974 "I really enjoy a good sneeze." Then came the hot summer of 1976. The one us old 'uns all talk about. Day after day of hot, dry weather. No point in going to bed before 1.00 AM - too hot indoors. We used to lie out on the lawn at 33 Rowan Avenue until the small hours. In Eastbourne, at least, there was also a constant warmish wind - a sort of Khamsin.
When Paul started to sneeze, we assumed that it was a cold, but as time wore on and the sneezing didn't wear off, we realised it was hayfever. As a dutiful wife I tried all kinds of things to help: Spraying the bedroom with a mister, damping the pillows, using an air filter (which roared gently all night), closing windows, opening windows, recommending baths and various forms of treatments.
Over the years Paul has tried: anti-histamines of all flavours, injections of allergens supposed to desensitise you (oh he was bad after that attempt), nasal sprays, drops and oils, herbal treatments, flannels over the face, masks, menthol cigarettes, oxygen inhalation, alternative therapies, homoeopathy, alcohol, ignoring it. Nothing seems to make any difference.
Yet he says he loves the summer; his birthday is in June and he's generally in the thick of the sneezing and sniffling during whatever celebration is on offer. You'd think he'd welcome the trend towards the chillier, damper summers.
Ah well, I told him yesterday that he'll probably be over it by the time he's 100.
Took a lovely walk with Paul up the lane last night. I noticed (and photographed) the beautiful campion. The hedgerows were very lush and green (plentiful rain does have some virtues). Everything was especially fragrant: the elderflower, remains of the hawthorn, crushed wild garlic leaves, philadelphus in people's gardens. Regrettably, the farm was also fragrant in its own special way.
Did Paul appreciate this? Not at all; he was too busy sneezing. The hayfever season's started. Each year we say "it's not too bad this year" then off he goes. Anti-histamines seem to give him every possible side-effect and turn him into a homicidal maniac to boot. Even those that claim not to make you sleepy, have him snoozing in seconds and as for tried and trusted Piriton - he passes out for days.
When I'm feeling especially wicked, I think that he somehow enjoys the sneezing. I know this can't be true, but they are certainly a great show. On occasions he even works up to a sneeze and nothing happens! And he's not alone; Lizzie sneezes almost constantly with almost no provocation and Becky does seasonal rhinitis with the best of them.
In My Day
I remember Paul once saying to me, back in about 1974 "I really enjoy a good sneeze." Then came the hot summer of 1976. The one us old 'uns all talk about. Day after day of hot, dry weather. No point in going to bed before 1.00 AM - too hot indoors. We used to lie out on the lawn at 33 Rowan Avenue until the small hours. In Eastbourne, at least, there was also a constant warmish wind - a sort of Khamsin.
When Paul started to sneeze, we assumed that it was a cold, but as time wore on and the sneezing didn't wear off, we realised it was hayfever. As a dutiful wife I tried all kinds of things to help: Spraying the bedroom with a mister, damping the pillows, using an air filter (which roared gently all night), closing windows, opening windows, recommending baths and various forms of treatments.
Over the years Paul has tried: anti-histamines of all flavours, injections of allergens supposed to desensitise you (oh he was bad after that attempt), nasal sprays, drops and oils, herbal treatments, flannels over the face, masks, menthol cigarettes, oxygen inhalation, alternative therapies, homoeopathy, alcohol, ignoring it. Nothing seems to make any difference.
Yet he says he loves the summer; his birthday is in June and he's generally in the thick of the sneezing and sniffling during whatever celebration is on offer. You'd think he'd welcome the trend towards the chillier, damper summers.
Ah well, I told him yesterday that he'll probably be over it by the time he's 100.
Saturday, June 04, 2005
Today
I'm hanging about, waiting for my Nephew to arrive for the weekend. I'm also waiting for Liz & Aron who are coming over to say "hello" and have breakfast. Paul is doing a wedding. I've tidied up, made James and Claire's bed. I dashed out when I saw a Ford Focus turning in the close - not them, but my new neighbour, who obviously thought I was a curtain twitcher. It's absolutely bucketing down with rain, which is a good sign. I can't seem to be like those people who just get on with their day and seem slightly surprised, if delighted, to see you when you arrive.
I get to the point where I'm perched on the edge of the sofa, watching the clock. Should I call them to make sure they're OK? No, that seems like nagging; I'm sure they'll be here soon. Now that I've deleted my computer games, I can't so easily pass away a few minutes.
Eventually, Liz & Aron arrive, bearing breakfast. Then, James, Claire and Anna. They've actually stopped for breakfast on the way, but don't seem averse to toast and tea.
In My day
I like inviting people around and it seems that I've spent a fair bit of my life in the waiting limbo. Guests divide into those who are more or less on time, those who are always late and those who are always late but phone to tell you.
Our best mates are masters at late arriving. We have learnt to love them despite this little habit. They have several time entirely failed to arrive (although they usually manage to phone up to apologise roughly at the time they should have got here). Once they arrived a day late. I remember laying bets with Paul as to whether they would actually turn up at all on one occasion.
Once, while visiting them, we gained an insight into why this might be. Something had been said about a trip into town. We got up in comfortable time for the jaunt. Made tea, drank it, ate toast. People began to drift into the kitchen in various not quite dressed states. Paul was already in his coat. More tea was made, breakfast was prepared. Paul took off his coat. We sat and chatted. People wandered off to get dressed. Sometime later (it was already about 1.00pm) people drifted back down. Paul put his coat back on. Music was put on, phone calls were made, some little job on the computer was done. More tea was made. I don't think we ever got out at all.
Once we turned up at their house for dinner. They seemed, as usual, delighted to see us, although, also as usual, didn't seem especially prepared for us. Offered us tea. Later on offered us biscuits. Became clear they'd forgotten about the dinner date. We bought fish & chips on the way home.
Had a lovely weekend with my nephew, though.
I'm hanging about, waiting for my Nephew to arrive for the weekend. I'm also waiting for Liz & Aron who are coming over to say "hello" and have breakfast. Paul is doing a wedding. I've tidied up, made James and Claire's bed. I dashed out when I saw a Ford Focus turning in the close - not them, but my new neighbour, who obviously thought I was a curtain twitcher. It's absolutely bucketing down with rain, which is a good sign. I can't seem to be like those people who just get on with their day and seem slightly surprised, if delighted, to see you when you arrive.
I get to the point where I'm perched on the edge of the sofa, watching the clock. Should I call them to make sure they're OK? No, that seems like nagging; I'm sure they'll be here soon. Now that I've deleted my computer games, I can't so easily pass away a few minutes.
Eventually, Liz & Aron arrive, bearing breakfast. Then, James, Claire and Anna. They've actually stopped for breakfast on the way, but don't seem averse to toast and tea.
In My day
I like inviting people around and it seems that I've spent a fair bit of my life in the waiting limbo. Guests divide into those who are more or less on time, those who are always late and those who are always late but phone to tell you.
Our best mates are masters at late arriving. We have learnt to love them despite this little habit. They have several time entirely failed to arrive (although they usually manage to phone up to apologise roughly at the time they should have got here). Once they arrived a day late. I remember laying bets with Paul as to whether they would actually turn up at all on one occasion.
Once, while visiting them, we gained an insight into why this might be. Something had been said about a trip into town. We got up in comfortable time for the jaunt. Made tea, drank it, ate toast. People began to drift into the kitchen in various not quite dressed states. Paul was already in his coat. More tea was made, breakfast was prepared. Paul took off his coat. We sat and chatted. People wandered off to get dressed. Sometime later (it was already about 1.00pm) people drifted back down. Paul put his coat back on. Music was put on, phone calls were made, some little job on the computer was done. More tea was made. I don't think we ever got out at all.
Once we turned up at their house for dinner. They seemed, as usual, delighted to see us, although, also as usual, didn't seem especially prepared for us. Offered us tea. Later on offered us biscuits. Became clear they'd forgotten about the dinner date. We bought fish & chips on the way home.
Had a lovely weekend with my nephew, though.
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
Today
Rushed home tonight as there was a meeting of the Police Community Support Officers' Steering Group. Rapidly heated up some home-made cauliflower soup (very good and actually made of cauliflower leaves left over after yesterday's cauliflower cheese) and poured it rapidly down my throat. Grabbed the minutes and agendas I'd taken time to prepare. Quickly checked my emails - meeting cancelled.
Mixture of relief and irritation. All that work to no purpose AND I'll be away on the revised date. My stomach glooped with hastily eaten soup. On the other hand, an evening at home during which I could do important things like watch "The Bill" and start the next issue of the Parish Council Newletter ("The Lychgate") of which I'm rather vain.
From which you will gather that I sit on committees. Not so many as I used to - I've ditched being choir secretary after 15 years ("You can't!", they all cried. To which I replied "Watch me.") and was voted out of being wine circle secretary. But I do sit on the Parish Council and hold the PCSO portfolio.
In My Day
My mother was a great organiser. She and Daddy ran the Henry Wood Gramophone Circle (To raise funds to rebuild the Queen's Hall, but that's another story). This group met every three weeks at our house to listen to music on gramophone records. It was a great day when they migrated from 78's to long play (none of that changing of discs every 4 minutes). Mamma and Daddy would prepare a programme along symphony concert lines, write programme notes, print the programme and present the music.
They ran a chess circle at one time. My main memory of this was the float they put into the local Festival of Britain parade, with live chess players - my father yelling out the moves, with Mamma and ANother playing a real chess game as a centrepiece.
Mamma was an illustrious member of the Townswomen's Guild. She was chairwoman of the local branch and trotted up to AGMs at the Albert Hall most years, where she would frequently make speeches. She was very scathing about the WI (surely just the rural equivalent), especially their adoption of "Jerusalem" as their theme song. I've lost count of the initiatives she started or got involved in. The Croydon Millennium celebrations, fetes and fund-raising events, lecture tours and group holidays abroad. She absolutely loved it. No wonder it was difficult for her to find time to do housework.
Anyway, I had an evening off tonight.
Rushed home tonight as there was a meeting of the Police Community Support Officers' Steering Group. Rapidly heated up some home-made cauliflower soup (very good and actually made of cauliflower leaves left over after yesterday's cauliflower cheese) and poured it rapidly down my throat. Grabbed the minutes and agendas I'd taken time to prepare. Quickly checked my emails - meeting cancelled.
Mixture of relief and irritation. All that work to no purpose AND I'll be away on the revised date. My stomach glooped with hastily eaten soup. On the other hand, an evening at home during which I could do important things like watch "The Bill" and start the next issue of the Parish Council Newletter ("The Lychgate") of which I'm rather vain.
From which you will gather that I sit on committees. Not so many as I used to - I've ditched being choir secretary after 15 years ("You can't!", they all cried. To which I replied "Watch me.") and was voted out of being wine circle secretary. But I do sit on the Parish Council and hold the PCSO portfolio.
In My Day
My mother was a great organiser. She and Daddy ran the Henry Wood Gramophone Circle (To raise funds to rebuild the Queen's Hall, but that's another story). This group met every three weeks at our house to listen to music on gramophone records. It was a great day when they migrated from 78's to long play (none of that changing of discs every 4 minutes). Mamma and Daddy would prepare a programme along symphony concert lines, write programme notes, print the programme and present the music.
They ran a chess circle at one time. My main memory of this was the float they put into the local Festival of Britain parade, with live chess players - my father yelling out the moves, with Mamma and ANother playing a real chess game as a centrepiece.
Mamma was an illustrious member of the Townswomen's Guild. She was chairwoman of the local branch and trotted up to AGMs at the Albert Hall most years, where she would frequently make speeches. She was very scathing about the WI (surely just the rural equivalent), especially their adoption of "Jerusalem" as their theme song. I've lost count of the initiatives she started or got involved in. The Croydon Millennium celebrations, fetes and fund-raising events, lecture tours and group holidays abroad. She absolutely loved it. No wonder it was difficult for her to find time to do housework.
Anyway, I had an evening off tonight.
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