Today

Returned after a lovely weekend in London, celebrating Becky's birthday. We did a variety of things, including going to Ronnie Scott's. On Sunday, the sun was shining so we decided to take a boat trip from Waterloo to Greenwich, plus a trip around the Thames Barrier.

Lovely trip; we ate crisps and I drank quite a lot of water. There was a cheerful commentator who had a variety of stock jokes and amazing facts about what we could see, delivered in a jaunty manner.

All in all a very nice way of seeing London, especially on a bank holiday weekend.

In My Day

In 1964 I had the excitement of meeting for the first time since I was 1, my Canadian half-sister. She came over to spend most of the summer with us and brought her eldest son, who was about 6, with her. We all got on very well; Daddy was so happy to be with the daughter he hadn't seen for 15 years and mamma was her usual fascinating self.

Although this was back in the '60's Mamma had worked out a good package for seeing Paris in less than 24 hours. Carol was very keen to go, so off they went, very early in the morning, leaving me in charge of 6-year old Mark. (I don't know where everyone else was.)

I decided that a boat trip would be just the thing. So we hopped on bus and train and bus to get to Westminster Pier. We caught the boat and headed off towards Greenwich. We passed the Houses of Parliament, London Bridge and the Tower. So exciting, I thought, until I noticed that Mark was turning green.

I hustled him off, hoping that terra firma would sort him out. The green-ness persisted and I hurried him back home. In West Norwood Station booking office he was horribly sick. Not having much experience with this sort of thing, I had come out with only one paper tissue. I mopped up what I could, but Mark didn't recover for a couple of days and Carol was distraught on her return from Paris and felt very guilty that she'd gone at all.

In fact, it's a mystery how she entrusted her son to me 13 years' later when he lived with us for 6 months as part of his European travelling experience.

Today

Shocking night last night. We climbed into bed at about 11.30, between freshly laundered linen sheets and settled down. I read a bit of my book, turned out the light and turned to my favourite position. For once it wasn't too hot. Soon, Paul started snoring. I tried various techniques to get off to sleep, but no good. Funny noises abounded. Had Abby actually gone downstairs or was she prowling about in the spare room? (Strictly forbidden!) Were those little clicking noises inside the room or outside?

Got up at 1.00 to visit the bathroom. Demanded (and got) a cuddle from the comatose Paul. Tried again, on my left side. Felt hungry. Got up at 2.45 to visit the bathroom. Tried again, on my right side.

Woke up at 6.15 - rather early, considering, but in the end, knowing that I had to leave the house at 8.00, got up bathed etc.

In My Day

Bad nights were a feature of my childhood. I'd read my books until I was dozing over the pages of Hans Christian Andersen. As soon as I put them down and turned out the light, horrors surrounded me. The trees outside waved menacingly against the lurid orange London streetlighting. Cats romped noisily in the area. The house clicked and groaned. A ghost of a little locomotive roamed around the walls of my room.

I tried more HCA - I now knew all the stories off by heart. Tried to sleep with the light on - nasty nightmares presented themselves. Better to be awake. Worst of all was when Daddy decided to go on the prowl - I'd be in big trouble for having my light on.

I can't remember either parent ever asking me why I had my light on at 3.00 am. And in the morning I was so relieved that the dreadful night was over that I didn't want to conjure up images by talking about it. I didn't even mention the train ghost until years later when my sister took over my room and talked about it at breakfast after one night in the room. (At least I wasn't mad - it was really there.)

What is impressive is that it's half past ten and I'm still conscious.

Today

My lovely little cat, Arietty died last night. Yesterday morning she was as right as rain. She'd had her supper the night before, pestered me for a cuddle during the evening as usual. During the morning Paul discovered her, apparently poisoned, having fits in the back garden. The vets did what they could - even gave her dialysis to try to get the toxins to flush away, but no good. They've just phoned with the bad news.

She was only 12 - which is no great age - and she always seemed to me to be a happy cat. She had little to fear and had the run of the field behind the house, where she hunted with great relish, supplementing what she clearly regarded as her meagre diet of Felix. She was extremely gentle, if you weren't a rodent and was the prettiest cat I've had.


In My Day

I suppose you have to get used to the idea of your pets dying before you. The first experience I had of this was when we had gerbils at the house in Rowan Avenue. 2 of them, sisters, I believe. We never tamed them and just cleaning out their little cage was quite a job as those beasts can really jump, And they also bite. Even so, I was sorry when the first one went. This was especially the case because Lizzie, aged 3, was the first to notice that one of the gerbils was stretched out on her side and because, when I went to remove her, I found the the sister, with a "waste not, want not" principle had already started to make a meal of her.

Your expect rodent pets to live a short while - little Mini, the hampster only made 2 years and Harry the Hippie, guinea pig, 3.

But your cats and dogs are really family members. They have such personalities and bring constant amusement into your life.

Arietty, thank you for all the laughter you caused me. I'm going to miss your little fluffy presence.

Today

I'm just about to cut Paul's hair. We've got one of those electric gadgets that enables you to give an all over even finish without having to have much in the way of hairdressing skills.

I'm always astonished at how much hair actually lands on the floor, given Paul's rather scanty locks. And you can't just use the machine; the bits around the ears and on the bald patch needs sorting (it's not entirely bald, you see, there are wispy longish hairs sprouting).

So, over the years I've become quite good at, so that Paul rarely visits a hairdresser.

In My Day

I remember a Byrdian Society rehearsal. We had a concert coming up, but the wife of our conductor complained about him going out yet again (she was a singer herself, but with three children under five, and had had to back off a bit, so maybe there was a little envy there).

So Colin told her that he was going out to the barbers and instead turned up at our house for the practice. A music book was thrust into one of my hands, scissors into the other and I was told to cut Colin's hair while we practised. I think I was chosen because I was the "artistic" one, so ought to be able to cut hair. I certainly had no experience and, anyway, trying to cut Colin's fine, straight, floppy hair while also attempting to sing Allegri's Miserere, was near impossibility. But he didn't dare go back home without his hair looking shorter.

Anyway, Colin's wife was absolutely furious - with the barber, that is, and stated her intention of going round to complain.

These days Colin, remarried, sports a healthy mane of white hair and, having converted to Greek Orthodoxy, has a huge patriach's beard to go with it.

Today

Actually found myself going for a run this morning. Yesterday, out for a walk with my best mates and their 10-year old. I discovered that the best way to stop him whinging was to challenge him to a race. So, for the first time since I fell over the dog in 1999, I ran along the road.

Lovely weather this morning so, at 7.30 I donned shorts and T-shirt and set off at a mixed trot, run and walk. Felt OK as well, although my buttocks ache a bit from yesterday's exertions.

Since I like to go up the lane, whether walking or running, I might just see if I can do it every day.

In My Day

I never was much of a runner - the Dixon family album features a picture of me coming last in a race at sports day with the caption "tis better to have run and lost than never to have run at all..."

Back in the '70s jogging was all the rage, so my best mate, my sister and I decided to get up every morning and jog round the housing estate. We didn't go very fast - we were able to converse, and anyway had to go at the pace of the slowest. I've no idea whether it did us any good, but I guess it was great fun for the neighbours. I do also remember that it was very boring. Endless identical houses are not as interesting as the lanes around here.

With shortish, slim, long-bodied Beverley, tallish, top-heavy, very long-legged me and the spherical Beatrice trotting along the pavements of Willingdon Trees at 6.00, there can't have been any better entertainment in town.

It just remains to be seen whether I've the will power to keep this up for more than a day or two.

Today

Rather surprised to find that I've spent a large chunk of today ironing. Given that I'm having a week off, it's doubly astonishing. Well, my ironing lady, who was never at the top of her profession, blotted her ironing board by giving the ironing to her no doubt well-meaning, but untrained daughter. Which resulted in partially ironed sheets and apparently unironed tablecloths, charged at the full £5.50 PH rate. So I decided that it isn't such a big deal, doing it yourself.

What with Paul's job meaning that he gets through about 15 shirts per week and our having 2 lots of guests last week, resulting in 4 duvet covers, 4 sheets and 12 pillow cases, ironing was rather a chore.

I got through my linen skirts, the bedding and about 8 of Paul's shirts before Paul intervened. "I can't let you iron my shirts. It's a matter of principle", he said.

In My Day

To understand why principle comes into this, we have to go back to 1979. We were living in a tiny 3 bedroomed semi with the girls (aged about 7 & 2), my sister and her soon-to-be husband and my nephew from Canada.

All adults were working full-time and keeping on top of things was quite a headache.

One day, Beatrice and I told the assembled household that we would bung into the washing machine anything that we found in the washing basket, although we would not turn people's knickers and socks inside out and that we thought that we should each take responsibility for our own ironing.

At that, Nick (Beatrice's paramour) stalked up the stairs, remarking "I am not lowering myself to do the ironing". Given that he and I were both civil servants and that I was an executive officer to his clerical officer rank, this was particularly galling.

Not that I had time to be upset. Paul waded in: "Don't you ever do any ironing for that man", he hissed. And he decided then and there that it was perfectly appropriate for a man to iron his own shirts.

So I have to thank Nick that I have got off so lightly over the years with regard to ironing.