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".
Thursday, July 31, 2008
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.
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.
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.
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'!
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.
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!
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!
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