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.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
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.
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!
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.
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?"
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.
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.
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