Today
On Monday I had a diet review session with my personal trainer. I'd filled in a questionnaire and he had produced 2 assessments. One detailed my metabolic type - I should eat slightly more carbohydrates than proteins and strictly limit fats. I have a slight issue with this, as, being a vegetarian, I find it rather hard to separate these items out. A nut - is it fat, carbohydrate or protein? Although, broadly, I see what he means. And it's pretty much how I eat already, although I could probably reduce carbs. (Bread is good, tho')
He also looked at my general levels of well-being and made a couple of suggestions about improvements, mainly centering around organic and whole foods. It's difficult to argue with him or his wife as they're both such good ads for what they do. In the main, he said that my well-being levels are good and that I manage stress well. (Just as well, given my job). So, like the dentist, leave well alone.
In My Day
Daddy also had "ideas" about food, a lot of which probably wouldn't stand up to today's nutritional scrutiny.
On the plus side, he loved fish. He would often arrive home on a Friday night with some mackerel which he would roll in porridge oats and fry. Mamma used to souse mackerel or herring, a process which filled the house with the smell of vinegar for days. She would also cook regular fish and chips for us all. Occasionally Daddy had skate. I used to watch, appalled and fascinated as he cut through and ate what appeared to me to be bones. And he ate tinned pilchards in tomato sauce, bones and all.
There was plenty of meat eaten in the house - I realise now that I only liked meat that was so overcooked or ersatz that it didn't really resemble meat. Daddy hated ersatz meat - even sausages or corned beef, so those items were fed to us, but not to him. He loved the fat on meat and believed that it was really good for you. With metabolic typing in mind, it could have been that it was good for him - he did live to be 86, after all. I, on the other hand, absolutely loathed it. That went for crispy bacon rind and pork crackling as well as the nasty kind that's attached to stewed beef or ham fat.
One Christmas there was the usual turkey and boiled ham joint. Daddy did the carving and, as usual, cut of a large slice of ham, meat, fat and rind, for each of us. This year I rebelled. I ate the meat, but simply couldn't eat the fat. There was a stand-off, following which I was told to leave the table and not allowed my Christmas pudding (something I have always loved - it's the dried fruit, you see). I myself have always been more tolerant with my young'uns on Christmas day.
On more than one occasion, Mamma cooked goose. She would collect the fat, fry some onions till they were blackened, and mix them with the fat which was allowed to harden. This she spread on toast with a little salt. We were also offered beef dripping on toast. I hated it all and nobody in the family had any understanding of why this might be.
Unusually for a child, I liked all vegetables, including cabbage, even the cabbage we had at school!
I have no idea whether I'm healthier that my parents or will live longer, but I do believe that good food comes in a variety of guises. Anyway, all that fat made me into a fat girl, and has caused me to struggle ever since.
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
Monday, November 21, 2005
Today
This weekend we went to see "Die Fledermaus" as performed by Southgate Opera (now in Potter's bar). It's a truly silly piece, about people with too much money, too much time on their hands and no judgment. Really an opportunity for Strauss to mess about and show how good he was at colleratura arias, waltzes and polkas.
Enjoyed it, anyhow, despite the "Helga" cross-dresser at the start of act 3.
In My Day
It was after a performance of "Die Fledermaus" that I experienced my first kiss. I was all of 13 years' old. I went with a chap I'd met at the Proms that summer. His name was (I presume it still is) John Medlock. He was about 16 and at some posh school near Ashford, Kent. He wrote me long longing letters during the Autumn term and we eventually met up at Sadler's Wells to see the Operetta. My mother decided that I couldn't go on such a date looking like a schoolgirl and bought me my first pair of proper stockings and some very nice grey shoes.
We were accompanied by a Proms Friend named Garnet. I suppose my mother thought she might be a chaperone. I remember that the show was very sparkling and that John held my hand.
Afterwards, Garnet buggered off and John walked me to the bus stop. We had a longish wait. Quite without warning he suddenly grabbed me and planted a smacker on my lips. I had absolutely no idea how to respond and turned away, unable to say a word. He silently handed me onto the bus. I suppose he wasn't very experienced, either, having been brought up in a public boarding school. Anyway, the relationship fizzled out soon after.
I actually found him on Friends Reunited a few years' back and sent an email but he didn't reply. Says it all, really.
This weekend we went to see "Die Fledermaus" as performed by Southgate Opera (now in Potter's bar). It's a truly silly piece, about people with too much money, too much time on their hands and no judgment. Really an opportunity for Strauss to mess about and show how good he was at colleratura arias, waltzes and polkas.
Enjoyed it, anyhow, despite the "Helga" cross-dresser at the start of act 3.
In My Day
It was after a performance of "Die Fledermaus" that I experienced my first kiss. I was all of 13 years' old. I went with a chap I'd met at the Proms that summer. His name was (I presume it still is) John Medlock. He was about 16 and at some posh school near Ashford, Kent. He wrote me long longing letters during the Autumn term and we eventually met up at Sadler's Wells to see the Operetta. My mother decided that I couldn't go on such a date looking like a schoolgirl and bought me my first pair of proper stockings and some very nice grey shoes.
We were accompanied by a Proms Friend named Garnet. I suppose my mother thought she might be a chaperone. I remember that the show was very sparkling and that John held my hand.
Afterwards, Garnet buggered off and John walked me to the bus stop. We had a longish wait. Quite without warning he suddenly grabbed me and planted a smacker on my lips. I had absolutely no idea how to respond and turned away, unable to say a word. He silently handed me onto the bus. I suppose he wasn't very experienced, either, having been brought up in a public boarding school. Anyway, the relationship fizzled out soon after.
I actually found him on Friends Reunited a few years' back and sent an email but he didn't reply. Says it all, really.
Saturday, November 19, 2005
Today
First frost of the year this week. My car's rear screen de-icer chose this week also to pack up, but never mind, all fixed now.
We went out last night to an Avon Ambulanceperson's reunion. Paul's bash, so, in conformity with tradition, I drove. Slippery little journey along Burrington Coombe.
In My Day
I learnt to drive relatively late, at the age of 37. Although I did have some proper lessons, it was really Paul who taught me in our Morris Marina. I passed my test on a Monday in October; on the following Sunday I was driving, on my own, late at night along the M27.
As winter loomed, Paul said to me "I must take you out to an empty carpark one frosty Sunday so that you can learn how to handle a skid." Bearing in mind the Marina's total lack of road handling, this seemed like a good idea.
One very frosty morning after our move to Southampton, I had to set off very early to carry out some training in Bexhill. There'd been rain, then a sudden clearing, so plenty of frost. M27 again, then A27. On the Chichester bypass a light freezing fog descended. I could see enough to know that, if I stayed in the inside lane, I'd shortly be stuck behind a lot of lorries, so I pulled out into the deserted outside lane. Suddenly the car was all over the road, back end wiggling like that frightful Renault Megane ad. If I close my eyes I can still see the way the view kept changing. I don't know whether I actually controlled the skid, but at least I didn't do foolish things like jam on the brakes.
After what appeared to be ages the car (let's face it, it wasn't down to my skill) straightened up, still well behind the lorries. It was only later that my legs started trembling.
Later I phoned Paul. "You know you were going to show me how to handle a skid?" I said "well, I've done it!"
If I could cope in a Marina, frost in a Toyota holds no terrors.
First frost of the year this week. My car's rear screen de-icer chose this week also to pack up, but never mind, all fixed now.
We went out last night to an Avon Ambulanceperson's reunion. Paul's bash, so, in conformity with tradition, I drove. Slippery little journey along Burrington Coombe.
In My Day
I learnt to drive relatively late, at the age of 37. Although I did have some proper lessons, it was really Paul who taught me in our Morris Marina. I passed my test on a Monday in October; on the following Sunday I was driving, on my own, late at night along the M27.
As winter loomed, Paul said to me "I must take you out to an empty carpark one frosty Sunday so that you can learn how to handle a skid." Bearing in mind the Marina's total lack of road handling, this seemed like a good idea.
One very frosty morning after our move to Southampton, I had to set off very early to carry out some training in Bexhill. There'd been rain, then a sudden clearing, so plenty of frost. M27 again, then A27. On the Chichester bypass a light freezing fog descended. I could see enough to know that, if I stayed in the inside lane, I'd shortly be stuck behind a lot of lorries, so I pulled out into the deserted outside lane. Suddenly the car was all over the road, back end wiggling like that frightful Renault Megane ad. If I close my eyes I can still see the way the view kept changing. I don't know whether I actually controlled the skid, but at least I didn't do foolish things like jam on the brakes.
After what appeared to be ages the car (let's face it, it wasn't down to my skill) straightened up, still well behind the lorries. It was only later that my legs started trembling.
Later I phoned Paul. "You know you were going to show me how to handle a skid?" I said "well, I've done it!"
If I could cope in a Marina, frost in a Toyota holds no terrors.
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Today
Off to the dentist yesterday. How remarkable is that? Well, I haven't been for 20 years, that's how!
Result? If it ain't broke, don't fix it. Teeth in better nick than they've any right to be.
In My Day
I did go to the dentist regularly as a child, which is more than my parents did. Mamma had a full set of dentures which caused her endless trouble when consuming raspberries or tomatoes. Daddy didn't believe in dentists and had a fairly full set of fairly yellowish horse-like gnashers.
I mostly remember going alone and being subjected to all but the worst fillings and extractions without anaesthetic. Of course I was frightened of the dentist; it was frightening. An extraction using laughing gas also made me very wary of masks to breathe through. The masks they used were of rubber and had a vile smell. I've been convinced since that I can smell it every time I'm offered nitrous oxide, even though I know that it doesn't smell and the mask is of plastic.
I last went to the dentist before moving to the West Country - just never got around to going till now.
Anyhow, I've an appointment with the hygienist, who, I'm told, is far worse than the dentist.
Off to the dentist yesterday. How remarkable is that? Well, I haven't been for 20 years, that's how!
Result? If it ain't broke, don't fix it. Teeth in better nick than they've any right to be.
In My Day
I did go to the dentist regularly as a child, which is more than my parents did. Mamma had a full set of dentures which caused her endless trouble when consuming raspberries or tomatoes. Daddy didn't believe in dentists and had a fairly full set of fairly yellowish horse-like gnashers.
I mostly remember going alone and being subjected to all but the worst fillings and extractions without anaesthetic. Of course I was frightened of the dentist; it was frightening. An extraction using laughing gas also made me very wary of masks to breathe through. The masks they used were of rubber and had a vile smell. I've been convinced since that I can smell it every time I'm offered nitrous oxide, even though I know that it doesn't smell and the mask is of plastic.
I last went to the dentist before moving to the West Country - just never got around to going till now.
Anyhow, I've an appointment with the hygienist, who, I'm told, is far worse than the dentist.
Thursday, November 10, 2005
Today
Last weekend was a success with regard to renewing friendships. We went to supper with an old colleague of mine, whom I hadn't seen in 10 years. She used to be one of our trainers and she left 10 years ago for pastures new. I bumped into her at my financial advisors' office, on reception. Delighted to see each other and much enjoyed our catching up session in her immaculate little bungalow just up the road.
She inadvertently led me to another catch-up session, having worked with a former friend. I say "former" as some sort of misunderstanding, generated out of who knows what, caused us to stop communicating with each other about 8 years ago.
I learnt that she'd had a good deal of illness and various other troubles; her phone number hadn't changed, so, on Sunday I called her up. She seemed jolly pleased, if a little surprised and I heard all about her life for the past 8 years.
In My Day
As my 50th birthday loomed, I became aware that Paul and the girls had some scheme afoot. I guessed what it was and also that they were struggling. Down the pub one night, I said "My birthday - do you want some help?" "Yes, please!" they cried. So I gave them a couple of clues about the possible whereabouts of various old friends of mine.
And they had some success. Becky tracked down an old boyfriend of mine who couldn't come - it was his 20th wedding anniversary that night. Paul found a college friend, who didn't come to the party, but with whom I've caught up a couple of times.
On the night, my old conductor of Musica Antiqua (see April 10th entry) and his wife turned up, with a CD of our music-making. We've seen them several times since. They are always delighted to see us and offer us the kindest hospitality. They are now proud grandparents.
Best of all was my friend Hugh. I'd known Hugh back in the Croydon Young Players days in about 1964 and had lost touch with him and his wife Shirley since about 1975. Paul took a speculation with Directory Enquiries, telling them that the name was so unusual that there was probably only one in England. After they'd told him that they didn't do a country-wide search, they then said that, actually, there was only one and gave Paul the number. How delighted I was when they arrived at my door! I remembered why we'd been friends in the first placed.
We saw each other a few times after that and they turned up at our millennium party, 2 years later. How sad that he died of lung cancer in 2003. I would have been even sadder if I hadn't had that chance to renew our friendship.
You can't take friendship for granted - it's a precious gift.
Last weekend was a success with regard to renewing friendships. We went to supper with an old colleague of mine, whom I hadn't seen in 10 years. She used to be one of our trainers and she left 10 years ago for pastures new. I bumped into her at my financial advisors' office, on reception. Delighted to see each other and much enjoyed our catching up session in her immaculate little bungalow just up the road.
She inadvertently led me to another catch-up session, having worked with a former friend. I say "former" as some sort of misunderstanding, generated out of who knows what, caused us to stop communicating with each other about 8 years ago.
I learnt that she'd had a good deal of illness and various other troubles; her phone number hadn't changed, so, on Sunday I called her up. She seemed jolly pleased, if a little surprised and I heard all about her life for the past 8 years.
In My Day
As my 50th birthday loomed, I became aware that Paul and the girls had some scheme afoot. I guessed what it was and also that they were struggling. Down the pub one night, I said "My birthday - do you want some help?" "Yes, please!" they cried. So I gave them a couple of clues about the possible whereabouts of various old friends of mine.
And they had some success. Becky tracked down an old boyfriend of mine who couldn't come - it was his 20th wedding anniversary that night. Paul found a college friend, who didn't come to the party, but with whom I've caught up a couple of times.
On the night, my old conductor of Musica Antiqua (see April 10th entry) and his wife turned up, with a CD of our music-making. We've seen them several times since. They are always delighted to see us and offer us the kindest hospitality. They are now proud grandparents.
Best of all was my friend Hugh. I'd known Hugh back in the Croydon Young Players days in about 1964 and had lost touch with him and his wife Shirley since about 1975. Paul took a speculation with Directory Enquiries, telling them that the name was so unusual that there was probably only one in England. After they'd told him that they didn't do a country-wide search, they then said that, actually, there was only one and gave Paul the number. How delighted I was when they arrived at my door! I remembered why we'd been friends in the first placed.
We saw each other a few times after that and they turned up at our millennium party, 2 years later. How sad that he died of lung cancer in 2003. I would have been even sadder if I hadn't had that chance to renew our friendship.
You can't take friendship for granted - it's a precious gift.
Monday, November 07, 2005
Today
More about my redundant first name. Yesterday I lent it to a little girl of my acquaintance who thinks that Alice is just about the coolest name in the universe. Apparently she's even named the voice of her father's satellite navigation system "Alice", although she did tell me that her cuddly donkey isn't called Alice.
Anyway, I put together an imposing-looking deed that gave her the right to use my Alice, along with her other names, as long as she wanted to. We signed the document and Paul witnessed it and I gave it to her for her 7th birthday. She seemed delighted, especially once she'd realised that she didn't have to change her existing names or get rid of them. I also gave her a copy of Alice in Wonderland.
In My Day
When I was a child we lived in a road full of imposing Victorian Villas in South London. They were all on 99 year leases, with only a few years to go. When the house next door, full of sitting tenants came up for sale, Daddy jumped at the chance to earn a bit of extra cash from the lets.
In one of the ground floor flats lived two Indian men. Very quiet, they were. One of them had a head of curly hair and I frequently thought that he was female.
One day Daddy went to collect the rent and this tenant opened the door, dressed as a woman. "I have to tell, you, Mr D", he said "My doctor informs me that I am now a woman. Will you please call me Carol." My father blinked, but, after all, this was London and he'd seen a fair bit of life. So he shrugged and said OK.
Next time the rent was due the other tenant came over to pay. Also dressed in female attire. "I have to tell you, Mr D," he said "My doctor informs me that I am now a woman. Will you please call me Brenda." "What's going on?" Said Daddy. "Are you trying to avoid trouble with the Police or something? Pull the other one." But it was true - they'd both changed sex within a couple of weeks of each other.
I think that Carol got married to a man, who, I remember hearing, didn't treat her at all well.
That is rather an extreme way of changing your name, though.
More about my redundant first name. Yesterday I lent it to a little girl of my acquaintance who thinks that Alice is just about the coolest name in the universe. Apparently she's even named the voice of her father's satellite navigation system "Alice", although she did tell me that her cuddly donkey isn't called Alice.
Anyway, I put together an imposing-looking deed that gave her the right to use my Alice, along with her other names, as long as she wanted to. We signed the document and Paul witnessed it and I gave it to her for her 7th birthday. She seemed delighted, especially once she'd realised that she didn't have to change her existing names or get rid of them. I also gave her a copy of Alice in Wonderland.
In My Day
When I was a child we lived in a road full of imposing Victorian Villas in South London. They were all on 99 year leases, with only a few years to go. When the house next door, full of sitting tenants came up for sale, Daddy jumped at the chance to earn a bit of extra cash from the lets.
In one of the ground floor flats lived two Indian men. Very quiet, they were. One of them had a head of curly hair and I frequently thought that he was female.
One day Daddy went to collect the rent and this tenant opened the door, dressed as a woman. "I have to tell, you, Mr D", he said "My doctor informs me that I am now a woman. Will you please call me Carol." My father blinked, but, after all, this was London and he'd seen a fair bit of life. So he shrugged and said OK.
Next time the rent was due the other tenant came over to pay. Also dressed in female attire. "I have to tell you, Mr D," he said "My doctor informs me that I am now a woman. Will you please call me Brenda." "What's going on?" Said Daddy. "Are you trying to avoid trouble with the Police or something? Pull the other one." But it was true - they'd both changed sex within a couple of weeks of each other.
I think that Carol got married to a man, who, I remember hearing, didn't treat her at all well.
That is rather an extreme way of changing your name, though.
Saturday, November 05, 2005
Today
Finally decided that sheet ironing was a step too far and have been sending sheets and duvet covers to the laundry. Today, as we start the winter swap around, I'm also sending the Summer bedspread to the laundry and giving one blanket its annual dry-clean.
I'm collecting an amazing number of safety pins, as the laundry has stopped using those little plastic tags. And the sheets do feel nice. It's a bit of a logistical problem, sometimes, as I only have 2 of everything, so laundry visits and bed-changing have to be synchronised.
Interesting that I've reverted to linen and cotton sheets and woollen blankets after all these years of dalliance with duvets and poly-cotton.
In My Day
Our sheets and Daddy's shirts went to the laundry. Everything else Mamma did by hand. The laundry was collected and delivered once a fortnight. Dirty bedlinen was brought into the hall. A double sheet was spread out and all items put onto it. Then the corners were drawn together and tied and there you had it - a huge Whittington-esque bundle of dirty linen.
The clean laundry was delivered wrapped in brown paper. Our sheets were changed as follows:
Once a fortnight, top sheet removed and put on bottom, bottom sheet removed and sent to laundry. Which meant that sheets stayed on the bed for four weeks. I suppose we did all wear pyjamas and nighties which saved the sheets.
The sheets were pure cotton and came in white, pink, blue or green. When they got very old, they would split down the middle (I remember once hastening this process by sliding my big toenail all down one sheet). Mamma would rip the sheet down the middle and turn it round and stitch it together by the outer, stronger sides. These "sides-to-middle" sheets only ever went onto the bottom.
It's not cheap - but then, what am I working for?
Finally decided that sheet ironing was a step too far and have been sending sheets and duvet covers to the laundry. Today, as we start the winter swap around, I'm also sending the Summer bedspread to the laundry and giving one blanket its annual dry-clean.
I'm collecting an amazing number of safety pins, as the laundry has stopped using those little plastic tags. And the sheets do feel nice. It's a bit of a logistical problem, sometimes, as I only have 2 of everything, so laundry visits and bed-changing have to be synchronised.
Interesting that I've reverted to linen and cotton sheets and woollen blankets after all these years of dalliance with duvets and poly-cotton.
In My Day
Our sheets and Daddy's shirts went to the laundry. Everything else Mamma did by hand. The laundry was collected and delivered once a fortnight. Dirty bedlinen was brought into the hall. A double sheet was spread out and all items put onto it. Then the corners were drawn together and tied and there you had it - a huge Whittington-esque bundle of dirty linen.
The clean laundry was delivered wrapped in brown paper. Our sheets were changed as follows:
Once a fortnight, top sheet removed and put on bottom, bottom sheet removed and sent to laundry. Which meant that sheets stayed on the bed for four weeks. I suppose we did all wear pyjamas and nighties which saved the sheets.
The sheets were pure cotton and came in white, pink, blue or green. When they got very old, they would split down the middle (I remember once hastening this process by sliding my big toenail all down one sheet). Mamma would rip the sheet down the middle and turn it round and stitch it together by the outer, stronger sides. These "sides-to-middle" sheets only ever went onto the bottom.
It's not cheap - but then, what am I working for?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)