Today
The family's all gathered at the flat for Christmas. Lizzie got here last night and Becky & Richard arrived this morning. As we sat in the sitting room and chatted Liz said "Where's the Christmassy music, then?" "Oh, sorry," I said and whacked on the Waitresses and Abba.
Liz asked me if I'd remembered to bring "Phil Spector's Christmas Album" from home. "No", I said "But I'm sure we can download it from Napster." Which I did and am now listening to.
In My Day
Every family has its own Christmas traditions, I'm sure, including the sort of entertainment. When we lived at Rowan Avenue the Christmas ritual always involved popping next door to the Levetts for a morning drink before we separated to celebrate in our own ways.
John would have put up a small, dense tree, hung with lights in the form of old-fashioned coaches. He always preferred to cut this tree himself, trudging through Friston Forest with little Matthew trailing behind disconsolately in the mud, wailing about being wet and cold. As our tree wasn't lit until we could light the candles (magical enough), Lizzie would be enchanted by this softly glowing tree.
In the background, barely audible, Phil Spector's Christmas album would be playing. As we grown-ups chatted and drank wine, ignoring the music, Liz would be drinking in the music. No wonder it's an indelible part of her list of Christmas rituals.
When the album was re-released a few years ago, we really had no option but to buy one for Liz. Shame she'd already snapped up about five copies herself.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Stuck
Today
Before leaving for Brighton we popped over to my brother Chris's with the family Christmas presents. "So sorry I haven't any for you," said Chris "I'm planning to buy them next week." He then explained that he was driving over via the Euro Tunnel to the Christmas market in Achen and was hoping to get loads of lovely German Christmas goodies for everyone.
Only he didn't, because the trains all broke down being unable to cope with the sudden change in temperature from cold France to hot tunnel. 1000's of passengers were stranded and it's taken days to get things moving again. At least he wasn't stranded at the wrong end.
In My Day
Snow before Christmas is always a shocker in Britain, it's true; most snow falling in January or February. In 1967 I was a student in Worthing in Sussex. I'd planned to go home for the weekend - it must have been early December. I wanted to save money and had booked myself home on the bus.
We were still in class when we saw the first flakes of snow begin to fall. By the time I'd got my bags and was ready to go, there was a full-scale blizzard. Clearly the buses weren't going to run. I struggled down to the seafront where the bus station was to reclaim my fare. I could hardly walk for the wind and couldn't see for the driving snow.
I then struggled up to the train station - the trains still appeared to be running so I hopped on. I think it was about one pm. And, indeed the train did run, taking a mere nine hours to get to East Croydon. We stopped at every station to take on fugitives and crawled along as the snow worsened. Huge flashes from the train's electrics as they touched the often obscured third rail lit up the snowy embankments. I learnt later that this was the last train that got through that day.
I don't remember how I made the final lap from East Croydon to home; maybe things weren't so bad in London.
It's OK, Chris. I fully understand and sympathise if I don't get any pressies this year.
Before leaving for Brighton we popped over to my brother Chris's with the family Christmas presents. "So sorry I haven't any for you," said Chris "I'm planning to buy them next week." He then explained that he was driving over via the Euro Tunnel to the Christmas market in Achen and was hoping to get loads of lovely German Christmas goodies for everyone.
Only he didn't, because the trains all broke down being unable to cope with the sudden change in temperature from cold France to hot tunnel. 1000's of passengers were stranded and it's taken days to get things moving again. At least he wasn't stranded at the wrong end.
In My Day
Snow before Christmas is always a shocker in Britain, it's true; most snow falling in January or February. In 1967 I was a student in Worthing in Sussex. I'd planned to go home for the weekend - it must have been early December. I wanted to save money and had booked myself home on the bus.
We were still in class when we saw the first flakes of snow begin to fall. By the time I'd got my bags and was ready to go, there was a full-scale blizzard. Clearly the buses weren't going to run. I struggled down to the seafront where the bus station was to reclaim my fare. I could hardly walk for the wind and couldn't see for the driving snow.
I then struggled up to the train station - the trains still appeared to be running so I hopped on. I think it was about one pm. And, indeed the train did run, taking a mere nine hours to get to East Croydon. We stopped at every station to take on fugitives and crawled along as the snow worsened. Huge flashes from the train's electrics as they touched the often obscured third rail lit up the snowy embankments. I learnt later that this was the last train that got through that day.
I don't remember how I made the final lap from East Croydon to home; maybe things weren't so bad in London.
It's OK, Chris. I fully understand and sympathise if I don't get any pressies this year.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Needles
Today
I popped over to my neighbour's yesterday to drop off a couple of pressies for the children. She showed me her half-decorated tree, explaining that said children had quarrelled so much over the job that she'd told them that it would stay that way if they didn't buck their ideas up. Seeing me notice that it's a fake she excused herself by saying that their two great dogs would damage a real one. She also complained that the Christmas tree at her place of work had dropped its needles within a day of being put up.
"I saw a good idea today," I said "Rent-a-living-tree. Brilliant! you have a live Xmas tree that doesn't shed and you return it at the end of the period, so don't have the problem of whether, after all, to chuck it out rather than start a mini-forest in your tiny back garden."
In My Day
Choosing the right tree, managing it and then disposing of it have always been issues. When I was a child our enormous tree was called by my parents a "fir". I don't think it was kept moist and, having started out rather sparse (deliberately chosen to make candle-management safer), it quickly became sparser as the needles dropped in showers. If you reached up to touch the tree needles became embedded in your clothing. The blasted things got all over the house, even sometimes into the beds.
Once the tree came down, the heaps of needles were vacuumed up, clogging up our elderly Hoover in seconds. The tree itself was usually taken into the garden where we would attempt to burn it. This wasn't as easy as it sounds; with practically no oil-filled needles to catch the flame and with wide spread branches which hindered the passage of the flames up and down, the tree could be surprisingly resistant. We often had to stuff newspaper between the branches all the way up to get it to stay alight.
So this potentially exciting event was often a little bit disappointing.
I think I might try the "rent-a-tree" idea myself next year.
I popped over to my neighbour's yesterday to drop off a couple of pressies for the children. She showed me her half-decorated tree, explaining that said children had quarrelled so much over the job that she'd told them that it would stay that way if they didn't buck their ideas up. Seeing me notice that it's a fake she excused herself by saying that their two great dogs would damage a real one. She also complained that the Christmas tree at her place of work had dropped its needles within a day of being put up.
"I saw a good idea today," I said "Rent-a-living-tree. Brilliant! you have a live Xmas tree that doesn't shed and you return it at the end of the period, so don't have the problem of whether, after all, to chuck it out rather than start a mini-forest in your tiny back garden."
In My Day
Choosing the right tree, managing it and then disposing of it have always been issues. When I was a child our enormous tree was called by my parents a "fir". I don't think it was kept moist and, having started out rather sparse (deliberately chosen to make candle-management safer), it quickly became sparser as the needles dropped in showers. If you reached up to touch the tree needles became embedded in your clothing. The blasted things got all over the house, even sometimes into the beds.
Once the tree came down, the heaps of needles were vacuumed up, clogging up our elderly Hoover in seconds. The tree itself was usually taken into the garden where we would attempt to burn it. This wasn't as easy as it sounds; with practically no oil-filled needles to catch the flame and with wide spread branches which hindered the passage of the flames up and down, the tree could be surprisingly resistant. We often had to stuff newspaper between the branches all the way up to get it to stay alight.
So this potentially exciting event was often a little bit disappointing.
I think I might try the "rent-a-tree" idea myself next year.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Shrimp
Today
Why is it that people think that vegetarians eat fish? The whole point of being veggie is that you don't consume flesh. At our choir social last night our kind and generous hosts provided a vegetarian risotto that was full of prawns. That the hostess tried to rummage around to find a prawnless bit was missing the point. Instead I had a very nice couscous with apricots and almonds, drank plenty of Pinot Grigio and decided that I was fine.
In My Day
My dislike of seafood, even when I was otherwise willing to eat fish, probably stems from those childhood visits to Brighton when the first thing Daddy would do was buy us each a pint of shrimps. These creatures had to be taken out of a greasy paper bag, then their shells, heads and legs had to be removed before you were able to find that tiny morsel of pink, salty, rubbery flesh. What was there to like about this experience?
When I was doing the COP training, back in 1986, the computer liaison officer at the Bexhill Tax Office where I was carrying out the training, very kindly invited me to her home for supper.
She and her husband were just starting out and were clearly not especially well off. But they'd cooked me a wonderful, expensive meal, starting with the biggest prawn cocktail I'd ever seen. Prawns were an expensive luxury then so I could hardly refuse.
"Oh, .....," I said "You have gone to a lot of trouble!" and proceeded to swallow each one whole so as to minimise the taste and avoid that dreadful rubbery texture. With some difficulty I avoided seconds. And the rest of the meal was fine.
The worst thing about prawns and shrimps is the way their little beady eyes look at you while you're unpeeling them.
Why is it that people think that vegetarians eat fish? The whole point of being veggie is that you don't consume flesh. At our choir social last night our kind and generous hosts provided a vegetarian risotto that was full of prawns. That the hostess tried to rummage around to find a prawnless bit was missing the point. Instead I had a very nice couscous with apricots and almonds, drank plenty of Pinot Grigio and decided that I was fine.
In My Day
My dislike of seafood, even when I was otherwise willing to eat fish, probably stems from those childhood visits to Brighton when the first thing Daddy would do was buy us each a pint of shrimps. These creatures had to be taken out of a greasy paper bag, then their shells, heads and legs had to be removed before you were able to find that tiny morsel of pink, salty, rubbery flesh. What was there to like about this experience?
When I was doing the COP training, back in 1986, the computer liaison officer at the Bexhill Tax Office where I was carrying out the training, very kindly invited me to her home for supper.
She and her husband were just starting out and were clearly not especially well off. But they'd cooked me a wonderful, expensive meal, starting with the biggest prawn cocktail I'd ever seen. Prawns were an expensive luxury then so I could hardly refuse.
"Oh, .....," I said "You have gone to a lot of trouble!" and proceeded to swallow each one whole so as to minimise the taste and avoid that dreadful rubbery texture. With some difficulty I avoided seconds. And the rest of the meal was fine.
The worst thing about prawns and shrimps is the way their little beady eyes look at you while you're unpeeling them.
Sunday, December 06, 2009
Highest Bidder
Today
Rather jolly lunch with my relations from the Midlands today. We went to one of those pubs that relies on a massively fast throughput on Sunday but after 45 minutes they found us a table.
Maybe it was the wait that brought on the hysteria or that preponderance of fried "combo" dishes and chips. When my tea arrived with a little gold-wrapped chocolate mint I decided to put the mint up for auction. Bids came thick and fast; after I'd rejected my niece's husband's car keys on the grounds that it wasn't that kind of party, the clear winner was Jo with a bid of £3.75. her uncle tried to slip under the wire with £4.00, but Jo got the choccy.
In My Day
When I was small, there were no TV programmes showing you how to flog your heirlooms and the idea of an auction was rather foreign to me. Mamma and Daddy certainly didn't haunt auction rooms and generally didn't take chances. There was one notable annual exception to this.
Every year we used to go to the local Vicar's garden party. Given our urban location it was rather strange to find oneself in an idyllic well-groomed garden that wouldn't have been out of place in Midsomer Worthy. There were the usual stalls and stands. The most exciting event was the "Dutch Auction" There would be a series of (probably donated) gifts. A large sheet was held out and people chucked money in. At a given signal the chucking would stop and the last person to have chucked would get the prize, even if they'd only put in half a crown.
In this way Mamma once bagged a beautiful porcelain Chinese tea set in gold and translucent white for about a shilling. Each paper-fine cup had the face of a chinese girl in relief in the base. Mamma loved it and used it for ages. I believe David still has it.
Chris once bid £5.00 at Christies for three bottles of genuine Napolean brandy. He got the brandy and I helped him discover how good it was one Christmas back in Cricklewood.
Jo, having won the bid, gave her Uncle the chocolate anyway and got to keep the money.
Rather jolly lunch with my relations from the Midlands today. We went to one of those pubs that relies on a massively fast throughput on Sunday but after 45 minutes they found us a table.
Maybe it was the wait that brought on the hysteria or that preponderance of fried "combo" dishes and chips. When my tea arrived with a little gold-wrapped chocolate mint I decided to put the mint up for auction. Bids came thick and fast; after I'd rejected my niece's husband's car keys on the grounds that it wasn't that kind of party, the clear winner was Jo with a bid of £3.75. her uncle tried to slip under the wire with £4.00, but Jo got the choccy.
In My Day
When I was small, there were no TV programmes showing you how to flog your heirlooms and the idea of an auction was rather foreign to me. Mamma and Daddy certainly didn't haunt auction rooms and generally didn't take chances. There was one notable annual exception to this.
Every year we used to go to the local Vicar's garden party. Given our urban location it was rather strange to find oneself in an idyllic well-groomed garden that wouldn't have been out of place in Midsomer Worthy. There were the usual stalls and stands. The most exciting event was the "Dutch Auction" There would be a series of (probably donated) gifts. A large sheet was held out and people chucked money in. At a given signal the chucking would stop and the last person to have chucked would get the prize, even if they'd only put in half a crown.
In this way Mamma once bagged a beautiful porcelain Chinese tea set in gold and translucent white for about a shilling. Each paper-fine cup had the face of a chinese girl in relief in the base. Mamma loved it and used it for ages. I believe David still has it.
Chris once bid £5.00 at Christies for three bottles of genuine Napolean brandy. He got the brandy and I helped him discover how good it was one Christmas back in Cricklewood.
Jo, having won the bid, gave her Uncle the chocolate anyway and got to keep the money.
Tuesday, December 01, 2009
Scatty-cat
Today
On facebook today, my niece wondered how long it would be before her kitten got bored with attacking the Christmas tree baubles. It's interesting; much of the charm of kittens is their enthusiasm for chasing and attacking dangly things. Then we get upset when they can't resist a huge source of dangly things which we have created.
In My Day
When Abby was a kitten she just loved to attack the Christmas tree. She raced round and round, smacking every bauble within reach. I made sure that the bottom row, so to speak, wasn't made of glass and tried to relax. Paul had other ideas and kept trying to stop her. Eventually she pulled a bauble right off the tree. It was a tiny cylindrical painted wooden Santa. Paul expressed exasperation.
"Let her keep it," I said to Paul "She's broken the string anyway." Abby loved this toy and played with it much over the next few months.
At that time, she was rather the dominant cat; Arietty kept out of the way as much as possible and often had to be coaxed indoors. On one occasion Abby was playing with the father Christmas across the floor while Arietty looked on from a perch on the arm of the sofa. When Abby lost interest, Arietty got down and began to bat this toy about. Boy! Did she know what she was doing! She smacked and jumped and clawed at this rodent substitute. She gave us a virtuoso display of vicious merciless killing. It was like a kung-fu master showing a child how it was done.
Abby watched, appalled and fascinated, and never again dared to challenge Arietty's authority. Arietty became number one cat from that day on. And Abby has ignored every Christmas tree since, perhaps because it reminds her of her humiliation.
Actually I blame Phillipa for having put the Christmas tree up so early.
On facebook today, my niece wondered how long it would be before her kitten got bored with attacking the Christmas tree baubles. It's interesting; much of the charm of kittens is their enthusiasm for chasing and attacking dangly things. Then we get upset when they can't resist a huge source of dangly things which we have created.
In My Day
When Abby was a kitten she just loved to attack the Christmas tree. She raced round and round, smacking every bauble within reach. I made sure that the bottom row, so to speak, wasn't made of glass and tried to relax. Paul had other ideas and kept trying to stop her. Eventually she pulled a bauble right off the tree. It was a tiny cylindrical painted wooden Santa. Paul expressed exasperation.
"Let her keep it," I said to Paul "She's broken the string anyway." Abby loved this toy and played with it much over the next few months.
At that time, she was rather the dominant cat; Arietty kept out of the way as much as possible and often had to be coaxed indoors. On one occasion Abby was playing with the father Christmas across the floor while Arietty looked on from a perch on the arm of the sofa. When Abby lost interest, Arietty got down and began to bat this toy about. Boy! Did she know what she was doing! She smacked and jumped and clawed at this rodent substitute. She gave us a virtuoso display of vicious merciless killing. It was like a kung-fu master showing a child how it was done.
Abby watched, appalled and fascinated, and never again dared to challenge Arietty's authority. Arietty became number one cat from that day on. And Abby has ignored every Christmas tree since, perhaps because it reminds her of her humiliation.
Actually I blame Phillipa for having put the Christmas tree up so early.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Stocking Fillers
Today
Very successful couple of days, getting the Christmas shopping under way. We were buying items for stockings in one shop - the cashier said, "That'll be £43.00, please. "How much?" said Paul. "Remember," I reminded him "the days when we could fill a sticking for a fiver are long since past."
In My Day
We didn't have stockings as children, for many reasons, but I was more than happy to introduce the custom into our children's Christmas experience. With the help of a mail order toy shop called !Tridias! I was able to fill their stockings with a collection of unusual and dirt cheap toys. Add a fluffy toy, satsuma and mince pie and the job was done.
I suppose for most parents there comes a moment when you know you've done your job properly. 1986 was a grim year for us with no settled home and uncertain job prospects. We came to Somerset so that I could take up the offer of the job with Flare. We were living with Chris and I explained to the girls that there'd be no stockings because that wasn't how Chris and his family celebrated.
To our great joy we found that we were able to move into our home in Stoke St Michael two days before Christmas. I explained to my sister-in-law Marilu that we would still love to celebrate Christmas with them but would move straight away into our new home.
Seeing that we would be waking in our own home on Christmas morning, Paul and I set about buying stocking gifts for the girls. On Christmas Eve they hung up their stockings and we all went off to bed.
Christmas morning arrived. "Good morning, girls!" we said "Happy Christmas! Have you opened your stockings?" "Well," they said "have you opened yours?" Ours? We hadn't hung up stockings - but there they were, hung up by Becky at four in the morning and lovingly filled with the sort of trivial gifts that two children could afford out of their pocket money.
And we've hung up our stockings every year since.
What I've never quite understood is how, in less than two days, they got into Shepton Mallet to buy this lot without our knowledge.
Very successful couple of days, getting the Christmas shopping under way. We were buying items for stockings in one shop - the cashier said, "That'll be £43.00, please. "How much?" said Paul. "Remember," I reminded him "the days when we could fill a sticking for a fiver are long since past."
In My Day
We didn't have stockings as children, for many reasons, but I was more than happy to introduce the custom into our children's Christmas experience. With the help of a mail order toy shop called !Tridias! I was able to fill their stockings with a collection of unusual and dirt cheap toys. Add a fluffy toy, satsuma and mince pie and the job was done.
I suppose for most parents there comes a moment when you know you've done your job properly. 1986 was a grim year for us with no settled home and uncertain job prospects. We came to Somerset so that I could take up the offer of the job with Flare. We were living with Chris and I explained to the girls that there'd be no stockings because that wasn't how Chris and his family celebrated.
To our great joy we found that we were able to move into our home in Stoke St Michael two days before Christmas. I explained to my sister-in-law Marilu that we would still love to celebrate Christmas with them but would move straight away into our new home.
Seeing that we would be waking in our own home on Christmas morning, Paul and I set about buying stocking gifts for the girls. On Christmas Eve they hung up their stockings and we all went off to bed.
Christmas morning arrived. "Good morning, girls!" we said "Happy Christmas! Have you opened your stockings?" "Well," they said "have you opened yours?" Ours? We hadn't hung up stockings - but there they were, hung up by Becky at four in the morning and lovingly filled with the sort of trivial gifts that two children could afford out of their pocket money.
And we've hung up our stockings every year since.
What I've never quite understood is how, in less than two days, they got into Shepton Mallet to buy this lot without our knowledge.
Friday, November 27, 2009
To Infinity & Beyond
Today
Started our Christmas shopping today in Brighton. We walked through North Laine enjoying the bustle and trying to find Cyber Candy. On the corner of Gardner Street is "Infinity Foods", a rather posh-looking wholefood shop. "Workers' co-operative, established 1971" was proudly written above the door.
In My Day
Exactly how we became involved with Infinity Foods back in 1971 I'm not sure. We were living at Belmont near Seven Dials at the time. I've an idea we saw a poster - or were we approached? - for a new vegetable co-operative. We walked down to the shop which was a small, somewhat scrubby and joss-sticky place. We sat at mis-matched tables, freezing cold, and drank coffee and met other people who were also interested.
The idea seemed to be that, if we pooled our resources, we could get good organic vegetables very cheaply. So, each week off we trotted and placed our order for fruit and veg, at the same time collecting the items ordered the previous week. I've an idea that we took away a huge boxful for about £3.00. It certainly kept us healthy at a time when we had no money.
We made a few friends there - the unwashed Jan & Steve with their little boy Adam, Ian & Val who were lecturers and social workers, also with a baby - a girl called Lara and a big jolly girl whose name I can't remember but who was convinced that washing vegetables reduced their nutritional value. I wonder what happened to them all.
It was all very hippy and new age and full of good intentions. It's good to see that the ideals have prospered and that the place is flourishing like the green bay tree. I wonder if I'm entitled to a long service award?
Started our Christmas shopping today in Brighton. We walked through North Laine enjoying the bustle and trying to find Cyber Candy. On the corner of Gardner Street is "Infinity Foods", a rather posh-looking wholefood shop. "Workers' co-operative, established 1971" was proudly written above the door.
In My Day
Exactly how we became involved with Infinity Foods back in 1971 I'm not sure. We were living at Belmont near Seven Dials at the time. I've an idea we saw a poster - or were we approached? - for a new vegetable co-operative. We walked down to the shop which was a small, somewhat scrubby and joss-sticky place. We sat at mis-matched tables, freezing cold, and drank coffee and met other people who were also interested.
The idea seemed to be that, if we pooled our resources, we could get good organic vegetables very cheaply. So, each week off we trotted and placed our order for fruit and veg, at the same time collecting the items ordered the previous week. I've an idea that we took away a huge boxful for about £3.00. It certainly kept us healthy at a time when we had no money.
We made a few friends there - the unwashed Jan & Steve with their little boy Adam, Ian & Val who were lecturers and social workers, also with a baby - a girl called Lara and a big jolly girl whose name I can't remember but who was convinced that washing vegetables reduced their nutritional value. I wonder what happened to them all.
It was all very hippy and new age and full of good intentions. It's good to see that the ideals have prospered and that the place is flourishing like the green bay tree. I wonder if I'm entitled to a long service award?
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Butterfly
Today
Becky's Facebook status today bemoans the fact that, not only does she not have stacks of invitations, those that she has are all on one day. David suggested that this allows her to appear to be a terrific social butterfly with little effort.
In My Day
I remember the day we went to three parties, all on Easter Saturday, I think in 1979. We had a babysitter, in the form of Beatrice, so why not party the night away? The first was the 18th birthday party of a friend that Paul had met through the ambulance service. Her name was Fiona and she was a nursing auxiliary at a residential care home. She was drop-dead posh and famous for the incident with the false teeth and for her large number of concurrent boyfriends of a range of ages and marital status whose presence in the house at all times of day or night was tolerated by her easy-going mother. The guests at the party seemed to be either family or said boyfriends, which made Paul and me feel a little bit out of it. After I'd broken the cheese knife on the huge Stilton and then been embarrassed by fond references to her baby days, we decided that it was time to go on to the next do.
With two more parties to go to we had to plan which would be the best place to end up the night. There were a number of issues to consider; driving, eating and the general party-ishness of the event. While Fiona's was reasonably close to home, it certainly didn't promise to be a frolic. And there was that matter of the broken Stilton knife.
Priding myself on my memory as I do, I regret to say that I don't really remember the second one - I think that we more or less put our heads around the door before buzzing off to the final one at Lynda's. Lynda was also a friend of Paul's from the hospital and also had a cut-glass accent although it was inclined to slip when she became drunk.
She was fond of partying, despite or maybe because of her husband's long absences on business in Qatar, and we could be sure of lively company, plenty of food, drink and dancing. I was feeling pretty jolly, having lost my post-Becky weight, and treated myself to some new clothes and I accepted compliments and invitations to dance with equal readiness.
Like Fiona's party, quite a number of the guests were Lynda's boyfriends past and present. But there was a better balance of age and the sexes and generally more sense that they were there for the fun.
How did we get home? I don't remember and didn't have to do the driving, but we got back with a sense of duty and pleasure both satisfied. And we've never had this delightful dilemma, since so go for it, Becky!
Becky's Facebook status today bemoans the fact that, not only does she not have stacks of invitations, those that she has are all on one day. David suggested that this allows her to appear to be a terrific social butterfly with little effort.
In My Day
I remember the day we went to three parties, all on Easter Saturday, I think in 1979. We had a babysitter, in the form of Beatrice, so why not party the night away? The first was the 18th birthday party of a friend that Paul had met through the ambulance service. Her name was Fiona and she was a nursing auxiliary at a residential care home. She was drop-dead posh and famous for the incident with the false teeth and for her large number of concurrent boyfriends of a range of ages and marital status whose presence in the house at all times of day or night was tolerated by her easy-going mother. The guests at the party seemed to be either family or said boyfriends, which made Paul and me feel a little bit out of it. After I'd broken the cheese knife on the huge Stilton and then been embarrassed by fond references to her baby days, we decided that it was time to go on to the next do.
With two more parties to go to we had to plan which would be the best place to end up the night. There were a number of issues to consider; driving, eating and the general party-ishness of the event. While Fiona's was reasonably close to home, it certainly didn't promise to be a frolic. And there was that matter of the broken Stilton knife.
Priding myself on my memory as I do, I regret to say that I don't really remember the second one - I think that we more or less put our heads around the door before buzzing off to the final one at Lynda's. Lynda was also a friend of Paul's from the hospital and also had a cut-glass accent although it was inclined to slip when she became drunk.
She was fond of partying, despite or maybe because of her husband's long absences on business in Qatar, and we could be sure of lively company, plenty of food, drink and dancing. I was feeling pretty jolly, having lost my post-Becky weight, and treated myself to some new clothes and I accepted compliments and invitations to dance with equal readiness.
Like Fiona's party, quite a number of the guests were Lynda's boyfriends past and present. But there was a better balance of age and the sexes and generally more sense that they were there for the fun.
How did we get home? I don't remember and didn't have to do the driving, but we got back with a sense of duty and pleasure both satisfied. And we've never had this delightful dilemma, since so go for it, Becky!
Friday, November 20, 2009
Nature's Way
Today
I'm not one of those people who are horrified by their cats' tendency to destroy the local rodent population. In fact, when one of them proudly leaves a dead rat (and they can be huge) on the patio to prove they've the right to food and shelter, I'm more inclined to be rather pleased with them. Although, when a field mouse ran into the corner of the dining room this summer and stared at us with its wide open terrified eyes, I did feel very sorry for this tiny scrap of life.
Stepping gingerly into the utility room each morning trying to avoid dead shrews and an assortment of entrails is another thing altogether. And I don't blame Paul at all for being a little nauseated when his first encounter on his way to make tea this morning was with the entire back end of a squirrel, tail and all. At least it makes my draconian no-cats-in-the-bedrooms-ever-or-wandering-the-house-at-night rule seem entirely reasonable.
I don't think that the cats ever try to offer these dead remains to us as gifties - they like to eat what they've caught and carelessly leave behind the indigestible bits.
In My Day
My first cat Ariadne was quite a hunter too. When I moved into a student house in Station Road in Worthing she was very happy to discover that the railway embankment behind the house was full of mice.
My bedroom was on the ground floor, overlooking the back and I used to leave the window open a notch to give Ariadne access. Behind the bed head was a radiator with a vent on the outside of the window. I got used to chasing half-dead mice out of the room.
During that Summer I noticed rather an unpleasant smell developing and couldn't imagine where it was coming from. After some searching I realised that it emanated from the exterior vent, down which some mouse corpses had become lodged. In the winter I hadn't noticed this but it was fairly vile right beneath my bedroom window. I began to form draconian rules in my mind right there and then.
Only one of our cats ever offered us a rodent gift; that was Annalise, who brought a mouse to me when we were in the flat at Belmont. She laid the wriggling back-broken animal at my feet and looked at me for approval. Paul had the unpleasant task of destroying and disposing of the wretched creature. On another occasion we were offered a fully live mouse; we took it out in a jam jar and let it lose on the Downs where, arguably, it lived for an even shorter time than if we'd left it to the cat's mercies.
We saw a van selling cat food today with the slogan "Cat Food as Nature Intended". With our cats in mind that means red in tooth and claw.
I'm not one of those people who are horrified by their cats' tendency to destroy the local rodent population. In fact, when one of them proudly leaves a dead rat (and they can be huge) on the patio to prove they've the right to food and shelter, I'm more inclined to be rather pleased with them. Although, when a field mouse ran into the corner of the dining room this summer and stared at us with its wide open terrified eyes, I did feel very sorry for this tiny scrap of life.
Stepping gingerly into the utility room each morning trying to avoid dead shrews and an assortment of entrails is another thing altogether. And I don't blame Paul at all for being a little nauseated when his first encounter on his way to make tea this morning was with the entire back end of a squirrel, tail and all. At least it makes my draconian no-cats-in-the-bedrooms-ever-or-wandering-the-house-at-night rule seem entirely reasonable.
I don't think that the cats ever try to offer these dead remains to us as gifties - they like to eat what they've caught and carelessly leave behind the indigestible bits.
In My Day
My first cat Ariadne was quite a hunter too. When I moved into a student house in Station Road in Worthing she was very happy to discover that the railway embankment behind the house was full of mice.
My bedroom was on the ground floor, overlooking the back and I used to leave the window open a notch to give Ariadne access. Behind the bed head was a radiator with a vent on the outside of the window. I got used to chasing half-dead mice out of the room.
During that Summer I noticed rather an unpleasant smell developing and couldn't imagine where it was coming from. After some searching I realised that it emanated from the exterior vent, down which some mouse corpses had become lodged. In the winter I hadn't noticed this but it was fairly vile right beneath my bedroom window. I began to form draconian rules in my mind right there and then.
Only one of our cats ever offered us a rodent gift; that was Annalise, who brought a mouse to me when we were in the flat at Belmont. She laid the wriggling back-broken animal at my feet and looked at me for approval. Paul had the unpleasant task of destroying and disposing of the wretched creature. On another occasion we were offered a fully live mouse; we took it out in a jam jar and let it lose on the Downs where, arguably, it lived for an even shorter time than if we'd left it to the cat's mercies.
We saw a van selling cat food today with the slogan "Cat Food as Nature Intended". With our cats in mind that means red in tooth and claw.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
All Mod. Cons.
Today
Everything's coming together for the purchase of the flat to let in Bristol. In these financially uncertain times, buy-to-let seems the way forward. The purchase money landed in my account this morning and the letting agents have a possible tenant who can move in within 3 weeks!
When the transaction on the Bexhill flat completes I shall be very happy with 2 nice little nest-eggs. I have met the tenant at the Bexhill flat but it's highly probable that I shall never meet tenants at the Bristol flat - the agents will deal with it all. So, in a way, it's quite as impersonal as any other investment.
In My Day
Just like me, when times were hard back in the '30s, Daddy took the opportunity of buying some properties that were going cheap. In the early years I think these were just 4 Beulah and the house next door in Upper Beulah. The whole of Upper Beulah was let into flatlets. We occupied half the basement and the whole of the ground floor of 4 Beulah. Dawson Large, Daddy's father-in-law occupied 2 rooms on the top floor and the rest was divided into a mixture of self-contained flats and flatlets.
Later, Daddy also bought 2 more properties in Upper Beulah and 6 Beulah, all with sitting tenants.
What made his enterprise so different from mine was our close involvement with all these tenants. At 4 Beulah we shared our bathroom with at least 2 families. Often all tenants would be on the lawn in the summer enjoying tea and gossip together. It's not that Daddy ever interfered with their lives; we were just all living much closer together.
We became good friends with the Lawrences on the 1st floor. They somehow managed to bring up 4 children in 2 rooms with kitchenette and share bathing and toilet facilities, before eventually buying a house in Eastbourne. They owned 2 cats who roamed freely and we girls often played with and took care of the children.
Daddy carried out much of the maintenance and repair work himself, creating kitchenettes and doing plumbing and decorating. He collected the rents himself and found himself becoming involved in all sorts of ways with the tenants' sad and sorry stories. Many of them were very old or struggling families and he was much too soft and probably didn't make much money out of some of them. And I can't remember him ever evicting anyone.
The properties were all on 99-year leases with a short time left, the freeholds being owned by the Church Commissioners. While he received some compensation on having to leave 4 Beulah, the others simply ceased to be his on the due date. He took some dramatic pictures of the houses in Upper Beulah being demolished with massive steel balls. So they weren't exactly investment opportunities, although I guess the rents did supplement his earnings a bit.
With modern purpose-designed flats I don't see myself doing plumbing or wielding a paintbrush, let alone becoming an agony auntie for my tenants. But who's to say that my life will be the richer for that?
Everything's coming together for the purchase of the flat to let in Bristol. In these financially uncertain times, buy-to-let seems the way forward. The purchase money landed in my account this morning and the letting agents have a possible tenant who can move in within 3 weeks!
When the transaction on the Bexhill flat completes I shall be very happy with 2 nice little nest-eggs. I have met the tenant at the Bexhill flat but it's highly probable that I shall never meet tenants at the Bristol flat - the agents will deal with it all. So, in a way, it's quite as impersonal as any other investment.
In My Day
Just like me, when times were hard back in the '30s, Daddy took the opportunity of buying some properties that were going cheap. In the early years I think these were just 4 Beulah and the house next door in Upper Beulah. The whole of Upper Beulah was let into flatlets. We occupied half the basement and the whole of the ground floor of 4 Beulah. Dawson Large, Daddy's father-in-law occupied 2 rooms on the top floor and the rest was divided into a mixture of self-contained flats and flatlets.
Later, Daddy also bought 2 more properties in Upper Beulah and 6 Beulah, all with sitting tenants.
What made his enterprise so different from mine was our close involvement with all these tenants. At 4 Beulah we shared our bathroom with at least 2 families. Often all tenants would be on the lawn in the summer enjoying tea and gossip together. It's not that Daddy ever interfered with their lives; we were just all living much closer together.
We became good friends with the Lawrences on the 1st floor. They somehow managed to bring up 4 children in 2 rooms with kitchenette and share bathing and toilet facilities, before eventually buying a house in Eastbourne. They owned 2 cats who roamed freely and we girls often played with and took care of the children.
Daddy carried out much of the maintenance and repair work himself, creating kitchenettes and doing plumbing and decorating. He collected the rents himself and found himself becoming involved in all sorts of ways with the tenants' sad and sorry stories. Many of them were very old or struggling families and he was much too soft and probably didn't make much money out of some of them. And I can't remember him ever evicting anyone.
The properties were all on 99-year leases with a short time left, the freeholds being owned by the Church Commissioners. While he received some compensation on having to leave 4 Beulah, the others simply ceased to be his on the due date. He took some dramatic pictures of the houses in Upper Beulah being demolished with massive steel balls. So they weren't exactly investment opportunities, although I guess the rents did supplement his earnings a bit.
With modern purpose-designed flats I don't see myself doing plumbing or wielding a paintbrush, let alone becoming an agony auntie for my tenants. But who's to say that my life will be the richer for that?
Sunday, November 08, 2009
9 lives
Today
I'm not quite sure what to do. We haven't see Abby for a week. Some neighbours say they think they've seen her in the Close, but don't seem sure. I call her during the day and at supper time; hoping to see her little black shape careering towards me like a cannonball.
We've put some leaflets into various doors in the Close and hope this might turn up something.
Is she alive or dead? I don't know. I really hope that she's tucked herself up somewhere away from the hated kitties. But I feel angry to think that someone might have stolen my lovely Abby. And she's not young, Last year she suffered such a serious injury; if we hadn't got to her she would have died. It would be awful to think of that happening again.
In My Day
When Arietty was about two and a half years old she disappeared. We called and called and called. Left notes stuck to lampposts and in the shop as well as letting all our neighbours know. It was early December; most cats don't much like the cold and where there's a good fire and plenty of food they're unlikely to go far. She was only little and a real cutie; how could she survive? Days became weeks and we realised with great sadness that we would never see her again.
About a week before Christmas we popped up to Eastbourne as usual to see relatives and collect Mum to bring her back for the festivities. We'd made all the usual family visits and were just packing Mum up to go when there was a phone call. It was my neighbour, Carolyn. "I've a Christmas present for you," she said. I just knew what she was going to say. "I've got Arietty here and I've shut her in the dining room till you get back." I was overjoyed; no Christmas present could be better.
We flew home on wings of happiness to find Arietty, thin but just fine. Apparently she'd been found in a neighbour's shed - during the winter I suppose we don't go to our sheds that often. It was only when said neighbour put the dead body of their beloved chicken in the shed to await burial that Arietty was found. I believe she helped herself to a bit of the chicken!
I so long for a similar result. Abby, I miss you so much - please come home.
I'm not quite sure what to do. We haven't see Abby for a week. Some neighbours say they think they've seen her in the Close, but don't seem sure. I call her during the day and at supper time; hoping to see her little black shape careering towards me like a cannonball.
We've put some leaflets into various doors in the Close and hope this might turn up something.
Is she alive or dead? I don't know. I really hope that she's tucked herself up somewhere away from the hated kitties. But I feel angry to think that someone might have stolen my lovely Abby. And she's not young, Last year she suffered such a serious injury; if we hadn't got to her she would have died. It would be awful to think of that happening again.
In My Day
When Arietty was about two and a half years old she disappeared. We called and called and called. Left notes stuck to lampposts and in the shop as well as letting all our neighbours know. It was early December; most cats don't much like the cold and where there's a good fire and plenty of food they're unlikely to go far. She was only little and a real cutie; how could she survive? Days became weeks and we realised with great sadness that we would never see her again.
About a week before Christmas we popped up to Eastbourne as usual to see relatives and collect Mum to bring her back for the festivities. We'd made all the usual family visits and were just packing Mum up to go when there was a phone call. It was my neighbour, Carolyn. "I've a Christmas present for you," she said. I just knew what she was going to say. "I've got Arietty here and I've shut her in the dining room till you get back." I was overjoyed; no Christmas present could be better.
We flew home on wings of happiness to find Arietty, thin but just fine. Apparently she'd been found in a neighbour's shed - during the winter I suppose we don't go to our sheds that often. It was only when said neighbour put the dead body of their beloved chicken in the shed to await burial that Arietty was found. I believe she helped herself to a bit of the chicken!
I so long for a similar result. Abby, I miss you so much - please come home.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
In a Pickle
Today
Popping in to our friends' house yesterday we were invited to share their lunch of cheese and biscuits. Very nice and there were also pickles. The beetroot was especially tasty "It's called "sweetfire"" explained Cherie "I think it's quite spicy." Later she drew Howard's attention to some very good fig and ginger chutney. And the Onions were pickled in balsamic vinegar.
All this complemented the Cheddar, Stilton and Camembert very nicely.
In My Day
We simply never had pickles as children. Mamma made jams and marmalade but chutneys and pickles formed no part of our diet. Occasionally Mamma would buy sauerkraut which was invariably eaten with Frankfurters, but that was it.
I sometimes saw pickles on the tables of friends houses but I think I had some idea that they were unclean foods or terribly working-class and never touched them.
When I went on school events requiring packed lunches I looked at my colleagues' food in amazement. Cheese and pickle was strange enough but some of them had sandwiches featuring something called "Picalilli". This seemed to consist of lumps of vegetables (cauliflower featured, I remember) encased in a thick sauce of a vile yellow colour. This would ooze out of the sides of the their sandwiched and I was simply revolted as I watched them eagerly eating this muck.
When I met Paul I discovered a whole new world of flavour with his Dad's home-made chutneys, and have also learnt to make and enjoy the kinds of fresh chutneys that go with Indian Cooking.
My neighbour once told me that when he was a lad he was given Cheese and beetroot sandwiches. I've tried it - delicious, sweetfire or not!
Popping in to our friends' house yesterday we were invited to share their lunch of cheese and biscuits. Very nice and there were also pickles. The beetroot was especially tasty "It's called "sweetfire"" explained Cherie "I think it's quite spicy." Later she drew Howard's attention to some very good fig and ginger chutney. And the Onions were pickled in balsamic vinegar.
All this complemented the Cheddar, Stilton and Camembert very nicely.
In My Day
We simply never had pickles as children. Mamma made jams and marmalade but chutneys and pickles formed no part of our diet. Occasionally Mamma would buy sauerkraut which was invariably eaten with Frankfurters, but that was it.
I sometimes saw pickles on the tables of friends houses but I think I had some idea that they were unclean foods or terribly working-class and never touched them.
When I went on school events requiring packed lunches I looked at my colleagues' food in amazement. Cheese and pickle was strange enough but some of them had sandwiches featuring something called "Picalilli". This seemed to consist of lumps of vegetables (cauliflower featured, I remember) encased in a thick sauce of a vile yellow colour. This would ooze out of the sides of the their sandwiched and I was simply revolted as I watched them eagerly eating this muck.
When I met Paul I discovered a whole new world of flavour with his Dad's home-made chutneys, and have also learnt to make and enjoy the kinds of fresh chutneys that go with Indian Cooking.
My neighbour once told me that when he was a lad he was given Cheese and beetroot sandwiches. I've tried it - delicious, sweetfire or not!
Monday, October 12, 2009
Memory Lane
Today
After a pleasant few hours pottering around Knight's Hayes near Tiverton, Howard suggested we take the scenic route back home. This turned out to be very indirect. We drove across Exmoor as the low, swirling clouds coquettishly hid and displayed Dunkery Beacon.
Our first stop was Porlock Weir. We looked at the boats left high and dry by the tide and took a few photos before hastily going back to the warmth of the car.
Up Porlock Hill. "Can we take the road to Robber's Bridge?" pleaded Paul. "I'd so like to show it to you." Howard was happy to do this and we took the tiny lane that plunged off the side of the main road.
"Picture this....,"I said
In My Day
It's the end of May 1972, the weather is hot and we were about to take a holiday in Exmoor. I had for some time so wanted to share with Paul my love of Exmoor. I was very pregnant with Lizzie. We booked ourselves into a little B & B called Shilstone Farm near the village of Brendon.
We drove from Brighton to London to drop the cats off at my brother David's, then worked our way to the A30 heading West. There was no M3 or A303 in 1972 and very few bypasses. It was also a bank holiday weekend. The traffic was dense and got denser. Outside Salisbury it stopped altogether and barely moved for over two hours. The car warmed up and we worried about its capacity even to reach its destination. I became more and more uncomfortable, not knowing what to do with my bump.
Paul was hungry and tired by this time; he had had to do all the driving and this was hard going. At last we cleared Salisbury and made some progress. We joined the A39 at Minehead as the sun began to lower and shine straight into our eyes. We took a chance on Porlock Hill, hoping that the Humber's dodgy transmission would be able to cope. I began to look anxiously for the turning, worried that we'd arrive too late at the B & B or, worse still, not be able to find it at all.
Paul was beginning to doubt my navigational skills, when I suddenly saw the turning marked "Brendon and Malmsmead". We turned suddenly onto this tiny steep road that seemed to fall off the side of the hill. We could see across the valley with its mixture of lush woods and heather-covered moors. As we twisted our way down towards the rippling stream in the valley and Paul drove over Robber's Bridge we felt all the irritation and tiredness; the weight of the long journey slip from us and Paul fell as instantly and passionately in love with Exmoor as I was.
"Thank you for sharing this with us," said Howard as he positioned his new Audi carefully to get over Robber's Bridge "This really is Memory Lane"
After a pleasant few hours pottering around Knight's Hayes near Tiverton, Howard suggested we take the scenic route back home. This turned out to be very indirect. We drove across Exmoor as the low, swirling clouds coquettishly hid and displayed Dunkery Beacon.
Our first stop was Porlock Weir. We looked at the boats left high and dry by the tide and took a few photos before hastily going back to the warmth of the car.
Up Porlock Hill. "Can we take the road to Robber's Bridge?" pleaded Paul. "I'd so like to show it to you." Howard was happy to do this and we took the tiny lane that plunged off the side of the main road.
"Picture this....,"I said
In My Day
It's the end of May 1972, the weather is hot and we were about to take a holiday in Exmoor. I had for some time so wanted to share with Paul my love of Exmoor. I was very pregnant with Lizzie. We booked ourselves into a little B & B called Shilstone Farm near the village of Brendon.
We drove from Brighton to London to drop the cats off at my brother David's, then worked our way to the A30 heading West. There was no M3 or A303 in 1972 and very few bypasses. It was also a bank holiday weekend. The traffic was dense and got denser. Outside Salisbury it stopped altogether and barely moved for over two hours. The car warmed up and we worried about its capacity even to reach its destination. I became more and more uncomfortable, not knowing what to do with my bump.
Paul was hungry and tired by this time; he had had to do all the driving and this was hard going. At last we cleared Salisbury and made some progress. We joined the A39 at Minehead as the sun began to lower and shine straight into our eyes. We took a chance on Porlock Hill, hoping that the Humber's dodgy transmission would be able to cope. I began to look anxiously for the turning, worried that we'd arrive too late at the B & B or, worse still, not be able to find it at all.
Paul was beginning to doubt my navigational skills, when I suddenly saw the turning marked "Brendon and Malmsmead". We turned suddenly onto this tiny steep road that seemed to fall off the side of the hill. We could see across the valley with its mixture of lush woods and heather-covered moors. As we twisted our way down towards the rippling stream in the valley and Paul drove over Robber's Bridge we felt all the irritation and tiredness; the weight of the long journey slip from us and Paul fell as instantly and passionately in love with Exmoor as I was.
"Thank you for sharing this with us," said Howard as he positioned his new Audi carefully to get over Robber's Bridge "This really is Memory Lane"
Wednesday, October 07, 2009
Standing Room Only
Today
Recently my brother David was entertaining me with tales of how he maximises the use of his bus pass. This despite living in a very rural location. I think catching a bus for him involves leaping into the road and flagging it down, despite the lack of a bus stop. As well as travelling to the obvious local destinations such as Wells, Frome and Shepton Mallet, he uses the buses in much more adventurous ways.
David had heard tell of a bus, which seemed to be more myth than reality, which travels to Salisbury only on Tuesdays (why only Tuesdays, and why not only on Tuesdays which also fall on the third of the month and have a full moon?). David followed the clues and caught this bus which gradually filled up with other holders of bus passes along the route. From Salisbury he caught another bus to Old Sarum. Despite almost missing his connection back again, he had a splendid day, enjoying the bus experience as much as the destination.
In My Day
Dixon's Outdoor Transport (DOT for short) was the name of the bus company invented by David when we were children. He was the mastermind of this operation, devising elaborate timetables, naming all the bus stops ("Garden Gate" "Hollybush" etc), setting up a fares system and designing tickets. I suppose such a game was fairly inevitable, given our London upbringing and the central part that catching the bus played in our lives.
The bus was composed of us children like a sort of sedate conga, weaving our way from stop to stop. Timetables were punctually observed and fares taken in cardboard money. David and Chris were either bus drivers or conductors. Beatrice and I, according to ancient laws relating to the inferiority of both our junior ages and our sex, were only ever allowed to be passengers.
The management of the company was strictly David's; I don't think we were permitted to question the authority of the timetables which were miracles of precision, design and layout. I wonder exactly how many hours of my childhood were spent obediently chugging around behind my older brother, never questioning his right to act out his obsession and dreams.
It was this concern with and enjoyment of the detail and organisation of the bus system, apparent back back in the 50's as well as now, that made David's story last Saturday so fascinating and poignant.
Recently my brother David was entertaining me with tales of how he maximises the use of his bus pass. This despite living in a very rural location. I think catching a bus for him involves leaping into the road and flagging it down, despite the lack of a bus stop. As well as travelling to the obvious local destinations such as Wells, Frome and Shepton Mallet, he uses the buses in much more adventurous ways.
David had heard tell of a bus, which seemed to be more myth than reality, which travels to Salisbury only on Tuesdays (why only Tuesdays, and why not only on Tuesdays which also fall on the third of the month and have a full moon?). David followed the clues and caught this bus which gradually filled up with other holders of bus passes along the route. From Salisbury he caught another bus to Old Sarum. Despite almost missing his connection back again, he had a splendid day, enjoying the bus experience as much as the destination.
In My Day
Dixon's Outdoor Transport (DOT for short) was the name of the bus company invented by David when we were children. He was the mastermind of this operation, devising elaborate timetables, naming all the bus stops ("Garden Gate" "Hollybush" etc), setting up a fares system and designing tickets. I suppose such a game was fairly inevitable, given our London upbringing and the central part that catching the bus played in our lives.
The bus was composed of us children like a sort of sedate conga, weaving our way from stop to stop. Timetables were punctually observed and fares taken in cardboard money. David and Chris were either bus drivers or conductors. Beatrice and I, according to ancient laws relating to the inferiority of both our junior ages and our sex, were only ever allowed to be passengers.
The management of the company was strictly David's; I don't think we were permitted to question the authority of the timetables which were miracles of precision, design and layout. I wonder exactly how many hours of my childhood were spent obediently chugging around behind my older brother, never questioning his right to act out his obsession and dreams.
It was this concern with and enjoyment of the detail and organisation of the bus system, apparent back back in the 50's as well as now, that made David's story last Saturday so fascinating and poignant.
Tuesday, October 06, 2009
Trespassers
Today
As the weather deteriorates into Autumn I notice that Abby is less inclined to stand on her dignity and more inclined to come indoors and tolerate the kitties.
She's been in during the day and evening several times this week and has even deigned to sit on my lap for a few hours. She shows a preference for Paul's chair, sleeping bang in the middle of it and Paul doesn't like to disturb her.
She outstares the kitties who so far haven't taken her on.
In My Day
We acquired Caspian the dog in May 1984. He was a cheerful mongrel, aged about two. He was delighted with his new home, especially as he discovered that there were a couple of cats he could chase. This he did without malice but a great deal of energy. Amelia and Agamemnon were sorely affronted and refused to come indoors while the dog was there. They snatched their meals and zipped off outside to safety where there was little chance that he could actually catch them.
I think it was the normally timid Amelia who decided, as Autumn approached, that she was blowed if she was going to be kept out of her nice warm house by a mere dog. So the next time Cas decided that he wanted a bit of sport she simply stood her ground and gave him a good swipe, accompanied by much hissing. Cas was taken aback "I didn't mean anything by it", he seemed to be saying "Just a bit of fun, can't you take a joke?" Amelia sailed past him and took up her favourite place in the warm.
This action left the opportunity wide open for Agamemnon to follow suit which he did without having to lift a paw.
Cas, who was intelligent enough not to risk a second slapping, soon took his rightful, third place in the hierarchy. For a long time he took to avoiding the cats altogether, jumping over the sofa rather than face them. We sometimes discovered him whimpering at the top of the stairs, not daring to walk past Agamemnon who'd be reclining on a step lower down ostentatiously taking a nice long time about giving himself a jolly good wash.
In later years they all accepted each others' presence in the home, although the cats always kept their distance. When Amelia was dying she at last allowed Caspian to come close and sniff her, an honour which he repaid by mourning her death for about a week.
I'm not really hoping for feline closeness to develop between Abby and the kitties but I do wish she'd stop that stupid growling whenever she sees them.
As the weather deteriorates into Autumn I notice that Abby is less inclined to stand on her dignity and more inclined to come indoors and tolerate the kitties.
She's been in during the day and evening several times this week and has even deigned to sit on my lap for a few hours. She shows a preference for Paul's chair, sleeping bang in the middle of it and Paul doesn't like to disturb her.
She outstares the kitties who so far haven't taken her on.
In My Day
We acquired Caspian the dog in May 1984. He was a cheerful mongrel, aged about two. He was delighted with his new home, especially as he discovered that there were a couple of cats he could chase. This he did without malice but a great deal of energy. Amelia and Agamemnon were sorely affronted and refused to come indoors while the dog was there. They snatched their meals and zipped off outside to safety where there was little chance that he could actually catch them.
I think it was the normally timid Amelia who decided, as Autumn approached, that she was blowed if she was going to be kept out of her nice warm house by a mere dog. So the next time Cas decided that he wanted a bit of sport she simply stood her ground and gave him a good swipe, accompanied by much hissing. Cas was taken aback "I didn't mean anything by it", he seemed to be saying "Just a bit of fun, can't you take a joke?" Amelia sailed past him and took up her favourite place in the warm.
This action left the opportunity wide open for Agamemnon to follow suit which he did without having to lift a paw.
Cas, who was intelligent enough not to risk a second slapping, soon took his rightful, third place in the hierarchy. For a long time he took to avoiding the cats altogether, jumping over the sofa rather than face them. We sometimes discovered him whimpering at the top of the stairs, not daring to walk past Agamemnon who'd be reclining on a step lower down ostentatiously taking a nice long time about giving himself a jolly good wash.
In later years they all accepted each others' presence in the home, although the cats always kept their distance. When Amelia was dying she at last allowed Caspian to come close and sniff her, an honour which he repaid by mourning her death for about a week.
I'm not really hoping for feline closeness to develop between Abby and the kitties but I do wish she'd stop that stupid growling whenever she sees them.
Friday, October 02, 2009
Clean Sweep
Today
We decided that our tonight's dinner was going to have a Grecian theme. To Paul that meant including houmous. "What type would you like?" I asked, offering him plain, caramelised onion, lemon and coriander, roasted pepper, etc. Caramelised onion was decided upon.
Now, caramelising onions takes a while if you're going to get that lovely yummy sticky taste so I started to cook them at lunchtime, allowing them to simmer gently in the butter and olive oil. Eventually I asked Paul to turn off the stove, satisfied that they would add that special something to tonight's feasting.
Later, I was just finishing drying up a few things that Paul had washed, I noticed that the stove was clear and cleaned. "Where are my caramelised onions?" I demanded. It seems that Paul, in the middle of a kitchen cleaning frenzy had come upon them and decided that this brownish sticky stuff represented something either failed or gone off and chucked the lot away.
In My Day
One of Mamma's specialities each Christmas would be the manufacture of "cinnamon stars". These gloriously chewy cookies are made out of egg white, cinnamon and vanilla sugar. To make vanilla sugar Mamma would purchase, at a hideous cost, a vanilla pod, fill a large jar with caster sugar and immerse the pod therein. After a few months the intense flavour of the pod would have permeated the sugar. This wasn't something to be rushed.
I think it was in the year that Daddy had built a kitchen extension while Mamma was away, because I can't imagine why else he would have gone to the store cupboards. Christmas approached; Mamma had saved up enough egg-white and she started to make the cinnamon stars. She reached up for the precious sugar, and couldn't find the jar. After much searching she thought to ask Daddy.
"Oh that", he replied "It had a great big worm in it". "Worm!" cried Mamma "That was my vanilla pod." You've guessed it: Daddy had chucked the lot out, "worm" and all. I can't remember now whether Mamma managed to make the stars some other way or whether we just went without but feel sure that Daddy was confirmed in his view that the kitchen was a woman's domain.
We'll just have to have roasted pepper houmous tonight instead, which, come to think of it, is actually what Paul asked for in the first place.
We decided that our tonight's dinner was going to have a Grecian theme. To Paul that meant including houmous. "What type would you like?" I asked, offering him plain, caramelised onion, lemon and coriander, roasted pepper, etc. Caramelised onion was decided upon.
Now, caramelising onions takes a while if you're going to get that lovely yummy sticky taste so I started to cook them at lunchtime, allowing them to simmer gently in the butter and olive oil. Eventually I asked Paul to turn off the stove, satisfied that they would add that special something to tonight's feasting.
Later, I was just finishing drying up a few things that Paul had washed, I noticed that the stove was clear and cleaned. "Where are my caramelised onions?" I demanded. It seems that Paul, in the middle of a kitchen cleaning frenzy had come upon them and decided that this brownish sticky stuff represented something either failed or gone off and chucked the lot away.
In My Day
One of Mamma's specialities each Christmas would be the manufacture of "cinnamon stars". These gloriously chewy cookies are made out of egg white, cinnamon and vanilla sugar. To make vanilla sugar Mamma would purchase, at a hideous cost, a vanilla pod, fill a large jar with caster sugar and immerse the pod therein. After a few months the intense flavour of the pod would have permeated the sugar. This wasn't something to be rushed.
I think it was in the year that Daddy had built a kitchen extension while Mamma was away, because I can't imagine why else he would have gone to the store cupboards. Christmas approached; Mamma had saved up enough egg-white and she started to make the cinnamon stars. She reached up for the precious sugar, and couldn't find the jar. After much searching she thought to ask Daddy.
"Oh that", he replied "It had a great big worm in it". "Worm!" cried Mamma "That was my vanilla pod." You've guessed it: Daddy had chucked the lot out, "worm" and all. I can't remember now whether Mamma managed to make the stars some other way or whether we just went without but feel sure that Daddy was confirmed in his view that the kitchen was a woman's domain.
We'll just have to have roasted pepper houmous tonight instead, which, come to think of it, is actually what Paul asked for in the first place.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Going for a Song
Today
I had a long day yesterday. I drove to Leamington Spa and back for the purposes of an English Concert Singers rehearsal. We're all off on a concert visit to Salzburg at the end of next month and there were a lot of new pieces to sing and our conductor Roy had to weld us into some kind of ensemble.
We meet irregularly, usually for a few Sunday rehearsals, before a big concert. Yesterday there were about seventy of us.
The members of this group also permeate the English Concert Chorus which provides the vocal element to a range of classical "pop" concerts in London and Birmingham and also the British Choral Institute which offers various choral workshops during the year. People travel from all over the country, although there are clusters from Essex, the Midlands and Sussex, probably reflecting places where Roy has lived and worked.
So how I did come to be involved?
In My Day
At one time, back in the 1990s I was secretary to my local choir. This entailed, among other things, receiving large quantities of junk mail relating to musical events all over the country. In 1994 I was all prepared for a week away covering for the regular choir at Exeter Cathedral. I'd done this the year before at Gloucester and had a splendid time. So I was very disappointed when the Exeter event was abruptly cancelled.
There I was, all dressed up with nowhere to go, so to speak. I disconsolately leafed through the junk mail and noticed a flyer for a choral study week at a very posh girls' school near St Albans in Hertfordshire. There were chamber choirs, opportunities to learn singing in foreign languages and advice on choir administration. I called and was told that there was a place left. I booked and went off, entirely alone and not knowing a soul.
This event was run by the British Choral Institute, director Roy Wales. He had gathered around him a creme de la creme group of conductors and vocal trainers. It was clear that Roy had a passion for choral singing. His wife Chris did all the administration and smoothed many paths and ironed out all difficulties. The sun shone all week and I had a lovely time. We all sang together every night (I've never known the reason why Roy chose a requiem each evening...) and gave our closing concert in St Martin-in-the-Fields. I went home feeling refreshed.
After that, I contacted Roy to see if he would do a vocal techniques day for our choir, this he did, staying overnight at our place.
I soon discovered that, once on Chris' mailing list, you were never off it and my next adventure with BCI was the first Alfriston Choral weekend where about ninety of us sang Israel in Egypt with a string orchestra, entirely filling the little church. I found that people whom I'd last seen in Hertfordshire greeted me like an old friend. So I kept on going year after year. The events gave me an opportunity to sing the "big" works which were unsuitable for my smaller choir.
Chris Wales never missed any opportunity to advertise other events and I soon became aware of ECC events. In 2004 off I went to sing in "The Glory of Christmas" at the Barbican and Symphony Hall, Birmingham. While I wouldn't call these cultural high points, they were great fun and I began to cement a few friendships.
Finally I was allowed into the hallowed inner circle of the ECS. I've sung with them in Dubrovnik, Yarm, Peterborough, Leamington Spa and Birmingham, to name a few places and the repertoire has been wide and quite different from that of either Laetare or Cantilena. I never cease to be fascinated by Roy's passion and energy and amazed to the point of intimidation by Chris's efficiency. And I'm really looking forward to Salzburg.
All of which makes a mere five hours' drive and another five singing seem a mere trifle compared to the rewards.
I had a long day yesterday. I drove to Leamington Spa and back for the purposes of an English Concert Singers rehearsal. We're all off on a concert visit to Salzburg at the end of next month and there were a lot of new pieces to sing and our conductor Roy had to weld us into some kind of ensemble.
We meet irregularly, usually for a few Sunday rehearsals, before a big concert. Yesterday there were about seventy of us.
The members of this group also permeate the English Concert Chorus which provides the vocal element to a range of classical "pop" concerts in London and Birmingham and also the British Choral Institute which offers various choral workshops during the year. People travel from all over the country, although there are clusters from Essex, the Midlands and Sussex, probably reflecting places where Roy has lived and worked.
So how I did come to be involved?
In My Day
At one time, back in the 1990s I was secretary to my local choir. This entailed, among other things, receiving large quantities of junk mail relating to musical events all over the country. In 1994 I was all prepared for a week away covering for the regular choir at Exeter Cathedral. I'd done this the year before at Gloucester and had a splendid time. So I was very disappointed when the Exeter event was abruptly cancelled.
There I was, all dressed up with nowhere to go, so to speak. I disconsolately leafed through the junk mail and noticed a flyer for a choral study week at a very posh girls' school near St Albans in Hertfordshire. There were chamber choirs, opportunities to learn singing in foreign languages and advice on choir administration. I called and was told that there was a place left. I booked and went off, entirely alone and not knowing a soul.
This event was run by the British Choral Institute, director Roy Wales. He had gathered around him a creme de la creme group of conductors and vocal trainers. It was clear that Roy had a passion for choral singing. His wife Chris did all the administration and smoothed many paths and ironed out all difficulties. The sun shone all week and I had a lovely time. We all sang together every night (I've never known the reason why Roy chose a requiem each evening...) and gave our closing concert in St Martin-in-the-Fields. I went home feeling refreshed.
After that, I contacted Roy to see if he would do a vocal techniques day for our choir, this he did, staying overnight at our place.
I soon discovered that, once on Chris' mailing list, you were never off it and my next adventure with BCI was the first Alfriston Choral weekend where about ninety of us sang Israel in Egypt with a string orchestra, entirely filling the little church. I found that people whom I'd last seen in Hertfordshire greeted me like an old friend. So I kept on going year after year. The events gave me an opportunity to sing the "big" works which were unsuitable for my smaller choir.
Chris Wales never missed any opportunity to advertise other events and I soon became aware of ECC events. In 2004 off I went to sing in "The Glory of Christmas" at the Barbican and Symphony Hall, Birmingham. While I wouldn't call these cultural high points, they were great fun and I began to cement a few friendships.
Finally I was allowed into the hallowed inner circle of the ECS. I've sung with them in Dubrovnik, Yarm, Peterborough, Leamington Spa and Birmingham, to name a few places and the repertoire has been wide and quite different from that of either Laetare or Cantilena. I never cease to be fascinated by Roy's passion and energy and amazed to the point of intimidation by Chris's efficiency. And I'm really looking forward to Salzburg.
All of which makes a mere five hours' drive and another five singing seem a mere trifle compared to the rewards.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Vertigo
Today
More on our walk to Brighton Pier last week. We bought ourselves ice-cream (where did the name "99" come from?) and decided to walk along the pier. These days it's just "The Pier", as the West Pier slowly disappears beneath the waves and the 3rd pier is confined to the history books.
We mostly kept to the sunny side and I took pictures of the sunnily-shimmering sea, the rotting piles just showing above the waves and the various bits of funfair apparatus. The whole of the far end of the pier is devoted to a permanent funfair and we watched the crazy people being swirled about in the air above us. Piped chart music kept us company the whole way.
The floor beneath was still composed of wooden planks, through which the sea could be seen. I looked down and tried to recapture the way I used to feel about this when I was small.
In My Day
Readers of this blog will by now know that Brighton was a very familiar place to me in my childhood. It was (and still is!) the nearest seaside resort to South London. Fifty minutes on the train from East Croydon and ten minutes from the station and we were at the Pier.
"Palace Pier" sounded so grand and, just as Paul and I did last week, we often were bought ice creams before sauntering along the wooden planks so precariously and arrogantly set over the turbulent sea.
Brighton was rather gone to seed in those days and the Pier seemed, to my junior eyes, to be a dangerous place. The metal struts were rusty and the wooden supports rotting. The gaps between the planks seemed huge and I wondered what would happen if my foot became stuck between them. Or, worse still, if I actually slipped between them into the raging waves.
There was a moment to be savoured as the view beneath one's feet changed from reassuring pebbles to treacherous water. In a flash I moved from safety to danger. Somehow it always seemed impossible windy.
There were still the little shops down the middle selling all kinds of rubbish and I remember clearly the glass animal man blowing molten glass gently into fantastic shapes. How I wanted to buy some but was never allowed.
Eventually we got to end of the Pier. There was no funfair is those days; rather the structure ended abruptly and I faced the unending ocean with all its terror and fantasy. People were fishing from the end and I stood astonished at their fearlessness. I was always quite glad to be back on terra firma proper, so to speak, never having quite trusted this rickety structure.
One thing I have learnt since then is how to eat a whole ice cream cone without losing most of the ice cream onto the pavement.
More on our walk to Brighton Pier last week. We bought ourselves ice-cream (where did the name "99" come from?) and decided to walk along the pier. These days it's just "The Pier", as the West Pier slowly disappears beneath the waves and the 3rd pier is confined to the history books.
We mostly kept to the sunny side and I took pictures of the sunnily-shimmering sea, the rotting piles just showing above the waves and the various bits of funfair apparatus. The whole of the far end of the pier is devoted to a permanent funfair and we watched the crazy people being swirled about in the air above us. Piped chart music kept us company the whole way.
The floor beneath was still composed of wooden planks, through which the sea could be seen. I looked down and tried to recapture the way I used to feel about this when I was small.
In My Day
Readers of this blog will by now know that Brighton was a very familiar place to me in my childhood. It was (and still is!) the nearest seaside resort to South London. Fifty minutes on the train from East Croydon and ten minutes from the station and we were at the Pier.
"Palace Pier" sounded so grand and, just as Paul and I did last week, we often were bought ice creams before sauntering along the wooden planks so precariously and arrogantly set over the turbulent sea.
Brighton was rather gone to seed in those days and the Pier seemed, to my junior eyes, to be a dangerous place. The metal struts were rusty and the wooden supports rotting. The gaps between the planks seemed huge and I wondered what would happen if my foot became stuck between them. Or, worse still, if I actually slipped between them into the raging waves.
There was a moment to be savoured as the view beneath one's feet changed from reassuring pebbles to treacherous water. In a flash I moved from safety to danger. Somehow it always seemed impossible windy.
There were still the little shops down the middle selling all kinds of rubbish and I remember clearly the glass animal man blowing molten glass gently into fantastic shapes. How I wanted to buy some but was never allowed.
Eventually we got to end of the Pier. There was no funfair is those days; rather the structure ended abruptly and I faced the unending ocean with all its terror and fantasy. People were fishing from the end and I stood astonished at their fearlessness. I was always quite glad to be back on terra firma proper, so to speak, never having quite trusted this rickety structure.
One thing I have learnt since then is how to eat a whole ice cream cone without losing most of the ice cream onto the pavement.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Pebbles
Today
Yesterday I worked away at Paul's waistcoat until the heat on the veranda became too much and the sparkling sea beckoned us out.
We walked via the Enclosures onto Madeira Drive and crossed the Volks railway line onto the beach. We slid and scrambled over the pebbles to the shore. We looked at the waves and made our way, eventually, back up to the promenade. Our feet adapted to the sliding pebbles easily and we even felt that the scramble was doing us good.
"Of course", I said to Paul "Pebbly beaches are what I'm used to."
In My Day
Most of our excursions to the seaside during my childhood involved Brighton; sometimes Eastbourne and, at a pinch, Hastings. All these resorts have pebbly beaches, some rebarbatively so. Some show a scrap of gritty sand at very low tide, but, basically, the East Sussex coast is pebbles.
I don't think I minded; somehow I couldn't quite believe in beaches where you could make a sandcastle. When I read the Rupert Bear annuals in which he visited "Sandy Bay" and sat on and played with sand, it seemed more fictional than the wildest fairy tale.
Having said that, one of my earliest seaside memories involves sand. The holiday was in 1951 to Southbourne, near Littlehampton. There wasn't just a sandy beach; there were sand dunes, Pictures in the family album as well as a visit I made when a student in Worthing attest to the truth of this.
I remember that holiday. How I so wanted to clamber up the enticing dunes after Mamma and the boys. I tried, but they were too steep for my little three-year old legs and I slid to the bottom. My memory is that Mamma and the boys all laughed at me. Can that be true? I don't know but I still remember that sense of being too small and insignificant to achieve what the others were achieving with such ease. I can still see that steep, steep hill of sand from which I felt so excluded . Certainly the album has a picture of me at bottom with spade and the boys and Mamma scrambling to the top.
Who, knows, this experience may have contributed to my aversion to beach life and my complete lack of interest in sand. What I do know, is that I had a lovely time yesterday.
Yesterday I worked away at Paul's waistcoat until the heat on the veranda became too much and the sparkling sea beckoned us out.
We walked via the Enclosures onto Madeira Drive and crossed the Volks railway line onto the beach. We slid and scrambled over the pebbles to the shore. We looked at the waves and made our way, eventually, back up to the promenade. Our feet adapted to the sliding pebbles easily and we even felt that the scramble was doing us good.
"Of course", I said to Paul "Pebbly beaches are what I'm used to."
In My Day
Most of our excursions to the seaside during my childhood involved Brighton; sometimes Eastbourne and, at a pinch, Hastings. All these resorts have pebbly beaches, some rebarbatively so. Some show a scrap of gritty sand at very low tide, but, basically, the East Sussex coast is pebbles.
I don't think I minded; somehow I couldn't quite believe in beaches where you could make a sandcastle. When I read the Rupert Bear annuals in which he visited "Sandy Bay" and sat on and played with sand, it seemed more fictional than the wildest fairy tale.
Having said that, one of my earliest seaside memories involves sand. The holiday was in 1951 to Southbourne, near Littlehampton. There wasn't just a sandy beach; there were sand dunes, Pictures in the family album as well as a visit I made when a student in Worthing attest to the truth of this.
I remember that holiday. How I so wanted to clamber up the enticing dunes after Mamma and the boys. I tried, but they were too steep for my little three-year old legs and I slid to the bottom. My memory is that Mamma and the boys all laughed at me. Can that be true? I don't know but I still remember that sense of being too small and insignificant to achieve what the others were achieving with such ease. I can still see that steep, steep hill of sand from which I felt so excluded . Certainly the album has a picture of me at bottom with spade and the boys and Mamma scrambling to the top.
Who, knows, this experience may have contributed to my aversion to beach life and my complete lack of interest in sand. What I do know, is that I had a lovely time yesterday.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Buggy
Today
The bus is a great way to travel in Brighton. On Friday, after doing some shopping in town we hopped onto the number twelve. It was pretty crowded - this is a popular route - and Paul & I sat on little fold-up seats. Just past the pier a young woman with a baby in a pushchair boarded. The pushchair was quite big, with splayed wheels and the mother was having difficulty finding somewhere to put it. Paul & I gave up our seats so that she could wedge herself in. She and her machine took up about four seat spaces. I found another seat next to a chatty woman of about my age.
"I remember getting the smallest pushchair I could", I said "one that would easily fold up on the bus." "Oh yes", she said "Baby Buggies."
In My Day
The girls basically had two forms of transport. When they were tiny, I used a carrycot which went on foldable wheels. If I needed to go on the bus, I put them into slings which buckled onto my body. Once they were able to sit up they went into the Baby Buggy. This was a very basic framework of a deckchair-type fabric slung onto a frame that could be closed up, using one hand and a foot, to little bigger than an umbrella and slung over one arm.
They were made of aluminium and were very light. Travelling on the bus was easy!
The buses in Eastbourne at that time were single-decker. You got on at the front to pay your fare and got off either at the front or the middle. The driver relied on his mirror to tell him that people were alighting from this middle door. My routine, once Lizzie was walking, was to alight with buggy, open it up on the pavement, then reach up and get Lizzie down and pop her in. Easy! However, this routine had to change and this is why:
On one occasion, I was getting off the bus at Hampden Park. Door opened and I alighted and opened up the pushchair. Turned to get Lizzie only to see, to my horror, the doors closing and the bus beginning to pull away. Seems that the mirror used by the driver didn't give him a view of the lower down position of a toddler. Fortunately the bus was still quite full and, as I ran alongside the bus, passengers yelled at the driver to stop. I grabbed Lizzie and changed the routine to child-out-first. A similar thing happened to Beatrice with Becky some years later.
At least this was unlikely to happen to the woman on the Brighton bus as she was taking up about half of the lower deck and could hardly be missed.
The bus is a great way to travel in Brighton. On Friday, after doing some shopping in town we hopped onto the number twelve. It was pretty crowded - this is a popular route - and Paul & I sat on little fold-up seats. Just past the pier a young woman with a baby in a pushchair boarded. The pushchair was quite big, with splayed wheels and the mother was having difficulty finding somewhere to put it. Paul & I gave up our seats so that she could wedge herself in. She and her machine took up about four seat spaces. I found another seat next to a chatty woman of about my age.
"I remember getting the smallest pushchair I could", I said "one that would easily fold up on the bus." "Oh yes", she said "Baby Buggies."
In My Day
The girls basically had two forms of transport. When they were tiny, I used a carrycot which went on foldable wheels. If I needed to go on the bus, I put them into slings which buckled onto my body. Once they were able to sit up they went into the Baby Buggy. This was a very basic framework of a deckchair-type fabric slung onto a frame that could be closed up, using one hand and a foot, to little bigger than an umbrella and slung over one arm.
They were made of aluminium and were very light. Travelling on the bus was easy!
The buses in Eastbourne at that time were single-decker. You got on at the front to pay your fare and got off either at the front or the middle. The driver relied on his mirror to tell him that people were alighting from this middle door. My routine, once Lizzie was walking, was to alight with buggy, open it up on the pavement, then reach up and get Lizzie down and pop her in. Easy! However, this routine had to change and this is why:
On one occasion, I was getting off the bus at Hampden Park. Door opened and I alighted and opened up the pushchair. Turned to get Lizzie only to see, to my horror, the doors closing and the bus beginning to pull away. Seems that the mirror used by the driver didn't give him a view of the lower down position of a toddler. Fortunately the bus was still quite full and, as I ran alongside the bus, passengers yelled at the driver to stop. I grabbed Lizzie and changed the routine to child-out-first. A similar thing happened to Beatrice with Becky some years later.
At least this was unlikely to happen to the woman on the Brighton bus as she was taking up about half of the lower deck and could hardly be missed.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Speak up
Today
There's an old question: which would you rather be? Deaf or blind? For most people there's no choice: deaf is better. Paul's hearing seems to be deteriorating - he doesn't always realise it but he often bends his head sideways to catch what I'm saying and he's confused when there's a lot of background noise, finding it hard to pick out specifics. I guess it's a normal part of ageing, but it's irritating for sufferer and others alike. And that's the thing: it's seen as an irritant, something that makes you foolish, even something to laugh at.
So it was salutary to be among my nephew's new in-laws, both of whom are deaf, one profoundly from birth, at the recent family wedding. Father-in-law made the usual speech, with a signer to interpret for his deaf friends and Jacob gracefully included signing in his groom's speech.
We visited their beautiful home the following day and felt welcome, not awkward. It was a new experience for me to see them with a group of friends, all chatting away in complete silence. The point is, the quality of their lives didn't seem at all lessened and I felt privileged to be among such warm and creative people.
In My Day
I suppose Daddy began to go deaf during his '60's. We were heartless, as children often are, laughing about Daddy's "selective deafness" and treating it as though it was a choice he'd made, rather than an affliction. Given that his profession was as a shorthand reporter, it was absurd to imagine that he'd go without hearing for the dubious reward of being able to ignore unwanted requests. After he had his stroke, at the age of seventy-four, his hearing deteriorated very rapidly. He did wear a hearing aid, items that were of dubious value then, although they're much improved now.
He suffered in much the same way as Paul: confused when there was a hubbub. One-to-one, conversation could be carried on much as usual, although louder. He grieved very much over the loss of enjoyment in music - it gradually began to sound like a meaningless cacophony - but otherwise took to beaming silently when we were all gatherd around him, happy to be a little cut off.
The other part of the question is: is it better to be born deaf or to lose hearing later? With Jacob's in-laws in mind, it does seem that they have a very full and productive life. I salute them.
There's an old question: which would you rather be? Deaf or blind? For most people there's no choice: deaf is better. Paul's hearing seems to be deteriorating - he doesn't always realise it but he often bends his head sideways to catch what I'm saying and he's confused when there's a lot of background noise, finding it hard to pick out specifics. I guess it's a normal part of ageing, but it's irritating for sufferer and others alike. And that's the thing: it's seen as an irritant, something that makes you foolish, even something to laugh at.
So it was salutary to be among my nephew's new in-laws, both of whom are deaf, one profoundly from birth, at the recent family wedding. Father-in-law made the usual speech, with a signer to interpret for his deaf friends and Jacob gracefully included signing in his groom's speech.
We visited their beautiful home the following day and felt welcome, not awkward. It was a new experience for me to see them with a group of friends, all chatting away in complete silence. The point is, the quality of their lives didn't seem at all lessened and I felt privileged to be among such warm and creative people.
In My Day
I suppose Daddy began to go deaf during his '60's. We were heartless, as children often are, laughing about Daddy's "selective deafness" and treating it as though it was a choice he'd made, rather than an affliction. Given that his profession was as a shorthand reporter, it was absurd to imagine that he'd go without hearing for the dubious reward of being able to ignore unwanted requests. After he had his stroke, at the age of seventy-four, his hearing deteriorated very rapidly. He did wear a hearing aid, items that were of dubious value then, although they're much improved now.
He suffered in much the same way as Paul: confused when there was a hubbub. One-to-one, conversation could be carried on much as usual, although louder. He grieved very much over the loss of enjoyment in music - it gradually began to sound like a meaningless cacophony - but otherwise took to beaming silently when we were all gatherd around him, happy to be a little cut off.
The other part of the question is: is it better to be born deaf or to lose hearing later? With Jacob's in-laws in mind, it does seem that they have a very full and productive life. I salute them.
Monday, September 07, 2009
Three's a crowd
Today
We've had the kitties for over a year now and Abby doesn't seem to be any closer to accepting them. In fact, it's getting slightly worse, with Abby only coming in for meals and growling even when sitting on my lap.
I feel a combination of anxiety and irritation. I want both to reassure her and to tell her to stop being so silly and get over it!
In My Day
When a customer of Paul's told him that they had a cross-bred Abyssinian cat to give away he jumped at the chance to get it for me. Abyssinians are renowned for their intelligent and affectionate natures and for their beautiful short, dense coats in which each hair is striped, honey, brown and "tipped" either with red or black. These kittens were "cross-bred" because their owners, who kept two pure-bred females for breeding, were bad at security and one female regularly escaped to enjoy the attentions of the local tomcat population. This resulted in unsaleable kittens and a queen spoiled for future breeding.
Just about as soon as Paul had committed himself to taking the kitten, we discovered that our cat Amelia was pregnant. About a week after the kittens were born, the Abyssinian, now called Agamemnon, came home. He displayed the usual playful interest in the kittens whose eyes were still closed and Amelia, without so much as a growl, let Agamemnon know that he could look but not touch. She allowed him to join in at feeding times, which he did by lying down behind her and grabbing a nipple from above.
Once the kittens were running about and had their eyes open, Amelia was completely laissez-faire and allowed Agamemnon to bat the kittens about, He never injured them and they came back for more.
For all their long lives together, Amelia and Agamemnon were close companions, usually curling up at nights to sleep together. Amelia continued in her maternal duties by washing Agamemnon regularly, pinning him down by one ear.
If only I could explain to Abby that she's nothing to fear and that life would be more rewarding if she could welcome the kitties into her heart.
We've had the kitties for over a year now and Abby doesn't seem to be any closer to accepting them. In fact, it's getting slightly worse, with Abby only coming in for meals and growling even when sitting on my lap.
I feel a combination of anxiety and irritation. I want both to reassure her and to tell her to stop being so silly and get over it!
In My Day
When a customer of Paul's told him that they had a cross-bred Abyssinian cat to give away he jumped at the chance to get it for me. Abyssinians are renowned for their intelligent and affectionate natures and for their beautiful short, dense coats in which each hair is striped, honey, brown and "tipped" either with red or black. These kittens were "cross-bred" because their owners, who kept two pure-bred females for breeding, were bad at security and one female regularly escaped to enjoy the attentions of the local tomcat population. This resulted in unsaleable kittens and a queen spoiled for future breeding.
Just about as soon as Paul had committed himself to taking the kitten, we discovered that our cat Amelia was pregnant. About a week after the kittens were born, the Abyssinian, now called Agamemnon, came home. He displayed the usual playful interest in the kittens whose eyes were still closed and Amelia, without so much as a growl, let Agamemnon know that he could look but not touch. She allowed him to join in at feeding times, which he did by lying down behind her and grabbing a nipple from above.
Once the kittens were running about and had their eyes open, Amelia was completely laissez-faire and allowed Agamemnon to bat the kittens about, He never injured them and they came back for more.
For all their long lives together, Amelia and Agamemnon were close companions, usually curling up at nights to sleep together. Amelia continued in her maternal duties by washing Agamemnon regularly, pinning him down by one ear.
If only I could explain to Abby that she's nothing to fear and that life would be more rewarding if she could welcome the kitties into her heart.
Sunday, September 06, 2009
Oats
Today
In Tesco yesterday Paul looked longingly at the tins of condensed and evaporated milk. "When we start having porridge again, I'd really like some with condensed milk", he said "Or do I mean evaporated milk? What's the difference?" I replied that I thought that condensed contained sugar and evaporated didn't, but added that we could have porridge whenever he wanted. A quick glance at the labels on the tins proved me right and some evaporated milk was bought.
"So long as you don't do a Pooh Bear who, when asked if he wanted condensed milk or honey with his bread, said "both" and added "but don't bother about the bread" so as not to seem greedy," I joked "You'll be fine."
We've just had our porridge, which I make with skimmed milk in a porringer, and Paul enjoyed his with the evaporated milk and honey.
In My Day
Porridge was very much a winter breakfast when I was a child. Both Mamma and Daddy made it but Daddy was the recognised expert. It too was made in a porringer or "double saucepan" as Mamma called it. This pan wasn't used for anything else as far as I remember. It was aluminium and the bottom section was encrusted inside with lime deposits from the water and never seemed to be washed up. There's a picture of Beatrice, aged about two, pulling this pot off the trolley to finish up the congealing contents.
The porridge was made with water and a pinch of salt. It was essential to stir it or the starch grains didn't break and turn the porridge thick. Instead the result would be something the Daddy called "skillie" - a milky liquid with oatmeal floating around and quite uneatable. Mamma was quite adept at this version.
We always ate the porridge with milk and golden syrup. I liked to watch the syrup make golden curls and swirls on the top of the porridge. I never added much milk and used to mix it up thoroughly as the combination of hot & cold always seemed a bit strange. Mamma, on the other hand, used to pour the milk carefully around the sides and take a spoonful of milk and porridge with them still quite separate.
Daddy insisted that the only oats to buy were Scotts Porage Oats. All others were inferior, apparently. The packets showed a caber throwing, kilted Scotsman, to prove to you just how strong and tough the consumption of this cereal would make you. The porridge (why did we spell it that way, when the packet said something different?) was very different from gruel, a food item only encountered in story books and clearly very nasty.
I've been told that proper porridge should be thick enough to walk on, sprinkled with salt and cut into slices when needed. I expect it's a Scottish urban myth and reinforces the idea that Scottish cuisine is vile.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Watch your language
Today
Terrific evening last night. Paul & I went to see the comedian Bill Bailey at the Bristol Hippodrome. We laughed and laughed. One of things we've noticed about BB is the complete lack of gratuitous swearing; in fact any swearing at all. He actually mentioned it during the show, saying that the use of swearing to enhance comedy provides diminishing returns so he prefers not to do it.
We talked about this with our nephew and he told a very funny tale of another comedian/musician who does swear in his act who received a comment from a fan to the effect that a man who plays the piano has no need to swear. We're not sure what was meant by this: is it that all your aggression can be vented via the musical instrument, or is the implication that pianists are rather higher up emotionally and mentally in the scheme of things so don't need this rather unimaginative way of expressing themselves?
In My Day
Daddy thought that swearing should be an act involving the imagination and he came out with his own phrases such as "mahogany kippers" when stubbing a toe or dropping the hammer. Occasionally he would change them with a little flourish - "donner und blitzen" was probably a more predictable phrase, among many.
He was quite aware of the phases normally reserved for swearing and he took one of two approaches. Some, such as the "F" and "C" words he used regularly in everyday speech in their proper context, arguing that if we heard these words often enough the novelty would wear off and we wouldn't be tempted to use them in anger ourselves. I don't think mamma approved much of this, but she said little, knowing when resistance would be useless. She never herself swore.
With some others he showed an old-fashioned superstition that sat uncomfortably with his modern and avowedly atheist views. Words such as "bloody" - meaning "by our lady" were quite unacceptable. The strangest and worst was to say "blimey" as this really means "God blind me" and who knew when God (who didn't exist, according to Daddy) might decide to do what you asked? I guess this was a hangover from the teachings of his mother, and I suppose we all have a little superstition in us somewhere.
At college I had a friend who thought that the best way to express anger and frustation was to say "bunny rabbits". Awesome, really.
Terrific evening last night. Paul & I went to see the comedian Bill Bailey at the Bristol Hippodrome. We laughed and laughed. One of things we've noticed about BB is the complete lack of gratuitous swearing; in fact any swearing at all. He actually mentioned it during the show, saying that the use of swearing to enhance comedy provides diminishing returns so he prefers not to do it.
We talked about this with our nephew and he told a very funny tale of another comedian/musician who does swear in his act who received a comment from a fan to the effect that a man who plays the piano has no need to swear. We're not sure what was meant by this: is it that all your aggression can be vented via the musical instrument, or is the implication that pianists are rather higher up emotionally and mentally in the scheme of things so don't need this rather unimaginative way of expressing themselves?
In My Day
Daddy thought that swearing should be an act involving the imagination and he came out with his own phrases such as "mahogany kippers" when stubbing a toe or dropping the hammer. Occasionally he would change them with a little flourish - "donner und blitzen" was probably a more predictable phrase, among many.
He was quite aware of the phases normally reserved for swearing and he took one of two approaches. Some, such as the "F" and "C" words he used regularly in everyday speech in their proper context, arguing that if we heard these words often enough the novelty would wear off and we wouldn't be tempted to use them in anger ourselves. I don't think mamma approved much of this, but she said little, knowing when resistance would be useless. She never herself swore.
With some others he showed an old-fashioned superstition that sat uncomfortably with his modern and avowedly atheist views. Words such as "bloody" - meaning "by our lady" were quite unacceptable. The strangest and worst was to say "blimey" as this really means "God blind me" and who knew when God (who didn't exist, according to Daddy) might decide to do what you asked? I guess this was a hangover from the teachings of his mother, and I suppose we all have a little superstition in us somewhere.
At college I had a friend who thought that the best way to express anger and frustation was to say "bunny rabbits". Awesome, really.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
One Lump or Two
Today
A success over the weekend with my cooking. We'd invited the gang from the Wine Circle over to ours and I said I'd provide a cream tea. I prayed for rain, which ensured an afternoon of delightful sunshine and we crowded into our garden for tea, Pimm's and a selection of crustless sandwiches, scones with cream and jam, Victoria Sponge, lemon cake, carrot cake and Pauls' own recipe vanilla ice-cream. Wasps hovered expectantly, undeterred by the number of corpses around the place, and gorged on white wine.
Everything was done to a turn (I must say, I bake a mean scone) and we all (even Agnes who'd scrambled under the tablecloth covering the food, as well as the flies protectors to discover how much she liked the icing on the carrot cake) tucked in. Eventually we were all filled up with delicious carbohydrate and relaxed with tea or Pimm's and exchanged anecdotes. Lyn talked about the sanctity of "high tea" on Sundays when she was a girl. "Well, this is a high tea" she said.
In My Day
"Cream tea" can mean a number of things, but must always include scones, cream and tea. When we were children we rarely went into restaurants but often into tea shops. You could always get tea and bread-and-butter. Scones were available with cream - sometimes clotted which I found a bit too much - and jam. Wasps were often an accompaniment to these delights, crawling up the windowpanes of the tea shops or hovering around if we were outside. There might be a plate of cakes - cream-filled or rock and fairy cakes and it could be a quite a job choosing the right one.
"High tea" had a greater variety of possible definitions. It seemed that this was always eaten on a Sunday and at home was likely to include cheese, ham and salad as well as bread and butter and, maybe, cake. I learnt just how different when visiting other people's houses. A great luxury in those days was tinned salmon and this was often on the table at friends' houses. I was indifferent to its somewhat watery taste and a little put off by the puce colour and soggy texture. There might be pork pies, filled with unidentifiable meat and uneatably rubbery jelly and, a real horror this, tongue. There might be jelly with blancmange or tinned fruit. Fresh fruit was a rarity.
I also learnt quite quickly that some people ate "dinner" at midday when we ate lunch and "tea" meant the evening meal which we called supper. It was only years later that I understood the deep class divide that this reveals. So an invitation to "tea" could mean anything from tea and biscuits to a fully cooked meal. It was impossible to prepare for this without asking awkward question beforehand. It's a bit rude to ask your hosts whether you'll actually get anything to eat!
Paul's family also used to have a high tea on Sundays. I found the amount of carbohydrate that I was expected to put away very daunting and somehow felt full and dyspeptic without feeling satisfied. But Mum was not satisfied with lady-like pickings and was apt to take it amiss if I didn't stuff my face with bread, pastries from Bondolfi's bakery in Meads and the notorious "bung-in" cake. One quickly realises the benefit of tea; it really helps to offset that stodgy feeling.
Anyway, I really enjoyed the opportunity to show off what I can do in the baking line, but am not quite sure I'm up to Lyn's suggestion that we do it once a month.
A success over the weekend with my cooking. We'd invited the gang from the Wine Circle over to ours and I said I'd provide a cream tea. I prayed for rain, which ensured an afternoon of delightful sunshine and we crowded into our garden for tea, Pimm's and a selection of crustless sandwiches, scones with cream and jam, Victoria Sponge, lemon cake, carrot cake and Pauls' own recipe vanilla ice-cream. Wasps hovered expectantly, undeterred by the number of corpses around the place, and gorged on white wine.
Everything was done to a turn (I must say, I bake a mean scone) and we all (even Agnes who'd scrambled under the tablecloth covering the food, as well as the flies protectors to discover how much she liked the icing on the carrot cake) tucked in. Eventually we were all filled up with delicious carbohydrate and relaxed with tea or Pimm's and exchanged anecdotes. Lyn talked about the sanctity of "high tea" on Sundays when she was a girl. "Well, this is a high tea" she said.
In My Day
"Cream tea" can mean a number of things, but must always include scones, cream and tea. When we were children we rarely went into restaurants but often into tea shops. You could always get tea and bread-and-butter. Scones were available with cream - sometimes clotted which I found a bit too much - and jam. Wasps were often an accompaniment to these delights, crawling up the windowpanes of the tea shops or hovering around if we were outside. There might be a plate of cakes - cream-filled or rock and fairy cakes and it could be a quite a job choosing the right one.
"High tea" had a greater variety of possible definitions. It seemed that this was always eaten on a Sunday and at home was likely to include cheese, ham and salad as well as bread and butter and, maybe, cake. I learnt just how different when visiting other people's houses. A great luxury in those days was tinned salmon and this was often on the table at friends' houses. I was indifferent to its somewhat watery taste and a little put off by the puce colour and soggy texture. There might be pork pies, filled with unidentifiable meat and uneatably rubbery jelly and, a real horror this, tongue. There might be jelly with blancmange or tinned fruit. Fresh fruit was a rarity.
I also learnt quite quickly that some people ate "dinner" at midday when we ate lunch and "tea" meant the evening meal which we called supper. It was only years later that I understood the deep class divide that this reveals. So an invitation to "tea" could mean anything from tea and biscuits to a fully cooked meal. It was impossible to prepare for this without asking awkward question beforehand. It's a bit rude to ask your hosts whether you'll actually get anything to eat!
Paul's family also used to have a high tea on Sundays. I found the amount of carbohydrate that I was expected to put away very daunting and somehow felt full and dyspeptic without feeling satisfied. But Mum was not satisfied with lady-like pickings and was apt to take it amiss if I didn't stuff my face with bread, pastries from Bondolfi's bakery in Meads and the notorious "bung-in" cake. One quickly realises the benefit of tea; it really helps to offset that stodgy feeling.
Anyway, I really enjoyed the opportunity to show off what I can do in the baking line, but am not quite sure I'm up to Lyn's suggestion that we do it once a month.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Where did you get that hat?
Today
It's not often I write two blogs in one day - but this suggested itself. On Facebook, two references to hats. One was a new picture of brother David in a baseball cap that he describes as a "veritable trophy". Hmmmm. The other was a question from a friend as to whether to buy a new "fascinator", presumably for an upcoming wedding.
I don't know which I'm less likely to wear; the fascinator probably, as baseball caps do at least keep off the sun. From which you may gather that I am not a fan of hats.
In My Day
There was a time when not to wear a hat out of doors was simply unthinkable. Looking at photos even from as late as the 1940's you see men wearing trilbies and caps, women wearing hats or headscarves.
Daddy used to wear a trilby when he went out; there are many pictures of him 
in the album wearing such an object. I am not sure of its purpose, other than to state that he was conforming. I don't think he saw it as a style statement as stylish dressing wasn't Daddy's forte. Maybe it kept his bald patch warm and dry.
in the album wearing such an object. I am not sure of its purpose, other than to state that he was conforming. I don't think he saw it as a style statement as stylish dressing wasn't Daddy's forte. Maybe it kept his bald patch warm and dry.Mamma wore hats only on posh occasions and, to be frank, they rarely suited her. I have an abiding memory of a lilac gauze-covered "coolie" hat that she wore a fair bit, mainly to Townswomens' Guild conventions. She kept her hats on the top of the wardrobe. I had the prescience to know that hats and I are not destined to be happy companions and I didn't try on her hats; played with her jewellery box, tried on her high heels, yes, hats, no.
My first memory of wearing a hat was when I started at Grammar school. The uniform required a velour hat in winter, straw boater in summer; later we wore berets. It didn't really matter, I hated them all and looked grim in them. If I could have invented an allergy or religious reason to be let off wearing them, I would have done. There is a picture of me wearing a knitted bobble hat at the Proms, but I think I only donned it for the photo as a gesture of solidarity as we had knitted them ourselves.
Hats mess up my already rather fragile hair, blow off in the wind and I only wear them if my head is threatening to freeze or the sun is threatening to burn my shoulders or turn my hair a neon orange.
I think my attitude to fascinators is affected by seeing a very drunk Irish woman at a very posh wedding in Wicklow a few years back, abusing the staff in colourful and slurred language while a ridiculous black feather contraption waggled about on her head.
I went to a wedding the other week and there were all manner of hats and fascinators dancing about on people heads. Not on mine, though, and that's a promise I've made to all who invite me to weddings (including in the unlikely event of my being mother of the Bride).
Maketh Man
Today
A big discussion on Facebook recently about mannerly behaviour. Comments on FB can travel a long way and it surprises me that people don't monitor their remarks or seem to be aware that FB is read by children, older people, even their parents. And my most mannerly nephew John was expressing despair over people's unpleasant behaviour that leads to all sorts of unkindness and even cruelty.
It's impossible to change the world, but you can influence your bit of it by refusing to resort to vulgar language or behaviour and by treating others with respect and attention. Of course, there are cultural differences, but a little thought quickly sorts that out.
And some people just fit into the category of "nature's gentlemen and ladies"; without learning a complex set of rules, they have a natural courtesy that comes from within.
In My Day
Daddy was certainly one of nature's gentlemen. He had natural ebullience, originality, charm and generosity that overcame any objections that could be made on the basis of his poverty-stricken background. His mother had tried very hard to give him the kind of good manners that come from the heart and these he passed onto us. For example, not to watch what others ate, counting anxiously every mouthful in case they had more, and he always gave people a courteous hearing.
Mamma's background was more straightforwardly upper middle-class, although with a German twist. She never fully mastered the labyrinthine details of English posh manners, but her inability to tell a lie and complete lack of snobbery stood in their place very well. I never once heard her make a barbed remark or act vindictively.
Of course there were tricky moments. On one occasion Paul's mother had invited my parents to a meal at Ravenhurst. She pushed the boat out with snow-white napery, silver candlesticks, the lot. Unfortunately, as she wasn't the world's best cook, the meal itself was just short of disaster, with limp vegetables and soggy pastry. I guess she realised this, but instead of shutting up she said effusively to Mamma, "I'm sorry it's so plebeian." She was clearly looking for reassurances that all was well. Mamma, who, remember, never lied, said "Well you are plebeian, why try to be anything else?" There was a frosty silence and quick change of subject. How well I understood both viewpoints.
Tricia, who had also had an early struggle, found it hard to differentiate between the form and substance. There's a famous family story which she told us many times. One of her boyfriends was a major with a double-barrelled name. She told the tale of going out to dinner with this man. The Maitre D came over to check that all was well and the major asked for his name. "Mr Smith", was the reply. "Well," snorted our double-barrelled hero, "I hardly thought you were Mrs!" This story was intended to show up the Maitre D's low oirigins in that he didn't know that the norm at that time was simply to bark out your surname. One day, I'd had enough. "Well, " I said, "I think that was very rude." "Oh, quite," said Tricia "The man simply had no idea." "No, I mean your friend Major what's his name. The man was simply doing his job and he was humiliated in front of you for a very minor faux pas." Tricia, to do her justice, paused, considered, conceded and, best of all, never told the story again.
These days we have lost many of the forms of manners, so we will just have to rely on the manners that come from the heart.
A big discussion on Facebook recently about mannerly behaviour. Comments on FB can travel a long way and it surprises me that people don't monitor their remarks or seem to be aware that FB is read by children, older people, even their parents. And my most mannerly nephew John was expressing despair over people's unpleasant behaviour that leads to all sorts of unkindness and even cruelty.
It's impossible to change the world, but you can influence your bit of it by refusing to resort to vulgar language or behaviour and by treating others with respect and attention. Of course, there are cultural differences, but a little thought quickly sorts that out.
And some people just fit into the category of "nature's gentlemen and ladies"; without learning a complex set of rules, they have a natural courtesy that comes from within.
In My Day
Daddy was certainly one of nature's gentlemen. He had natural ebullience, originality, charm and generosity that overcame any objections that could be made on the basis of his poverty-stricken background. His mother had tried very hard to give him the kind of good manners that come from the heart and these he passed onto us. For example, not to watch what others ate, counting anxiously every mouthful in case they had more, and he always gave people a courteous hearing.
Mamma's background was more straightforwardly upper middle-class, although with a German twist. She never fully mastered the labyrinthine details of English posh manners, but her inability to tell a lie and complete lack of snobbery stood in their place very well. I never once heard her make a barbed remark or act vindictively.
Of course there were tricky moments. On one occasion Paul's mother had invited my parents to a meal at Ravenhurst. She pushed the boat out with snow-white napery, silver candlesticks, the lot. Unfortunately, as she wasn't the world's best cook, the meal itself was just short of disaster, with limp vegetables and soggy pastry. I guess she realised this, but instead of shutting up she said effusively to Mamma, "I'm sorry it's so plebeian." She was clearly looking for reassurances that all was well. Mamma, who, remember, never lied, said "Well you are plebeian, why try to be anything else?" There was a frosty silence and quick change of subject. How well I understood both viewpoints.
Tricia, who had also had an early struggle, found it hard to differentiate between the form and substance. There's a famous family story which she told us many times. One of her boyfriends was a major with a double-barrelled name. She told the tale of going out to dinner with this man. The Maitre D came over to check that all was well and the major asked for his name. "Mr Smith", was the reply. "Well," snorted our double-barrelled hero, "I hardly thought you were Mrs!" This story was intended to show up the Maitre D's low oirigins in that he didn't know that the norm at that time was simply to bark out your surname. One day, I'd had enough. "Well, " I said, "I think that was very rude." "Oh, quite," said Tricia "The man simply had no idea." "No, I mean your friend Major what's his name. The man was simply doing his job and he was humiliated in front of you for a very minor faux pas." Tricia, to do her justice, paused, considered, conceded and, best of all, never told the story again.
These days we have lost many of the forms of manners, so we will just have to rely on the manners that come from the heart.
Sunday, August 09, 2009
Sing your heart out
Today
I'm getting ready for my annual visit to Cropthorne. What could be better than a few days in a beautiful spot, among friends, singing some of the World's most ravishing music?
Paul usually comes along for the ride, and spends his time relaxing in the gardens or visiting the local preserved railway.
I've been appointed the official archive-keeper (how interesting it is, to realise how accurately people observe you!) and have spent the last few days bringing the records up to date.
In My Day
I realise that I've been going to Cropthorne for 17 years. Now this isn't a publicly advertised event, something that appears in your junk mail or even on the more specialised ads connected with musical or choir groups. It's strictly invitation only. So I'd never heard of the Laetare Singers. It was at a rehearsal of a madrigal group to which I belonged that my friend Neill slipped me a piece of paper which was the invitation to join this event. He said nothing more about it and I assumed that it was open to all. I applied to go. It was only for four days and surely Paul could cope without me.
A couple of days later I received a call from a lady called Barbara Johnson. She sounded a bit schoolmistressy and began to question me about my credentials for joining the group. Did I sight-read? Was I in a choir already? I thought she was going to ask me about my social background and genealogy. Clearly you had to be someone special to join this lot. I began to despair of being good enough. Eventually I said desperately, "I'm a friend of Neill's." "Ah, well," said Barbara, as if I'd said "open sesame", "That's fine - we look forward to meeting you."
On the day in question I set off alone and found the spot without too much difficulty. Cropthorne is a lovely Worcestershire village near Pershore and Holland House, a Jacobean house, sits on the banks of the Avon in restful gardens.
There were about thirty people there, most of them over sixty in age and I felt very much the youngest. I only knew Neill and his wife. Barbara turned out to be an elderly lady with the appearance and demeanour of Queen Victoria and she ruled over the cultural, social and moral aspects of the event with smiling inflexibility. We were led by a conductor called Peter Johnson and I learnt many things and was given an opportunity to show that I could still hit a top "C".
There was also an evening where the group put on a more home-grown, light-hearted entertainment and my penchant for dressing up and acting foolishly was quickly identified and harnessed for a Cropthorne version of Macbeth.
Since that time, strangers have become friends and I have now become one of the over-sixties. "Laetare" means "rejoice" and that's exactly what I intend to do.
I'm getting ready for my annual visit to Cropthorne. What could be better than a few days in a beautiful spot, among friends, singing some of the World's most ravishing music?
Paul usually comes along for the ride, and spends his time relaxing in the gardens or visiting the local preserved railway.
I've been appointed the official archive-keeper (how interesting it is, to realise how accurately people observe you!) and have spent the last few days bringing the records up to date.
In My Day
I realise that I've been going to Cropthorne for 17 years. Now this isn't a publicly advertised event, something that appears in your junk mail or even on the more specialised ads connected with musical or choir groups. It's strictly invitation only. So I'd never heard of the Laetare Singers. It was at a rehearsal of a madrigal group to which I belonged that my friend Neill slipped me a piece of paper which was the invitation to join this event. He said nothing more about it and I assumed that it was open to all. I applied to go. It was only for four days and surely Paul could cope without me.
A couple of days later I received a call from a lady called Barbara Johnson. She sounded a bit schoolmistressy and began to question me about my credentials for joining the group. Did I sight-read? Was I in a choir already? I thought she was going to ask me about my social background and genealogy. Clearly you had to be someone special to join this lot. I began to despair of being good enough. Eventually I said desperately, "I'm a friend of Neill's." "Ah, well," said Barbara, as if I'd said "open sesame", "That's fine - we look forward to meeting you."
On the day in question I set off alone and found the spot without too much difficulty. Cropthorne is a lovely Worcestershire village near Pershore and Holland House, a Jacobean house, sits on the banks of the Avon in restful gardens.
There were about thirty people there, most of them over sixty in age and I felt very much the youngest. I only knew Neill and his wife. Barbara turned out to be an elderly lady with the appearance and demeanour of Queen Victoria and she ruled over the cultural, social and moral aspects of the event with smiling inflexibility. We were led by a conductor called Peter Johnson and I learnt many things and was given an opportunity to show that I could still hit a top "C".
There was also an evening where the group put on a more home-grown, light-hearted entertainment and my penchant for dressing up and acting foolishly was quickly identified and harnessed for a Cropthorne version of Macbeth.
Since that time, strangers have become friends and I have now become one of the over-sixties. "Laetare" means "rejoice" and that's exactly what I intend to do.
Friday, August 07, 2009
Deed Poll
Today
Very pleased that the Bed Workshop has agreed to pay for the cost of the repair to our French bed. "I'd like the cheque payable to Alice Barrett, please," I said.
As a result of the somewhat absurd money-laundering precautions, all my bank accounts have to be in my legal, rather than used name. Even though my account does indicate my "known as" name, I often encounter jobsworth cashiers in my bank who refuse to accept cheques made out in my used name, even when they know me by sight.
When I protest, their helpful advice is to go and change my name by deed poll. This I refuse to do merely for the convenience of the bank's regulations.
In My Day
It came as a sort of unshocking surprise to Paul when his mother informed him that the surname he'd been called by all his life wasn't actually legally his; Dad being his stepfather, not his natural father.
She gave him his birth certificate and left him to his own thoughts on the subject.
For a while, it didn't really matter. He continued to be known by the same name, officialdom being rather more relaxed in those days, and he didn't own a passport.
When he wanted to get married, however, it was altogether different. He had no desire to marry using the legal name to which he felt no connection. We discussed perhaps adopting mine but that didn't seem quite right. So Paul went to a local solicitor and changed his name to the one he'd always used anyway. Simple!
We still have that scrap of paper, proving not only that he did the deed, but also where he felt his filial loyalties lay. And that's as important as the name itself.
Very pleased that the Bed Workshop has agreed to pay for the cost of the repair to our French bed. "I'd like the cheque payable to Alice Barrett, please," I said.
As a result of the somewhat absurd money-laundering precautions, all my bank accounts have to be in my legal, rather than used name. Even though my account does indicate my "known as" name, I often encounter jobsworth cashiers in my bank who refuse to accept cheques made out in my used name, even when they know me by sight.
When I protest, their helpful advice is to go and change my name by deed poll. This I refuse to do merely for the convenience of the bank's regulations.
In My Day
It came as a sort of unshocking surprise to Paul when his mother informed him that the surname he'd been called by all his life wasn't actually legally his; Dad being his stepfather, not his natural father.
She gave him his birth certificate and left him to his own thoughts on the subject.
For a while, it didn't really matter. He continued to be known by the same name, officialdom being rather more relaxed in those days, and he didn't own a passport.
When he wanted to get married, however, it was altogether different. He had no desire to marry using the legal name to which he felt no connection. We discussed perhaps adopting mine but that didn't seem quite right. So Paul went to a local solicitor and changed his name to the one he'd always used anyway. Simple!
We still have that scrap of paper, proving not only that he did the deed, but also where he felt his filial loyalties lay. And that's as important as the name itself.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
A Question of Talent
Today
Coming back from the gym today, I listened with great pleasure to a performance of the overture to "The Bartered Bride". What a joyous piece it is. I was reminded of an equally joyous WNO production many years ago, which opened with a harvest scene filled with golden light, looking liked a Millet painting. I thought about how the set designer would have researched to find the right ambience and collaborated with the lighting designer to produce that autumnal warmth.
In My Day
I don't know what it was that made me decide that I should pursue a career in theatre design. Perhaps doing a couple of school plays to some acclaim inspired me. Or maybe I just thought it sounded cool.
I was offered a place to do a City & Guilds at the West Sussex College of Design in Worthing (not a very cool place, I know). I joined a fairly motley group who had a variety of skills, from the strictly practical, woodworking category to the solidly artistic.
I turned out to be a fairly competent carpenter and could knock up "flats" for stage sets quite easily. I even learned how to make mortise and tenon joints, although I've now forgotten the knack.
I wasn't bad at making costumes and produced fairly convincing corsets. And once I produced a model of the interior of Chichester Cathedral for a performance of "everyman".
But I wasn't particularly talented. My designs were mediocre and my drawing only so-so. I used to gaze, enchanted, at the stylish and original designs produced by my classmates. What had I been thinking? It was in this spirit that I applied to train to teach art in secondary schools, an only slightly less deranged decision than the one to study theatre design.
After our final exams we were all given work placements. Mine was an assistant in the ladies' ballet wardrobe at Covent Garden. My main duties, it seemed, were to replace the feathers on Margot Fonteyn's Swan Lake costume, daily, and to hold pins while ballerinas were fitted into their costumes. I found the atmosphere stifling, both physically and socially and was very glad when my placement was over. I never thought of asking for an extended stay or a placement elsewhere (I might have been given the men's ballet wardrobe) and was simply relieved to be shot of it.
I don't know whether any of my colleagues from Worthing ever entered the world of theatre but have a sinking feeling that even those who did remained bottom of the heap.
My experiences have certainly caused me to question the ability of eighteen-year-olds to make realistic judgements as to their futures, and made me glad that I had the sense to cut and run.
Coming back from the gym today, I listened with great pleasure to a performance of the overture to "The Bartered Bride". What a joyous piece it is. I was reminded of an equally joyous WNO production many years ago, which opened with a harvest scene filled with golden light, looking liked a Millet painting. I thought about how the set designer would have researched to find the right ambience and collaborated with the lighting designer to produce that autumnal warmth.
In My Day
I don't know what it was that made me decide that I should pursue a career in theatre design. Perhaps doing a couple of school plays to some acclaim inspired me. Or maybe I just thought it sounded cool.
I was offered a place to do a City & Guilds at the West Sussex College of Design in Worthing (not a very cool place, I know). I joined a fairly motley group who had a variety of skills, from the strictly practical, woodworking category to the solidly artistic.
I turned out to be a fairly competent carpenter and could knock up "flats" for stage sets quite easily. I even learned how to make mortise and tenon joints, although I've now forgotten the knack.
I wasn't bad at making costumes and produced fairly convincing corsets. And once I produced a model of the interior of Chichester Cathedral for a performance of "everyman".
But I wasn't particularly talented. My designs were mediocre and my drawing only so-so. I used to gaze, enchanted, at the stylish and original designs produced by my classmates. What had I been thinking? It was in this spirit that I applied to train to teach art in secondary schools, an only slightly less deranged decision than the one to study theatre design.
After our final exams we were all given work placements. Mine was an assistant in the ladies' ballet wardrobe at Covent Garden. My main duties, it seemed, were to replace the feathers on Margot Fonteyn's Swan Lake costume, daily, and to hold pins while ballerinas were fitted into their costumes. I found the atmosphere stifling, both physically and socially and was very glad when my placement was over. I never thought of asking for an extended stay or a placement elsewhere (I might have been given the men's ballet wardrobe) and was simply relieved to be shot of it.
I don't know whether any of my colleagues from Worthing ever entered the world of theatre but have a sinking feeling that even those who did remained bottom of the heap.
My experiences have certainly caused me to question the ability of eighteen-year-olds to make realistic judgements as to their futures, and made me glad that I had the sense to cut and run.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Frocks
Today
I went to a wedding yesterday. Paul had offered the Bentley to the Bride's mother, so we drove over to the Bride's tiny house as the rain clouds gathered. In the house there were the Bride, seven bridesmaids, a pageboy, a makeup artist and the parents of the bride. Four of the bridesmaids were fully-grown women of considerable stature and the bride was no midget, either. As we squeezed in the front door the coat rack crashed to the floor, taking some plaster with it.
The Bride, wearing nothing but a white bustier, tracksuit bottoms and her veil, greeted us loudly. Given the chaos, the obvious thing to do was to get stuck in; sorting out the little ones' tiaras, stitching up bits of the Bride's dress, shoe-horning the chief bridesmaid into her dress and drinking champagne.
Eventually we all set off, in the right order, with only a little of the Bride's voluminous train catching some mud on the hem.
In My Day
My sister Beatrice was married, at the age of eighteen, at All Saints' Church, Upper Norwood. This was a very do-it-yourself affair and I had been given the responsibility for making the Bride and bridesmaids' outfits. Like yesterday's bride, Beatrice was not petite, and I came up with a Russian theme for the affair (well, I was at theatre design college at the time). I made Beatrice a full-length, ivory wild silk dress, with a high collar and many-many silk-covered buttons down the front and along the deep cuffs of the sleeves. The bridesmaids wore peasant style outfits with hand-embroidered blouses, waistcoats and skirts.
These affairs are never without their cliff-hanger moments; I was running out of time on the skirt embroidery so Mamma completed one - I can always tell which because she slightly overdid the tension.
My flatmate Sue, trained in theatrical millinery, agreed to make the headdresses. I sent her the fabric and money for the additional bits and pieces. The wedding approached; no sign of the headdresses. I couldn't get hold of Sue on the phone. The night before, I hastily stitched some snoods which I thought would do. I abandoned all hope of finishing my own dress and whizzed up to Crystal P
alace to buy one.
alace to buy one.At one in the morning Mamma stitched flowers onto the muff which Beatrice was having instead of a bouquet.
The morning of the wedding arrived, along with the postman, who bore a large box containing the headdresses. Three wonderful Russian-styles creation were revealed and pinned onto the Bride and maids and my snoods were put aside.
The final cliffhanger moment was also to do with dresses. Beatrice arrived at the church before the choir (consisting of me, brother David and friends Frances and Gregory) had fully assembled, because Frances was also trying to finish a hastily cobbled-together dress and had ended up fixing the hem with Sellotape. She and David dashed in, about a quarter of an hour late, while Beatrice sat in the church porch, waiting patiently until we could sing her in.
While I can see the attraction of one's wedding arrangements operating like a well-oiled machine, it's often the more home-spun elements that bring back the memories most vividly.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Flood II
Today
Once again, we discovered that torrential rain had overpowered the gutters at no9, chucking water at the small bedroom windows and sending water running down the rear corridor. Fortunately, Frank and Maureen had popped in and stemmed the tide using my towels. Frank made some further adjustments to the door's own drainage system to try to make the water run away, rather than inside.
That's the 2nd time in a month - just one of the hazards of owning an old property, one might think.
In My Day
Certainly, older properties were, even at the time of building, less protected from the elements and wear and tear does take its share.
I don't remember large scale floods at 4bh; the effects of the elements were far more subtle, just as damaging and a lot more sinister.
I guess we had colder winters then; certainly there was often a cold snap and Daddy would start to worry about our water supply which was provided by lead pipes between the floors. Now lead is a relatively soft metal which doesn't expand and contract very well. For reasons that I don't understand, our pipes were never lagged. Water would freeze in the pipes, expanding and causing a split somewhere in the weakest point of the system. The trouble was, you couldn't tell whether or where this might have happened until the water thawed, when water would then leak through the ceiling.
This might be given away by a brown patch on the ceiling or a wet patch on the floor. Often you could hear the "drip" "drip" but not see it and some detective work was needed to find its location. Buckets were requisitioned to catch the water. Dealing with the leak involved taking up floorboards and applying a blowtorch to the affected part until the lead melted and rejoined.
The whole process was quite spooky, we feared this insidious internal destruction of our house deep within its structure. I was always anxious in case the ceiling came down or we were engulfed in water.
We used to call this phenomenon simply "The Drip" and it caused as much fear as any Stephen King film, especially to Beatrice who was absolutely terrified and probably would have preferred the weather to be freezing all year round, rather than endure "The Drip", dip-dripping.
At least at the flat our purchase of an extravagantly high-quality carpet has been justified as it's simply shrugged off the dirt.
Once again, we discovered that torrential rain had overpowered the gutters at no9, chucking water at the small bedroom windows and sending water running down the rear corridor. Fortunately, Frank and Maureen had popped in and stemmed the tide using my towels. Frank made some further adjustments to the door's own drainage system to try to make the water run away, rather than inside.
That's the 2nd time in a month - just one of the hazards of owning an old property, one might think.
In My Day
Certainly, older properties were, even at the time of building, less protected from the elements and wear and tear does take its share.
I don't remember large scale floods at 4bh; the effects of the elements were far more subtle, just as damaging and a lot more sinister.
I guess we had colder winters then; certainly there was often a cold snap and Daddy would start to worry about our water supply which was provided by lead pipes between the floors. Now lead is a relatively soft metal which doesn't expand and contract very well. For reasons that I don't understand, our pipes were never lagged. Water would freeze in the pipes, expanding and causing a split somewhere in the weakest point of the system. The trouble was, you couldn't tell whether or where this might have happened until the water thawed, when water would then leak through the ceiling.
This might be given away by a brown patch on the ceiling or a wet patch on the floor. Often you could hear the "drip" "drip" but not see it and some detective work was needed to find its location. Buckets were requisitioned to catch the water. Dealing with the leak involved taking up floorboards and applying a blowtorch to the affected part until the lead melted and rejoined.
The whole process was quite spooky, we feared this insidious internal destruction of our house deep within its structure. I was always anxious in case the ceiling came down or we were engulfed in water.
We used to call this phenomenon simply "The Drip" and it caused as much fear as any Stephen King film, especially to Beatrice who was absolutely terrified and probably would have preferred the weather to be freezing all year round, rather than endure "The Drip", dip-dripping.
At least at the flat our purchase of an extravagantly high-quality carpet has been justified as it's simply shrugged off the dirt.
Saturday, July 04, 2009
Flood
Today
It comes to something when your sister prompts you to write the next blog instalment.
Another of those Internet "getting to know you" quizzes "20 things I'll never forget", which, as usual, I was quick to complete. Beatrice's comment on mine was "more on the fishtank in the till incident, please"
Here goes
In My Day
Was it 1998? We were in Kilcrohane, just Paul, me and the girls. Visits to Eileen's were de rigeur where we usually wound up the day. One of her regulars had paid a visit to Skibereen fair where they'd won a fish. You know, one of those wretched creatures in a plastic bag circling hopelessly with a vacant expression.
With a grand gesture they gave the fish to Eileen, who now had to locate a fishtank and somewhere to put it. She found a tank from somewhere and squeezed it into the tiny space above the till below the wine bottles. This was before the smoking ban which might be why the fish itself didn't last more than 48 hours, or maybe it didn't like the noise or the journey back from Skibereen. The expired fish was removed but somehow Eileen didn't quite get around to removing the tank.
Saturday night was, as usual, crowded and noisy at Eileen's. Vigorous discussions, jokes, flirting and snatches of song. Somehow, no-one noticed that it was way past closing time, as we all partied. Eileen just kept on pouring the Guinnesses and taking the money, faster and faster.
All these rapid movements were her undoing; with a sweeping gesture she knocked the fishtank into the open till. Water got into works and the till started spewing out paper receipts without stopping. As these curled onto the floor, the punters demanded more drinks and laughed even louder, Eileen tried to get onto her support helpline. It was about half-past twelve at night, so the helpdesk was probably on skeleton staff. Eileen couldn't hear what they told her, couldn't hear herself speak and the till kept on churning. Using her vast store of expletives, Eileen told her customers to shut up. Which instruction they completely ignored, shouting jibes and encouragement.
I don't know how the evening finished; I expect the till ran out of paper. Eileen decided that she could take money for drinks without a till, business being business. I think she turned the till upside down to shake out the water and hoped for the best.
We left the pub at about one am, stumbling the few yards back to Fawnmore, leaving the revellers who kept things going till about three.
Just another normal day in Kilcrohane, then.
It comes to something when your sister prompts you to write the next blog instalment.
Another of those Internet "getting to know you" quizzes "20 things I'll never forget", which, as usual, I was quick to complete. Beatrice's comment on mine was "more on the fishtank in the till incident, please"
Here goes
In My Day
Was it 1998? We were in Kilcrohane, just Paul, me and the girls. Visits to Eileen's were de rigeur where we usually wound up the day. One of her regulars had paid a visit to Skibereen fair where they'd won a fish. You know, one of those wretched creatures in a plastic bag circling hopelessly with a vacant expression.
With a grand gesture they gave the fish to Eileen, who now had to locate a fishtank and somewhere to put it. She found a tank from somewhere and squeezed it into the tiny space above the till below the wine bottles. This was before the smoking ban which might be why the fish itself didn't last more than 48 hours, or maybe it didn't like the noise or the journey back from Skibereen. The expired fish was removed but somehow Eileen didn't quite get around to removing the tank.
Saturday night was, as usual, crowded and noisy at Eileen's. Vigorous discussions, jokes, flirting and snatches of song. Somehow, no-one noticed that it was way past closing time, as we all partied. Eileen just kept on pouring the Guinnesses and taking the money, faster and faster.
All these rapid movements were her undoing; with a sweeping gesture she knocked the fishtank into the open till. Water got into works and the till started spewing out paper receipts without stopping. As these curled onto the floor, the punters demanded more drinks and laughed even louder, Eileen tried to get onto her support helpline. It was about half-past twelve at night, so the helpdesk was probably on skeleton staff. Eileen couldn't hear what they told her, couldn't hear herself speak and the till kept on churning. Using her vast store of expletives, Eileen told her customers to shut up. Which instruction they completely ignored, shouting jibes and encouragement.
I don't know how the evening finished; I expect the till ran out of paper. Eileen decided that she could take money for drinks without a till, business being business. I think she turned the till upside down to shake out the water and hoped for the best.
We left the pub at about one am, stumbling the few yards back to Fawnmore, leaving the revellers who kept things going till about three.
Just another normal day in Kilcrohane, then.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Fares, please
Today
We decided to enter Brighton via the London Road today. This was a mistake as the traffic was practically stationary from the A27. The driving we saw was appalling. Eventually we could no longer stand seeing the people in the car in front of us chucking their rubbish out into the road. "I know an alternative route", said Paul, dashing off up Carden Avenue. I questioned his choice of route. "I know Brighton", said Paul "this will get us to where we're going". And he was right.
As we drove along Ditchling Road, I said "You used to drive buses along here. Does it feel like another lifetime to you?" "It certainly does", replied my spouse.
In My Day
After a brief and unsuccessful sojourn with the police force, Paul was looking around for another job. We were just married; I was at college and we were living off my overdraft. Brighton, Hove and District Buses were recruiting at the time and Paul applied. "Well..." they said "we don't normally take people under 23 years of age but come and have a test drive." They were impressed enough to offer him the job and, at 21, Paul became the youngest member of the company ever to hold a PSV licence.
The buses were double-manned with conductor and Paul was immediately allocated a punishing schedule of routes. I remember how dull it was, waiting for him to come home after a shift. Sometimes I was so bored I'd travel round on the bus with him - but that was pretty boring too.
On more than one occasion a bus would break down and he would be stuck in some back of beyond place like Whitehawk or Moulescombe, waiting for the breakdown truck to get him back to the depot. We had no phone so I simply had to wait until he turned up and told me lurid tales.
Some of the buses still had crash gearboxes and it was quite a challenge manhandling these beasts up and down the hills of Brighton. Paul told me of one hair-raising experience coming down Beaconsfield Villas towards the London Road when the brakes on the bus failed. As Paul struggled with the gears and handbrake the bus sailed past several stops where passengers simply stared as the bus whizzed by. Inside the bus there was a standing load and passengers again just had to watch as they missed their stop. With a cliffhanger finish worthy of "Speed" Paul pulled up the bus just before it reached the London Road. A few years back, Paul came across a picture of the very same bus and was amused to discover that it's now a motor home in Switzerland.
And all this for £14.00 a week. When a better-paid job came up at the local funeral parlour Paul gave up the joys and terrors of being on the buses and entered the strange world of the undertaker.
Paul still has a love affair with buses, though, and I've learnt quite a lot, perforce, about them too.
We decided to enter Brighton via the London Road today. This was a mistake as the traffic was practically stationary from the A27. The driving we saw was appalling. Eventually we could no longer stand seeing the people in the car in front of us chucking their rubbish out into the road. "I know an alternative route", said Paul, dashing off up Carden Avenue. I questioned his choice of route. "I know Brighton", said Paul "this will get us to where we're going". And he was right.
As we drove along Ditchling Road, I said "You used to drive buses along here. Does it feel like another lifetime to you?" "It certainly does", replied my spouse.
In My Day
After a brief and unsuccessful sojourn with the police force, Paul was looking around for another job. We were just married; I was at college and we were living off my overdraft. Brighton, Hove and District Buses were recruiting at the time and Paul applied. "Well..." they said "we don't normally take people under 23 years of age but come and have a test drive." They were impressed enough to offer him the job and, at 21, Paul became the youngest member of the company ever to hold a PSV licence.
The buses were double-manned with conductor and Paul was immediately allocated a punishing schedule of routes. I remember how dull it was, waiting for him to come home after a shift. Sometimes I was so bored I'd travel round on the bus with him - but that was pretty boring too.
On more than one occasion a bus would break down and he would be stuck in some back of beyond place like Whitehawk or Moulescombe, waiting for the breakdown truck to get him back to the depot. We had no phone so I simply had to wait until he turned up and told me lurid tales.
Some of the buses still had crash gearboxes and it was quite a challenge manhandling these beasts up and down the hills of Brighton. Paul told me of one hair-raising experience coming down Beaconsfield Villas towards the London Road when the brakes on the bus failed. As Paul struggled with the gears and handbrake the bus sailed past several stops where passengers simply stared as the bus whizzed by. Inside the bus there was a standing load and passengers again just had to watch as they missed their stop. With a cliffhanger finish worthy of "Speed" Paul pulled up the bus just before it reached the London Road. A few years back, Paul came across a picture of the very same bus and was amused to discover that it's now a motor home in Switzerland.
And all this for £14.00 a week. When a better-paid job came up at the local funeral parlour Paul gave up the joys and terrors of being on the buses and entered the strange world of the undertaker.
Paul still has a love affair with buses, though, and I've learnt quite a lot, perforce, about them too.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
TGIF
Today
On Facebook yesterday a chorus of welcome for Friday, in which I joined. It's curious, really; now that I've been retired for three years, you'd think that the days would simply roll into each other and that we'd ignore the Friday factor. Not so; we still treat Friday night as special. We are less likely to watch telly (unless it's BGT) or work, I'm more likely to cook up a special meal, listen to smoochy music, drink more wine or invite friends over. In fact our (also retired) neighbours came over last night and we put the world to rights over several bottles of wine and real ale until midnight. I'm sure on other nights that we all go to bed earlier and drink less.
And it's different from Saturdays which are for the Big Night Out and more serious socialising.
In My Day
I first heard the expression "TGIF" when I worked in the Inland Revenue's enforcement office. It was used with (eventually boring) regularity by an older officer - an Irishman by the name of Joe Beckett.
When I was a child Friday night meant having Daddy at home. Daddy's job with Hansard entailed late nights the rest of the week; with him returning home at ten pm or later. On Fridays he'd arrive home at about six O'clock. The whole dynamic of the evening was different. Often he would have brought some fish with him - mackerel or herring, which he might cook himself - rolling the fish in porridge oats before frying. I really disliked the fish but that smell could only occur on a Friday. It was also the only time, apart from the occasional Saturday when Daddy would make us a fried breakfast, that Daddy cooked.
There was no school on Saturday, either, so we could stay up a bit later and there might be games or at least very lively conversation and discussions. Friday was so unlike other evenings which were altogether quieter and involved chores and homework.
This attitude to Friday (as distinct from Saturday) spilled over into many areas of life. At the Proms, for example, the avant-garde was saved for the beginning of the week, the big pieces for Saturday. Fridays would offer a night of jolly good, rousing celebratory music, culminating in the traditional Beethoven's Ninth on the penultimate night.
So I think that Friday is now hard-wired, so to speak, into the nation's psyche, and no amount of being retired or working at weekends will change it.
On Facebook yesterday a chorus of welcome for Friday, in which I joined. It's curious, really; now that I've been retired for three years, you'd think that the days would simply roll into each other and that we'd ignore the Friday factor. Not so; we still treat Friday night as special. We are less likely to watch telly (unless it's BGT) or work, I'm more likely to cook up a special meal, listen to smoochy music, drink more wine or invite friends over. In fact our (also retired) neighbours came over last night and we put the world to rights over several bottles of wine and real ale until midnight. I'm sure on other nights that we all go to bed earlier and drink less.
And it's different from Saturdays which are for the Big Night Out and more serious socialising.
In My Day
I first heard the expression "TGIF" when I worked in the Inland Revenue's enforcement office. It was used with (eventually boring) regularity by an older officer - an Irishman by the name of Joe Beckett.
When I was a child Friday night meant having Daddy at home. Daddy's job with Hansard entailed late nights the rest of the week; with him returning home at ten pm or later. On Fridays he'd arrive home at about six O'clock. The whole dynamic of the evening was different. Often he would have brought some fish with him - mackerel or herring, which he might cook himself - rolling the fish in porridge oats before frying. I really disliked the fish but that smell could only occur on a Friday. It was also the only time, apart from the occasional Saturday when Daddy would make us a fried breakfast, that Daddy cooked.
There was no school on Saturday, either, so we could stay up a bit later and there might be games or at least very lively conversation and discussions. Friday was so unlike other evenings which were altogether quieter and involved chores and homework.
This attitude to Friday (as distinct from Saturday) spilled over into many areas of life. At the Proms, for example, the avant-garde was saved for the beginning of the week, the big pieces for Saturday. Fridays would offer a night of jolly good, rousing celebratory music, culminating in the traditional Beethoven's Ninth on the penultimate night.
So I think that Friday is now hard-wired, so to speak, into the nation's psyche, and no amount of being retired or working at weekends will change it.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Cold Turkey
Today
While spooning out the saute potatoes onto Paul's dinner plate last night I accidentally nudged my own and watched in horror as the plate slid off the worktop, somersaulted and landed, dinner-side down on the floor. Now, I do keep my kitchen floor clean, but not so that one would actually eat one's dinner off it, and anyway, cheese omelette responds badly to being dashed to the ground. Also there were chips of crockery everywhere.
I felt a bit irritable about this, understandably. Paul shared his dinner with me and later we made up for it with a glass or two of Pimms taken beside the chimenea in the twilit garden.
I complained on Facebook and Beatrice said "Do you remember the strange incident of the turkey on the floor?" Indeed I do.
In My Day
When we lived at Montfort Close we had room enough in an extension to seat a fair number of dinner guests. Once Christmas (1984, I think) we invited the following number of guests to share it: The Levetts (who only had two young 'uns in those days), Beverley's Parents, Mum, Claire and Beatrice and her then spouse Nick. Fourteen in all.
I boldly offered guests their starter of choice (I think Beatrice demanded, and got, caviar) and Beverley and I set to and made a traditional Xmas lunch. Beverley had lent her pressure cooker so that the veg could be cooked speedily.
After the starters and with wine having started to flow freely in the next room, we went off to serve up the main course. I had recently acquired a very expensive, top-of-the-range gas cooker which guaranteed that the oven shelves would support 25lbs on their anti-tilt cantilever system. The turkey weighed about 23lbs, but perhaps I should have taken into account the weight of the tin. Whatever; as I pulled out the oven shelf, it did indeed tilt. The tin went one way the turkey the other. I reached up and caught the turkey in my arms (I always was good at throwing and catching).
This act covered me in very hot fat and the turkey slid to the floor as I yelped and rapidly discarded my clothing. Paul rescued the turkey and gave it a quick rinse under the tap. I dashed upstairs to change. The ignored pressure cooker hissed away. I hastily invented some gravy, Beverley removed the now hopelessly overcooked veg, while guests in the next room loudly sang "Why are we waiting".
Eventually we made our triumphant procession into the dining room and allowed guests to think that the delay was due to my vanity which had necessitated me changing my clothes. We didn't mention the heap of clothes on the floor of the kitchen, congealing under turkey fat or the slight blistering burn on one of my boobs. And the rest of the meal went very well.
However, I was sorry that one of my very nice grey faux crocodile high heels never recovered from its soaking and had to be chucked.
While spooning out the saute potatoes onto Paul's dinner plate last night I accidentally nudged my own and watched in horror as the plate slid off the worktop, somersaulted and landed, dinner-side down on the floor. Now, I do keep my kitchen floor clean, but not so that one would actually eat one's dinner off it, and anyway, cheese omelette responds badly to being dashed to the ground. Also there were chips of crockery everywhere.
I felt a bit irritable about this, understandably. Paul shared his dinner with me and later we made up for it with a glass or two of Pimms taken beside the chimenea in the twilit garden.
I complained on Facebook and Beatrice said "Do you remember the strange incident of the turkey on the floor?" Indeed I do.
In My Day
When we lived at Montfort Close we had room enough in an extension to seat a fair number of dinner guests. Once Christmas (1984, I think) we invited the following number of guests to share it: The Levetts (who only had two young 'uns in those days), Beverley's Parents, Mum, Claire and Beatrice and her then spouse Nick. Fourteen in all.
I boldly offered guests their starter of choice (I think Beatrice demanded, and got, caviar) and Beverley and I set to and made a traditional Xmas lunch. Beverley had lent her pressure cooker so that the veg could be cooked speedily.
After the starters and with wine having started to flow freely in the next room, we went off to serve up the main course. I had recently acquired a very expensive, top-of-the-range gas cooker which guaranteed that the oven shelves would support 25lbs on their anti-tilt cantilever system. The turkey weighed about 23lbs, but perhaps I should have taken into account the weight of the tin. Whatever; as I pulled out the oven shelf, it did indeed tilt. The tin went one way the turkey the other. I reached up and caught the turkey in my arms (I always was good at throwing and catching).
This act covered me in very hot fat and the turkey slid to the floor as I yelped and rapidly discarded my clothing. Paul rescued the turkey and gave it a quick rinse under the tap. I dashed upstairs to change. The ignored pressure cooker hissed away. I hastily invented some gravy, Beverley removed the now hopelessly overcooked veg, while guests in the next room loudly sang "Why are we waiting".
Eventually we made our triumphant procession into the dining room and allowed guests to think that the delay was due to my vanity which had necessitated me changing my clothes. We didn't mention the heap of clothes on the floor of the kitchen, congealing under turkey fat or the slight blistering burn on one of my boobs. And the rest of the meal went very well.
However, I was sorry that one of my very nice grey faux crocodile high heels never recovered from its soaking and had to be chucked.
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