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.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Monday, August 20, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, August 09, 2007
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!
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!
Sunday, August 05, 2007
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)