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.