Today
As our financial situation strengthens, we've increased the standard that we apply to celebrations. None more than Valentine's where we now take it in turns to provide the feasting, thus adding a competitive element.
With this in mind Paul booked a weekend at our local posh hotel (The Charlton House) for the valentine weekend. We accepted that there'd be no dancing at looked forward to staying at this elegant hotel and being tourists in our own town.
What we weren't prepared for was the limited menu selection. In the past the CH has offered two menus; one veggie, the other standard and there has been variety, taste and excellent presentation.
The only veggie item on the main course menu was a warm salad of goat's cheese. I happen to dislike goat's cheese so the chef replaced it with some mozzarella. The meal itself was just put on the plate with no particular attention to presentation and style.
The next day I spoke to the duty manager "I really don't want to eat the same thing two days running", I said "can you help?" "Just ask and the chef will do what you want," she said airily.
This seemed too good to be true and it was. That night the waiter said that the menu changes daily and indeed it had with a hot main course containing - goat's cheese! I substituted a rather dull mozzarella salad instead. At least I didn't overeat.
In the morning we expressed our views. "This is hardly the cheapest place in town and the food was not only unimaginative, it was poorly presented. I feel like a second class citizen," I protested. They were very apologetic but I doubt whether anything will be done.
In My Day
Looking back I realise that I never much liked meat unless it was so overcooked or ersatz that it didn't really resemble meat.
By the time I was eighteen I had started to prefer to avoid meat altogether. When I worked as a waitress, the chef at one place was so appalled that I didn't eat meat that he gave me meaty food parcels to take home for the cat!
For quite a few years I hovered betwixt and between, sometimes, I think because I didn't really know how to cook appetising veggie meals. In my first year in Worthing I think I more or less lived on onion omelettes.
Paul gamely accepted whatever I cooked him; during the early vegetarian days that must have been far from easy.
So by the time we were at Rowan Avenue we were eating the full range of foods, meat and fish included. It was Becky who, at the age of four announced that she wasn't eating "dead animals" any more, that galvanised me into discovering the wonderful world of meat-free meals.
I trawl the cuisines of the world for amazing dishes and always pay attention to presentation, believing that we eat with our eyes as well at mouths.
While I fully accept that there are completely healthy people who never allow anything green past their lips, I secretly feel that meat is somehow unclean. What I don't feel is that I'm second class.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Thursday, February 19, 2009
The Way Out
Today
The next generation in our family is coming on, thick and fast. Yesterday we met 4-week old Isaac. He's got unusual eyes; they're dark, possibly brown (I was sort of surprised not to see the usual blue) which are very focused. I kept expecting him to give me a proper smile.
His mother was feeling not too well, so we all took our turn to hold him and eventually he fell asleep in my arms for well over an hour. I hope his mum felt recharged.
His name was a subject for discussion before the birth with much playing around with possible names, but I hadn't heard this one suggested before. He still doesn't have a second name - but that's not, after all, mandatory.
"Do you realise", I said to Alice "that the name has a resonance for our family?"
In My Day
Daddy used to describe to us his early life; how, because of his father's drunkenness, he had to scratch a few pennies sweeping horse dung from the streets of London. How his mother scraped to send him to a better school (where he didn't last very long). How he was apprenticed to a book binders as a "glue boy". And, finally, how he spent his spare time at evening classes run, free, by the Society of Friends.
There he avidly learnt all he could: English grammar, Music, French and Pitman's Shorthand, invented by Sir Isaac Pitman.
Using his new skills of English and shorthand he blagged his way into a reporting job which led him to the dizzy heights of being senior reporter at Hansard.
Daddy used to try to teach us shorthand; I think I did learn some and have an idea that Chris became quite good at it. Around the house one sometimes came across spiral-bound notebooks containing pages of squiggles and dots. These were clear to Daddy (although he was sometimes a bit careless over the dots which represented vowels so that he might not be sure whether a word was"if" or "of", "spit" or "spot"), but made me feel illiterate when I looked at them.
I know that Mamma gave Daddy's notebooks, carefully kept, containing the recording of the abdication of Edward viii and the declaration of WW2, to the House of Commons archive.
Later on Daddy also taught shorthand at Pitman's college in Holborn in London. Perhaps understandably, he rather dreaded the introduction of tape recorders and would have been appalled at such things as voice recognition software; he'd have been straight out of a job.
Daddy was a fan of Pitman's shorthand all his life, keeping a bust of Sir Isaac in the house and decrying all other methods as inferior. And why not? Pitman's was his way out of the pit.
Yesterday everyone was admiring Isaac's lovely long fingers and predicting a musical career for him. Who knows? At least he's unlikely to have to claw his way out of the pit.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Knots
Today
Bought a rather nice pair of trousers at Mulberry yesterday. I tried them on this morning, but first had to remove the labels. This wasn't just a simple tag attached with one of those nasty little plastic things; there were three: a label giving the brand, one with size and price and a little envelope containing a spare button. They all had separate cords and were threaded through a little ribbon which appeared to have no other purpose than to be attached to by labels. (It explains why these clothes are so expensive - the full price of these trousers is £245, reduced to £88 - it's very labour-intensive.)
Anxious not to damage these in case I had to return the trousers as too small, I spent some time carefully disentangling the strings till they all came free.
Over the weekend a similar problem with the lovely emerald pendant Paul had given me; the fine chain had several knots in it. I popped on my specs and lit the lamp and fiddled until it was free.
Quite satisfying.
In My Day
I've always liked unravelling knots. I remember Mamma preparing to do knitting. Wool didn't come in ready-wound balls; it came in hanks which had to be turned into balls. I would sit there with one end of each hank around each wrist while Mamma made the ball. You couldn't lose concentration, either; if your wrists went slack, the whole process was halted. In fact, it was the only thing I ever mastered about knitting.
Mamma also had a "sewing box". This contained reels of thread, needles, lengths of embroidery silks, thimbles, darning mushrooms and the like. For reasons unknown it often became impossibly untidy. Perhaps when the lights were out they all had a party. Perhaps there are little gnomes that creep out and tangle everything up.
On dull days when I wanted to avoid having to go out and play in the cold, I'd take up this box and sort it all out. The reels of thread would be wound back up and the ends tucked into the little nick in the side designed for that purpose. Buttons would be sorted (that is, until Daddy put them all into little cough sweet tins labelled "Bunz - smarl" and other jokey titles - I still had some until recently).Then the coloured scraps of wool. Each would be wound using my elbow and space between thumb and finger. Then, saved till the last, the best. Sorting out the embroidery threads. Mamma used (as I still do when there's any embroidery to be done) stranded cotton which consisted of six threads twisted together. You could choose to use any thickness from one to six threads, the norm being three, and they were always in a hopeless muddle. I would start with one and carefully follow through the twists and turns, the unders and overs, until I had the full length. I'd twist it into a figure of eight, using my thumb and first finger. Then on to the next until there they were, all neatly sorted in colour gradations, ready for use.
I really enjoyed doing it - there was the occasional impossible knot which you just had to cut through - an analogy for life, I guess, or at least how I approach it.
I still have Mamma's darning mushrooms and have used them in anger.
Bought a rather nice pair of trousers at Mulberry yesterday. I tried them on this morning, but first had to remove the labels. This wasn't just a simple tag attached with one of those nasty little plastic things; there were three: a label giving the brand, one with size and price and a little envelope containing a spare button. They all had separate cords and were threaded through a little ribbon which appeared to have no other purpose than to be attached to by labels. (It explains why these clothes are so expensive - the full price of these trousers is £245, reduced to £88 - it's very labour-intensive.)
Anxious not to damage these in case I had to return the trousers as too small, I spent some time carefully disentangling the strings till they all came free.
Over the weekend a similar problem with the lovely emerald pendant Paul had given me; the fine chain had several knots in it. I popped on my specs and lit the lamp and fiddled until it was free.
Quite satisfying.
In My Day
I've always liked unravelling knots. I remember Mamma preparing to do knitting. Wool didn't come in ready-wound balls; it came in hanks which had to be turned into balls. I would sit there with one end of each hank around each wrist while Mamma made the ball. You couldn't lose concentration, either; if your wrists went slack, the whole process was halted. In fact, it was the only thing I ever mastered about knitting.
Mamma also had a "sewing box". This contained reels of thread, needles, lengths of embroidery silks, thimbles, darning mushrooms and the like. For reasons unknown it often became impossibly untidy. Perhaps when the lights were out they all had a party. Perhaps there are little gnomes that creep out and tangle everything up.
On dull days when I wanted to avoid having to go out and play in the cold, I'd take up this box and sort it all out. The reels of thread would be wound back up and the ends tucked into the little nick in the side designed for that purpose. Buttons would be sorted (that is, until Daddy put them all into little cough sweet tins labelled "Bunz - smarl" and other jokey titles - I still had some until recently).Then the coloured scraps of wool. Each would be wound using my elbow and space between thumb and finger. Then, saved till the last, the best. Sorting out the embroidery threads. Mamma used (as I still do when there's any embroidery to be done) stranded cotton which consisted of six threads twisted together. You could choose to use any thickness from one to six threads, the norm being three, and they were always in a hopeless muddle. I would start with one and carefully follow through the twists and turns, the unders and overs, until I had the full length. I'd twist it into a figure of eight, using my thumb and first finger. Then on to the next until there they were, all neatly sorted in colour gradations, ready for use.
I really enjoyed doing it - there was the occasional impossible knot which you just had to cut through - an analogy for life, I guess, or at least how I approach it.
I still have Mamma's darning mushrooms and have used them in anger.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Goggle-box
Today
Paul spends a fair bit of his time these days grumbling about the quality of TV, at least freeview TV. And he has a point. Along with deadly reality TV shows in which attention-starved individuals parade their failings in front of the viewing public, we have seemingly endless quiz and game shows, talent contests and soap operas. There are dreadful Japanese and American cartoon shows (and even the Simpsons are getting a little stale by now) and shows giving celebrities (some of whom really ought to be older and wiser) plenty of opportunities of making prats of themselves. There seems to be little new drama and much of the day is given over to repeats of old dramas, especially crime and police. Although I admit to a weakness for "The X Factor", Strictly Come Dancing" and "CSI".
And it may look like we have 999 channels to choose from but actually most programmes are duplicated about 20 times.
So we have a beautiful LCD, digital, HD-ready TV and all we really watch is the News and The Bill. "I've a good mind to stop paying for a licence," said Paul "There's nothing worth watching."
And they say that British TV is the best in the World which doesn't say much for the rest.
In My Day
It is, of course, possible to live life without a TV at all. Our friends the Lovells brought up their 6 children without TV and their eldest boy was officially "Britain's Brightest" after he got 12 a* grades in his GCSE's a few years back. The newspapers made a fair bit out of the fact that there was no TV in the house.
I was brought up without TV. We had a radio and I wasted a good deal of my time listening to such intellectually stimulating shows as "Ray's a Laugh" "Round the Horne" and "The Clitheroe Kid". And later I listened to Radio Caroline.
I did occasionally get to see a TV; our upstairs neighbours, the Evanses had one and sometimes I was invited up to watch "Andy Pandy" "Bill & Ben" and "Muffin the Mule". Puts the Tellytubbies to shame, really. And I think we watched the coronation on television.
I can't now remember whether Mamma and Daddy had any objection to telly or whether it was simply not regarded as a priority. It did, however, mean that we spent a lot of our time reading or pursuing hobbies, which is arguably better at developing the mind. Long evenings were enlivened with various games: Consequences, Hangman, Just a Minute (well, our version of it), definitions, as well as the more ordinary board games.
I recall one Sunday evening when we were all at home, sitting by the fire reading. The room was deadly quiet. Suddenly Daddy put down his book and told us to put down ours, He then asked us each to give a resume of what we'd been reading to the rest of the family. It was undoubtedly good for our brains to do this, but he could equally well have played the same game over our favourite TV shows. So I don't think I can lay claim to a superior intellect by virtue of not having TV.
Paul and I didn't really get a permanent TV, other than of a very scrappy variety, until about 1989. Although I remember Beatrice hiring one in time for the 1978 Olympics and us all much enjoying TISWAS on Saturday mornings, the chief feature of which seemed to be the chucking of buckets of water over caged-up students.
What I find disturbing is that Paul, who was brought up with TV, has a photographic memory for all the early advertising jingles and is prone to start singing them if I don't put a stop to it.
Paul spends a fair bit of his time these days grumbling about the quality of TV, at least freeview TV. And he has a point. Along with deadly reality TV shows in which attention-starved individuals parade their failings in front of the viewing public, we have seemingly endless quiz and game shows, talent contests and soap operas. There are dreadful Japanese and American cartoon shows (and even the Simpsons are getting a little stale by now) and shows giving celebrities (some of whom really ought to be older and wiser) plenty of opportunities of making prats of themselves. There seems to be little new drama and much of the day is given over to repeats of old dramas, especially crime and police. Although I admit to a weakness for "The X Factor", Strictly Come Dancing" and "CSI".
And it may look like we have 999 channels to choose from but actually most programmes are duplicated about 20 times.
So we have a beautiful LCD, digital, HD-ready TV and all we really watch is the News and The Bill. "I've a good mind to stop paying for a licence," said Paul "There's nothing worth watching."
And they say that British TV is the best in the World which doesn't say much for the rest.
In My Day
It is, of course, possible to live life without a TV at all. Our friends the Lovells brought up their 6 children without TV and their eldest boy was officially "Britain's Brightest" after he got 12 a* grades in his GCSE's a few years back. The newspapers made a fair bit out of the fact that there was no TV in the house.
I was brought up without TV. We had a radio and I wasted a good deal of my time listening to such intellectually stimulating shows as "Ray's a Laugh" "Round the Horne" and "The Clitheroe Kid". And later I listened to Radio Caroline.
I did occasionally get to see a TV; our upstairs neighbours, the Evanses had one and sometimes I was invited up to watch "Andy Pandy" "Bill & Ben" and "Muffin the Mule". Puts the Tellytubbies to shame, really. And I think we watched the coronation on television.
I can't now remember whether Mamma and Daddy had any objection to telly or whether it was simply not regarded as a priority. It did, however, mean that we spent a lot of our time reading or pursuing hobbies, which is arguably better at developing the mind. Long evenings were enlivened with various games: Consequences, Hangman, Just a Minute (well, our version of it), definitions, as well as the more ordinary board games.
I recall one Sunday evening when we were all at home, sitting by the fire reading. The room was deadly quiet. Suddenly Daddy put down his book and told us to put down ours, He then asked us each to give a resume of what we'd been reading to the rest of the family. It was undoubtedly good for our brains to do this, but he could equally well have played the same game over our favourite TV shows. So I don't think I can lay claim to a superior intellect by virtue of not having TV.
Paul and I didn't really get a permanent TV, other than of a very scrappy variety, until about 1989. Although I remember Beatrice hiring one in time for the 1978 Olympics and us all much enjoying TISWAS on Saturday mornings, the chief feature of which seemed to be the chucking of buckets of water over caged-up students.
What I find disturbing is that Paul, who was brought up with TV, has a photographic memory for all the early advertising jingles and is prone to start singing them if I don't put a stop to it.
Saturday, February 07, 2009
Tummy
Today
Woke up feeling a little bit queasy this morning. We'd been to visit friends the evening before, all of whom over the past couple of weeks, have had a version of a rather enduring tummy bug. Just hope I haven't caught it.
I'm not very often subject to bouts of tummy problems and since we don't have small children or much contact with them, we aren't usually affected by circulating infections.
However, I drank some tea and water and ate some toast and feel rather better now.
"There's usually only one explanation when a piece of toast makes you feel better!" I said to Paul.
In My Day
Working full-time as well as bringing up 2 children was quite a struggle. While, in my fantasies I always imagined having 5 daughters, rather like Mrs Bennett, I knew that would put me under absurd pressure.
So I was determined to stick at 2, so had been fitted with a "copper 7" IUD.
In the autumn of 1978, Beatrice was living with us at Rowan Avenue, following her Canadian adventure. Liz was 6 and Becky about 15 months old.
Paul must have been on earlies that Sunday morning; certainly he wasn't in the house when Beatrice brought in my morning tea. "Ooh!" said I, as I sat up "I feel a bit sick." I drank my tea and nibbled on a Rich Tea biscuit. "I feel better now", I said and clapped my hand to my mouth, unwilling to believe the most likely explanation for this phenomenon.
But it was true. A quick jaunt to the doctor made it clear that baby number 3 was on the way. The doctor, in all serious kindness, said that, as the contraception offered by the NHS had failed me, the NHS would also provide an abortion if I so wished. I considered and decided that, although it would be a struggle, I could manage and find the love for number 3.
The midwife told me many cheery tales of beautiful babies born clutching the IUDs in their fists, the queasiness wore off and we told people the news. I told Chris and lamented the fact that I'd just sold a lot of Becky's baby stuff. Soon a £50 Mothercare voucher (£50 was a fair bit) arrived from my sweet and generous brother.
Christmas was approaching and we went to Portsmouth to pay an Xmas visit to friends of ours. As part of the festivities we were invited to join them at the local college bash where barn-dancing was on offer. Great! I did my fair share of dosey-doing and had a good time.
In the morning. I awoke to a puddle of blood. I stayed where I was while Paul sorted out our stuff and got me into the car and whizzed back home as soon as possible.
But it was too late. I called Chris "Thank you so much for the voucher, but there isn't going to be a baby", I told him. "Go spend it on Xmas pressies for the girls", he kindly said. Which I did with Paul, that very same day, buying a little trike for Becky and a dressing gown and duvet for Lizzie, the busy-ness of the shopping taking my mind off the pain.
Some time afterwards, Paul asked me whether I'd like to have a baby anyway. I said no, not having really changed my mind about 2 children and full-time working being enough, and he went and made the final sacrifice.
Every once in a while I wonder about number 3; son, or daughter? and what changes that would have brought to our life.
Right now, however, I'm fairly certain that it's a few short nights and some Cloudy Bay that are responsible for the twirly tummy.
Woke up feeling a little bit queasy this morning. We'd been to visit friends the evening before, all of whom over the past couple of weeks, have had a version of a rather enduring tummy bug. Just hope I haven't caught it.
I'm not very often subject to bouts of tummy problems and since we don't have small children or much contact with them, we aren't usually affected by circulating infections.
However, I drank some tea and water and ate some toast and feel rather better now.
"There's usually only one explanation when a piece of toast makes you feel better!" I said to Paul.
In My Day
Working full-time as well as bringing up 2 children was quite a struggle. While, in my fantasies I always imagined having 5 daughters, rather like Mrs Bennett, I knew that would put me under absurd pressure.
So I was determined to stick at 2, so had been fitted with a "copper 7" IUD.
In the autumn of 1978, Beatrice was living with us at Rowan Avenue, following her Canadian adventure. Liz was 6 and Becky about 15 months old.
Paul must have been on earlies that Sunday morning; certainly he wasn't in the house when Beatrice brought in my morning tea. "Ooh!" said I, as I sat up "I feel a bit sick." I drank my tea and nibbled on a Rich Tea biscuit. "I feel better now", I said and clapped my hand to my mouth, unwilling to believe the most likely explanation for this phenomenon.
But it was true. A quick jaunt to the doctor made it clear that baby number 3 was on the way. The doctor, in all serious kindness, said that, as the contraception offered by the NHS had failed me, the NHS would also provide an abortion if I so wished. I considered and decided that, although it would be a struggle, I could manage and find the love for number 3.
The midwife told me many cheery tales of beautiful babies born clutching the IUDs in their fists, the queasiness wore off and we told people the news. I told Chris and lamented the fact that I'd just sold a lot of Becky's baby stuff. Soon a £50 Mothercare voucher (£50 was a fair bit) arrived from my sweet and generous brother.
Christmas was approaching and we went to Portsmouth to pay an Xmas visit to friends of ours. As part of the festivities we were invited to join them at the local college bash where barn-dancing was on offer. Great! I did my fair share of dosey-doing and had a good time.
In the morning. I awoke to a puddle of blood. I stayed where I was while Paul sorted out our stuff and got me into the car and whizzed back home as soon as possible.
But it was too late. I called Chris "Thank you so much for the voucher, but there isn't going to be a baby", I told him. "Go spend it on Xmas pressies for the girls", he kindly said. Which I did with Paul, that very same day, buying a little trike for Becky and a dressing gown and duvet for Lizzie, the busy-ness of the shopping taking my mind off the pain.
Some time afterwards, Paul asked me whether I'd like to have a baby anyway. I said no, not having really changed my mind about 2 children and full-time working being enough, and he went and made the final sacrifice.
Every once in a while I wonder about number 3; son, or daughter? and what changes that would have brought to our life.
Right now, however, I'm fairly certain that it's a few short nights and some Cloudy Bay that are responsible for the twirly tummy.
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