Another Notch

Today

Hurrah! Today's my birthday! And not just any old birthday. It's my 60th. In fact, I'll have to see about changing my blogger profile.

It does feel as though I'm moving into a different age slot this time; very strange. As though I'm about to morph into a person who likes to shop at Edinburgh Woollen Mill, has short fluffy grey hair, breasts permanently at half mast and who's idea of partying is a small sherry (preferably Harvey's Bristol Cream). I expect to start calling people "dear" and to become suddenly unable to cope with my computer.

Actually, I'm really looking forward to my party tonight and very much like the fact that my birthday is always party time.

In My Day

I was due to be born on Boxing Day but very wisely hung on until NYE. My parents never made me have combined Christmas and Birthday presents so I never felt short-changed by the birthday's proximity to Christmas.

Mamma always made me a special birthday cake (chocolate, not to confuse it with the fruity Christmas cake) with candles. I remember one year Daddy did the chocolate icing and very proudly pointed out to me the unevennesses (perhaps that's where I get my cake icing skills from) in the surface as though they were geographical features.

I often had a party - sometimes fancy dress - and - best of all, I was always allowed up to see in the New Year.

We always sang "Auld Lang Syne" - often just me, my parents and my brothers. Beatrice was too young so I felt especially privileged.

One year I awoke on New Year's Day without any recollection of having seen in the New Year. (And even now, with copious Champagne intake - I can't say that it's happened since).

I asked Mamma about it. "Well," She said, "You were so fast asleep - I couldn't wake you up." I felt very hurt and didn't understand . In fact, I didn't really forgive her until I had my own children and found out how hard it can be sometimes to wake them .

Anyway, I really love my birthdate, with its sense of new beginnings. And I'm looking forward to being able to apply for my bus pass. Sherry, anyone?

Set the table

Today

Christmas went with a swing, as usual. During the preceding few days people would say "and are you all ready for Christmas?" And we'd say "getting there!". Friends described how they'd bought the turkey, made the stuffing. We popped in to drop off cards and found them all hard at work: putting up the tree and decorations, tidying the house for visitors, preparing food, stocking freezers.

On Christmas morning, once we'd opened stockings, we all got cracking. Paul vacuumed floors, laid the fire, sorted out crockery, cutlery, glasses. Lizzie made Dauphinoise & roast potatoes, and helped me in making a Tiramisu.

I made the main courses, kept the kitchen tidy. Becky did the vegetables and tidied up the candles on the tree. Niece Ruth did the rubbish bins and put out tea lights. The dishwasher kept pace with the tide of pots & pans.

When all was done, we went and had a wonderful feast.

"It's a just like "A Christmas Carol" at the Cratchitts." I said. "Everyone had their duties".

In My Day

When I was a child, Christmas morning in our household was basically devoted to domestic work. After breakfast (which was always a bit on the scrappy, get-it-yourself side) we all had our duties. The fires would be laid (Daddy and Christopher's job). The last bits of Lametta were hung on the tree. The table was laid with a white cloth hung with ribbons. The final vegetables were prepared, (How I hated the filthy job of doing the chestnuts - but loved to eat them later), the Turkey tested and prodded, the ham put on to boil.

We tried to keep on top of the dirty washing up in our minuscule kitchen. (However did we produce such a feast? We barely had two feet of work surface.) The gifts were all arranged in the other room. During the meal we would each in turn wash up the used plates etc from the course we'd just eaten and dry up the previous lot. That way the work was all pretty well done by the time dinner was over.

Then Daddy and someone would collect David from St Paul's and the feasting would start at about 3.00 pm. after we'd finished the food would be left for us to pick at at will over the next two days. And we'd all be ready for revelling, gift opening, singing and games until bedtime.

Somehow, the hard work in preparing the celebration gave point and extra relish to the actual feast.

And I'd like to keep it that way.

Oh Tannenbaum

Today

Have actually put up two Christmas trees. The first one at home is a real tree - one of those spruces that doesn't drop its needles and is quite dense. We've hung many baubles on it in many colours, some resembling sweeties in colour and shape. The clever German tree holder worked a treat (for the first time for many years we haven't had to support the tree by tying a string to the ceiling).

I've hung all the remaining metal lametta and attached bright red candles using clip on holders. And - so sorry, health & safety chaps - we actually light the candles.

The one at the flat is altogether different. As we're in a first floor flat and only occasionally visit we decided on a fake tree. Now, I've not much time for those that pretend to be spruce; instead ours is made of silvery metal branches with crystal droplets at the ends.

We've hung chaste baubles in silver, black and blue and draped white LED teeny - tiny fairy lights all over it. And Twinkle the fairy graces the top.

In My Day

Our big Victorian pile allowed us to have Christmas trees of 10 foot or more. Daddy used to turn up with the tree on some unspecified day before Christmas. I think he must have carried it home on the bus.

He would jam the tree between logs wedged into a galvanised bucket. I don't think he ever watered it. We always called the tree a "fir" and perhaps it was. The branches were always thin and well spaced out. Mamma liked this because it meant less risk from the candles.

She always bought Prices "Mini Spirettes" in multi colours. there was always some anxiety about making sure we'd get enough in time for Christmas. These were carefully placed but as the tree settled they always had to be adjusted so that they weren't hanging upside-down or too skewiff.

Then the baubles. These were saved from the previous year and more added each year. They became a time capsule of fashion in tree decoration (you can sometimes find similar baubles in fancy retro shops). They also became covered in wax as the years went by. Finally, the lametta. This was made of lead and hung like icicles from the branches. Each piece was draped string by string and it was never possible to have too much. Mamma had a huge bundle that had built up over the years.

When the candles were lit the hot air made the lametta spiral and twinkle like the very stars.

It's almost impossible to buy that lametta these days and I've almost run out - any suggestions?

Tight Lacing

Today

Had a very pleasant afternoon, lunching with friends. We noticed and congratulated each other on some improvement in our figures. We noticed how our midriff "bagels" had grown smaller.

Regrettably, however, we still all had them and I doubt whether all the exercise and diet will entirely get rid. It's down to clever clothing and holding ourselves in, I suspect.

Today's fashions rely on the what's underneath being in good nick, so to speak, or covering up what shouldn't be shown. And those pin-thin models don't really help us to judge. Trinny & Susannah help in showing the way, but flab is flab.

In My Day

'Twas not always ever thus. When I was a child women were still corsetted. My mother used the services of a company called Spirella. About twice a year the "Spirella Lady" would call. She would closet herself with Mamma and measure up for the new set of corsets. I think I was sometimes allowed to be present on these occasions.

"Spirella" was a patented systems of flat metal spiral whalebone. They were flexible but held you in in all the right places. The corsets were salmon pink in colour (I don't know whether they came in other shades but that's what Mamma had) and did up with about 50 hooks and eyes. They also had laces for fine tuning and suspenders to attach to your stockings. They were very practical and a far cry from French underwear.

They also took a deal of getting into and, once hooked into them, there you stayed till bedtime.

I remember reading in one of those funny "overheard" books of a woman calling from her bedroom window to her husband "Will you be needing the use of my body or can I put my corsets on?". With Spirella in mind I can fully understand it.

The corsets conferred splendid posture as it was impossible to bend much once you'd got them on. However my mother did move with the times and, by the late '60s was wearing elasticated "corselettes".

Magic knickers do work, however, thanks, M&S. And I'll keep up with the exercise.

Traffic Jam

Today

Spent the weekend in Southend, rehearsing for the English Concert Singers Concert. It's at St John's Smith Square next Friday and there was a lot of hard work.

We had a productive time and the pieces moved from the periphery of my brain to haunting my sleep, which means I'm internalising the music.

To get to Southend means a three and a half hour drive and we just can't find a route that avoids the M25. Getting there wasn't too bad as we were able to choose our time and avoid the known congestion times.

When we left on Sunday at about 4.45 pm we hit all the traffic. It decided to sleet along the Essex stretch (can't say that Essex did itself any favours that weekend with weather, views or facilities) and the traffic on the M25 was continuous from where we joined to past the M40. We took four and a half hours to get back home and some of Monday to recover.

In My Day

Being brought up in London meant that we rarely went anywhere by car; public transport provided most of our needs. When we did drive it was always by A or B roads as motorways hadn't been invented then. The roads weren't especially busy but they were very winding, with almost no bypassing of towns or dual carriageways. Thus, it was possible for it to take us 3 days to get to North Wales from London (see blog May 03 2005).

I did have a relatively early experience of how horrendous a motorway drive can be. Back in 1967 or so, my brothers and I decided to spend the Spring Bank holiday walking in the Lake District. Chris had recently started what turned out to be a life-long love affair with the Lake District and we were all game for it. We also went with Chris's that time girlfriend (can't remember her name, only that she was studying to become a domestic science teacher) who was also fairly game.

We went in Chris's car which was a Mini van. Like all of us in those days, he had a car that was only just on the edge of roadworthy. Of we set, preferring the overnight option. We went on the M1 and joined the then fairly new M6 at Coventry. We were all rather dozy and Chris was driving. "If I cross any of the lanes without indicating," he told me "nudge me because it means I'm asleep.

Which was very reassuring. However, I eventually succumbed to the monotony of the drive and the whooshing of the windscreen wipers and went to sleep like the others (except Chris).

What woke us up was a vile smell of burning oil. "What smell?" said Chris who had lost his sense of smell when he was about ten. The smell of an empty oil sump, that's what. Whether we'd just been neglectful about topping up, or the car used oil or had developed a leak I've no idea.

And it hardly seemed to matter. We limped into Knutsford Services at about one in the morning. Motorway services have come a long way since the '60s so you can just imagine how bad this one was. We had to organise a breakdown company to take away the Mini van and a hire car to enable us to have our holiday. We had to find somewhere to sit while waiting for all this and something to eat. And even the sandwiches these days are better than they used to be.

I do wonder sometimes just where all the cars on today's motorways actually come from. And I have this fantasy that somewhere there are some beautifully empty roads that we can whizz along without variable speed limits, speed cameras and terrifyingly huge lorries. Ah! Utopia!

Spooky

Today

The trick or treaters have been out in force tonight. Paul and I are very relaxed about it. The kids in the village are pretty harmless and many make quite an effort to dress up.

I usually provide some little items, some taken from the previous Christmas's unwanted stocking fillers, others the more unusual sweets with appealing names like "toxic waste" or "spray candy". Paul always dons a horrific mask to terrify the children, who then address him by name "good evening, Mr B, trick or treat?".

The kids seems to love our treats which we offer them by way of lucky dip. "Wow, yours is the best house; we only get sweets normally. Are you rich?" And they never ask for money.

I forgot one year; Paul was working and the weather was foul. That didn't stop the young 'uns turning up. "So sorry," I said "I haven't got anything; you'll have to do your worst." Most were utterly taken aback and had failed to provide for this eventuality. One pair of sisters had and sprayed me with silly string. Only the weather was so bad that it blew back all over them.

In My Day

Hallowe'en was an unknown feast to us as children. We heard about it and, as I was easily spooked child, I probably had a few scary moments. Later, when I was at college and we were all into seances and Ouija boards, the subject was canvassed more often.

One year, when I was at college in Worthing, we decided to celebrate in a big way. Not far from Worthing is Chanctonbury Ring. We spent time in the pub in Findon spooking ourselves with tales of the witches coven that meets there and how, if you walk around the ring widdershins seven times the Devil will appear.

Then we donned our strongest shoes and set off, intending to arrive at midnight. Chanctonbury Ring is a ring of trees on a quite substantial hill. Unlike its neighbour the milder Cissbury Ring which has a path to the top, there was no discernable way to get to the ring. It was pitch black and we had trusted to our eyesight becoming acclimatised and had brought no torches. Anyway,we didn't want to forewarn the witches. We struggled with barbed wire, cowpats, brambles and lashing saplings. Unlike the Blair Witch Project, it was more scratchy than spooky and we soon lost all sense of which way was uphill, let alone find the witches. I think we probably all imagined that we'd be led by the sight of a huge fire with silhouettes of naked dancing witches. I don't think we had a clue as to what to do if we actually found this event.

I also don't know who it was who suggested that we abandon the project. But we all thankfully struggled back to the road and back to my flat where my domesticated flatmate had made parkin and where we had lots of cider.

All of which makes a bit of silly string seem, well, silly.

Dive Bomb

Today

The other night I made the mistake of turning on the bedroom light without first of all shutting the curtains. In a very short space of time the room was filled with flying things. They batted about the room and all looked very nasty.

There are some insects which just have to die. Wasps, crane flies, bluebottles and, of course, mosquitoes. Reluctant to have our newly painted walls stippled with squashed corpses, we sprayed the room liberally with toxins. This gave us an insect-free night, although we did have to check the bed for dead bodies first.

In My Day

The bedroom I slept in as a child was in the basement and had a window, half subterranean, that looked into the area. There was no easy access to this space and it quickly became clogged with dead leaves, paper and other slimy rubbish. From time to time Daddy would clamber in and sweep up and cover everything else with Jeyes Fluid. I can remember that horrible carbolic smell.

In the Summer, opening my window after dark was a foolish action as the mosquitoes that bred in the usually full drain would visit me to feast on my young blood. In the dark they would whine like approaching dive bombers. Signal to put my light on and start the search and destroy mission.

This didn't stop my being bitten and having a nasty allergic reaction to their bites.

When I complained to my parents they had two solutions. One was to pour paraffin into the drain itself. This, according to Daddy, would stop the creatures from breeding as the larvae couldn't stick their little probosces into the air through the slippery paraffin. The other was dose my bedroom, using the "Flit Spray". This contained DDT which, as we now know, is more toxic than anything contained in a can of "Raid".

What I want to know is, why do mosquitoes just bite some people and not others? And why me?

One Foot in Front of the Other

Today

On Tuesday Paul was clearing up the last remnants from Silver Street. He said it would take him a few hours so I said I would walk the 8 miles to Wells and meet him. The autumn sun was shining and I enjoyed my walk, taking pictures of autumn berries. Stopped at the little garden centre cafe, conveniently half way, for tea and facilities.

Just got going again when Paul rang. "Where are you? I've finished early and am getting bored just sitting around waiting," he said. "Well, I've still about an hour and a quarter to go", said I, "unless you want to pick me up." "Seems a bit silly to collect you just to come back into Wells," said my spouse.

"In that case", I said " I can't do anything else than just put one foot in front of the other till I get there".

In My Day

In the early days of our marriage, especially when Lizzie was little, walking was the only way to get places. I used to walk her from Seven Dials in Brighton to her childminders in Preston Road and back every day. (I remember the chip shop on the corner where I used to buy chips to share on cold evenings.)

When we moved to Rowan Avenue I had an even longer walk to the childminders, along an unmade-up road and over a railway line. Then the walk to station to get to work. I do remember rather enjoying those walks with Lizzie: I'd tell her stories and we'd pick flowers that grew out of the cracks in the path.

In about 1978, my sister lived with us at Rowan Avenue. We both worked in the same office and sometimes, on dark nights, when we got off the train, the long walk home seemed impossible. Beatrice would look along the road in despair. "It's alright," I'd say "We'll get there. All we have to do is put one foot in front of the other." And it worked; suddenly we'd be home, with warmth and love awaiting us.

Anyway, in the end, Paul did come and collect me, in his beautiful Humber Super Snipe.

Freedom Child

Today

I've been down in Brighton this weekend for a singing workshop on Bach's B Minor Mass. About 100 of us collected in the village Hall at Alfriston and worked hard to bring some shape to the piece.

One of my neighbours, a thin, jumpy woman of about 70, asked us if we could give her a lift on the Sunday as the trains weren't running. She'd cycle to the flat from Hove, she said, if we could take her from there. No problem.

Once in the car she had much to say about the modern trend to over-protect our children. "Children need freedom more than they need protecting from - what are they called? -paedophiles" she proclaimed. "Why, when I was a child my mother never worried if I was camping in the woods. And we didn't even have a tent." Liberal or culpably negligent? Hard to say.

In My Day

I was brought up in London which, to an extent, automatically curtailed freedom. We lived on a main road and our large garden that provided most of what we needed in the way of a play environment. However, Mamma and Daddy did take a relaxed attitude over many things, allowing us to walk or bus to school unattended, for example, from the age of about 7.

The most memorable occasion was during the Summer of 1954 when I was about 6 and my brother about 9. Mamma was away all day at the Proms and Daddy gave Chris the wherewithal to take me to Hastings. Why he did this I've no idea. Perhaps we were nagging for a seaside trip or maybe he was trying a social experiment.

Anyway, off we went. Chris had return tickets and we caught the train from East Croydon to Hastings. I remember only a few things: that the weather was rather dampish and sitting on the beach not as much fun as I'd hoped. That Chris bought as a bag of plums to share and I didn't want any more after I discovered a maggot in one of mine.

And finally, that, somehow, the return tickets fell out of my brother's pocket and were lost. And he didn't have enough money for any more. Talking this over with him the other day he said he thought that we must have been older, but I don't think so because the impossible then happened: Chris burst into tears and my security was shattered. Some kind person took pity and bought us the tickets we needed. (Why should she have believed us? we must have looked trustworthy).

Was my father culpably negligent? Or did we learn some self-reliance from the episode? Who knows? Perhaps all we learnt was to burst into tears when all else fails.

Anyway, I think that our car passenger must have been so restless as a child that her mother let her go just to preserve her sanity.

Fluff

Today

Don't know where it all comes from. The dirt, that is.

Yesterday I fitted some new doorknobs on the kitchen cupboards. Very nice they look, too. But I also got close up to the cupboards and could see all the sticky, grimy marks around the door handles and on the shelves.

So today thought I'd do a clean up. First the bathroom. Exactly why we need 15 bottle of shampoo & conditioner, 3 tubes of identical shaving gel and enough pain killers and plasters to set up in business as a pharmacy I don't know. And I suppose 3 hot water bottles might come in handy sometime. Cleaning the shower screen is a task never done to my satisfaction. The top of the cupboard was covered in thick, soft, white dust and little balls of grey fluff rolled across the floor like tumbleweed

Then the bedroom. Disposed of all the odd socks and unwanted, unused cosmetics, 12 makeup pencil sharpeners and so on.

Finally the kitchen. Why do we have a caddy of Lapsang Souchong? We absolutely hate it. 8 jars/cans of olives, some chestnut jam bought in Corsica in 2004, never opened and 18 months by its use-by date. I could go on.

In My Day

As Paul's Mum got older she became less and less able to keep her little flat clean. Paul used to visit her often, but as they were usually flying visits he was reluctant to spend them cleaning. His sister was always on call and kept things ticking over, but she had many other demands on her time.

So, in December 2002, I suggested that we took a few days off specifically for a cleanup. We booked ourselves into a little holiday flat on the seafront (freezing, it was, with heating not designed for the winter months) went over to Mum's and got cracking.

Given that Mum's cooking was by now limited to making tea and popping ready-made macaroni cheese into the oven, it was amazing what she had. Saucepans of every size, baking tins, ancient jars of spices & herbs. Tins of this and that (raspberries dated 1984 are one example). All the paraphernalia of a long life. Most of it was dirty and old beyond redemption and we chucked it all out.

And the fluff! On top of the cupboards, behind the cupboards, everywhere. Handfuls of dusty fluff. I stuffed it all into rubbish sacks. It got up my nose, ingrained into my fingernails, into my hair. The vacuum cleaner died as soon as we asked it to do any work so we bought a new one. The hall carpet disintegrated under the strain of being cleaned and had to be replaced. We swabbed and disinfected and organised a home help.

Mum was very happy because, when all was clean we bought and decorated a fibre-optics Christmas tree which changed colour continuously, and she couldn't take her eyes off it.

Grand Day Out

Today

How it was that I agreed to attend the Bexhill 100 classic car club's annual classic car show last Monday I'm not sure. Perhaps because my sister is membership secretary; perhaps because Paul was longing for an excuse to bring the Humber Imperial down.

Anyway, on about the only fine August Bank Holiday in the last 50 years (and also Becky's actual 30th birthday), I found myself on a recreation ground in Bexhill with nothing to do all day but sit in or near the car and listen to people tell us all about it (often incorrectly). As I'm a person who likes to be active, this was a little stultifying, to say the least.

The day was enlivened by the presence of my nephews Jacob & James who, both in their special ways, brought extra sunshine to the day. The presence of Clive the Dalek, manipulated by my brother in law, was less exciting.

We didn't win any prizes despite the number of people who came up and said " the best car ever made - I (my father, uncle) used to have one" and despite the car's seriously shiny state.

In My Day

If you follow this blog you will know that it was Paul who introduced me to delights of elderly wheeled machinery. many a Sunday we went to classic car shows, traction engine rallies and railway exhibitions. I sometimes enjoyed the traction engine rallies as there was quite a few parades of these amazing beasts and I always liked the fairground organs with their elaborate decorations and silly boom-boom renditions of the classics. and there were usually some stalls selling honey or clothes or something. Classic car and railway exhibitions were altogether duller.

Eventually I told Paul that I'd just about exhausted the possibilities of these events and could he please find another companion? Which meant that I've managed to avoid the Dorset Steam Fair altogether.

Still, even Paul got bored on Monday and we left a whole hour before the end.

Leg Up

Today

Up, for the first time in a week, following a rather nasty cellulitits attack because of my Milroy's Disease. I was away at a singing week in the Cotswolds when it struck, and we had to leave. Since then, I've had the usual high temperature, sore leg etc.

Am now able to eat again after several days in which nibbling on half a Rich Tea was the best I could do.

In My Day

The condition's a hereditary one and Daddy had a severe case of it. As the disease carries with it the risk of streptococcal infection and antibiotics weren't invented until Daddy was in his 40s there were times when his life was despaired of.

We became accustomed to Daddy's "attacks". It meant that he would be in bed, moaning and shivering with the high temperature (I don't know why it seems to help to moan loudly when your temperature's up, but it does), and out of action for about a week.

I remember one such occasion when I was about 18. Daddy had been ill for about 2 days. I'd been to my youth drama club and the group leader, whom I rather fancied, had offered me a lift home. (What was his name? oh, yes, Noel) I was wondering how to orchestrate asking him in for coffee, when he suffered a minor injury from something sparking from the dashboard of his ancient wreck of a car (it wasn't only Paul who drove appalling old bangers in those days). Easy! he needed minor medical attention so I asked him in.

Mamma, as usual, was all gracious attention, supplying gauze, antiseptic and coffee.

We were just getting past the social niceties when there was a strange "woofing" sound from outside the door, accompanied by scratching. Mamma went over. It was Daddy, on his hands and knees, with his pyjamas nearly at his ankles. "I'm a little dog," he said. "Can I come in?"

Bored with lying in bed and unable to walk, he'd crawled the whole way down the passage from the bedroom. Not only had he ignored the fact that said passage was communal and therefore he could easily be seen by our upstairs tenants, he had clearly not considered the possibility of visitors. We hustled him back to bed.

Noel, in the meantime, fled, never to enter our house again. He avoided me at Young Players meetings after that.

It's an ill-wind, however, and one good side effect of this week has been that I've lost 9lbs.

Deuce

Today

For the first time since late 2005, Paul & I have had a game of badminton. Pretty evenly matched, I must say, although I did have the handicap of having also walked the 5 miles to Shepton.

I can't say that we're very good at the game, but being evenly matched is key; if either one was always winning or losing it wouldn't be any fun. So I think we'll go again next week.

In My Day

As earlier blogs will attest, ours was not a sporty family. There was the occasional desultory game of cricket on the lawn (driven mostly by my brothers' enthusiasm) and we used to play "piggy in the middle"......

Sport at school divided into gymnastics, sports and games. Gym was completely unnerving. I couldn't vault the box, climb up a rope or do handstands, somersaults or cartwheels. And as for touching my toes.....

Sports involved jumping, running and throwing things. My long legs meant that my jumping was not the worst and I could balance an egg on a spoon. By I had no turn of speed, nor muscle strength for throwing heavy objects.

Games included: netball, hockey, rounders and tennis. Hockey I avoided whenever possible. Netball I was a fair-to-middling goal shooter. Rounders - I could catch and throw a ball but my inability at running meant that I was often easily caught out. My reputation for physical awkwardness meant that I was always the last to be chosen for a team (didn't the teachers see how humiliating that was? or would they have stopped it if they had?).

I was never brilliant at tennis, but I could hit the ball and as it didn't involve being in a team or cold muddy weather, I rather liked it. It generally involved a fair amount of time lolling on grass in warm weather, talking to friends. Badminton is clearly its gentler friend.

And it burns 6 points an hour!

Blondie

Today

Back after 5 weeks in various parts of Europe, travelling with my niece and then aboard the Star Clipper on the Med. It's as I feared; my hair has gone blond.

Not a nice sun-kissed golden. More a kind of straw-like orange. And, despite hating to, I wore a hat most of the time. My fault partly, I guess, for having my hair dyed in denial of the advance of age.

In My Day

My father was the type of man who referred to women's hair as their "crowning glory". My mother always had long hair kept in a bun. Not particularly glorious as her hair was actually rather thin and inclined to whispiness (a trait which I've inherited, thanks, Mamma).

As girls we, too had long hair, usually plaited or in ponytails. My sister had a waterfall of wonderful straight golden hair. Mine was brown and, as stated before, inclined to whispiness. It always took ages to dry, as we didn't have a hair dryer, and I have an awful idea that hair washing night was on Sundays every three weeks.

When I was about twelve, probably as a result of a good deal of nagging on our parts, my sister and I had our hair cut. My father took a series of regretful pictures of our hair before it was cut. Beatrice's, as usual, looked wonderful (why did she want to cut it? it was never the same again), while mine looked like an afterthought.

Our hair was cut professionally. The cut took about 8 years off Beatrice's age, making her look like a five-year old, and added about 40 to mine, catapulting me into middle age in one easy step. It's no wonder that, after a short dalliance with '60s "mod" hair doos, I promptly allowed my hair to grow again into a hippie/student mane.

My father always said that, once you cut your hair, you had a life-long struggle managing it and lining the pockets of hairdressers.

And he was right, as usual.

Walk on by

Today

Well, we successfully collected my great-niece from Gatwick. This, despite the evidence of increased security. Also, despite the fact that Tess marched through arrivals with such ferocious confidence that I didn't think it could possibly be her. I was expecting an uncertain 14-year old to peer anxiously from the door, scanning the waiting faces.

Paul, however, was quicker off the mark than I; spotted her and dashed off to get her.
With only one contretemps when I though I'd lost my car park ticket (in a safe place, it was), we got out smoothly and off to Brighton.

I talked to Tess about it. "Well", she said "Mum said be a confident traveller, so I was!"

In My Day

Back in 1989, Lizzie decided she wanted to go to Canada and visit relatives. She needed a passport and so we duly filled in the forms and off they went. It was close to summertime so there was the usual backlog. The days passed but there was no sign of the passport.

So, Liz, aged 16, got the train to the nearest passport office in Newport, S Wales and stood in the queue and wouldn't move till they gave her her passport. She used a mixture of flattening verbiage, desperation and teenage courage to win through.

She had such a splendid time in Canada that she went back again 3 years later to stay for 6 months.

Anyway, let's hope Tess is equally confident on the Routes Nationales - we could do with some help.

Deluge

Today

Terrible rain everywhere. According to whom you pay attention, a month's rain in one day or 6 months' rain in one day. Who cares who's right; it probably depends on where you live. Those poor folk in Sheffield. It's all very well to blame the Environment Agency, but if you planned for all of these things the costs would cause an outcry instead.

Closer to home, Lizzie, not for the first time, decided that Glasto is really not much fun when everything is covered in mud and wetness. Her mobile phone's ruined and her hippie spirit is certainly tempered with a fondness for hot showers and decent beds. So she decamped (literally) on Sunday.

In My Day

Camping! At some point someone (maybe a boy scout) tried to tell us that sleeping in a makeshift home, with a wet, dark walk to the nearest loos is fun!

Early in our marriage, we decided to buy a tent. It was a frame tent with zipped inner sleeping compartments. It took ages to get up and I still marvel that our marriage survived those discussions.

We took it to Devon (the sun mostly shone, so I coped) Cornwall (when we shared it with 2 other people, so cosy) and a number of short breaks.

In 1977 I had a whole week off - jubilee week, to be exact. I was very pregnant with Becky and we took the tent to Presteigne in Wales. Got the tent erected close to a nice little stream and settled down to a nice break.

Does anyone remember queen's silver jubilee week? how it rained and rained and rained? (Rather like the coronation itself). Lizzie insisted that we have a jubilee supper with as much RW&B as we could muster. We had to try to cook and eat it tucked in under the flaps, hiding from the pouring rain.

Eventually couldn't stand it any longer. Dismantled the soaking wet tent, drove to my brother's in the Midlands and begged a bath and overnight stay. Home where we had to leave the tent spread on the lounge floor for about 4 days before it dried.

And I've never camped (except on the Inca Trail) since.

The tent died after its very own Glasto experience when it wasn't dried by the borrowers at all and simply dissolved into mildewy fragments. I was rather glad of this excuse not to have to use it again.

Goodbye, Baby

Today

A very sad time for my personal trainer, whose little boy died this week. He developed a brain tumour about 8 months ago and his parents have gone through the hell of invasive treatments, the flaring up and dying down of hope.

He was only 2 and can hardly have understood what was happening to him. Why he had to be separated from his parents in an alien environment, why he'd lost his so newly acquired skills of walking and talking, why he hurt so much.

While his parents must know that they did all they could for him, they must also wonder about whether the suffering caused by the treatments was worth the eventual outcome.

In My Day

We felt somewhat similarly when my nephew's baby died, after just 3 days of premature life, a few years ago. Her parents went through the treatment hell of IVF to have her and her grip on life was just too weak for her to last.

We can never know what pain or anguish she suffered and cannot really judge whether, for her, it would have been better not to have invaded her tiny body with tubes and attachments, so that our image of her (and indeed, the only photo we have) is of an isolated scrap, effectively tied into a cot. And so that she could let go with baby dignity.

To lose a child, and so young, must bring the worst of all pain and my heart goes out to them and all who've suffered likewise.

Burghthday boy

Today

Just returned from a weekend celebrating Paul's 57th birthday. I decided to take him to Burgh Island, which is situated just off the South Devon coast near Kingsbridge. The island is cut off from the land at high tide; at low there's a sandy causeway over which you can walk or drive. When the tide's in the Sea Tractor takes you. It's an amazing contraption, now in its 3rd incarnation.

The island has a hotel on it. It's Art Deco and many famous people such as Agatha Christie and Noel Coward stayed there. Agatha Christie wrote "Evil Under the Sun" whilst on the island.

The hotel's been refurbished and is now a luxury retreat. We ate splendidly, drank champagne and cocktails and actually danced the foxtrot & waltz on Saturday night, despite the very tiny dance floor. Other guests were very sociable and on Saturday night Paul rounded off the evening by conducting a small group in "Jerusalem", sung enthusiastically but with the effects of the many cocktails evident in the lack of tune or time.

We sat outside the Pilchard Inn in the afternoon sunshine, drinking cider and watching children play on the sands which were rapidly shrinking as the sea encroached from both sides.

In My Day

In 1957, my parents took a caravan in Challaborough bay, which is more or less opposite the Island. It rained nearly every day and Mamma & Daddy must have been at the end of their wits trying to keep us all amused. They organised many trips, one of which was to Burgh Island. The family album shows that Daddy spelled it "Borough" Island.

We did go on the Sea Tractor (an earlier version), but I don't remember the hotel at all. I do remember the Pilchard Inn - I probably found the name very funny - and also that everything was rather down at heel.

We spent plenty of time, as children should, clambering over rocks and playing in the pools left behind by the tide. I found the whole idea of possibly being cut off by the tide sort of deliciously scary. The day we spent on the island gave us the best weather of the week and my back got rather sunburnt as no-one had heard of factor 50 then.

I wrote a diary of that week and it's still safely tucked up in the album and I've always remembered that particular holiday as one of the best of my childhood.

Which gave returning to it an especial resonance as well as being a most enjoyable experience.

Seasoned traveller

Today

I've been having lots of fun lately, planning our European tour with our Canadian great-niece. She's not quite 15, but I took rather a shine to her and thought it would be fun to see some of the continent through the eyes of a Trans-Atlantic teenager.

Ah! The Internet! Booking hotels, the ferry crossing, planning the itinerary, booking tickets for events (we're seeing opera in Verona and Jazz in Montreux), everything so easy and done in a moment. And the credit card - all paid for invisibly, so it seems. Of course, it does help if you don't have to spend hours trying to penny-pinch here and there.

We're going for just over 2 weeks in mid-July and will travel in France, Italy and Switzerland. We'll take the E-class as it's big enough for our bits and pieces.

In My Day

My other big European tour was back in 1968. All the world's young people were travelling, it seemed, using nothing but their thumbs and a lot of courage. So my friend Angela and I decided that we would take some time out one summer and do the same. We each scraped together £40.00 by dint of begging from parents, saving from our grants and doing a little casual work here and there.

We did take the precaution of pre-booking a couple of hostels in the bigger tourist spots and we bought a road map of Europe. Otherwise we played in by ear. In 6 weeks we covered: France, Italy, Greece, Crete, Yugoslavia, Austria, Germany, Belgium. We got home unscathed, with a fiver to spare and traveller's tales to dine out on for the rest of our lives.

We slept in hostels, tents, the decks of ferries, fields, the beach, caves cut into cliffs and, once, in the cab of a lorry driver in Turin. We ate whatever we were given, and lived off the cheapest food available. (This was often veg, fruit and bread). We met people of all ages and types, some exceptionally kind, some needlessly unpleasant. (The story of our escape from 2 Tunisians outside Paris and how we spent the night in the woods would make a story all of its own.) We spent a fair amount of time persuading various males that we were not available for cash, lifts or otherwise.

It was all part of being young and free in the '60s and I've never forgotten it.

I shan't sneer at 5 stars, lovely meals and good hairdryers this time around, tho'.

Swinging Sixties

Today


"Flower Power" was the theme of the dance we went to in Puriton last Saturday. Another of those funny little wine circle dances, but an opportunity to try out our ballroom dancing and meet old friends.


Now, the theme. Readers of my blog will know that the Barretts love to dress up. So Paul donned an Afro wig, Punjabi shirt, waistcoat, beads, sunglasses and jeans into which I'd sewn enormous floral flares. I wore a long straight blond wig, caftan top, wide-legged trousers and more beads. I did my eyes '60's style with lots of black and eyelashes painted onto my cheeks. We both wore bandannas in our hair and I stuck little instant floral "tattoos" on my cheek and breast. We both carried "Make love not war" slogans on our backs.


We arrived a little after the party had started and made an entrance with our "peace, man" signs, to much applause. And we won the prize- a decent bottle of Claret



In My Day


Did we really dress like that, back in the '60's? The answer seems to be that some of us did and some of us didn't. Paul, after a dalliance with Cuban Heel boots, reverted to tweed jackets and ties. After he met me, he did attempt a kipper tie, but it didn't go with his shirt or ubiquitous cord jacket. And, anyway, that was 1971.


Some of my art college male friends actually took bits of curtain remnants and, using their Mum's ancient Singer machines, stitched flares into all their jeans. The techniques (matched by me on Saturday) was very rough indeed - it was all for show.


In the earlier part of the '60's I was most definitely into mini dresses. Using a sewing technique only slightly more refined than my colleagues', I ran up many a shift dress, usually with billowing or flared sleeves. My brother ran quite a little business making kipper ties out of velvet which he sold to Carnaby St boutiques. We were all making things up as we went along and I know that he didn't cut them on the bias and the velvet was very thick, so they must have been impossible to wear. His concession to '60's fashion was to have a huge bush of curly hair (this came quite naturally to him by virtue of just never getting it cut) and to wear caftans from time to time.


My sister was married by 1967, and somehow never got into that vein, and a friend once said to my other brother "where were you in the '60's?" Wearing a shirt and tie, that much is clear.

Once at theatre design college, I began to make long dresses out of floral cotton, which I wore every day. They were more Thomas Hardy chic than hippie. My hair was always very long and straight, but I can't remember ever wearing a bandanna in it. My friend Sue actually applied painted eyelashes to her cheeks every day, using liquid eyeliner.


We were none of us really hippies, being all too middle class, and to tell the truth, rather looked down on people who didn't appear to wash.


Looking at that picture has convinced me never to dye my hair blond

Smalls

Today

Another blog about choices and whether we have too many.

Having 2 places to live (that's another choice issue) has presented us with an interesting problem: what type and how many clothing items should have a permanent home in either location? After all, we want to be able just to nip off, so to speak, to Brighton, without a marathon packing session.

Essential must be underwear. For Paul this might seem easy: so many pairs of underpants and socks (black, brown, grey) and he's sorted. And so it is, except for 2 problems.

The first is that he keeps forgetting how many he's got of what where, so ends up taking more to be on the safe side and then finding out that he hasn't got any back home. At least not any that really work.

Which brings us to the second problem which is that the search is still on for the perfect style. Boxers (ride up) Button Front (the buttons won't stay done up) briefs (ride down) Trunks (get twisted) Y fronts (please!) and so on. So at any one moment he may have all his button fronts in Brighton and all his boxers in Somerset. And none of them are any good.

For me, it's even more difficult. I have bras in a range of styles, (depends on what's going on top), colours and sizes (as my weight varies). So, in the end, I just take what I need.

Knickers have so many styles (brief, high rise, thongs, boxers, shorts, midi, maxi, control) that I lose concentration in M&S. as you can see if you look at this link. And which to wear depends on what's going on top (beware the VPL!).

In My Day

I don't remember having so much choice. Bras in anything over a "C" cup tended to resemble the Clifton suspension bridge and came in black, white and "flesh". And the straps had a tendency to snap if you moved too quickly.

As a child I wore "pants" - these were usually navy blue and actually seemed to gather into elastic around the top of the thigh. They were certainly up to the task of holding in your tucked-up skirt if you wanted to mimic doublet and hose or were going paddling. Pretty they were not.

As a teenager I could buy knickers which were either briefs (slipped down uncomfortably beneath your tummy) or full (reminded you of Grandma). In the end, the best option seemed to be to buy packs of ten at a knock down price and throw them out when they got holes in them.

Speaking to my sister-in-law a while ago, she told me that she never bought knickers for herself; they were always bought by her Gran and very pretty they were, too. So, obviously, I'd been missing something.

The Great Jelly of London

Today

Absolutely exhausting few days, rehearsing for and singing in the Classical Spectacular concerts at the Albert Hall. I'm one of a loosely formed 100-strong choir named The English Concert Chorus and a few times a year we provide the choral element at these concerts.

I'm beginning to know a few folk and my way around and it's quite fun to sing away at the top of your voice in all these old pot-boilers. You know, Zadok the Priest, Aida choruses (choose between slaves or soldiers), bits of Carmina Burana. A great "Can Belto" occasion.

Of course, to make it spectacular, there has to be audience participation in such favourites as Jerusalem, Rule Britannia (the soloist usually saunters on draped in a Union flag) and Land of Hope and Glory.

There are canons for the 1812 overture, fireworks for no reason at all, a laser and light show. 100s of red, white and blue balloons cascade down at the end and everyone (including the choir) is issued with yet more Union flags to wave.

And the audience loves it.

In My Day

I spent the summers of my late teens at the Albert Hall (AKA the Great Jelly of London) at The Proms. I used to buy a book of tickets and then fund my travel by selling those I didn't want to use. I probably went to about 25 concerts during August-September. We queued outside door 2 and quite a lively social scene developed.

How we despised those who came along sedately and actually sat in seats. Door 2 opened a few minutes before door 15 (where the on-the-door tickets were sold) so that we regulars had a fair chance of being at the front. The doors would open and we'd all career down the stairs and along the corridors to bag a place "on the rail".

Of course we all did the last night. This was always crowded so you turned up the day before at about 1.00 pm with your sleeping bag and flask. Because you couldn't be expected to stay at your place in the queue all the time, there was a list system in force. You actually slept (or tried to) on the pavement and hoped that there'd be no rain, or if there was, that it wouldn't blow under the canopy.

And we all sang away lustily to LOH&G, Jerusalem, RB etc. We clapped madly to the Hornpipe and swayed rhythmically together in the slow bits (until officials who feared the power of 2000 youngsters all clapping and swaying in time would damage the fabric of the building stopped it...) and threw streamers over the orchestra.

It always signalled the end of a great summer of friendship and music and wasn't an object in itself.

No fireworks, though!

Not Mushroom Inside

Today

Splendid breakfast this morning. Four big flat mushrooms, sliced, gently fried in butter with wild thyme and black onion seeds. All served with toasted rye bread. Very nice way to start the day.

I bought the mushrooms at the local Tesco. I could've had: Flat mushrooms, closed cup mushrooms (standard or Value) chestnut (small or flat),Portobello, Button, Porcini, Shitake mushrooms or a selection pack of several varieties.

I read an article recently that suggested that we are excessively spoiled for choice in our food buying and harking back to the old days where you had what you were given and put up with it. I don't agree: greater choice adds to variety and fun in my cooking and diet.

In My Day


Mamma would buy 1/4lb mushrooms. They were always the same: middle-sized closed cup.

We only ever had mushrooms with our Sunday breakfast which was also the only day when we had a cooked breakfast. Egg, Bacon, Tomato, fried bread. Mamma would wash the mushrooms and pop them into the frying pan after everything else had been cooked and removed, put on a lid, turn off the stove and let them cook in the residual heat.

Given that there were 6 of us, I probably got about 1 1/2 mushrooms. I do remember enjoying them, though.

On a holiday in Ireland 2 years ago, my brother in law picked some mushrooms from the side of the lane and cooked and ate them for his supper. Now that is a step too far for me!

Wallflower

Today

On Saturday Paul and I did our duty and attended the annual dance of the Somerset Association of Amateur Winemakers. It was, as always, run on a shoestring, but we put on our glad rags, packed a little supper and some wine and trotted off.

This year, apart from the fact that we were doing our duty and supporting our friends, we had another reason for going: to practise our dancing. Yes! We've been having ballroom dancing lessons. Every week we go to a class in Yeovil with about 30 other couples and are learning to put together the waltz, cha-cha, foxtrot and jive.

So, even though the quality of the music was dubious, with the singer occasionally getting a note in tune, we actually did a waltz (twice) and foxtrot (once) for real! We managed not to look at our feet, could only do one step in the waltz and discovered that seasoned dancers, too, tend to cannon into one another when attempting to turn the corners in the foxtrot. Paul's look of intense concentration wasn't exactly romantic but I'm sure that'll pass.

In My Day

When I was about 13 I attended ballroom dancing classes on Saturday mornings in Croydon. I don't know whose idea it was but I went with a bunch of other girls from school. I've an idea that there were also boys attending, but I didn't know any of them and anyway, they never asked me to dance. So I usually partnered another girl and circled the room. We all shuffled about, equally badly. We learnt waltz, cha-cha, tango, quickstep. I remember the day when the male instructor took me for the quickstep. We had the floor to ourselves and he steered me along with a magnificent sweeping movement. I felt as though I'd sprouted wings - this was what it was about!

With all this, there was actually never an opportunity to put it into practice. Social occasions rarely involved dancing at all (since I wasn't a debutante!) and when they did, everyone just jiggled around like ungainly spiders. And anyway, no-one ever asked me to dance.

I'm looking forward to our weekend at Burgh Island in June where there will be real dancing. This time, not only will we be able to do it, I won't be a wallflower.

It's My Round

Today

Lovely weekend at the flat in Brighton with my brother & his wife. We stopped at the Half Moon at Midhurst and had a pleasant if unremarkable lunch. David took advantage of his senior citizen status and had a set 3-course lunch.

Pubs continued to feature over the weekend. We tried 2 or 3 pubs in North Laine in Brighton before we were all happy. The William VI was too smokey, the Waggon & Horses too full. Paul was rather bursting by this time so into The Office. Not too much smoke and an easy Thai-inspired snacks menus. David & Joan wanted hot chocolate and I persuaded the staff to make them some, even though it wasn't on the menu. Too much "background" music for Joan so we had our lunch break in a tiny, rather down at heel courtyard.

In the evening before our supper at Terre a Terre we popped into Hotel du Vin for a cocktail. D&J professed to some ignorance about these delights but plunged in.

On the way home on Sunday David said that we are "pub dabblers" and that he rarely goes into one.

In My Day

As children we were not taken into pubs. In the 50s in London there was a definite feeling that they were for grown-ups only and Daddy was opposed to much drinking.

Once I reached my late teens, I and my colleagues at school began to visit pubs. a half of cider was probably what I drank, feeling rather wicked, especially if it was the lunch hour at school.

At college there was some pub visiting, but it was really Paul who introduced me to the idea of them being a proper place to go.

Our first date was at the Plough & Harrow in Littlington. Paul had so little money that he had to ration my intake.

Since then I've lost count. I've met dozens of friends for drinks or meals in pubs, popped into pubs on long journeys, had quiet drink at the local (wherever local was at the time), had Sunday lunch, evening meals, bar snacks, enjoyed classical concerts, folk and jazz. I've walked, driven, been driven. In Kilcrohane village life centres around Eileen's. Don't go there and you miss out on what's going on.

We've met people, made new friends, happened to see old ones. One thing about a pub for meeting friends is that there's no pressure on any individual to prepare food, clean the house wash-up etc.

I'm looking forward to the smoking ban, though, I must say.

Fish out of Water

Today

Yesterday I actually managed to kick myself along unaided in the water for a few feet, albeit with a huge polystyrene tube wrapped around my middle and holding a float in my hands. This was on my 3rd swimming lesson.

I'd put in the "Please Santa" blog that I wanted to have swimming lessons for Christmas and Lizzie obliged by buying me 5 session with her swimming instructor friend Ben.

And I must say, he's very good and reassuring. Don't think that 5 sessions will quite do the trick, tho'

In My Day

As I may have said in earlier blogs, we were not a sporty family, so swimming didn't really feature on the family menu, so to speak. Mamma occasionally went swimming, usually in Summer, to the Brockwell Park Lido. She sometimes took me and attempted to teach me, but I was too frightened and physically awkward.

We also went swimming with the school to Thornton Heath Baths. This experience was quite frightful. The teacher, who never got in the water, was a very elderly lady called Miss Brockhurst. (I mainly remember jokes made about the fact that she clearly wore no type of bra)

She didn't get in the water. There were 35 girls in the group, the baths were old and cold with green tiles that reminded you of a public toilet. and had a strange echoing, hollow quality. Changing rooms were shared between about 5 girls and I remember my embarrassment at the fact that, at age 12 I was wearing a bra. I took as long as possible over getting changed and nervously got into the water.

Teaching me how to swim took the form of yelling imprecations at me because I wouldn't let go of the sides. Girls were splashing and yelling all around me. Some tried to get me to join in, which resulted in the ingestion of a good deal of vile smelling water.

I decided that I was a very talented person who just didn't need to add this one to the list

Synchronised Swimming champion in the making?

Be Mine

Today

Well, actually, a few days ago now, Paul took me to Ston Easton Park Hotel for a lavish Valentine's day celebration and night in the "Chinese" room. We took the Bentley and very nice she looked too, with several of her nieces and nephews in the car park.

We had tea and seed cake by the fire, acompanied by the longing glances of Sorrel the resident spaniel. We drank probably more Champagne than is strictly necessary, had a lovely meal and were very happy. Paul gave me yet another Valentine's card and behaved in all the ways that were appropriate to the day.

Given our recent history, this was really 2 Valentine's days rolled into one and I enjoyed every moment.

In My Day

If my parents celebrated St Valentine's day, I never knew about it. (There was a rumour that my Brother David, who was due to be born on 14th Feb, was scheduled to be named Valentine, but he wisely hung on for a day, thus escaping this fate.) Certainly there were no romantic candlelit suppers in expensive country house locations.

A few years ago I took on the responsibility for storing all my mother's papers. We sifted through all sorts of things. And, there, among letters, diaries and adverts for my Mother's lecture tours, were the Valentine's cards, faithfully kept, with loving messages from and to Mamma. Even more touching were the hastily written notes when Daddy was doing a late sitting in the House during the war and Mamma couldn't be there when he got home: "Supper is in the kitchen, back 11.00 ish, love Ali". Nothing unusual, but kept for 40 years.

Which just goes to show that, while lavish celebrations are lovely, it's the love that matters.

Fall from Grace

Today

Paul is in the middle of reading "The God Delusion" by Richard Dawkins. Dawkins believes passionately in the abitilty of science eventually to explain everything. He quotes from a blog which says that those that answer questions by saying "it's the work of God" are basically saying a spiritual "dunno".

And I agree. It isn't the answer to attribute the unknown to the works of God. It means that we either stop all forms of research or that theists accept that, as we find out more answers, things that can be attributed to God will get fewer and fewer.

Dawkins book doesn't, of course, prove that there isn't a God either; merely that we should fearlessly examine the evidence for everything in this world.

In My Day

We were not brought up to be religious. Daddy had a good knowledge of the New Testament, but saw Jesus in humanist terms. That is; follow his rules of good behaviour, but the God bit can be ignored. Mamma was brought up as a Lutheran, despite her father being Jewish, but we were not taken to church.

I started going to Church, more for social reasons than any other. There was a damn good youth club up at All Saints and the curate (Mr MacDonald) was young and scrummy. Chris and I both started going to the club. (I think Chris even had a girlfriend there.) Going to church was part of it, so I went. I think Mamma was actually delighted when I decided, at age 16, to be christened and confirmed.

The club included a wide range of social activities - walks, dances, socials; I remember a visit to Coventry Cathedral. Belonging to the Church also provided me with a good regular income as a trusted babysitter for other churchgoers. We frequently met to discuss various theological and religious topics all designed to strengthen our faith.

I remember the day I bowed out of the Christian religion. We'd been studying Milton's "Paradise Lost" for A level at school. That Sunday during the club's discussion the curate talked about God being purely the God of love and goodness. "But," I said, "If Lucifer was one of God's angels; therefore a creation of God, God's creation must also encompass evil, since Lucifer was evil." A simple and frequently enough asked question, I'm sure. But Mr Mac couldn't find an answer. I think I could have accepted a view that answered "yes, but the choice of God, Jesus and thus mankind is for good". But all I got was flannel.

I reflected and decided that this cast doubt on the whole idea of God.

I feel confident that I can make good choices and live life rightly without a spurious belief in God. If others need God to live life rightly, fine by me. But I've no time for those who use God to justify cruelty, bigotry or to disguise hate with a mantle that says love.

C'mon light my fire

Today

Decided to light a fire tonight. It's a bit chilly out there and we're not going out.

Over Christmas we lit a couple of fires. Becky's friend who was visiting us for Christmas was just delighted on Christmas Eve. "You've got a real fire", he grinned.

I lit one last week when my nephews and nieces were visiting and gave them a quick lesson in how to do it. Of course, we've got central heating and anyway, this Winter's another mild one. In fact we had a discussion about whether we'd be too hot.

In My Day

When we were children we only had one source of heating in the main rooms and that was a coal fire. We lived in a great Victorian pile and the living room was about 30ft by 18 with a 15ft foot high ceiling. There were floor to ceiling sash windows at each end so the room wasn't exactly draught-proof. (For those who don't know, sash windows are intentionally draughty to give the fire some up-draught so that it won't go out.)

If you were lucky enough to get a seat by the fire, your legs got very hot and red on one side while the other side of you was distinctly chilly. Daddy or Mamma built the fire like this:

Newspaper first. Then a wigwam of kindling sticks. Finally the coal. If the weather was bad the fire might be reluctant to draw at all and sometime smoke, very black & dirty, blew into the room. Occasionally there was a chimney fire.

The fireplace itself had clearly been reduced in size, probably in the '30s to economise on the amount of coal that it burnt.

Daddy had his own set of chimney brushes, which slotted together so that you could go up to the top. We also had the chimney swept regularly by a professional. I can remember the fine film of soot everywhere after he'd finished, as well as the smell. Mamma & daddy were scathing when vaccuum cleaners began to be used instead. An ancient skill might have been lost, but it was much cleaner.

Mamma and Daddy were also critical of those who had central heating; I can't now remember why. I do remember Daddy caving in and buying some cylindrical heaters, that looked rather like the paraffin heaters available at the time. There was a large one for the living room and small ones for our bedrooms. At least that put paid to frost on the inside of our bedroom windows.

Later, when the clean air act came into force, we had to use coke or other smokeless fuel. It might have been cleaner but it wasn't such fun to light or to look at.

Anyway, I'm looking forward to sitting by the fire tonight with a nice glass of red wine!

Figgy Pudding

Today

Well, I made and iced the cake. I made a lovely veggie christmas pudding (alcohol free so that Aron could enjoy it). Paul always worries that we won't have enough mince pies so I bought 24 miniature and 12 normal Duchy Original mince pies.

So we were all set.

This is how much of these provisions we ate:

About 8 of the miniature mince pies on Christmas Eve and the rest (of the miniature ones) on Boxing day when my enormous family turned up.

And that's it.

So I still have all the other fruit-rich goodies in the cupboard.

In My Day

Mamma used to make several Christmas puddings. They were very black and sticky. She made them in pudding basins, covered first in greaseproof paper, then with muslin tied with string.

We ate the first on Christmas day immediately after the turkey. Others were eaten at Easter, Daddy's birthday etc. They appeared to last forever.

The Christmas cake was probably tackled on Boxing day. It, too, was very black, and a little went a long way.

Mamma bought mincemeat which had suet in it, but made her mince pies with flaky pastry - a very time-consuming business, with its layers of butter. She'd dust them with icing sugar before serving. I think we started eating these on Christmas day and fresh batches were made from time to time.

Anyway, it's as I feared; not only will the cake not get eaten, my icing skills aren't a patch on Mamma's