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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.