Today
Yesterday it rained for much of the day and evening. Which justified Murphy's Law ("if anything can go wrong it will") because we'd been invited to two barbecues. The first was with our wine circle friends and was in the afternoon. The second was the regular neighbours' gathering in the Close in the evening.
We trotted off to the first one, clutching wine. Somehow the rain held off and we chatted, drank wine and feasted moderately - Paul on barbecued chicken and burgers, me on some very nice stuffed peppers. We made regretful early farewells and went home for the next one. The rain was now looking rather settled and it soon became clear, by some sort of telepathy between neighbours, that the Close BBQ wasn't going to happen.
We also went to a BBQ at Becky's following her non-sky-diving event, two weeks ago. It was very hot and there was a lot of Veggie food on the grill. The next day we went back to Becky's for lunch. We found an unused throwaway BBQ so had grilled sweetcorn and veggie kebabs.
Many pubs round here also have regular BBQ nights throughout the summer so there's never a shortage of charred meat to eat.
In My Day
I don't know who invented the word barbecue, but I'd never heard of it when I was a child. Eating outdoors in the Summer was pretty well always a cold picnic or salads brought out from the kitchen. Mamma would prepare lettuce, tomatoes and cucumbers on a plate. Sometimes there was watercress, spring onions or radishes. There was always Heinz salad cream. The lettuces, for many years, would have just been the round variety. They took a deal of cleaning and you could never be confident that there would be no slugs. There might be potato salad and Mamma would add cold meat - corned beef or ham.
If we going on one of our walks, we might take a picnic. This would usually mean sandwiches and some fruit. As I rarely remember ever having good weather on these walks, picnics were often taken sheltering under a dripping tree, fending off spiders and earwigs.
Cooking hot food outdoors in the Summer usually was reserved for Boy Scouts (my brother was one) and meant sausages and beans cooked over a campfire. Very dubious fare, and certainly a boy-thing.
On Guy Fawkes night we always had a huge bonfire (that was one advantage our great big Victorian garden). After the fireworks were over, baking potatoes and roasting chestnuts would be suggested (probably by Chris, who presumably felt the need to demonstrate his scouting expertise). The potatoes would be shoved in the embers (there was always knowledgeable talk of wrapping them in mud which somehow was meant to confer special properties, but we never put this into practice) and chestnuts put onto a shovel. These culinary efforts usually resulted in half-cooked potatoes and fragments of chestnut, all of them tasting very strongly of ash & smoke. Though it tasted vile, it made you feel as though you'd gone back to some primordial roots.
Perhaps that's why it's usually the men that love to do the barbecuing,
Sunday, July 30, 2006
Saturday, July 29, 2006
Today
Paul has devoted much of this Summer to getting a nice tan on his chest and arms. Given that it's been one of the hottest Summers for years and that he's had the time to sit, bare-chested, in the garden, one could assume that he's well on his way to target.
However, he's not satisfied. He still feels too pale. He's planning a jaunt to Sicily in September with a friend and is worried about having the "white Brit" look. So he's bought a fake tan spray to top up. I explained to him about exfoliation and lent him my exfoliating mitt. It's something that you spray on daily so that the colour builds up.
Can't see the need myself - he's already a lot darker that me, but chacun etc....
In My Day
When I was a teenager, getting tanned involved slapping on oil so that you basically fried. (I believe my sister tried that a few times.) I, however, discovered early on that I came out in a rash after about 1/4 hour in the sun.
As SPF was future technology I found the Summers often very troubling. On holiday with David, walking in Exmoor one hot Summer, my hands and arms itched so badly with the rash that I had to wear long sleeves and I walked with the maps rolled up around my poor hands. I slapped on Calomine - again anti-histamine technology was not available - so that I also looked ridiculous with pinkish -white splodged all over me. People probably thought I had leprosy.
When I went on my European hitchhiking adventure I approached my doctor, who said that I had an allergy to UV light and he gave me some cream to apply. It certainly seemed to help.
I've since discovered that the condition is called "polymorphous light eruption" which makes it sound very grand. Having the condition has made me review the whole question of tanning, which, after all, isn't very good for your skin.
I like to think that, when the rest of my generation has wrinkled, leathery skin, I'll have smooth, soft skin like our Victorian forebears, who knew a thing or two.
Thank the medical profession for SFP60, I say!
Paul has devoted much of this Summer to getting a nice tan on his chest and arms. Given that it's been one of the hottest Summers for years and that he's had the time to sit, bare-chested, in the garden, one could assume that he's well on his way to target.
However, he's not satisfied. He still feels too pale. He's planning a jaunt to Sicily in September with a friend and is worried about having the "white Brit" look. So he's bought a fake tan spray to top up. I explained to him about exfoliation and lent him my exfoliating mitt. It's something that you spray on daily so that the colour builds up.
Can't see the need myself - he's already a lot darker that me, but chacun etc....
It's probably all part and parcel of his growing his hair long and buying a sharp little sports car. So long as he doesn't add a leggy blonde....
In My Day
When I was a teenager, getting tanned involved slapping on oil so that you basically fried. (I believe my sister tried that a few times.) I, however, discovered early on that I came out in a rash after about 1/4 hour in the sun.
As SPF was future technology I found the Summers often very troubling. On holiday with David, walking in Exmoor one hot Summer, my hands and arms itched so badly with the rash that I had to wear long sleeves and I walked with the maps rolled up around my poor hands. I slapped on Calomine - again anti-histamine technology was not available - so that I also looked ridiculous with pinkish -white splodged all over me. People probably thought I had leprosy.
When I went on my European hitchhiking adventure I approached my doctor, who said that I had an allergy to UV light and he gave me some cream to apply. It certainly seemed to help.
I've since discovered that the condition is called "polymorphous light eruption" which makes it sound very grand. Having the condition has made me review the whole question of tanning, which, after all, isn't very good for your skin.
I like to think that, when the rest of my generation has wrinkled, leathery skin, I'll have smooth, soft skin like our Victorian forebears, who knew a thing or two.
Thank the medical profession for SFP60, I say!
Friday, July 28, 2006
Today
Last weekend was a weekend of feasting and frolicking. What with Becky jumping out of an aeroplane, Lizzie graduating and us celebrating our 35th wedding anniversary, much champagne was drunk.
A good deal of it was drunk at the Fete Champetre at Stourhead. This is a regular party with music, fireworks and a range of events around this beautiful Capability Brown garden. We go every time, if we can. The theme was "A Night with the Stars". As always, the Barretts dressed up. Liz & Becky took the whole b-list celebrity look very seriously with too much blonde hair, too much tan, overlarge handbags and oversmall dogs. Paul took it seriously with a jacket covered with shooting stars and the legend "Star Struck" on the back. And I put a posh frock on a teetered around the grass in high heels.
We had a picnic and, as always, the most beautiful weather. We sauntered around the gardens and I was invited to join in with a small choir singing "Dream a little dream of me" of Mama's & Papa's fame.
In My Day
There were always opportunities to dress up at home. On the landing there was a huge chest of
drawers which contained, among other things, dressing up clothes and curtains (which were always useful as cloaks etc). There is a picture in the family album of my brother Chris wearing a satin curtain as a skirt.
We were all dressed up as chessmen for the chess club's carnival float and it took me no effort at all to dress up as a fairy queen at any time.
The album shows Mamma dressed up variously, as a medieval lady in wimple, Victorian mother for the Croydon Millennium and Daddy dressed up as a schoolboy for no reason, it seems, other than a laugh.
For Christmas, when I was the Angel Gabriel in the school play, I had a plain white shift, but the most magnificent pair of cardboard and crepe paper wings which I had to carry on the bus. Beatrice was dressed up as a Christmas tree, also in cardboard and crepe paper and she, too, had to travel on the bus, in full paraphernalia. She was unable to sit down....
Perhaps the crowning achievement was when we put on a performance of the Mikado using only the forces the family could muster, that is, 6 of us. We mimed to the music. Problem, though - there are 3 little maids from school and we were only 2. No problem! Mamma put Beatrice in a double-sided costume and painted a Japanese face on a paper plate and affixed it to the back on her head. When the, moment came, she had to do a twirl and show the audience the back of her head!
Does this explain why I took a course in costume design - so that I could do in properly?
Last weekend was a weekend of feasting and frolicking. What with Becky jumping out of an aeroplane, Lizzie graduating and us celebrating our 35th wedding anniversary, much champagne was drunk.
A good deal of it was drunk at the Fete Champetre at Stourhead. This is a regular party with music, fireworks and a range of events around this beautiful Capability Brown garden. We go every time, if we can. The theme was "A Night with the Stars". As always, the Barretts dressed up. Liz & Becky took the whole b-list celebrity look very seriously with too much blonde hair, too much tan, overlarge handbags and oversmall dogs. Paul took it seriously with a jacket covered with shooting stars and the legend "Star Struck" on the back. And I put a posh frock on a teetered around the grass in high heels.
We had a picnic and, as always, the most beautiful weather. We sauntered around the gardens and I was invited to join in with a small choir singing "Dream a little dream of me" of Mama's & Papa's fame.
In My Day
There were always opportunities to dress up at home. On the landing there was a huge chest of
drawers which contained, among other things, dressing up clothes and curtains (which were always useful as cloaks etc). There is a picture in the family album of my brother Chris wearing a satin curtain as a skirt.
We were all dressed up as chessmen for the chess club's carnival float and it took me no effort at all to dress up as a fairy queen at any time.
The album shows Mamma dressed up variously, as a medieval lady in wimple, Victorian mother for the Croydon Millennium and Daddy dressed up as a schoolboy for no reason, it seems, other than a laugh.
For Christmas, when I was the Angel Gabriel in the school play, I had a plain white shift, but the most magnificent pair of cardboard and crepe paper wings which I had to carry on the bus. Beatrice was dressed up as a Christmas tree, also in cardboard and crepe paper and she, too, had to travel on the bus, in full paraphernalia. She was unable to sit down....
Perhaps the crowning achievement was when we put on a performance of the Mikado using only the forces the family could muster, that is, 6 of us. We mimed to the music. Problem, though - there are 3 little maids from school and we were only 2. No problem! Mamma put Beatrice in a double-sided costume and painted a Japanese face on a paper plate and affixed it to the back on her head. When the, moment came, she had to do a twirl and show the audience the back of her head!
Does this explain why I took a course in costume design - so that I could do in properly?
Monday, July 17, 2006
Today
Went to London for the weekend and forgot to take my diary. My diary is my constant companion. I always use plain A4 hardback lined notebooks so that I am not constrained by only having so much space for an entry (my brother's diary, apparently, gives him 12 lines per day..). So I can pour out writing for pages, scribble down something in 2 lines or catch up when I've forgotten to take it with me somewhere
I started this sequence in 1990, originally deciding that I would eschew the very personal "dear diary" stuff.
With the first half of this year being so peculiar, I started making some more personal commentary on my feelings - otherwise I would have burst.
However, when I read other's diaries, it's often the little day-to-day details that resonate, so I don't forget those.
In My Day
I started keeping a diary when I was about 15. As now, they were plain hardback books which I then decorated with pictures from magazines. In 1963, that meant the Beatles, the Rolling Stones etc.
I also peppered my entries with drawings, some of which were none too realistic. I recorded my school life and my vibrant family life. I had, as always, a close, if quirky relationship with my brother David and he obviously influenced me a great deal.
The diary records David's plan to let each other know when were out and that we'd left the key in an agreed place by leaving a note (where? I presume on the front door) saying "ching bop". I am not, and have never been clever enough to work out if there significance in this, outside of our agreed meaning, or whether it was just complete rubbish.
One can track, over the 3 diaries that represent me from 1963-1966, how I became more self-conscious, more serious, if you like, less innocently exuberant.
Lizzie owns that diary now and treasures it as a picture of me at 16 and because it makes her laugh so much.
Went to London for the weekend and forgot to take my diary. My diary is my constant companion. I always use plain A4 hardback lined notebooks so that I am not constrained by only having so much space for an entry (my brother's diary, apparently, gives him 12 lines per day..). So I can pour out writing for pages, scribble down something in 2 lines or catch up when I've forgotten to take it with me somewhere
I started this sequence in 1990, originally deciding that I would eschew the very personal "dear diary" stuff.
With the first half of this year being so peculiar, I started making some more personal commentary on my feelings - otherwise I would have burst.
However, when I read other's diaries, it's often the little day-to-day details that resonate, so I don't forget those.
In My Day
I started keeping a diary when I was about 15. As now, they were plain hardback books which I then decorated with pictures from magazines. In 1963, that meant the Beatles, the Rolling Stones etc.
I also peppered my entries with drawings, some of which were none too realistic. I recorded my school life and my vibrant family life. I had, as always, a close, if quirky relationship with my brother David and he obviously influenced me a great deal.
The diary records David's plan to let each other know when were out and that we'd left the key in an agreed place by leaving a note (where? I presume on the front door) saying "ching bop". I am not, and have never been clever enough to work out if there significance in this, outside of our agreed meaning, or whether it was just complete rubbish.
One can track, over the 3 diaries that represent me from 1963-1966, how I became more self-conscious, more serious, if you like, less innocently exuberant.
Lizzie owns that diary now and treasures it as a picture of me at 16 and because it makes her laugh so much.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Today
Recently returned from a very enjoyable visit to Sussex where we excitedly reviewed progress on the flat in Brighton. The bedrooms and hall are papered, the tiles are down in the kitchen and we've ordered the curtains and carpets.
Paul & I went to Lewes where there's an amazing 4-storey antiques emporium, and bought useful things like a wonderful sideboard, a truly useful 12 seater table and chairs and some delightfully mad furniture for the bedrooms.
So looking forward to actually being able to stay there.
I was talking to my brother about it and he said "it's a bit like a dolls' house - it's all going to be furnished in advance. With your home you furnish it as you go along."
In My Day
When Lizzie was four years' old we thought that she would like a dolls' house. We were rather broke at the time so decided to make it. As she was only four it had to be fairly robust. So Paul design a square 2-up 2-down with stairs, made out of batten-reinforced hardboard. He hinged the entire front to provide easy access.
Then he papered the house with a sort of white stone effect wallpaper, put in a little cottagy front door and wrote "rose cottage" over the door. The windows were made out of clear plastic.
Next he set to and made some furniture out of clothes pegs.
Meanwhile, I painted the roses around the door and made carpets and curtains out of scraps. I cut some potatoes and made potato print wallpaper, different for each room.
The process was not without some pain - at one time Paul, a little too enthusiastic with the Stanley blade, cut off the top of his thumb. He gathered up the bit (all covered with sawdust) and dashed to the hospital. They didn't want the bit and he had a slightly flattened thumb for a long time although it's grown back now.
When it was finished it stood about three foot high and four foot wide. Took up a lot of space in the bedroom.
Lizzie loved the dolls' house and it was used by her and all her friends until it fell apart about 10 years later.
I do rather love my full-sized dolls' house, though!
Recently returned from a very enjoyable visit to Sussex where we excitedly reviewed progress on the flat in Brighton. The bedrooms and hall are papered, the tiles are down in the kitchen and we've ordered the curtains and carpets.
Paul & I went to Lewes where there's an amazing 4-storey antiques emporium, and bought useful things like a wonderful sideboard, a truly useful 12 seater table and chairs and some delightfully mad furniture for the bedrooms.
So looking forward to actually being able to stay there.
I was talking to my brother about it and he said "it's a bit like a dolls' house - it's all going to be furnished in advance. With your home you furnish it as you go along."
In My Day
When Lizzie was four years' old we thought that she would like a dolls' house. We were rather broke at the time so decided to make it. As she was only four it had to be fairly robust. So Paul design a square 2-up 2-down with stairs, made out of batten-reinforced hardboard. He hinged the entire front to provide easy access.
Then he papered the house with a sort of white stone effect wallpaper, put in a little cottagy front door and wrote "rose cottage" over the door. The windows were made out of clear plastic.
Next he set to and made some furniture out of clothes pegs.
Meanwhile, I painted the roses around the door and made carpets and curtains out of scraps. I cut some potatoes and made potato print wallpaper, different for each room.
The process was not without some pain - at one time Paul, a little too enthusiastic with the Stanley blade, cut off the top of his thumb. He gathered up the bit (all covered with sawdust) and dashed to the hospital. They didn't want the bit and he had a slightly flattened thumb for a long time although it's grown back now.
When it was finished it stood about three foot high and four foot wide. Took up a lot of space in the bedroom.
Lizzie loved the dolls' house and it was used by her and all her friends until it fell apart about 10 years later.
I do rather love my full-sized dolls' house, though!
Saturday, July 01, 2006
Today
Taking advantage of my retired status to spend some time lolling in the garden in the sun. We bought some new comfy loungers, 2 bottles of Pimm's, lemonade (diet, of course) and all the necessary accoutrements. We'd already had a pub lunch (shocking life I lead) and I'd had some wine. Paul had had some beer.
Got home, made a huge jug of Pimm's with lemonade, strawberries, cucumber, mint. Put up the comfy loungers and sunshades, slapped on the factor 60, got out my not-too demanding book and lounged. So did Paul. After a while, dozed off. Woke to find Paul topping up the jug.
Drank some more. So did Paul. Later Paul had some wine. Later still, some Archer's. While enjoying the dying embers of the chimenea, he had some port.
Middle of the night he wasn't too good at all. Paracetamol and a couple of hasty visits to the bathroom and he went off to sleep again. A bit delicate in the morning.
In My Day
I remember a visit once, back in 1975, to my friend Sue . She'd got a new boyfriend who had a couple of children aged about 9 or 10 and they lived in one of those little 2-up, 2-down houses behind Kemptown in Brighton.
Had a lovely meal and good chat. Boyfriend suggested that he and Paul go for a drink at the local corner pub. Sue and I stayed behind to keep an eye on kids and to chat.
Paul always insisted that it was the pickled eggs that did it - not the several pints of Newcastle Brown followed by a goodly number of shots of Old Crow Bourbon. And who am I to argue?
What I do know is that he had a rather disturbed night.
The following morning we had to return to Eastbourne. I was not a driver in those days so nothing for it - Paul had to drive. I'm absolutely sure that his alcohol levels were still well beyond legal.
As we drove through Lewes (no bypass in those days) Paul felt the urgent call that most of us experience with a shocking hangover. We were in a line of slow-moving cars; couldn't stop. I think a vest of Paul's, dragged from our overnight bag, did the duty. He clutched it with one hand over his mouth, clutched the steering wheel with the other. And we don't think that the policemen noticed.
I suppose life would be a lot more dull if we always learnt from our mistakes.
Taking advantage of my retired status to spend some time lolling in the garden in the sun. We bought some new comfy loungers, 2 bottles of Pimm's, lemonade (diet, of course) and all the necessary accoutrements. We'd already had a pub lunch (shocking life I lead) and I'd had some wine. Paul had had some beer.
Got home, made a huge jug of Pimm's with lemonade, strawberries, cucumber, mint. Put up the comfy loungers and sunshades, slapped on the factor 60, got out my not-too demanding book and lounged. So did Paul. After a while, dozed off. Woke to find Paul topping up the jug.
Drank some more. So did Paul. Later Paul had some wine. Later still, some Archer's. While enjoying the dying embers of the chimenea, he had some port.
Middle of the night he wasn't too good at all. Paracetamol and a couple of hasty visits to the bathroom and he went off to sleep again. A bit delicate in the morning.
In My Day
I remember a visit once, back in 1975, to my friend Sue . She'd got a new boyfriend who had a couple of children aged about 9 or 10 and they lived in one of those little 2-up, 2-down houses behind Kemptown in Brighton.
Had a lovely meal and good chat. Boyfriend suggested that he and Paul go for a drink at the local corner pub. Sue and I stayed behind to keep an eye on kids and to chat.
Paul always insisted that it was the pickled eggs that did it - not the several pints of Newcastle Brown followed by a goodly number of shots of Old Crow Bourbon. And who am I to argue?
What I do know is that he had a rather disturbed night.
The following morning we had to return to Eastbourne. I was not a driver in those days so nothing for it - Paul had to drive. I'm absolutely sure that his alcohol levels were still well beyond legal.
As we drove through Lewes (no bypass in those days) Paul felt the urgent call that most of us experience with a shocking hangover. We were in a line of slow-moving cars; couldn't stop. I think a vest of Paul's, dragged from our overnight bag, did the duty. He clutched it with one hand over his mouth, clutched the steering wheel with the other. And we don't think that the policemen noticed.
I suppose life would be a lot more dull if we always learnt from our mistakes.
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