Thursday, March 26, 2009

In Stitches

Today

Much as I love being down at the flat, occasionally time hangs a little heavy. We don't want to spend all our time visiting relatives and, although eating out is lovely, it's also expensive and fattening. So there are dull or rainy days and long evenings to fill.

The flat is our 2nd home, rather than just a holiday venue and we want to be able to do at least some of the things we do at home. To that end Paul brought down a selection of bits and pieces and has been happily creating models for his railway, sitting at one of the trestles in the veranda.

"I could get myself another sewing machine and use the other trestle and make handbags etc", I said. After some Internet browsing, looking at machines that cost £200 and are inferior to mine, I had a brainwave. My machine only weighs about 7k - I can simply bring it down each time we visit for more than a week or! Simple!

In My Day

Like many others of my generation, I learnt to use a sewing machine on my mother's electrified Singer sewing machine. It was gloriously ornate in black with gold scrolls, gloriously slow, and given to temper tantrums involving tension.

I was given my first very own machine as a 21st birthday gift. It was a creme de la creme machine - an elegant Necchi. Daddy was immensely pleased that the shopkeeper threw in the carrying case for nothing in return for cash, although I can't imagine how I would have coped without the case. The whole thing cost £70.

For its time the machine was unusually light to carry and very versatile. Each term I travelled from London to Worthing by train carrying my case, my sewing machine and wooden sewing box (in later years I also carried a basket containing my cat Ariadne), for use on my costume design and needlework training.

That sewing machine went everywhere with me. I remember a customer at Stefan's Bridge Club in London, who'd fallen on hard times, whose entire wardrobe I altered to suit modern styles (and, it must be said, her altered shape) using the Necchi. She paid me very good money indeed.

I made elaborate costumes, curtains, wedding dresses, clothes for myself, countless outfits for the girls, gifts for all the family, even, after some pressure, a hideous choir outfit for Beatrice. The machine paid for itself again and again.

How I kept it going I don't know, Necchi having long since gone out of business. Eventually, about seven years ago I thought it was about time for a new machine, so I bought a new Elna and gave the Necchi to Becky who never got it working. Still, thirty-five years' hard use isn't bad.

I still think of that Necchi with nostalgia, though it must be said that I really like the automatic buttonhole feature on my new one!

Sunday, March 15, 2009

Soundtrack

Today

Wherever you go, these days, there is recorded music as a backdrop to our lives. In cafes, bars, shops and shopping malls. I have my Walkman plugged into my ears as I walk the treadmill and read a trashy mag, we listen to it in the car and while we're making the tea.

Sometimes it does intrude; I've become bolder about asking for music in pubs to be turned down, and I heard of one orchestral player who was horrified to hear the Bach B Minor Mass as background music in a restaurant. When the club next door started up with its hip-hop, the waiter's response was to turn the Bach up to full volume!

"The trouble is," I said to Paul "we often don't really listen to our music. Why don't we take it in turns to devise a proper programme of music and really listen, not talk?" "Good idea," said my spouse.

So, on Friday, arranged around a very nice meal, I played V William's "The Lark Ascending", Elgar's Cello Concerto and V William's "A Sea Symphony". I even found a website which provided programme notes so downloaded some and made a little programme. V enjoyable - and I found that I listened much more closely, especially to the symphony. And it kind of made Friday evening special

In My Day

In 1941 bombs destroyed The Queen's Hall in London. This was a major concert venue and a fund, under the auspices of Sir Henry Wood, was set up to rebuild. He died in 1944 but the funds still continued.

My parents contribution was to create the Henry Wood Gramophone Circle. Gramophone societies were quite common at that time. Not everyone had their own record-player and it was costly to amass a collection of discs.

The Circle met at 4 Beulah every third Sunday. Mamma and Daddy were very proud that they had the space to do this; many others had to meet in church halls and the like which gave a colder air to the proceedings. At 4 BH members were able to sit in armchairs and enjoy a family atmosphere. Normally, I suppose, about fifteen-twenty members would gather; sometimes we had bumper nights of about thirty or more which was quite a strain on the seating.

Initially, of course, the records were 78rpm which gave you four minutes of listening per disc. The record deck had two turntables and the records were double sided in alternate numbering 1,3 2,4 etc. This meant that you could go fairly smoothly from disc one to two, with time to get number three ready. This way, the Beethoven symphony you were listening to wasn't too lumpy.

Later, Daddy transferred to long play. I remember the cabinet of discs - hundreds, it seemed - carefully catalogued.
The programmes weren't just slung together, either. They were carefully themed, mostly along symphony concert lines. There were exceptions. Daddy would play "Scheherazade" and read aloud from Lane's translation of "The Arabian Nights" carefully slotting his words to the meaning and fluctuations of the music.

As we got older we were occasionally allowed to devise our own programmes and present them to the circle.

The circle was affiliated to a larger group and the members formed the large part of Mamma and Daddy's social circle for many years. We had patrons: Margaret Ritchie whom I remember as having a sweet round face and delightful voice singing "My Heart Ever Faithful" and Peter Katin, pianist who several times visited with his wife and little boy Nicholas. Apparently Beatrice met him a few years ago and he had no recollection of these events.

The Circle kept going for over twenty years and was eventually disbanded when it finally became obvious that The Queens' Hall would never be rebuilt. The money my parents had so carefully gathered went towards a Sir Henry Wood memorial.

Programme preparation is quite tricky, as we've discovered, so I don't really blame Paul for switching from all four Bach orchestral suites to Santana.

Friday, March 13, 2009

One for the Pot

Today

The days are getting longer and brighter and it's very easy to see just how much dust has collected. So, as part of another of my cleaning sprees, I washed every one of my 120 teapots.

I know how this collection started; with a gift of the famous motor car teapot given to Paul by a grateful patient. Our friends, as a joke, followed it up with a Charles & Di teapot and the collection was born. I don't know at what point it came to be considered as mine.

There are some basic rules: the teapot has to have a quirky or amusing design, be a real teapot and the handle, spout and lid should be an integral part of the design. Having said that, I never turned away the little pots (encouragingly marked "do not use hot water") given me by my many nephews and nieces.

For the first time since this blog was born Paul has made a suggestion as to editorial content. Not to squash this budding talent I include it. We were in Tesco today looking for tea. No, I don't mean PG tips or camomile tea, I mean tea. Tea that is spooned into a pot, subjected to boiling water and strained into a cup. Paul, whose passion for and ability to make good tea far outstrips mine, commented how hard it is today to find a good range of loose teas. I heard a while ago that this item has now been removed from the standard shopping basket that is used in calculating price fluctuations.

The point is, I may have about 120 crazy teapots but we also use a proper pot every day. It's a good round blue and white china pot with a natty little nylon infuser sitting under the lid. And every single cup of tea we have at home uses this pot.

In My Day

I do think that everyone used teapots when I was a child. Tea was spooned in from caddies "one per cup and one for the pot", boiling water added and the resulting potion drunk throughout the land. The commonest type of pot was a "Brown Betty" - these are still made today.

Daddy, of course, had his own ideas. He believed that tea was good but tannin bad (full of antioxidants, actually, Daddy). Putting leaves into the pot, pouring on the water and then leaving it for the time it takes to drink several cups, results in steadily strengthening tea and an increase in tannin. He also believe that warming the pot with water had a weakening effect on the brewing process. So Daddy used to put the tea into a jug, pour in the boiling water, let it stand, then strain it into the pot. The tea in the pot would stay uniformly at the desired strength, only gradually getting cooler.

I believe my brother David still uses this system, together with a nifty little wall-mounted tea dispenser.

I find it amazing that people today firstly use teabags, secondly pour on off-the-boil or reboiled water, and thirdly don't use a teapot.

Some historians believe that the industrial revolution could only have started in England when it was (before sewage) because we all drank strong tea which involved boiling water (killed the germs) tannin (a natural antibiotic) and which didn't make you drunk. With the art of tea-making fast dying out it's no wonder the country's done for.

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

Without a Word of a Lie

Today

This morning Paul asked me where I'd put my water glass. "Did you bring it down?" he asked. "I might have done or it might be in the study," I said "actually, I don't remember what I did and that's the honest truth." "As distinct from the dishonest truth," I added.

Paul and I had a discussion about how the language contains many expressions that presuppose that lying is a common element in our speech "without a word of a lie", "I gotta to be honest" "to tell the truth" "that's the honest truth" etc.

In My Day

When do we learn to lie? At what age do we discover the possibility and what drives the extent to which we lie? Is it when we lose the completeness of trust; catching our parents or siblings out in a lie?

Daddy took a strong view about lying (it's understandable; if your children always tell the truth it makes your life much simpler), reserving corporal punishment for this transgression.

I think that I was generally a truthful child, but between the ages of about eight and ten I got into the habit of lying to avoid trouble. I think I only lied because of a sense that what I had done was so naughty that retribution must surely follow.

The problem was, being only a child and not naturally devious, I wasn't very good at it. Successful lying involves sustaining the lie for ever and the expert concealment of evidence.

It was no good my telling Mamma that Beatrice had stolen and eaten her Toblerone (initially a reasonable supposition as Beatrice had a much sweeter tooth than I) when the remains of the packet was sticking out of my pocket. And whom did I blame for eating the entire soft inside of a loaf of bread, leaving just the outside crust?

And retribution surely followed the discovery of the lie. With some ceremony I would be laid face downwards on Daddy's knee, my head dangling uncomfortably close to his lymphatically swollen feet. He would yank up my skirt and plant about half a dozen wallops with the flat of his hand on the fleshiest part of my buttocks. Once done I was free to go and the matter would not be mentioned again.

Daddy used to talk openly about his attitude to corporal punishment; use it rarely, give a good and proper warning, use only the palm of your hand (this puts a natural brake on actually doing any damage) and smack only the fleshiest and most resilient parts of the body.

I remember not the stinging of the smack (he was true to his word and never did anything that actually caused lasting pain or injury) but the utter humiliation and unpleasantness of being so treated.

One day I put him to the test. I accidentally broke a window playing ball. When the matter came to light I decided to make a clean breast of it. I was not smacked; only ticked off and learnt that Daddy, at any rate, could be trusted. Mamma never smacked me; her forays into this art being limited to catching the boys a clip in passing when they were being unbearably cheeky.

I think that what I learnt was that it's nearly always best to be truthful, and if you're going to lie, plan it well and never be caught out.

Friday, March 06, 2009

Rescue

Today

This morning Paul & I watched the kittens playing. They're pretty evenly matched and their play-fighting becomes less innocuous as they get bigger. Albinoni even hissed at Agnes today as she must have caught a tender spot.

Paul consoled Albinoni. We talked about a fairly silly detective drama we'd seen the night before which centered round a woman who rescued cats and had about thirty. Paul quoted from the drama "People who have cats should get a life". "Although," he added "I do think that three's the absolute upper limit." "I do like to have a couple of cats trundling around," I agreed. "But not thirty!" said my spouse. "What, like Mrs Entwhistle?"

In My Day

When we first moved into Belmont in 1971, I still owned Ariadne, the tabby who'd been with me right through college. We weren't supposed to have pets but we smuggled her in and, as the flat had access to the fire escape, she could get in and out. Ariadne had been suffering from an alopecia as a side-effect of neutering; she was receiving treatment but it's true to say that she did look a little scruffy.

One evening she didn't turn up. When she'd been missing for a few days we set about working out how to trace her. We went to the RSPCA but they didn't have her. We could hardly ask other residents as that would be an admission that we illegally had a pet. I can't remember how, but eventually a batty old lady who lived a few streets away told us that Ariadne had been found inside a vacant flat at Belmont and had been taken to a local cat rescue organisation run by a Mrs Entwhistle. We tracked down her number and paid a visit. The house reeked of cat piss and cats stared at us from every corner, I fervently hoped that Ariadne wasn't in such a vile place. At first she denied all knowledge but eventually told us that Ariadne had gone to new owners.

I was stunned and all the way home railed at Paul about it. We went to the RSPCA to ask advice. "Oh, Mrs Entwhistle!" they said in that tone of voice. "She's an absolute thorn in our sides; she simply hampers our work at every step and will not co-operate in any way. However, in law, a cat is not like a dog; it's simply a personal possession, like a watch, so she is guilty of theft in simply taking your cat, not taking proper steps to find the owner and then giving her away."

We called the police. "Oh, Mrs Entwhistle!" they said in that tone of voice "She's a perpetual nuisance; we'll put CID onto it." Which they did. However, they never found Ariadne and eventually Mrs E told us that, actually, Ariadne had been in such poor condition that she's had her destroyed. There seemed no point in further pursuit and no way of determining whether she was telling the truth.

It's true, most do-gooders often do no good at all.

Wednesday, March 04, 2009

A Life Worth Living

Today

Along with the rest of the nation, I was grieved to hear of the violent end to the life of little Brandon Muir. The news presenter described the ferocity of the attacks on his two -year old body. They also described the life lived by his prostitute heroin-addicted mother and showed scenes from around where she lived. The flats were grubby, dismal, sprayed with graffiti, windows boarded up. And I wondered about the kind of life he would have had, had he not been beaten to death. Another kind of death, I guess.

I felt ashamed that we allow people to live in these places and in such squalor. We have the means to improve things; where is our will?

Unfortunately, Brandon is by no means the first, nor the last little child to suffer in this way.

In My Day

In 1973 we were living in Brighton when the story of Maria Colwell broke. She was taken to the Royal Sussex Hospital in a pram, her little undersized 7-year old body a mass of bruises, her little stomach empty of food.

The hounds of recrimination were let loose. Social Services, not for the first or the last time, took all the brunt of the criticism and sweeping changes were promised.

At that time we were living at Belmont and Lizzie was a baby. The repercussions from the Maria Colwell case reverberated throughout Brighton for a long time, as we were to find out.

I suppose Lizzie was about twenty months old and we had commenced on the task of toilet training. This was not going well. Lizzie didn't really seem to want to understand what it was all about (with hindsight - how we worried as though it's not something all children learn to do eventually). On the evening in question, once Liz had been bathed we left her to trot about without a nappy, potty invitingly placed on the living room floor. Liz wasn't yet very steady on her feet and she suddenly fell in such a way that she landed, bottom down, on the potty. I picked up the screaming child and nearly screamed myself when I saw just how much blood was pouring from her little underneath.

We bundled her up and off to the the Royal Sussex A&E. As usual, they were busy. A tired intern prodded at Lizzie, rather scaring her, and said that she needed to see a paediatrician. As it was now nine at night, they had to call one in.

At about ten pm we were ushered into the presence of the paediatrician. He looked briefly at Lizzie's injury, then began to ask us a lot of personal questions. While he did this he looked all over Lizzie, testing her for fractures, bruises and other signs of abuse. I guess he was also looking for signs of intimidation. Fortunately, Lizzie, the pain forgotten, was at her sociable best, chattering to the consultant and trying to grab his stethoscope. Eventually he said "you're a nice little baby" and indicated that we could go. "And the injury?" we ventured. "Oh that," he said "Just keep it clean, it'll clear up in a day or two." Which it did.

While we understood the need for him to carry out this scrutiny, it's sad that all this still doesn't prevent the real tragedies from happening. Little Brandon, I am so sorry for you, alive or dead.

Sunday, March 01, 2009

Arty-farty

Today

V excited because a local restaurant has given me two walls on which to display my framed photos for sale. I really only started taking photos five years ago when Paul gave me a very nice small digital camera. I got into the habit of carrying it with me everywhere and discovered that I have quite an eye for a shot. I began to notice that I had bulging folders on my computer of photos (presently standing at about 11,000) and wondered what use to make of them.

When an acquaintance of ours produced a show of her photos mounted in cheap frames and charged a whole lot of money, I thought I could do better, so I did.

I use Photoshop to manipulate the images and do my own mounting and framing, so that the whole is properly presented.

The proprietor of the restaurant asked me to write a little bit about myself. Thinking that a blurb that ran "Well, Julia quite likes to take a few pictures with her very simple camera" lacked the right artistic gravitas, I've delved into my past and come up with a reference to my art school days.

In My Day

I may have said before that I was considered to be the "arty" one of the family. Well, someone had to fill the vacancy and I was the only one who couldn't keep away from paper and pencil.

Looking back, I do think that I drew quite well, but I also think that I lacked a real sense of design. It was Mamma or Chris who designed our cake layouts and Daddy who put together the Christmas cards. When I applied to St Martins Art College, David designed and made a very natty card viewer for some of my slides of my theatre designs. The college was much more fascinated by this than by my costumes.... And I never learnt to manipulate paint.

At college I learnt to sew and design clothes - a skill I still have, though only occasionally employed these days. But overall, I think my artistic ability has been much inflated within my family. The outside world, being more astute, paid me little attention. An eminent stage designer once came to assess and review our work while I was at Worthing college. He looked at my stage designs for "Rhinoceros", patted me on the head and told me to be sure to tell my children that Mummy had once been to art college. I'm still reeling from that multi-layered insult.

Although I trained to be an art and needlework teacher, I'm glad I didn't follow through as I've no idea how I would have sustained any creative flow long enough to be an inspiration to children.

I must say that, after a lifetime of working using just my brain, I really enjoy the physical act of creating the framework for my pictures. And at least I haven't sunk into the old-lady retirement habit of taking up water-colour painting.