Thursday, December 25, 2008

Winter Wonderland

Today

It's Christmas day. While Paul gets over his hangover, Becky catches up on sleep and Liz is off feeding her cats, I potter out to greet the day.

It's dry and dull and the temperature is probably just into double figures. On "The Weakest Link" the other day the question was "what is more likely on Christmas Day in England, rain or snow?" The obvious correct answer is rain.

In fact, I'm not at all certain where this white Christmas fantasy came from.

In My Day

We certainly didn't have white Christmases in London when I was a child. Snow in April was more likely than in December. Usually snow fell in January or February. Even the great cold winter of 62/63 started with snow on Boxing Day.

The weather here in the village is colder than in other parts of Somerset, being situated on the top of the hill, but it's much the same.

On Christmas Morning 1993, Paul was on the early shift, which meant he had to leave the house by 6.15 am. The girls got up early and went down to make the tea so that we could all open stockings together in comfort.

Suddenly Becky comes leaping up the stairs. "Look out of the window" she croaked in excitement. Expecting to see heavenly hosts gathered in the pre-dawn sky, I went and opened the curtains. The world was sheathed in thick snow.

Reluctantly, Paul heaved himself out of bed and got ready for the drive to Weston-Super-Mare. He nudged the car along the virgin snow lying across the Mendips. As he carefully drove down Burrington Coombe, he had his reward. There, casually walking across the road, was a whole herd of deer.

The girls and I went for a walk with the dog up to Cranmore Wood. Our neighbours at Yellow Marsh Farm were all playing rounders in the snowy fields, and in the wood itself, roe deer stepped majestically out into the path before us.

I heard a little boy in the Close this morning, enjoying his new bike, telling his dad how glad he was that there's no snow, because otherwise he wouldn't be able to ride it.

Sunday, December 21, 2008

Away in a Manger

Today

As another Christmas approaches we've been catching up with family and friends. We popped over to see Chris who told us about the nativity play in which his four-year old grandson had played a starring role as a lamb. He described the little playlet which the teachers had written and was clearly pleased and proud to have been there.

Down at the flat we had our usual drinks party and various relatives and friends arrived. Paul's cousin had also been to see a grandson in the school play. He had an even more starring role as a dog. "Why a dog?" his grandfather asked. Apparently because the other choice, that of being a shepherd, was altogether too much responsibility. One teacher friend arrived fresh from having been the director, producer and crew for such an event. She said how tired she was, having spent the time pushing one child onto the stage, pulling another off at the right moments.


"I just love nativity plays," I said. "I never know whether to laugh or cry."

In My Day

The laughing and crying bit comes, of course, from small children's unselfconsciousness in these situations.

In 1954 I was a pupil at Cypress Road Infants School in South Norwood. For the nativity play that year I was chosen to play the part of the Angel Gabriel. I remember the excitement about the costumes. I had four acolyte angels, so to speak (the heavenly host, I guess) who wore what looked like floaty white nighties, with gold bands crossed over their chests and halos of tinsel.

Mamma and Daddy laboured over my somewhat grander, if more austere costume. I had a long gown made from a sheet with gold at neck, waist and hem. With much ingenuity they made me a halo from gold paper and wire
that actually stood away from my head. The final glory was a pair of wonderful wings made from cardboard and crepe paper.

On the big day, my costume was got ready for me. Gown, halo, wings were all laid out. Now for some white socks. With a predictability that all families will understand, Mamma was unable to find any white socks that were even slightly clean. Finally she dug out a pair of grey, knee-length, schoolboy socks (they probably belonged to Chris) and, with a gay (and misplaced) confidence, assumed that they would be unseen under the long gown. Sent me off on the bus to school.

The story concocted for the play involved children at bedtime being told the Christmas story, when lo! the Angel of the Lord (that's me, folks!) appears and takes them to the stable. I was word and action-perfect. I led them off the stage on one side then up the steps at the other side where the scene had changed into the classic nativity scene. As I approached the steps with due majesty, I felt my overlarge socks slipping down. As I ascended the steps, in full view, I simply reached down, yanked up my gown and pulled the offending sock back up again. I proceeded on my way with marvellous indifference.

Laugh or cry indeed.

Monday, December 08, 2008

Call me

Today

Where would we be without our phones? My niece is staying with me for a few days and her phone never leaves her side. The signal here is weak and all her children and, it seems, friends also have our landline number in case they can't call her mobile. There's a feeling that a loss of instant contact would engender some kind of panic.

During breakfast the landline rang twice. First the eldest boy to say he had a cold. Andie told him where to find the 'flu' remedy and then launched into a detailed set of instructions involving the washing and ironing of some clothes.

Later the youngest boy, clearly in a moving car, rang to tell her about a job opportunity and to check a dental appointment. Andie talked to him also about the washing.

Later, while we were out, she received more calls and had a long and lively text conversation with someone whose number she didn't recognise.

In My Day

When Paul and I married in 1971, having a phone was simply too costly and not to have one wasn't then seen as an eccentric decision. There was a phone box which we could use about half a mile away at Seven Dials, wasn't there? What was so urgent that we should pay line rental on the offchance that we'd have to make a call?

Telling the family about our wedding plans had all been conducted in call boxes. Sometimes one even waited outside a call box to receive a call, although that was a chancy business.

Sometime at the end of 1971, Paul was suddenly afflicted with sickness and appalling dizziness. He couldn't stand or even sit up; when he did, he just vomited. This occurred at about one am. After trying to deal with it in a variety of ways, I decided that there was nothing for it; I'd have to call the doctor.

So, at three am, I hastily donned some clothes and walked alone, in Seven Dials, Brighton, to the public call box and called the doctor. I don't think I thought about the dangers (and Brighton was a much less salubrious place in those days than it is now) until I got back.

We finally installed a phone at the expense of Hannington's Funeral Directors, so that Paul could receive out of hours (again usually at three am) calls concerning sudden deaths. This was something we probably would have been happy to live without.

Somehow we got by in those days, but I guess it's just a question of what you become accustomed to expecting.

Sunday, December 07, 2008

Potty

Today

Today has been a day of moderate success with regard to pot plants. Paul's orchid is flowering for the second time this year and my poinsettia is putting out a few red leaves. The poinsettia was a gift from a friend of Liz's last year, but, while we were on our wwt, it dried to a crisp. I rescued it and and it's slowly coming back to life. It won't have those huge red leaves like the shop-bought ones, but I feel pleased to have helped a teeny bit of life to recover.

We don't really have many indoor plants; somehow the house and our lifestyle don't seem to encourage them.

Paul gives his orchid tough love, watering it sporadically when he happens to remember. We also have a very hardy succulent which I won in a raffle a few years ago. It sits on the downstairs toilet windowsill and I water it about once every six months, a treatment on which it thrives.

I did notice that Paul had been rather too enthusiastic with watering the basil plant and poinsettia, to the extent that water had dripped onto the floor and they were looking sodden. I explained the error of his ways.

In My Day

When we lived at Rowan Avenue we had a fair number of plants. I was very happy to take cuttings of other people's plants - Spider plants, Tradescantia, Christmas Cactus and Mother of Thousands etc and I owned Peace Lilies, Sansevaria and many more. They, too, were loved sporadically and I could hardly ever bear to throw any out, however spindly they became, preferring to take cuttings and nurture them. Every now and then I had to recognise that I had failed with one and the crisp, brown object would be binned. Somehow I never achieved that lush, hothouse look, so beloved by magazines on interior decor, in our living space.

Something of all this must have rubbed off on Becky, Back in 1981, when she was three years' old she came to me on the Saturday before mother's day with a very long face. She explained to me that her nursery school had worked with the children to decorate little yogurt pots and plant them with Tradescantia and Spider Plants as Mother's Day gifts. Term had broken up a week earlier and the teachers had sent the children home with their plants with an exhortation to take care of and to water them. They were obviously relying on the plants' innate toughness and ability to withstand neglect.

They had, however, reckoned without Becky. After a week Becky looked at her plants and knew something was wrong. She also knew that her father would probably not know what the answer was. She brought to me two little yogurt pots containing the most miserable-looking plants. "I watered them every day!" cried Becky in despair. Indeed she had, and these poor plants were drowning.

I took the plants gently out and, together we found some dry soil and replanted. They actually recovered very well and lasted some time.

A coupled of years' ago, when she went on her big Greek adventure, Beatrice entrusted me with a huge Sansevaria, which was a child of one belonging to Mamma. I confess I put it out in the back garden temporarily, where I forgot it, and it rotted away over the Somerset winter. I'm not sure whether Beatrice ever forgave me.

Tuesday, December 02, 2008

A Stitch in Time

Today

Procrastination, they say, is the thief of time. Well, I've certainly been procrastinating over finishing the lounge curtains.

I bought the fabric, at a fabulous price, about 5 years ago. The idea was that we needed winter weight curtains to keep in the warmth and out the cold.

About 2 years ago, I measured the windows and cut out the curtains. I started on the biggest ones. At every turn I made a complete pig's ear; joining pieces against the nap, stitching the tabs inside the lining, mismatching the pattern. I put the stuff away and it's been glaring accusingly at me ever since.

About 3 days ago I heaved the lot out again and couldn't understand why I'd made such a bad job. "You'd think I was a complete novice" I railed at my Long-Suffering, railing even more when he suggested I chuck the lot out and start again. I've nearly finished the dining room curtains - they're going to look very nice, I hope.

In My Day

Novice I am not. I made my first pair of curtains when I was about 18 and had moved into a room on the attic floor of 4BH. This room sported a dormer window with a semi-circular top where it was impossible to fit a curtain rail. So I made the curtains curved to match, with stitched-in gathers. They were permanently attached to the frames and drawn aside into tie-backs and were made of lime green rep. I never got around to recovering the floor which was red lino, so I don't think the room looked very stylish.

When we moved into the flat at Belmont in 1971 we had practically nothing. But I did insist on curtains. I bought some voile to make nets and some brown-and-orange fabric to make curtains. These I stitched, using my trusty Necchi, on a rickety card-table which was our only surface at the time. While we were at the flat I also made curtains (blue) for the bedroom and nursery ones for Lizzie.

Paul often reminds me of the curtains we had in the bedroon of our first house in Rowan Avenue; I think because he liked the name: "cherry-berry-bim". By this time we'd risen to the dizzy heights of being able to buy fabric at Habitat, and I made a table-cloth from the same fabric and equipped our lounge windows with a rather nice slub cotton which the gerbils later chewed (I remember doing an almost invisible darn).

Even later I made curtains for others as a way of earning extra cash (where did I find the time?). I remember one ghastly pair of huge brocade curtains which had an enormous pattern repeat of Arcadian nymphs & shepherds. My client had skimped on the fabric and I spent hours laying it out on the floor, shooing away cats and children, trying to line up the Phyllises and Chloes correctly. I'm not sure I ever got it quite right, but the customer seemed pleased. The fabric was so tough, it broke dozens of my machine needles.

Anyway, the point is (and always will be) that I absolutely hate making curtains and don't find it at all rewarding.

And procrastination, in the form of this blog, is busy stealing the time I should be spending in front of the sewing machine.

Saturday, November 29, 2008

Annunciation

Today

Tomorrow is Advent Sunday. I've decided that the Dixon Facebook page should give us all roles within an advent calendar.

I heaved out the box of decorations that live at the flat, hoping that Lizzie will get the place looking jolly in good time. There's a rather classy black & silver wreath that will go on the front door.

"One thing I've always wanted to do, but so far failed," I said to Paul, " is have a proper Advent wreath, like Mamma did."

In My Day

Mamma's German background led her to introduce a number of rituals that gave a real sense of the approach of Christmas. She used to buy a wreath in time for advent. This was hung horizontally with four wide red ribbons. Its sole decoration were four candle holders. In Advent Sunday one candle would be lit, on the 2nd sunday two, and so on until Christmas Day.

Long before nasty Disney Advent calendars containing chocolate could be bought at any £1 shop, Mamma used to scour exotic stationers and German emporia to provide us with an Advent Calendar. The designs were classic, and just the opening of another door was reward enough. We were absolutely unique among our friends and classmates in having such a delight.

We also didn't forget that St Nicholas, as well as being Santa Claus, also had a festival of his own. On the night of 5th December, Mamma would first read, translating from the German, the story of St Nicholas, coming down from Heaven on a donkey, via a moonbeam, and bringing joy to the poor little girl who couldn't afford the chocolate ship she'd seen in a window.

Then, before we went to bed, we placed our shoes on our window sills, hoping that St N would descend on his moonbeam and fill them with sweeties. We were careful not to be greedy; when Chris suggested he put out a wellington boot one year, Mamma was full of Strewelpeter-type tales of how such greedy children would merely find a stick!

We would wake up early on 6th December and, before it was light, find the shoes filled with goodies, I particularly remember some little chocolate kittens that I was given one year. I could hardly bear to eat them. I don't know how Mamma managed with David being at boarding school; perhaps she sent something care of the matron.

So the days peeled away, each with a special significance, until the big day.

If the Dixons on Facebook are going to be advent calendar items, perhaps my status should be a calendar girl?

Friday, November 14, 2008

Fogbound

Today

Never mind the forecast, we get our own weather up here on the Mendips. This morning the Mendip Murk was well settled. The tops of the trees were barely visible and everywhere had a damp, dull feeling.

We set off for Wells to do some shopping. As we got to the top of the beacon the murk had become a steady, foggy drizzle. "I thought the forecast said it would be quite nice today, with reasonable temperatures," grumbled my 'other 'alf. "Well, it's not cold," I said, "and I expect that this is just because we're up in the cloud layer. It'll be clear by the time we reach Wells."

Which it was. But not before we'd driven through ghostly mist. Various shapes, trees, the mobile phone mast at the Mendip Golf Club, buildings and other unidentifiable shapes, loomed at us in the mist, looking vaguely menacing, before disappearing.

In My Day

As a child I always found mist rather frightening. There was fog in London which, although dangerous smog at times, seemed nothing special. But fog in the countryside was another matter. You could lose your way and be lost forever.

After our ill-starred voyage to Wales in 1955, (see blog 3/5/05) Daddy decided he would buy three abandoned shepherd's cottages high on the hillside overlooked by Snowdon. I think he had some idea about renovating them, although this came to naught. He wanted to take another look at his purchase, so went off with me & David in Douglas later that year. The cottages really were derelict and Daddy bought some camp-beds and basic paraphernalia and we camped right there in the cottages. Quite apart from all the other horrors associated with camping, there was also the daily terror of the mountain mist. It crept down the mountain on wet mornings and up the mountain on fine ones. I was simply terrified and really feared some sort of loss of this world every time the mist appeared.

In the Summer of 1966 I put my trust in David's navigational skills and went off with him for a fortnight exploring Exmoor. We had some very lovely weather and walked many miles. The result of David's navigation is a subject for another blog, but what we did have was our fair share of mist.

One day we decided to walk from Coombe Martin to Lynton. This was a long enough walk in itself and the day started with a thick sea mist. We tackled the Hangmen as the mist floated in and out to sea. I was hyperventilating from anxiety each time I saw the headland start to vanish. We made slow progress and David then noticed that the path made a huge swerve inland to avoid a deep coombe - Sherrycombe. With a confidence that I have since learnt to distrust, David decided that we could just go straight down into the coombe and up the other side.

Well, even in those days, OS maps were pretty clear about the terrain and showed that this was covered in scree. We scrambled down the pathless coombe, bringing rocks and shale with us. The mist hovered alarmingly at the mouth of the valley. We had some lunch in the bottom then started to scramble up the other side. More scree, held together with brambles, which made it especially pleasant. David saw that the mist was beginning to draw in again. This was the incentive I needed - quicker than any fell-runner I was up that coombe and heading for the proper path in a very short space of time.

A few days later we had a walk which encompassed the Doone Valley. We'd already seen that the short walk up it from Malmsmead attracted a 6d fee so David said that it was no problem to approach it from behind. I wanted to know how we'd do it when there were no paths and we'd already learnt that the terrain was treacherously boggy. David explained that we'd walk along the dry-stone walls, using his super-detailed OS map. Impossible to get lost!

So, again, in thick morning fog, off we set. To an extent, David was right; we could walk along the walls, except where they were intercepted with drainage channels requiring herculean leaps to cross. I shan't forget that spooky trek, stumbling along half-collapsed walls, leaping (or failing to leap) across the ditches, as ruined cottages and beehives hovered in the fog, half in and half out of my vision. I had by that time read Lorna Doone so it was easy to imagine bands of brigands hiding in the heather.

We eventually arrived at Malmsmead at the sun broke through, feeling smug about having saved 6d and having completed about a quarter of our day's walk in about half of the day.

When I got back to the hostel I found that repeated immersion in peaty moor water had entirely rotted off my socks.

Tuesday, October 28, 2008

Chuff-Chuff

Today

Yesterday, in accordance with a long-held wish of Paul's. we took the train to Hastings to look at the places Paul remembered from his childhood.

Suffice it to say, we realised that Hastings has not just seen better days - it's probably long ago seen its best. It's a modern comment that our most enjoyable interlude was a pit stop at Kassa - a Persian coffee shop where the smells of cooking were so enticing that we had a snack of dhal, chickpeas, spinach and potatoes with rice with our coffee.

The train journey was fun, though. The train from Brighton still stops twice at Hampden Park and runs along the beach at St Leonards. There was a little boy most excited about the tunnels who pretended that it was night time and he had to go to sleep.

"I used to do that", I said to Paul.

In My Day

Train journeys were of three basic types when I was little. We routinely took the train from West Norwood into Victoria for almost all journeys into central London that couldn't be accomplished by bus. I only learnt later that these trains were what is known as "electrical multiple units". I did know that the trains ran on electric rails. That dangers of the third rail were very clearly spelled out to us. These trains were often half-empty and had a strange smell which you still sometimes find on preserved lines. You couldn't get from one compartment to another without leaving the train and there were special "Ladies only" compartments. Occasionally we went to London Bridge from Crystal Palace high level station. The trains were the same but the stations had strange names with which we played - "Peckham Rye" became "Peck 'em dry", "Nunhead" and I put Daddy's hat over my face, etc.

Then, often enough, we went to the South Coast by train. Commonly we went to Brighton but Eastbourne and Hastings also featured. Depending on what time we got to the station we either got the fast train (only stopping at Haywards Heath) or the slow, which took ages but was quite fun. The fast ones allowed us to feel superior to people standing at the stations we whizzed through - I really understood Reginald Gardiner's assertion that people have been standing on those stations for years and years.

It was incredibly exciting to be the first to "see the sea" and to be so close to it that you felt you could lean out and touch the waves.

The compartments were often decorated with pictures of other destinations - Bude or Bournemouth, which seemed almost foreign. The pictures were very stylised and resembled painting by numbers in the flat pastel shades they used.

Just occasionally there'd be an "Excursion" train. This would be a special train, often steam, heading for the coast. Daddy would buy tickets and we'd pile on with the rest of London and end up at Littlehampton, Whistable or Torquay. I remember little about the destinations but much about the crowded journeys. The trains were "corridor" trains which meant that you could go from one compartment or even one carriage to another. Doing the latter involved a scary trip in which you had to step across rattling plates between very insubstantial walls, looking with horror through gaps at the rails beneath. And they were often funny colours - not the grass green I was used to. One excusrion I remember was the last steam train on British railways.

Now that the trains run on time (and they never seemed to when I was little) it's still a great way to travel. There's very little magic involved, though.

Sunday, October 26, 2008

Pat-a-Cake

Today

Some time ago Becky took it into her head to name Dixons on the Dixons Facebook page after fruit. This caused quite a furore as people discussed whether it mattered if you were a gooseberry etc. When Jacob decided that he really didn't want to be a cherimoya (well, would you want to resemble a fruit that looks like a stone? and has anyone ever seen, let alone eaten, one?) I decided to exercise my admin rights and renamed us all as cakes.

Jacob, who has been known to work out, is a rock cake. Ruth, who loves all things Scandinavian was very happy to be a Danish Pastry. And Beatrice thanked me for naming her a melting moment. "I remember them", she said. "I used to make them - they were foolproof".

In My Day

I wouldn't say that we ate a lot of cakes as children. Mamma was a good cook with a distinct range of cakes made regularly. Melting moments were an aberration, the recipe being cut out from the back of a packet of Scott's porage oats. Foolproof indeed - probably best for Beatrice who isn't a natural.

Mamma taught me how to bake a cake. How to cream sugar and marge until they were light and fluffy. How to sift fruit with flour so that it didn't sink to the bottom. I can make a sponge without a recipe and my chocolate fat-free sponge with cream and strawberries is a birthday staple for Paul.

She made fruit cake, chocolate cake, caraway seed cake (I remember those as being so moist & flavoursome), German plum cake, a rum, apple and raisin cake involving yeast and cinnamon stars at Christmas.

She bought some cakes - angel cake (which I thought was rather bland) battenburg and chocolate cup cakes which were cloying.

But generally cakes were rare treats and one that I find I can largely do without.

It was a far cry from the situation in Paul's family where his mother made a cake weekly. Her "bung-in" cake had the sole merit of containing heaps of spices which helped to offset their appalling heaviness.

I remember a family christening where all the cakes were of a uniform mid-brown and very heavy. "Well," said their creator "my cakes are all food".

Whatever cakes are for, it isn't for nutrition.

Saturday, October 18, 2008

A Woman's Work

Today

Had a busy day yesterday. The family's all arriving today for Amelia's christening tomorrow so the house had to be put in order.

While we breakfasted I put a load of sheets in the washing machine. We had to shop for food so before we left I put on another load of washing, set up the dishwasher and bunged the necessary ingredients into the bread-maker for a loaf of bread.

Later, Paul made two lots of ice-cream using his new toy; I prepared Indian food. While we relaxed over supper and Scrabble, the dishwasher got on with the washing up.

"What I like about modern living," I said to Paul as we started on the second bottle of Cloudy Bay, "is that so much housework gets done while you're doing something else."

In My Day

It's easy to understand how hard it was to keep clean and organised when these helps weren't there. The folksong "Dashing Away with the Smoothing Iron" describes how just getting the washing done took all week.

At home when I was little there was not much automation. Mamma didn't get a washing machine until 1959 and dishwashers were unheard of.

If you were an academic, intelligent woman like Mamma you simply didn't want to spend your entire time chasing specks of dust. In fact Mamma could be a bit scathing about women who tied up their hair, bunged on a overall (like a charlady) and got on with it the minute hubby left the house. (I secretly thought that the overall seemed rather a good way of not getting your clothes dirty.)

We didn't live in a noticeably dirty way but chores were very demanding. Washing up was mostly children's work and I spent hours of my life, it seemed, with my sleeves rolled up and my hands in soapy water (there's even a picture of me doing this in the family album). Washing was done by hand (Mamma actually had a wooden washing board) and clothes were eked out - school shirts had to last two or even three days - to spread the load. Furniture wasn't wipe clean - it all had to be polished using lavender polish from a tin. Silverware (plated) had to be de-tranished from time-to-time, another filthy job.

We had no central heating so, in winter, fires had to be laid, made and maintained daily.

Things like making bread or ice-cream were out of the question as simply too time-consuming; as I said Mamma, while perfectly skilled at these things, didn't fancy herself as a domestic goddess. Food required more preparation - no ready wased salads or pre-scrubbed carrots in those days - and could be a dirty job. It's no wonder that we all learnt these things at our mothers' knees in those days; we were essential as slave labour, so the sooner we knew how to do things the better.

So we have it easy these day. I just wish the kitchen floor would wash itself!

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

Tempus Fugit

Today

After a night in which the hands on the bathroom clock twirled continuously, carrying us well into the next decade, we decided that it has to be stopped. It's obviously got its programming knickers in a twist and simply can't be trusted. As it cost all of a tenner, chucking it out and buying new seems the sensible thing.

It's curious; clocks don't merely record the passage of time, they seem also to be creating it. I think that's why digital clocks are less popular than analogue - you can't watch time pass.

There are times when the clock hands just don't seem to move; others when you glance up again in what seems like five minutes, and three hours have passed.

The worst occasions for time dragging are night times, when daylight doesn't seem to want to come, and waiting for transport, especially planes, only beaten by the tedium of long-haul flights. No wonder they keep offering you food, drink and duty-free - you have to pass the time somehow. Oh yes, and a trial I no longer have to undergo, children's parties each of which always seemed to represent the longest three hours of my life to date.

In My Day

I think it's true that time seems to pass more slowly when you are a child. It's probably because you've so little experience that each moment is packed full of new things.

Like most children, I anticipated future events like birthdays and Christmas with longing and they never seemed to get any closer. Then, suddenly, with a whoosh! like an approaching express train, they were here and gone, leaving only a faint smell and sense of passing tumult.

Some things certainly seemed to last forever. The nights when I just didn't sleep. I listened to all the noises our great house was capable of making, watched the street-lit shadows on my windows, read all the old Reader's Digests with which the shelves in my room were stacked, and willed the first rays of daylight to appear.

Certain classes at school - Hockey which I hated, and maths. Why wouldn't the hands on the clock move? And why, in art lessons, did they move so fast that I felt I'd only just got into my stride when the bell went?

And there are the long moments. I remember one at school in a French lesson. Somehow I'd got myself into the "A" stream for French, although I was only average elsewhere. We had a hatchet-faced teacher - Miss Salkeld by name - and I was surrounded by the local 11-plus creme de la creme. We were studying tenses. "Hands up those who think that this sentence uses the perfect tense," said Miss S. A forest of hands went up. "And hands up those who think it's the imperfect." One hand went up - mine. There was I, imperfect amongst the perfect. The next five seconds lasted about two hours. Then the teacher spoke. "Julia," said Miss S deliberately "has the distinction..." the time lengthened to about a fortnight. I was not only wrong, but about to be humiliated....."of being the only one who is right." Suddenly time caught up and the rest of the lesson passed in a flash.

What I don't like is the feeling that my life is also passing in a flash.

Saturday, October 11, 2008

Frigid

Today

The purchase of an ice-cream maker has, of course, resulted in the purchase of a new freezer. This is an upright freezer to supplement our existing freezer which is just the top 1/3 of our fridge.

We had an existing, small space to fill and spent much time Internet browsing to find the right one.

Eventually, we bought locally - a Hotpoint with automatic frost control, sensible-sized drawers and a 5 year guarantee.

Paul is preparing ice-cream and sorbet as I write.

"Hotpoint make the best fridge/freezers," I said confidently to the sales assistant. And who was she to disagree? Especially as they were also the most expensive in the shop.

In My Day

Daddy always swore that Kelvinator made the best fridges. To be honest, for most of my childhood this was academic as we didn't have a fridge.

Things were kept cool in the coal cellar - this meant mainly milk, cream and butter. Many a time I would forget to clean the base of the milk bottle, thereby depositing a circle of black on the tablecloth.

Cheese was kept in a cheese dish where it would sweat gently. Left overs got used up quickly to stop them going off. Daddy's main anxiety was flies and on more than one occasion he spotted clusters of fly eggs on left-over meat. I've a horrible idea that he sometimes just scraped them off and carried on.

There was a vegetable rack on the back porch which kept stuff cool, I guess. Much of our food was bought daily; the idea of a big weekly shop with stuff decanted into fridge or freezer to use up at will simply didn't exist.

There were also ways of using up some items that had gone off; sour milk went into scones and Mamma also used it to make a soft cream cheese, allowing the whey to drip through a muslin bag hanging from the kitchen ceiling.

There were many ways of preserving food. Fruit from our huge garden was sometimes bottled into big "Kilner" jars and Mamma also made jam and marmalade. This was an inexact science and jam would sometimes be too runny or too stiff. One lot of marmalade simply wouldn't jell, so Mamma cooked the whole mixture again, producing a dark sticky mixture that we name "Toffee Marmalade". It would have put Frank Cooper to shame. The jam was poured into jars, a little circle of greaseproof paper put directly onto the jam, then a paper cover help on with rubber bands. The jars stood on a high shelf and were taken down as needed; and mildew you just scraped off - the jam underneath would be OK.

In 1959 I went to Germany with Mamma. When we got back we discovered that Daddy had knocked an alcove into the kitchen, taking a bite out of our hexagonal hall (wouldn't be allowed today), thus making way for a washing machine and, of course, a Kelvinator fridge. The days of sour milk were over.

"Isn't it strange." I said to Paul "that it's hotpoint that make the best freezers?"

Thursday, October 02, 2008

Svengali

Today

Very nice evening playing Scrabble with my BB. Evenly matched tonight, too.

Paul had put on some rather avant garde jazz, but it became so distracting that he changed it for a CD of Burt Bacharach hits. Some lovely songs and some truly dreadful. As we finished the games - "Don't Make me Over" sung by Dionne Warwick came on.

"Such an interesting topic", says I "And so true of many relationships. Of course, Daddy showed me why this is so wrong and fails anyway."

In My Day

When the big Victorian pile, next to and identical to ours came up for sale at a knock-down price with 10 years on the lease and sitting tenants, Daddy jumped at the chance to make a few bucks and bought it. I'm not sure that he made any money - the property required a deal of maintenance and he was inclined to be too generous to tenants, reducing their rent when they had babies etc.

I think I was about 12 and walking back home from the local shop when a pleasant man fell into step beside me. He chatted in a friendly way until we reached no 6 when he peeled off and went inside.

I had no idea who he was and spoke to Daddy about him. "Oh", said Daddy "That's Mr Glennie". I knew Mrs Glennie as a permanently pregnant tenant but didn't know anything about the husband. Daddy explained that Mr Glennie was a small-time thief, in and out of prison for petty theft, otherwise quite harmless. Each time he came out, Mrs Glennie conceived again. I'm sure Daddy never made any money out of her - he was far too sorry for her.

But he explained her mistake. "She believed that her love for him would change him. Which it didn't, of course," He explained to me. "we are who we are and only we can change ourselves, we must accept the people we take into our lives as they are." He really saw Mrs Glennie's tragedy and heartbreak and was always there to lend a hand.

So I think at best "making someone over" gives you a result that you didn't expect and at worst leaves you disappointed and lonely. Svengalis who succeed, whether fictionally, as in "Trilby" or in reality as with Lolo Ferrari, ultimately come to loathe their creations and may even destroy them.

And loving people for their own special qualities is so much more fun.

Monday, September 29, 2008

If You Want to Know the Time.....

Today

Our bathroom clock is acting silly. It's one of those which have a radio link to a national clock somewhere in Derby and automatically corrects the time. Except that this one obviously doesn't like to be told. Right now - it's being very obedient. But sometimes, especially when on a trip to the loo in the middle of the night I am surprised to discover that the clock now busily thinks it's 8 o'clock.

It even tries to prove it by getting the hands to do a little twirl, as though it's now paying close attention to that Derby clock and will present you with unassailable accuracy. Only it doesn't -after daintily spinning the hands it will settle at 10.30 or something equally untrue.

Our bedside clocks behave impeccably - a quick touch on the top and they flash the right time in red onto the ceiling. And the changes to and from BST don't faze them at all. You can attach them to mains power and have the light on all the time, but I think that's a bit much. The clock in the lounge is also very good. We did have a video recorder with one of these radio clocks which was normally very good, but got puzzled by BST changes and would sometimes take a week to pay attention. Which was annoying if you wanted to record something.

Every room in our house has at least one clock, but what I notice is that we no longer have to wind clocks and watches up - a battery is replaced from time to time, that's all.

In My Day

Not so when I was a child. At 4 Beulah we had 3 main clocks. In the living room on the mantelpiece was a very simple but quite nice Deco clock that was actually electric. So this was the one that we relied upon because it never stopped. Except in a power failure of course, which could cause puzzlement if one forgot and simply glanced at it a few hours later when it was ticking away again. I have an idea that this clock was a wedding present to my parents.

On the wall next to the door was a black and handsome cuckoo clock. There was a real little wooden cuckoo that popped out on the hour and half hour. It had a slightly worn spring so the "cuckoo" was always preceded by a metallic "boing". This clock needed attention often as the great pinecone shaped weights gradually slipped towards the floor. If we let it stop we had to allow the cuckoo to sound each missing hour; otherwise he would confidently announce that it was 4 o'clock at half-past 9 or something.

In the next room was an "8 day" clock which only needed winding every 8 days. This looked rather like a railway clock. As we rarely used that room, the clock always needed to be wound up.

All we children had alarm clocks which rattled out the alarm and needed setting daily if you weren't to be late for school. Watches were a puzzle; I simply couldn't get a normal clockwork watch to work on my wrist. They would go fast, slow, or stop for unpredictable periods of time. In the end I took to wearing a watch, nurse-style on my front.

The most glorious clock was given to Daddy when he retired. It was an enormous brass sun-ray clock which Daddy absolutely loved and which sat proudly on the wall of our Victorian house, looking quite out of place.

Actually I rather like the nihilistic tendencies of the bathroom clock and have no plans to get rid of it

Sunday, September 28, 2008

One (wo) man went to mow

Today

I ache all over. I've been spending the last two days trying to sort out Lizzie's back garden. Why she chose to buy a house with about 80ft of garden when she hasn't a green digit anywhere is a mystery. I suspect she had fantasies about friends, Pimms and barbecues, but forgot that grass needs managing.

Seeing the grass for the first time last year and that it was a lawn, overgrown but manageable, I bought her a decent Flymo and did the first cut. "Just do this about every 2-3 weeks throughout the summer" I said, without much hope "and it'll stay in shape". So Lizzie had a go a few weeks later. Anxious that she might kill a frog (frogs can move really fast) she lost concentration and sliced through the cable. No problem - friend X would sort it - which he did but not before the winter.

The mower languished, some of the time outside where the electrics fused and the plastic fittings became brittle. An attempt to cut the grass this summer resulted in pure frustration, so the meadow flourished like the wicked and the green bay tree and the mower lost hope, standing on the patio during one of the wettest summers on record. Lizzie began to fantasise about finding lost ruins in the grass - more Mayan than Inca - but what we actually found were bedsprings and garden implements whose function was obscure, but whose capacity to wreck the mower blades was unparalleled

"Stop being so proud and let your parents help" says I "It's what we're for." Which is how I found myself wrestling with 3ft high tussocks of grass. We did give in and buy a new Flymo and some proper shears. I sank low enough to accept the help of the neighbour's small children. They really enjoyed heaving up armfuls of grass and putting it in the sacks.

In My Day

The lawn at the back of 4 Beulah would have put Lizzie's to shame. While Chris was still sorting out maths and spatial awareness he calculated that the lawn was 100 yards long. He might have exaggerated but it sometimes felt that it might be miles long.

While we did have a cleaning lady, Tillie Lawrence by name, to look after the common parts of the house, we never seemed to rise to gardening help. When the grass got too long there would be a family expedition to tackle it. Shears were used to hack away the worst bits and then it was mowed. For many years we just had a manual rotary mower. Now, I've got one of these but it mows about 10 square feet of lawn. But of course the lawn at 4BH was far too much for such a feeble machine. Anything stronger than the finest blades of grass it just ignored so that the lawn always had an arrogant parade of spindly stalks. We had a grass rake called a "springbok" which took nerves of steel to use. (it was long years before I realised that that it was a brand name and that springboks were actually antelopes.)

Finally Daddy gave in and bought a "motor mower". This petrol driven beast was started by pulling on an ignition rope. Mostly the mower failed to start. If it did it took off down the lawn with you hanging desperately to the handles as it wove its own way through the grass. The lawn at 4BH was never of that perfectly smooth type with lovely lines that you saw on the adverts. Once Daddy lost a pair of shears in the long grass. He said that he had a supernatural experience, with the shears summoning him to their location in order to find them.

I think that gardening generally at Beulah Hill was a spasmodic affair driven by the fear of being completely overtaken by vegetation, rather than by a love of horticulture, or even tidiness.

So I'm truly fascinated by my brother's plans to have a fully ornamental garden at his place - with knot garden and herb garden, like a Chateau on the Loire. Now that's really bucking the trend.

Saturday, August 23, 2008

A Bridge Too Far

Today

I was very happy to talk to my brother the other day and learn that he's definitely been chosen to represent Britain playing bridge at Beijing in October.

It's easy to forget that some less athletic sports have their Olympics as well. My brother is firmly of the opinion that bridge is wholly a game of skill, success being dependent on how you manage the cards and on the language and intuition you develop with your partner.

He's always loved bridge, but many years running his business forced him to take a lower profile. Now he's able to rediscover his full potential.

In My Day

Earlier blogs will show that I'm no card player. And when my brother decided to make bridge his life, rather than his hobby back in 1969 or thereabouts it didn't seem quite real.

For part of the of time he worked at a club on the Kilburn road called Stefan's. As well as offering members hospitality he also played for the club; a delicate balancing act involving much tact and skill.

Somehow I found myself involved in the periphery of this strange world. I was asked to provide design ideas for its decoration and refurbishment, which I did, although I never followed up this interior design opportunity.

I frequently worked in the tiny little kitchen making tea, coffee, sandwiches and light snacks. These were taken while playing and I would carry the orders into the upper room. Here members, bleary-eyed from too much smoking, drinking and bridge playing into the early hours would sit, frittering away their lives, when they could have been earning good money as doctors and lawyers. It was a world of unopened curtains and windows, a perpetual half-light which seemed to carry through into the flats in which many of them lived, in Maida Vale, Highgate or St John's Wood.

They none of them seemed to have children or other responsibilities and all seemed to have dingy complexions and many of the men had roving hands.

I can't say that I was sorry when other work opportunities came my way. And I must say that, despite his passion for the game, my brother remained level-headed enough not to get sucked in.

The very best of luck in Beijing, bruv!

Wednesday, August 20, 2008

Law & Order

Today

The kitties have been rather unruly today. Earlier they discovered, like the Andrex puppy, how to pull down all the toilet roll . That must have surprised them.

During lunch, while we were trying to stop Albinoni climbing onto the table and eating the pickled onions, Agnes was exploring the joys of playing with the fineline blind cords and finding out just how much they can be tangled up. Albinoni punctured Paul's legs trying to clamber up and he's learning how to avoid the trusty water spray used as a deterrent.

"They should be called 'The Bash St Kittens'", said Paul, half amused, half exasperated.

In My Day

At one time I really thought that I was going to become a teacher. In secondary schools, what's more. As part of my training I had to do teaching practice. In theory this was managed on-the-job work experience. What happened in reality was that you were given all the rubbish classes.

In the Summer of 1970, I was allocated to a Roman Catholic school in Bexhill. (An interesting choice given my lack of religious commitment.) I didn't mind managing sulky 15-years olds, but I met my match when I had to take the art class for a remedial group of 11-year olds. Nowadays they would be described as have "learning" or "behavioural" "difficulties" and receive special treatment. Then it was just the class all teachers avoided.

And I soon understood why. At first the class went all right, if a bit raggedly and we got some painting done. One little boy (and he was only a tiddler) threw something or other on the floor and I told him to pick it up. When he refused I spoke to him sharply.

His response was to start chucking art materials all over the room. Soon the rest were joining in, throwing brushes and paint pots out of the window and ripping paper. The floor was covered in multi-coloured rivers of paint and the noise was hideous. I had no idea how to restore calm and in the middle of it the bell went and all the children rushed, whooping with joy, out of the room.

I spent the next hour retrieving items from the playground and trying to clean up. And I felt too ashamed to put my head round the staffroom door.

Perhaps I should have used the water spray treatment on them!

Sunday, August 03, 2008

A Lister

Today

There we were, Paul and I, in Tesco, picking up a few bits and pieces for the weekend. Just by the coleslaw a woman we'd never seen before bounced up to us with a huge smile.

"I know you!" She cried. "At least, I've seen you on the telly!" She became a bit embarrassed by her forwardness and stammered a little. "but you both look wonderful!" "But that was years ago" we said. "Ah well, I've been in Dubai." she said as if that explained everything.

"Well I've put all the weight back on," said Paul "Although I guess I carry it better..."

In My Day

"Diet Trials" started back in 2002. We answered an ad in the RT for overweight people who'd like to participate in a study of diet plans. Paul weighed about 120k and I about 85. We signed up and entered the weird world of reality TV.

We learnt how to make video diaries and how to act naturally when cameras followed us to Weight Watchers, parties, holidays, health checks and at home. As a jolly middle-aged couple who enjoyed more than a glass or two of wine we were good camera fodder and were apparently dubbed "The Boozy ..............." by the Beeb. We learnt how supposedly spontaneous actions were filmed again and again. "Would you mind just going out and coming back home again, Julia, just for the cameras?" the camera person would say. And our meals got cold while they had another go at filming.

We were interviewed by Eamon Holmes and met other key weight losers at the studios in London (why are these places never as glamorous as one imagines?). Our picture was in the papers, national and local, and Paul did a radio interview. All in all it was great fun. And we did lose weight - two stone each with Weight Watchers over the duration of the trials.

What we were unprepared for was being recognised and stopped - in the street, bars, restaurants, shops, airports at home and abroad. Generally people didn't say "excuse me." they just bounced up and asked us whether we still consumed wine (silly question) or told us off for having a plate of food at a buffet. Most people told us how great we looked. Our record in one day was on a shopping spree to Clark's Village in Street where we were topping up on smaller sized clothes. I think we were stopped about 15 times.

Interest fizzled as the programme became old news. But it did have about 6 million viewers in the UK and is rolled out on various UK Gold channels across the world, it seems, from time to time.

Perhaps the reason why it's so hard to keep the weight off is that it can never be as much fun again.

Thursday, July 31, 2008

In The Wars

Today

My poor sister has been in the wars. Barely over her epilepsy seizures and she has a Milroy's cellulitis attack. (See my August 2007 blog for more on this condition.) Apart from being painful and unsightly, the cellulitis also confers a very high temperature. High temperature is also an epilepsy trigger so she's in double jeopardy, so to speak.

My brother has also had cellulitis this summer and my sister in Canada had an attack that lasted nearly four months. Must have been rattling with antibiotics. All of them now have permanently disfigured legs that have a tendency to leak lymph under stress and are very vulnerable to injury. Just like Daddy, in fact.

Although I have suffered since my teens, I've somehow retained legs that look normal and behave pretty normally too.

In My Day

Milroy's disease doesn't always present from birth; commonly it first appears in the teens or twenties. When I noticed, at the age of 18, that my right leg was bigger than the left, the medical profession didn't make the link, swinging from thinking I had a heart condition to putting me on a diet.

It was in 1968 that my flatmate Sue and I decided to join a group of others to see Tyrannosaurus Rex at the Brighton Dome. We caught the train from Worthing and were soon in our seats. I don't think I liked the music much anyway, but I was more concerned about the fact that I was beginning to feel most peculiar. I felt dizzy, hot and cold, and sick. Unwilling to travel back alone, I sat out the concert, somehow willing myself into an uneasy doze.

I persuaded Sue that I was too ill to join the gang at the King and Queen pub and we went back home; me feeling worse and worse. I went straight to bed and passed a night of sickness and fever dreams. Sue was very good at nursing and brought me water etc when it became clear I couldn't put my foot to the ground. I don't think I made the connection even then, but I did write to my parents. Back came a note from Daddy telling me not to brave it out but to call a doctor and ask for "Streptomycin sandwiches". He knew exactly what was the matter with me and he and Mamma came down to my bedside.

Since then, I've been acutely aware of the condition and have always been alert to early symptoms and carry antibiotics. Which may be why I can still wear Pradas.

Paul used to have this joke "what's a streptotrap? One you catch streptomycin".

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

Shoestring

Today

Today is my 37th wedding anniversary. We celebrated yesterday evening with friends and champagne. At midnight Paul & I sat on the balcony at the flat and exchanged cards and gifts over a glass of Prosecco.

I gave Paul an ice-cream maker so that he can keep us supplied with his favourite dessert. Paul gave me several pairs of earring, apologising for the fact that they weren't real pearls, only mother-of-pearl, because he couldn't find any real ones for non-pierced ears.

And later today we set off for our "Opera & Wine" long weekend in Lucca with Arblaster & Clark. We're looking forward to vineyard visits, opera evenings, long lunches and plenty of wine.

In My Day

The way Paul asked me to marry him sort of set the tone for the event itself. We were already living together at the flat in Cromwell Road, Hove, but he was having difficulty in persuading the police (his employers) to let him live there, rather than in approved police accommodation.

We were walking down Trafalgar Street and just passing under the bridge when he said "Well, Mum says that it would be a lot easier if we were married............." The remark ended on a question and felt most peculiar. However, I was in love and it seemed an easy thing to do.

We told relatives and fixed a date at the end of the following week at the Register Office. We went to buy a wedding rings, which we could barely afford. In the end we chose a white gold one for £6.50. I had to pay for it because Paul was waiting for his pay cheque.

Relatives offered various items for the day - Chris brought two magnums of champagne, Mamma & Daddy gave us £100 and brought sweet peas. Paul's parents made and iced a cake and also brought sweet peas.

There was no question of a wedding dress - I simply heaved out one of my long "Thomas Hardy chic" cotton dresses and, using left over fabric, made a matching tie for Paul. He had his one-and-only suit.

On the morning of the wedding I walked along Western Road, buying salads, cheese, bread and fruit for the feast back at the flat. In the meantime Paul, who'd hired a mini-bus, drove over to Eastbourne to collect his relatives, while Chris drove me to the wedding in a hired car. (I couldn't remember where the register office was and nearly missed my wedding.) My four-year old niece who'd turned up unexpectedly at the wedding became an impromptu bridesmaid.

Paul & I went into the office for the preliminaries. The short notice meant that there was more to pay - £10, I think it was. Paul & I looked at each other, aghast. He had no money at all and what little I had was in my handbag with Mamma. I scuttled off to get it and the wedding was on.

After the wedding and festivities, Paul and I drove his relatives back to Eastbourne (and hit a cat on the way back) and then went to a presentation about pyramid selling as a career option.

There was no honeymoon and we had to accommodate my 1/2 brother, wife and 4 children who'd driven down from the Midlands in a Mini Cooper to see me married.

What I actually remember from the day is a great sense of joy and family celebration and all the expensive holidays in the world won't change that.

Friday, July 18, 2008

As Good as New

Today

The truth is, I feel really worn out. Over the past 30 months I have experienced turmoil as never before. The events of that time (some of which, although a matter of public record, are still painful to dwell on) created a number of cracks in my perception of myself, in how others perceive me and in how best to be supported and offer support to others. And I had no idea just how emotional turmoil wipes you out.

I have had to retrieve memories that I had sworn would remain buried until the death of those involved. Not only that, I've had to do it fairly publicly. I've given as much support to the family as I can - but I probably can't heal the fracture. I've had to forgive myself my many failings and learn to allow myself to lean on others. And I've learnt that I don't have sole responsibility and how to let go

After many weeks in which bizarre and horrible dreams and nightmares have haunted my sleep I am finally beginning to feel as though I can rebuild myself.

"I'm a bit like the Brighton Pavilion" I said to Paul today

In My Day

When we used to go to Brighton when I was a child I just loved the Pavilion. I loved the weird onion domes and the fancy chandeliers and wallpaper. My father used to make me laugh by telling me that, despite appearances, there's not a stick of real bamboo in the place.

When Paul and I lived in Brighton in the early '70s, my love affair didn't end. An added spice was given with Paul's' tales as a chauffeur to corporate events in the great ballroom with its lotus blossom chandeliers. His tales of the secret consumption of the Mayor's brandy below stairs, made my hair curl.

How sad we were to hear, back in 1973, of a fire that destroyed much of the beautiful ballroom. Work started immediately to restore the building. After some years the complete work was about to be revealed when some maddened art student got into the place and smashed chandeliers and scrawled graffiti.

Without fuss, the restoration started again. Good progress was made, but these things take time.

In the Autumn of 1987, gales swept across the south of England (Mr Michael Fish's finest hour, some would say) and the windows to the great ballroom were smashed.

Up went the scaffolding again and once more the restorers got on with the job.

We took my Canadian great niece to see the Pavilion last year and it looked as good as new.

I have great hopes that soon I too, despite not having a stick of real bamboo about me, will be as good as new.

Tuesday, July 15, 2008

The Eyes Have It

Today

Much of the time spent at the gym is in front of mirrors. It's not like being in front of mirrors at home, putting on makeup or checking your hair; effectively striking a pose. At the gym you're more concerned with posture and movement. I found myself today catching glimpses of my face as others might see it.

My eyes, despite having a few crow's feet, don't seem to have changed. a sort of French navy blue and with the upper slope just the same as in my baby pictures.

Since I carried out the family album project I've been thinking about just how much we change or even whether we do.

In My Day

The Dixon family album was a sort of Magnum Opus of Daddy's. He attempted to capture all the various moments that made up our childhood. This started almost as soon as we were born. I found myself looking at those photos of us with a lifetime of experience and knowledge of my siblings and trying the see today's people there.

It was so easy! The eyes that gazed out from the pictures are the same as I see now.

David, with his quizzical look that's ever so slightly past you and looking towards some meaning not quite of this world.

Chris with his eagerness to be doing, paying close attention to the job in hand.

Me, with my steady look that, even at 18 months, brooked no nonsense.

And Beatrice with her bright anxiety to be part of everything, even things she didn't understand.

There's a picture of Chris in the album, aged about 18 months,where the posture and expression are so like those on his current Facebook picture that it's funny. Leaning back, one arm across the back of the chair, smiling, so sure that he's top of the heap.

Of course, as life has proceeded, we've all experienced joy, pain, anxiety, grief, fear, laughter. And those are reflected in our eyes also. But our eyes are not so much the windows to the soul but the windows of the soul, shaping how we respond to the world.

Sunday, July 13, 2008

Sunday Night Fever

Today

Quiet evening tonight after the frolics of yesterday. We settled down to Scrabble. Paul put on the accompanying music - Saturday Night Fever. He cheerfully jigged around as we played and added his own percussion until I glared at him to stop.

"Great music!" he said, wistfully, " I could really dance to this!"

In My Day

Back in the 70's we loved to dance. If we could get to or organise a disco or have a party we did. What better to dance to than SNF?

In 1978 when my sister Beatrice was living with us she decided to organise a 24 hour dance-a-thon to raise funds for the Epilepsy society. She booked a room over a local pub, organised a rolling buffet and music and advertised. I agreed to take part as did several of our friends. You were allowed 5 minutes in every hour to breathe, eat or visit the loo and my sister-in-law Jenny who didn't dance agreed to be the dance monitor, checking our times most strictly. For this event I dressed as for sport in trainers and track suit.

It was very hard going; you had to dance, not merely sway on the spot. On the other hand, going full out was simply impossible. At least that was my view.

Not that of a visiting competitor. He suffered from epilepsy but this didn't stop him coming in full white-suited SNF regalia and dancing to put John Travolta to shame. He whirled and twirled and really earned his sponsorship money. I hope he had a lot of backers.

I don't know how the event finished; Paul was suffering from some sort of 'flu which made him unwilling to suffer my continued absence. So. in the interests of marital harmony I went home after only 12 hours.

I like to think I'd have been up for the full monty, 'tho'!

Wednesday, July 09, 2008

Faking It

Today

I've been having lots of fun with my photos. Now that I know how to mount and frame them, I hope to find a market for them.

Some of my pictures are just right, the way I took them. I don't edit them and just print them directly.

Others need a little correction - maybe the contrast or brightness needs adjustment or there's a telegraph wire right across the picture.

But with many I just have fun playing. Would that picture of abandoned Maesbury Station look better in greyscale or maybe sepia? The trad jazz band photographed in Cheltenham reduced to stark black and white. Or I take an image and place it with another from a different picture and alter the background. My picture of a fallen tree with glowing red sky, looks like an after the holocaust image and I altered one Star Clipper shot to look like a "Pirates of the Caribbean" filmset, another to look like the "Ancient Mariner" ship.

I was telling a friend about what I was doing the other day. "But that's cheating!" he said. "Photos are about capturing the moment."

In My Day

I think that photographers have always "cheated". In the early days it was just playing with exposure or development, then other techniques came along.

Daddy was no exception to this. Starting at the camera, there was the film speed, exposure, depth of field and lighting to consider. By using these features he would alter the relative sharpness and brightness of the shot.

Once the darkroom, he would be able to decide how to develop the shot. This was where he could correct errors. By leaving the film a longer or shorter time in the developing fluid he could determine the look of the final piece. He could further change this when developing the prints.
He used to buy "Amateur Photographer" regularly and sometimes various techniques were shown. I used to be fascinated by pictures that had reduced the image to pure black and white or to grossly exaggerated shades of grey. These effects were achieved through understanding and manipulating the chemical processes involved.

Then there was trick photography. Daddy did have a few forays into this, although I don't think he was very skilled. Twice David found himself shunted into peculiar locations. This was by virtue of the fact that his St Paul's choirboy outfit made him a suitable subject for the family Christmas card. Once Daddy put him in a bottle, another time, several times, walking out of a television screen. Another time he tried to fake a picture a David in front of St Paul's. Unfortunately, something slipped so there's a gap behind his head.

What was true then and is true now, is that doing these things is very fiddly and time-consuming and it does need a degree of skill to cheat successfully.

Another friend of mine told me regretfully the other day that he'd spent a fortune on very fancy photographic equipment only to find out that he's a lousy photographer!







Monday, June 23, 2008

Caravan-tastic

Today

Had occasion to travel a good part of the M5 last Friday - from Weston-Super-Mare to Dudley, and, of course, back on Saturday.

This motorway is the route by which Midlanders escape to the West Country. And there's nothing they like so much, it seems, as to do it in caravans. "This is caravan-tastic!" I said to Paul as we avoided yet another one pulling out suddenly into the middle lane with clearly no idea of what was behind it.

There were all sorts, from fancy 6-berths, pulled by 4-trax to mucky little 2-berths with a Vauxhall Corsa struggling to heave it along. People had strung all kinds of items on the back - mostly bikes, scramblers and motorbikes. Those with Motor homes, sometimes pulled little trailers behind carrying Smart cars for local driving and many were towing boats. It fascinates me that people living 200 miles from the sea still find room to keep a boat for the few times they can actually get to Lyme Regis, or wherever.

The driving skills were as varied as the caravans; for many, I guess, towing a caravan is something they do twice a year so their lack of skills could be pardoned. Although when they cause you to take avoiding action, it's hard to feel forgiving.

In My Day

Once we'd got the need to travel with a caravan behind us (and, anyway,the car was now seriously dead) we simply had to park it in the back garden. Daddy suddenly had a brainwave. Offer the caravan as holiday lets!

The original caravan was parked under the copper beech and christened Beechbower. Daddy bought another, matching one which was put at the foot of the slope. The caravans, which were both 4-berth, had light (from Calor gas, using little gas mantles like Victorian days) and heating. Calor gas canisters graced the lawn to the side of the caravans. We had a downstairs loo, accessible from the garden and an outside tap. We were ready!

And we did get customers. Somehow the very basic facilities didn't seem to bother anybody. And many were very glad to be so close to London for so little money. What we didn't bargain for was people wanting to use the caravan as a permanent home. There was one older couple who lived there all winter. Daddy became very nervous as he knew that if they were to be regarded as permanent he would need hard standing and proper bathing facilities. I think that one winter relying on Calor for heat and light was enough as they left before Daddy had to ask them to go.

One family stayed there with four children and kittens.

There was also a Sinhalese family who stayed in the caravan all summer. They were called the Arnoldas. While they only tried to squeeze three children in, they also had several dogs - a bloodhound, a golden retriever and 2 retriever puppies. I was absolutely terrified of these dogs, especially the bloodhound, who, I was sure, had his beady eye on me and would find me out in all my wrondoings.

There's farm in our village with three caravans parked for letting on a field. The Parish Council are up in arms about them as they apparently present a health hazard.

Sunday, June 15, 2008

Pussy

Today

I can't believe it! Paul has committed us to the ownership of two new kittens! I feel sure that if the bootee had been on the other paw, so to speak, he'd have vetoed it on the grounds of the new level of responsibility etc etc. Not that I mind; I can't easily resist cats and would feel a bit bereft without one or two trundling around.

"Albinoni and Agnes", he proclaimed, incidentally also clarifying the fact that one will be male and one female.

In My Day

The naming of Barrett cats with initial letter "A" is one of those traditions that grew slowly to the point of being now considered by us to be mandatory.

My first cat (see Aug 02,2006 entry) was named by my flatmate with much the same sort of flourish that Paul gave today. "Ariadne!" she suddenly said while in the middle of doing something else. Ariadne gave birth to a litter of five kittens; we named them all from A-E.
Unfortunately they were not a healthy lot and all but one died before they were two weeks old. The remaining one happened to be named Algernon. Algernon was given to my sister and he lived to be fourteen years old.

Annalise, a delightful tabby-and-white with very good manners was named after the pretty four year-old daughter of a friend. Said friend also had kittens to get rid of so we acquired Ajax, a mackerel tabby named for his cocky masculine manner.

We had Alphonse very briefly just to find a him new home and Annabelle was a frightened mature tortoiseshell from the Cats' Protection, who couldn't deal with Annalise's playfulness.

Annalise and Ajax were lost while staying at a friend's house and we then got Amelia (see April 22 2008 entry).

Agamemnon came next - he was half Abyssinian and we searched for names beginning with A. Paul rebelled at the suggestion that he might have to call "ashur-banipal" out of the back door so we settled for the more acceptable but still Middle-Eastern alternative.

Amadeus was named for his musical mew - he was a very smart black-and-white - like the Felix Cat Food cat - and died early of a blood clot in his spine.

His half-sister came to us with no name and it was Lizzie who proclaimed that she be called Arietty. She died in 2005 and was quite the cutest cat I've ever owned.

Which leaves the current inheritor of the enviable A-list, Abby. I hope she copes with the newcomers.

I guess the number of available A-names will outlast us and any cats we may have.

Thursday, June 12, 2008

Know-it-all

Today

Paul has an abundance of books which give you meanings of obscure words or scientific facts. This morning he was reading me titbits from a book that guarantees to turn you into a know-it-all within 365 days.

"Who wrote 'For Whom the Bell Tolls'?" he asked me. I thought it was a trick and said John Donne before agreeing that Ernest Hemingway had indeed written a book with this title and that it was from this book that the expression "did the earth move for you?" came from.

And so on with questions about James Joyce, the Spartans etc etc. "How do you know all this stuff"? he said. "You must have had a golden education." "I don't think so," I said "I just used to pay attention."

In My Day

Certainly we were not shielded from facts as children; there were 100s of books, any of which we were free to read, and conversation was not dumbed down. My older brothers were always happy to show off their superior knowledge to their little sister. And this sister, is must be said, was open-beaked for it.

In 1957, I started back late to school following the summer holidays (holiday at Burgh Island - see June 17 2007 entry) and joined my class with no knowledge of or introduction to my new class teacher.

For the first time I had a male form teacher; his name was Mr Baxter. In every way he was an inspirational teacher who never belittled or talked down to the children. Each day, starting at the beginning of the alphabet, he gave us a general knowledge question as homework. It was optional - but that made finding out all the more challenging.

"What is an aardvark?" was the first one I took home. I had no idea (this was before the days of ubiquitous wildlife programmes on TV). So we heaved out the Chamber's encyclopedia to discover that it's an anteater. I then went on to find out more about these creatures and their strange woodlouse type curling up properties.

Each day there was a new question, right through to "Z". They covered a whole range of topics and it was a rare day when I couldn't answer one.

Daddy told me to tell the teacher that an aardvark is someone who "varks 'ard", which I think I did. But I don't think he was impressed and I kept Daddy's jokes to myself after that.

Monday, June 09, 2008

Garcon

Today

Yesterday was the London-Brighton Classic Car Run. In accordance with recently created tradition, Paul and I drove up to London the day before, planning to stay over so we were fresh the following day.

The start was at Mercedes-Benz World at Brooklands so we booked into a swanky-sounding De Vere Hotel at Gorse Hill, near Woking. The hotel looked pretty swanky too; Becky joined us and we were all set for a good time.

Went into the very nice dining room to be served a dinner by completely untrained waiting staff. They didn't know what was on the menu, didn't offer us a taste of or pour the wine, removed dishes when some were still eating - in fact committed practically all the faux pas that a waitress can make. In the end the restaurant manager came scuttling over to rescue them and us - "So sorry", she said "it's their first day." "I know they need training - but I bet we don't get a discount" I hissed to Paul.

In My Day

Back in 1970 I was in serious need of a summer job. Mamma and Daddy had by this time vacated 4 Beulah and I was camping at my brother's. I don't now remember how I found out about relief waitressing but one day I went into central London and booked as a temporary relief waitress with the Brook St Bureau.

They told me to supply a uniform consisting of black skirt, white blouse and white apron. The first 2 I had, the third I hastily ran up on the sewing machine and hoped I didn't look like a character from 'ello 'ello.

Experience I completely lacked; all I could offer was intelligence and good legs.

My first assignment was to a very busy snack bar on Fleet Street. Journalists and other media people dashed in, barked orders and wanted them quick. I tried to remember who was having what and have no idea how I got through the day.

The second one was to an Italian restaurant situated near to both Smithfield Market and St Bart's Hospital, so had a varied clientelle. I turned up and was shown the ropes by an elderly waitress who'd obviously been there since before the Flood. "We keep our own tips," she told me. This experience was altogether more gently-paced. Doctors and butchery businessmen came in for leisurely wine-fuelled lunches. I quickly undertood what was required and, it must be said, found that my youth, chirpy manner (and good legs) brought me very good tips. So much so that the elderly waitress complained to the boss and said she thought that tips should be shared. "Yes", said the boss "Aren't they always?" She then had to admit that she'd changed the rules when I started - clearly she thought that her experience would favour her - and the boss told her to lie on the bed she'd made. I quite enjoyed my stay at this place and sometimes did weddings on Sundays when 100's of drunken Italians would roar out "O Sole Mio" or "Ave Maria" and try to pinch my behind.

My final stint was at a gastro pub which was quite swanky and where my complete inability to do silver service was somewhat looked down upon. The chef, amazed at my being veggie, would give me food parcels of meat to take home for my cat.

I don't think it was the fact that the waitresses on Saturday were new that bothered me, it was that they made it so obvious.

Friday, June 06, 2008

A Good Hand

Today

My sister is recovering from having some seizures at the weekend. They came without any of the usual warning signs and without any of the usual triggers.

Fortunately for her, her step-daughter had popped over and found her "making no sense", and hustled her to hospital so she was in the right place when the worst happened.

Regretfully, it's back on full-time medication and going without the car for a year. Perhaps she'll go green and use a bike.

My sister has struggled with this condition since her early teens. It's rather intermittent; sometimes 7 or 8 years go by without an incident. She's always hoped that the condition would wear itself out over the years. That doesn't seem to be the case.

Discussing this with my brother and he said "She wasn't dealt a good hand, was she?"

In My Day

It took us a while to make the link between a severe fall she'd had at the age of about 2 (at the time the worst consequence seemed to be a broken collar bone) and the later occasions when she just didn't seem to be making sense. Requests to do one thing would result in a quite different action being carried out and she said some seriously odd things. To the teachers, too. Was she just being cheeky?

Gradually, Mamma realised that something was not well and took to keeping her at home on those odd days. Even when she was discovered, in her night clothes, having "fallen over" in a neighbour's garden we didn't make the connection.

I was aged about 15 and in the room alone with her when the first unmistakable incident occurred. She suddenly fell over (I had the presence of mind to shove the trolley out of the way so she wouldn't cut her head open) and rolled about in a most strange way. I yelled for help; the doctor was called and, after a battery of tests, the truth was revealed.

Along with Mamma I became expert at spotting the warning signs and have been known to frogmarch my sister to bed as she protested she was fine. Over the years there's no doubt that it has hampered her opportunities and the myriad drugs that have been tried have given her a range of side-effects. No wonder she hoped it would all go away.

Anyway, as my brother, whose bridge playing skills are of an international standard should know, it's not the cards you're dealt, it's how you play them that counts.

Tuesday, June 03, 2008

How Clean is your House?

Today

I was watching the first few minutes of "How Clean is your House?" the other day. In a modern easy-to-clean house with the latest Dyson in the corner, a young couple were living in a dismal and dirty muddle. Given how easy being clean is these days, it always fascinates me how some folk simply don't know how to get started. Perhaps they like it that way or simply don't notice. I think it was Quentin Crisp who said that you stop noticing the dust after the first 2 years.

I sometimes wonder if it's a symptom of a deeper inability to cope but am coming to the view that it's just laziness and lack of organisation.

In My Day

Daddy used to tell us about his 2nd wife who was clearly too posh to wash. Apparently she ignored dirt of every variety. This was borne out when I met in 1977 for the first time 2 of her Canadian grandchildren who'd been sent over to spend a few weeks of the Summer with her. When their mother arrived they were desperate "There's cat poo ingrained in the carpets," they told her "and fleas everywhere."

As part of her upbringing, Mamma went to a "household" school. This was where girls of a good middle class background went to learn how to manage a household. As that was in 1933 when Hitler came to power, signalling the end of her education in consequence, it was a good thing that she could manage a house.

She was able to get work as nanny/housekeeper and told us many tales.

In England during the war, she did emergency fostering. Many a forlorn child was brought to her for care. She told us of one baby, brought in the middle of the night; mother's whereabouts unknown. Mamma asked no questions and popped the baby into a cot.

In the morning she went to attend to it - it was covered on sores. Mamma was aghast - what could be wrong? My more savvy father said "they're bed bugs and the baby must have brought them here." He proceeded to rip up the carpet and blowtorch skirting boards and burn the cot.

It says something about Mamma that she calmly cleaned and deloused Daddy's children by his 2nd wife when they were unceremoniously dumped on the doorstep; even making a little nightie for my 8 year old 1/2 sister as she was being bathed.

I suppose housework is repetitive; they do say that that the trouble is, you do it and then 6 months later you have to do it all again.

Saturday, May 17, 2008

What a load of rubbish

Today

Ever since the council brought in new refuse collection regulations, putting out the rubbish has become a core part of our week.

First, the wheelie bin. We only have a green one, because the brown ones are for garden waste and our garden isn't really big enough to produce much waste. This is emptied of non-food waste every 2 weeks. So we have to make sure that we know which week is which.

Then food, paper, cans and clothing are collected weekly. The food goes into a special container. So as not to make it totally disgusting we use compostible bin lines which can only be bought, it seems, from a local shop which opens about every third Wednesday between 11.00 and 13.30.

We have to put the bins out onto the pavement ourselves and complicated arrangements are made between neighbours when we're on holiday.

Our council doesn't collect card or plastic, so, to avoid a ridiculous build up of these items over the 2 weeks, we trot off to the recycling centre about once a week as well. This establishment proudly proclaims its recycling achievements, currently running at about 79%.

Our kitchen has a little grove of waste bins, suitably labelled, cluttering up one end.

In My Day

Rubbish collection was a much simpler matter when I was a child. We had huge galvanised corrugated aluminium bins with matching lids into which all rubbish was put. The bins were apt to fall over in high winds and the lids could travel miles. They were all kept at the top of the slope between the front and back gardens and were for the use of all inhabitants of the house.

The only thing that wasn't put straight in the bin was ash from the fire. This was wrapped in newspaper and put to cool on the back step. Why newspaper I have never understood as on at least one occasion the bin caught fire and set the back porch alight. The ash was sometimes used to combat mud or ice - something I've done myself when trying to get out of the Close in the snow.

The point about these bins was that the rubbish all went straight in; it not only wasn't sorted it also wasn't wrapped. In the Summer the bins became absolutely vile. Flies and wasps swarmed around them and maggots bred with terrifying speed. Being asked to take out the rubbish was a task to be avoided and I think that we girls generally managed to make it a boys' job.

From time to time Mamma would advance on the bins, after they'd been emptied, with Jeye's Fluid and buckets of hot water. Although the Jeye's Fluid smelled vile I quickly associated it with the garden becoming a nicer place to be. When I discovered that other people wrapped their rubbish up in newspaper I was amazed. I probably became one of the first to purchase bin liners and still, with double-wrapped rubbish, clean out the wheelie bin with disinfectant.

I am still astonished by the amount of rubbish we generate, despite using proper shopping bags and having that annoying habit of taking off a good deal of packaging at the checkout.