Today
The weather was perfect yesterday. So, of course, the best way to spend it involved a total of five hours' driving and another couple of hours in a hall filled with smelly people hoping for a bargain and equally hopeful stall holders.
Yup! we were at a toy and model fair which was held at Sandown Park Exhibition Centre in Esher. Paul, of course, loves these affairs, and often finds that other commitments prevent him from going. And he doesn't like going without me.
So there we were, looking at rows and rows of (to me) indistinguishable model cars, and every variety of model railway loco, rolling stock and other bits and pieces.
Every now and then, tucked away among the Hornby Dublo (very 2nd hand) items there would be little booklets - a lot of them were old catalogues, but there were others on the history of GWR or some such thing. They were all tatty little cheaply printed paperbacks, dating back about 60 years. I rummaged about, looking for some very special books, but no luck.
In My Day
The little booklets for which I was searching, were published by the Western Region (or was it GWR?) and contained stories from the west country. I think that there were four of them and that the covers were printed in the famous banana split colours of the Western Region. When I was a child, I devoured everything that could be read, including these.
These little books were full of legends, folk and fairy tales from the West country. They told of Cornish Piskies who'd steal your babies if you didn't leave milk out at night, of Sundays revellers being turned to stone in the middle of their blasphemously played hurling match (just what was hurling?). I read of mermaids tempting Cornish fishermen, about the Rollright stones whom no-one has ever been able to count, who go down to the river to drink at night time. St Neot was the miniature Cornish saint, or so it seemed to me, never heard of in London and I read of St Michael casting down the Devil from St Michael's Mount. Then there were lurid tales of smugglers and wreckers and hidden caves in cliffs.
The books, which I read repeatedly during those long nights when sleep eluded me, led me into a world populated by superstitious Celts and made me feel that the "West Country" was indeed a foreign place.
I've no idea what happened to those books and would dearly love to find a set. I wonder if I could find some on eBay?
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Monday, May 25, 2009
Golden Dome
Today
We've made the decision to spend this New Year in Wiesbaden. We'd toyed with going back to Madeira or Burgh Island, but, when I was playing around finding out how I could use my airmiles, I said to Paul "there's always Frankfurt." "Ah," he said "You know how much I've been wanting to go to Germany." So the deed was done.
"It's just round the corner from Wiesbaden", I said "so we could go and visit my cousins. And Wiesbaden is a really lovely town."
In My Day
In redemption of a long held promise, Mamma took me to Wiesbaden as a reward for passing my 11+. She herself had not returned to Germany since first coming to England so I guess it was as big an adventure for her as for me. Her doctor sister was now living in Wiesbaden with her husband and three daughters, one of whom, like me, was named Julia after our grandmother.
We travelled via boat to Ostende and then train to Wiesbaden. We stayed at A
unt Maria's apartment on the Schiersteiner Strasse. The summer of 1959 was a hot one and I remember spending much time out of doors in this elegant spa town. There were beautiful gardens in which red squirrels played, churches that looked like Disney fantasies and a building with golden domes that gleamed in the sun.
We visited the spa swimming pool where we frolicked in the foaming and spurting hot spa water and took a boat trip along the Rhine, marvelling at the fantastic castles and seeing the Lorelei rock with its siren connotations.
I remember tasting the wonderful German pastries and ice-creams (these were often forced upon us by the need to find a toilet; it's surprising how often you need to go, when there's a dish of mixed icecream ornamented with little parasols awaiting you). Culture wasn't neglected either; we went to hear the Vienna Boys' Choir, a peculiarly Teutonic treat, where I had my first taste of Pepsi-cola.
Mamma, Maria and Uncle Jochen are long since dead but it will be fun to see my cousins again. And I bet New Year celebrations are really beautiful in Wiesbaden. I wonder if we'll have snow?
We've made the decision to spend this New Year in Wiesbaden. We'd toyed with going back to Madeira or Burgh Island, but, when I was playing around finding out how I could use my airmiles, I said to Paul "there's always Frankfurt." "Ah," he said "You know how much I've been wanting to go to Germany." So the deed was done.
"It's just round the corner from Wiesbaden", I said "so we could go and visit my cousins. And Wiesbaden is a really lovely town."
In My Day
In redemption of a long held promise, Mamma took me to Wiesbaden as a reward for passing my 11+. She herself had not returned to Germany since first coming to England so I guess it was as big an adventure for her as for me. Her doctor sister was now living in Wiesbaden with her husband and three daughters, one of whom, like me, was named Julia after our grandmother.
We travelled via boat to Ostende and then train to Wiesbaden. We stayed at A
unt Maria's apartment on the Schiersteiner Strasse. The summer of 1959 was a hot one and I remember spending much time out of doors in this elegant spa town. There were beautiful gardens in which red squirrels played, churches that looked like Disney fantasies and a building with golden domes that gleamed in the sun.We visited the spa swimming pool where we frolicked in the foaming and spurting hot spa water and took a boat trip along the Rhine, marvelling at the fantastic castles and seeing the Lorelei rock with its siren connotations.
I remember tasting the wonderful German pastries and ice-creams (these were often forced upon us by the need to find a toilet; it's surprising how often you need to go, when there's a dish of mixed icecream ornamented with little parasols awaiting you). Culture wasn't neglected either; we went to hear the Vienna Boys' Choir, a peculiarly Teutonic treat, where I had my first taste of Pepsi-cola.
Mamma, Maria and Uncle Jochen are long since dead but it will be fun to see my cousins again. And I bet New Year celebrations are really beautiful in Wiesbaden. I wonder if we'll have snow?
Saturday, May 23, 2009
RIP
Today
Eventually we did the only sensible thing and had Lizzie's lawn re-turfed by a professional. Looks lovely too, and Liz actually mowed it about three weeks ago.
She planned to do it again two weeks later and was horrified to see just how fast grass grows. In fact I did it for her a few days earlier (just as well as it rained on the weekend she had set aside).
As I got to the bottom damp bit I saw a little creature slither off in the grass. I asked Paul "Are grass snakes brown?" "Yes", he replied. I spoke to Lizzie about it and she said "Oh, I know - I saw it last week and took a picture." I talked to a know-it-all type of chap down at the local cookshop and was quizzed on whether it had yellow spots behind the eyes (essential for a grass snake) - "I don't know, I was trying to get it out of the way of the mower blades by lifting it on a stick." "Of course, if it's dark brown it could be an adder," he went on with relish "they do exist on the Mendips."
I researched via good ole' Wiki and decided that the slim, silky cafe latte coloured creature I'd seen was actually a slow-worm which is neither a worm nor a snake, but a legless lizard which is good at ridding the garden of slugs but defenceless against cats.
Did the grass again today and spotted several of them slithering around where the grass was longest and dampest.
In My Day
I'm a real townie and have not only never seen a snake in the wild, but am profoundly ignorant on the subject as well. The garden at 4BH was large and overgrown so grass snakes and slow-worms were a possibility, but I never saw any.
When we went for walks led by Mamma my brothers were very fond of discussing whether we'd see adders up on the sandy country around Godalming or on the Weald. They were full of stories about how to deal with a snake-bite (slice the wound and suck, apparently) and probably enjoyed terrifying their little, gullible sister. I made sure to stamp on the ground to scare them away whenever we were in heathland on hot days. We probably all made so much noise that any self-respecting snake could hear us coming for miles.
When we lived at Rowan Avenue, Frannie found a slow worm which she kept in her pocket and tried to feed on grass until her ophidiophobic mother made her throw it away very far from the house.
I regret to report that one of the slow-worms in Lizzie's garden was too slow to avoid the mower, meeting his end via the whirling blades. I am so sorry, slow-worm and will be more careful in future.
Eventually we did the only sensible thing and had Lizzie's lawn re-turfed by a professional. Looks lovely too, and Liz actually mowed it about three weeks ago.
She planned to do it again two weeks later and was horrified to see just how fast grass grows. In fact I did it for her a few days earlier (just as well as it rained on the weekend she had set aside).
As I got to the bottom damp bit I saw a little creature slither off in the grass. I asked Paul "Are grass snakes brown?" "Yes", he replied. I spoke to Lizzie about it and she said "Oh, I know - I saw it last week and took a picture." I talked to a know-it-all type of chap down at the local cookshop and was quizzed on whether it had yellow spots behind the eyes (essential for a grass snake) - "I don't know, I was trying to get it out of the way of the mower blades by lifting it on a stick." "Of course, if it's dark brown it could be an adder," he went on with relish "they do exist on the Mendips."
I researched via good ole' Wiki and decided that the slim, silky cafe latte coloured creature I'd seen was actually a slow-worm which is neither a worm nor a snake, but a legless lizard which is good at ridding the garden of slugs but defenceless against cats.
Did the grass again today and spotted several of them slithering around where the grass was longest and dampest.
In My Day
I'm a real townie and have not only never seen a snake in the wild, but am profoundly ignorant on the subject as well. The garden at 4BH was large and overgrown so grass snakes and slow-worms were a possibility, but I never saw any.
When we went for walks led by Mamma my brothers were very fond of discussing whether we'd see adders up on the sandy country around Godalming or on the Weald. They were full of stories about how to deal with a snake-bite (slice the wound and suck, apparently) and probably enjoyed terrifying their little, gullible sister. I made sure to stamp on the ground to scare them away whenever we were in heathland on hot days. We probably all made so much noise that any self-respecting snake could hear us coming for miles.
When we lived at Rowan Avenue, Frannie found a slow worm which she kept in her pocket and tried to feed on grass until her ophidiophobic mother made her throw it away very far from the house.
I regret to report that one of the slow-worms in Lizzie's garden was too slow to avoid the mower, meeting his end via the whirling blades. I am so sorry, slow-worm and will be more careful in future.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Material World
Today
I'm in the middle of a sewing bonanza at the moment. I have three cupboards bulging with fabrics, all of them begging to be made into clothes, cushion covers and handbags.
I have everything from suiting lengths (real bargains, especially as I now never wear suits), cute organza remnants ornamented with hearts or little puppies to a truly fabulous silk and gold thread sari length that cost a fabulous amount.
That's right, you've got it, I'm a fabric junkie; I can't walk past a remnants bin with any kind of self control. I popped into C&H fabrics in Brighton the other day with the intention of buying a few essential haberdashery items and returned with a length of quilted silver and black fabric (will it make place mats for F2/9?) and some very jolly stretch fabric foil printed with red spiders' webs. This last I'm attempting to use to cover some bolsters for Lizzie, but the stuff keeps fighting back.
In My Day
As someone whose school reports for sewing at best said "fair", I wonder how I developed my passion for sewing. Perhaps the change came when I saw how to make items one might actually want. At primary school and the first terms at Grammar school we mainly made embroidered gingham aprons. They always were deeply unstylish, embroidery on a garment that was likely to be splattered with grease and flour seemed quite unnecessary and maybe, in my deeper mental recesses, I objected to my introduction to sewing being to make a garment that reinforced woman's role as a servant. (The boys didn't do any such thing; in fact they didn't even learn to sew.)
When I was about seventeen I became involved with designing and making costumes for the school play - my piece de resistance being costumes for AMSND. Fashions at that time were mainly little shift dresses that took about three yards of fabric. I soon worked out how to make these for myself. I began to savour the delights of rummaging through fabrics at Alders in Croydon or, delight of delights, John Lewis in Oxford Street. I once made a coat dress out of turquoise sailcloth with orange lining and a fake kipper tie made out of orange, another time a shirt dress out of pure Wild West check. I sewed Beatrice's wedding and bridesmaids dresses and made clothes for my mother.
When the girls were little and I worked in Lewes I used to pop into the warehouse owned by Clothkits and buy bales of slightly flawed kits for £1. These made heaps of clothes and bags for all the children in the family.
The trouble is, my incentive to actually do any sewing has somewhat fallen off in recent years but my love affair with fabric hasn't. I've now several great-nieces who will be needing pretty clothes, tho'. Hmmm, must see what there is in the sales.....
I'm in the middle of a sewing bonanza at the moment. I have three cupboards bulging with fabrics, all of them begging to be made into clothes, cushion covers and handbags.
I have everything from suiting lengths (real bargains, especially as I now never wear suits), cute organza remnants ornamented with hearts or little puppies to a truly fabulous silk and gold thread sari length that cost a fabulous amount.
That's right, you've got it, I'm a fabric junkie; I can't walk past a remnants bin with any kind of self control. I popped into C&H fabrics in Brighton the other day with the intention of buying a few essential haberdashery items and returned with a length of quilted silver and black fabric (will it make place mats for F2/9?) and some very jolly stretch fabric foil printed with red spiders' webs. This last I'm attempting to use to cover some bolsters for Lizzie, but the stuff keeps fighting back.
In My Day
As someone whose school reports for sewing at best said "fair", I wonder how I developed my passion for sewing. Perhaps the change came when I saw how to make items one might actually want. At primary school and the first terms at Grammar school we mainly made embroidered gingham aprons. They always were deeply unstylish, embroidery on a garment that was likely to be splattered with grease and flour seemed quite unnecessary and maybe, in my deeper mental recesses, I objected to my introduction to sewing being to make a garment that reinforced woman's role as a servant. (The boys didn't do any such thing; in fact they didn't even learn to sew.)
When I was about seventeen I became involved with designing and making costumes for the school play - my piece de resistance being costumes for AMSND. Fashions at that time were mainly little shift dresses that took about three yards of fabric. I soon worked out how to make these for myself. I began to savour the delights of rummaging through fabrics at Alders in Croydon or, delight of delights, John Lewis in Oxford Street. I once made a coat dress out of turquoise sailcloth with orange lining and a fake kipper tie made out of orange, another time a shirt dress out of pure Wild West check. I sewed Beatrice's wedding and bridesmaids dresses and made clothes for my mother.
When the girls were little and I worked in Lewes I used to pop into the warehouse owned by Clothkits and buy bales of slightly flawed kits for £1. These made heaps of clothes and bags for all the children in the family.
The trouble is, my incentive to actually do any sewing has somewhat fallen off in recent years but my love affair with fabric hasn't. I've now several great-nieces who will be needing pretty clothes, tho'. Hmmm, must see what there is in the sales.....
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Thermostat
Today
Why is it that the minute you decide that it's time to turn off the heating for the summer the temperature plummets by about ten degrees? After a couple of weeks during which Paul complained about how hot the bedroom was getting when the heating turned itself on in the mornings, I decided it was time and turned the switch.
So today, with a high of about eight degrees manifesting itself, I'm freezing. The boiler will have to be turned on again tonight. At least with a modern gas combi-boiler it's relatively easy; I don't have to coax a coal boiler into creaking action.
In My Day
Mamma and Daddy had objections to central heating, the reasons for which I never entirely fathomed. As a child my experience of it was confined to school where we had ancient radiators that reluctantly became lukewarm after days of concentrated effort from a hidden boiler. Despite the layers of clothing into which I was bundled, I was often cold and we would all find excuses to cram around the radiators which did anything, it seemed, other than actually radiate heat. The heat, such as it was, probably gathered in the hign ceilings. They were huge cast-iron affairs covered with layers of peeling and lumpy paint in places and rusty in others. Given their efficiency, they were rather all talk and no do.
The heating was always turned on on October 1st, regardless of whether we were experiencing an Indian Summer or not, and off on May 1st, even if it was snowing. The boilers were probably coal or coke-fired and required a lengthy period of stoking up and cooling down, and switching on and off was not to be taken lightly. They must have cost a fortune to run for so little effect. I expect it was quite warm in the boiler room, but I could never find any excuses to venture so far.
Unpredictable heating continued to be a feature of my life for many years; in the more affluent establishments, convector heaters might be wheeled in to help; in others where strict economy was the rule, you simply dressed to cope. Even at Flare we were for many years the helpless victims of an elderly system which was reliable only in that it would always break down when there was snow on the ground and often failed to bring a single office up to the required legal minimum of sixteen degrees. How excited we were when we at last were able to fork out the cash to replace it with a modern system!
In fact, I am beginning see to the point of Mamma and Daddy's objections; with coal fires you could at least predict the hot and cold spots, even if you had to cope with dirt, smoke blowing back, and chimney fires.
Why is it that the minute you decide that it's time to turn off the heating for the summer the temperature plummets by about ten degrees? After a couple of weeks during which Paul complained about how hot the bedroom was getting when the heating turned itself on in the mornings, I decided it was time and turned the switch.
So today, with a high of about eight degrees manifesting itself, I'm freezing. The boiler will have to be turned on again tonight. At least with a modern gas combi-boiler it's relatively easy; I don't have to coax a coal boiler into creaking action.
In My Day
Mamma and Daddy had objections to central heating, the reasons for which I never entirely fathomed. As a child my experience of it was confined to school where we had ancient radiators that reluctantly became lukewarm after days of concentrated effort from a hidden boiler. Despite the layers of clothing into which I was bundled, I was often cold and we would all find excuses to cram around the radiators which did anything, it seemed, other than actually radiate heat. The heat, such as it was, probably gathered in the hign ceilings. They were huge cast-iron affairs covered with layers of peeling and lumpy paint in places and rusty in others. Given their efficiency, they were rather all talk and no do.
The heating was always turned on on October 1st, regardless of whether we were experiencing an Indian Summer or not, and off on May 1st, even if it was snowing. The boilers were probably coal or coke-fired and required a lengthy period of stoking up and cooling down, and switching on and off was not to be taken lightly. They must have cost a fortune to run for so little effect. I expect it was quite warm in the boiler room, but I could never find any excuses to venture so far.
Unpredictable heating continued to be a feature of my life for many years; in the more affluent establishments, convector heaters might be wheeled in to help; in others where strict economy was the rule, you simply dressed to cope. Even at Flare we were for many years the helpless victims of an elderly system which was reliable only in that it would always break down when there was snow on the ground and often failed to bring a single office up to the required legal minimum of sixteen degrees. How excited we were when we at last were able to fork out the cash to replace it with a modern system!
In fact, I am beginning see to the point of Mamma and Daddy's objections; with coal fires you could at least predict the hot and cold spots, even if you had to cope with dirt, smoke blowing back, and chimney fires.
Saturday, May 09, 2009
Button to chin
Today
This morning I decided that the winter clothes must be put away. I went into the porch to collect Paul's winter coats for dry cleaning. "Do you realise", I said to Paul "That you've about 20 winter outer garments of one kind or another?" "Impossible!" He replied. "Well, when you take into account the six woollen overcoats, four leather coats/jackets, two waxed coats, a moleskin jacket, and an assortment of lined anorak type coats, I don't think I'm far off."
The coat racks both in the porch at home and at the flat groan with Paul's attempts to fend off the cold and my much more modest selection is relegated to a tiny corner.
In My Day
How was I protected from the cold when I was a little girl? You can sometimes see pictures from the '50s showing little girls in fitted woollen coats with cute little velvet collars - well I certainly didn't have one! I really remember how I was dressed on cold morning before going to school. Pile it on, seemed to the guiding principle.
Two pairs of knickers, a vest, a Liberty Bodice to which stockings were attached by suspenders, a blouse, gymslip, cardigan, blazer and gabardine mac. I could hardly move, yet there was a completely unprotected gap between the top of the stockings and my knickers. Otherwise I was warm enough, I guess.
When Paul & I were first married, my coat was made out of an old army blanket (a tailoring project at college) and Paul didn't have a coat at all. Apart from an Afghan coat of mine, which smelt resolutely and enduringly of goat, neither of us could afford a coat for years. We wore anoraks and cheap quilted jackets; once we even wore matching bright green logo-printed jackets that came free with some motoring promotion or other - which was a stylish look.
When she was very small Lizzy had a coat that had once been James's and later a coat bought in the sales. These resurfaced throughout the family, eventually returning to Becky. For quite a long time her only winter coverings were a couple of Aran zip up jackets made by Mamma.
Eventually I made her a coat in blue wool with cream lining and a piece of cream fake fur around the hood. My sister in law and I went halves on a piece of wool/alpaca; I bought a pattern and made a coat which I wore until it literally dropped into pieces. After that I got by with jumpers and anoraks for ten years. (Joan never got her coat made and I made her a parka from the fabric about twenty years later).
The truth is, coats were simply too expensive, particularly for Paul. Even fifteen years ago they could cost easily £200. It wasn't until I worked for Flare and received bonuses that these luxury garments could be bought. I bought Paul a proper coat about thirteen years ago - cashmere and wool - for Christmas. This he still has and wears with pride.
Given that really cold weather is rare these days, I think that Paul need never buy another overcoat. Not that that's likely to stop him, of course.
This morning I decided that the winter clothes must be put away. I went into the porch to collect Paul's winter coats for dry cleaning. "Do you realise", I said to Paul "That you've about 20 winter outer garments of one kind or another?" "Impossible!" He replied. "Well, when you take into account the six woollen overcoats, four leather coats/jackets, two waxed coats, a moleskin jacket, and an assortment of lined anorak type coats, I don't think I'm far off."
The coat racks both in the porch at home and at the flat groan with Paul's attempts to fend off the cold and my much more modest selection is relegated to a tiny corner.
In My Day
How was I protected from the cold when I was a little girl? You can sometimes see pictures from the '50s showing little girls in fitted woollen coats with cute little velvet collars - well I certainly didn't have one! I really remember how I was dressed on cold morning before going to school. Pile it on, seemed to the guiding principle.
Two pairs of knickers, a vest, a Liberty Bodice to which stockings were attached by suspenders, a blouse, gymslip, cardigan, blazer and gabardine mac. I could hardly move, yet there was a completely unprotected gap between the top of the stockings and my knickers. Otherwise I was warm enough, I guess.
When Paul & I were first married, my coat was made out of an old army blanket (a tailoring project at college) and Paul didn't have a coat at all. Apart from an Afghan coat of mine, which smelt resolutely and enduringly of goat, neither of us could afford a coat for years. We wore anoraks and cheap quilted jackets; once we even wore matching bright green logo-printed jackets that came free with some motoring promotion or other - which was a stylish look.
When she was very small Lizzy had a coat that had once been James's and later a coat bought in the sales. These resurfaced throughout the family, eventually returning to Becky. For quite a long time her only winter coverings were a couple of Aran zip up jackets made by Mamma.
Eventually I made her a coat in blue wool with cream lining and a piece of cream fake fur around the hood. My sister in law and I went halves on a piece of wool/alpaca; I bought a pattern and made a coat which I wore until it literally dropped into pieces. After that I got by with jumpers and anoraks for ten years. (Joan never got her coat made and I made her a parka from the fabric about twenty years later).
The truth is, coats were simply too expensive, particularly for Paul. Even fifteen years ago they could cost easily £200. It wasn't until I worked for Flare and received bonuses that these luxury garments could be bought. I bought Paul a proper coat about thirteen years ago - cashmere and wool - for Christmas. This he still has and wears with pride.
Given that really cold weather is rare these days, I think that Paul need never buy another overcoat. Not that that's likely to stop him, of course.
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
Viewpoint
Today
Yesterday was Daddy's birthday. He would have been 116 years old. I raised my cup of tea to him and remembered fondly. There was a legend within the family that, on Daddy's 100th birthday, we would all gather at his favourite place to celebrate. His favourite place was Caterham Viewpoint.
In My Day
We regularly made the trip to Caterham. It was an easy bus journey, broken at South Croydon with a walk up Tupwood Lane to the top. Tupwood Lane started in typical suburban Surrey manner with spacious houses and elegant drives, but gradually it became more rural with bluebell woods.
Nothing ever quite prepared one for the dramatic opening that was the viewpoint. At the edge of the North Downs, the steep scarp dropped away and one could gaze out towards the South Downs and imagine the sea just out of sight.
here was plenty of time to ramble through the adjacent woods and to play on the open space. Somehow it never seemed very busy, as though just we and a few discerning others had discovered it.
Later, when we had bikes, the boys and I would cycle there for no reason, it seemed, other than to cycle back.
After Daddy's death we planted a tree at the viewpoint with a plaque set into the ground beneath. When the first tree disappeared we replanted.
After Mamma's death Caterham somehow dropped out of our viewpoint. On Daddy's 100th only Beatrice, Lizzie and I were there to toast the now treeless plaque with champagne, although David had gone there the previous weekend.
And last year, the gathering of us and Beatrice's family found that even the plaque had gone, leaving a somewhat obscure concrete plinth still stubbornly adhering to the chalk.
Whatever happens at Caterham it's our viewpoint of Daddy as a force for good in our lives that really matters and endures.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)