Wednesday, October 26, 2005

Today


Decided to go back to the gym this week. The Summer's feasting has taken its toll and I've at least 12lbs to lose if I'm going to fit into that dress for the Christmas bash. So, off to the personal trainer, who put me through various forms of torture. I was pleased to discover that I haven't lost all ground in the last 6 months. I can remember many of the exercises and even do most of them.


Some of them are quite scary; especially those that involve me lying on my back on a Swiss ball - that's the gym equivalent of a Space Hopper (without the ears).


Plus, Paul and I have started playing badminton again after a nearly 2 year gap. I was horrified when Paul absolutely thrashed me last week. That's usually my privilege.


In My Day


Daddy disapproved of sports, especially for girls. He really believed that it was a choice between brawn or brain and he preferred brain any day. He took no exercise himself. My mother occasionally went swimming at the Brockwell Park Lido and tried to teach me, but I was much too scared.


Gym lessons at school were a nightmare. How exactly does one climb up a rope? I never got off the ground. I remember the day I actually managed to vault over the box - that was a fluke as I only did it once. Teachers called me lazy and sloppy; I was just frightened and had no idea how to start.


I was always the last one to be picked when teams were chosen for various games (who'd want sloppy old me in their team?).


In the playground it was even worse; girls did handstands against the school wall, or cartwheels on the field. I didn't seem to have that spring.


Once at secondary school, I developed a liaison with the art mistress, Miss Jones. "I need Julia in the art room" she'd write on a note when it was time for hockey. So I managed to avoid that particularly nasty and ugly game.


I played a passing game of netball, because I was tall and could throw and catch a ball, so I generally found myself as goal shooter because in that position you don't have to do any running.

I managed to get through school without even coming near being in any sort of team. And, once past junior school, avoided sports days altogether.


At least my Becky can still do a cartwheel as she demonstrated this summer; and she's got a degree in linguistics. Just goes to show.

Sunday, October 09, 2005

Today

So there we were, on a roundabout on the A36 Warminster bypass, broken down in a Rolls Royce Silver Spirit. The car's not paying its way in Silver Service, so Paul had bunged it on eBay. We had a visit to Sussex planned. "Let's give it one last run," pleaded Paul. "Up to you," says I, "It's your petrol bill." So we set off to Sussex.
Had a lovely weekend, I sang the Verdi Requiem in Alfriston, Paul visited various folks and we went over to Arundel Terrace to look at progress on the flat.
Set off home - I had a business commitment in Bath at 7.30 - we were in good time. As Paul pulled away from the roundabout, hideous graunchings occurred and the beast refused to move away from a compromising position halfway across the roundabout in the outside lane. How the passers-by must have laughed. When they weren't cursing, that is, because we were blocking their visibility.
Paul worked out that it was probably the 1/2 shaft, phoned the AA, asked our regular garage if we could dump the car there, I called for a taxi (thank God Vodafone for the mobile phone) so that I could get home and then off out to my meeting.
In My Day
Broken down cars - where do I start? Well, back in 1972, we were running an old 1960 Humber Hawk. This car, which was a poorly sprayed cream colour, had been known to be used in criminal activities before we bought it.
From the first, it had a whining back axle. I remember drives taken home late from Eastbourne back to Brighton through the silent Peachaven hearing the regular "whop, whop" of the axle. It could be quite reassuring.
In the Summer of 1972 we decided to have a holiday in Exmoor. I'd been longing to show my favourite place to Paul, so we booked B&B at Shilstone Farm near Brendon, deposited the cats at my brothers and set off. I was extremely pregnant with Lizzie.
We arrived safely, if rather late and tired, at Shilstone. In the following days we explored the beautiful Exmoor countryside. We quickly discovered a peculiarity of the Humber - it really didn't take to 1 in 4 hills. I think we chickened out altogether on Porlock and used the Toll road.
Several times we had to try again and take a run at a hill. A Hunter's Inn we just couldn't do it at all. I scanned the map and told Paul that every way out of the valley involved a 1 in 4. Only one thing for it; as the lowest gear was reverse....... Yes, we went up the hill backwards. Remembering that this was Summertime so there were plenty of tourist about......
We'd found a nice little restaurant in Porlock and several evenings had eaten there. Towards the end of our stay we decided to have a last meal there. So off we went. Suddenly Paul said that he was losing power. He turned the car round to try to get us back home, but no good. The car died beside a little farm about 3 miles from Shilstone. We pushed it into the farmyard, scaring the hens. The farmers were extremely sweet about our dumping a car on their land - well, I was very huge and we must have looked so desperate and poverty-stricken.
We walked back to Shilstone and eventually, with the kindest of help from our hosts, took the bus back home from Lynton.
Later that Summer we hired a car and went to arrange for the Humber to be dumped legally.
At least we hadn't already sold the Rolls Royce on eBay