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.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
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.
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
Hog's Back
Today
I am not a person who enjoys living in the past. You might think that the existence of this blog rather contradicts this statement. But this blog is intended to shine a light on how I have lived my life; I don't spend my days trying to recreate it.
However, last weekend, recreate the past is just what we did. Paul and I participated in the London to Brighton Classic Car Run, driving his Humber Imperial. We meet lots of people, all enjoying this little dipping of the toe into the 30's or 50's and many passers-by say things like "they don't make them like that any more!" (Which may be a good thing.) The run always starts from a location in Surrey - this year from Brooklands near Weybridge.
We drove up the evening before and decided to eschew the M25 and cut across country via Farnham. We took the A31 across the Hog's Back, skirted Guildford to pick up the A3.
"I used to cycle these roads", I said to Paul "But the A3 wasn't this terrifying 3-lane dual carriageway in those days. I wouldn't do it now."
In My Day
I was given a bike when I was about 12. Not being naturally sporty, I took a little time to learn and can remember the moment when I managed to "do it by mineself". The boys and, later on, Beatrice had bikes . We frequently took ourselves off cycling the North Downs and I can't remember Mamma or Daddy expressing any anxiety; probably they charged the boys with keeping an eye, but I was blissfully unaware of this.
We were all capable map-readers and I quickly learnt how to recognise road numbers and names. Roads south took us through Croydon, almost inevitably. East - through Addiscombe to cycle into Kent and that long curving road (not really changed today) into Sevenoaks.
West, maybe through Waddon with its chocolatey Paynes Poppets factory. South along the Purley Way. A favourite route took the A25 via Leatherhead (where David went to school) and along the A3 and the A31 Hog's Back Road. The Hog's Back is one of those amazing roads which travel along the edge of the North Downs - the slopes north to London and the escarpment down to Godalming and the Devil's Punchbowl to the south.
Of course there were lorries on the road in those days, but far fewer and certainly not the huge continental artics seen today. The roads, even the A31 dual carriageway, were far less busy and didn't seem at all terrifying. So the rides were enjoyable challenges; struggle up the hilly bits, ride through the "jelly-leg" that would set in after about 10 miles or so and enjoy stopping at a beauty spot somewhere or other. And the A3 was just an ordinary road; 20 years later, which was the next time I drove along it, I was astonished by this high-powered arterial road, driving straight into London.
It was quite normal for us to cycle twenty five or thirty miles, arriving home, dusty and tired, with an enormous appetite.
It does seem ironic, with our current anxiety and using up our energy resources and encouragement to get our our bikes, that the roads are so much less easy on the cyclist than they used to be.
I am not a person who enjoys living in the past. You might think that the existence of this blog rather contradicts this statement. But this blog is intended to shine a light on how I have lived my life; I don't spend my days trying to recreate it.
However, last weekend, recreate the past is just what we did. Paul and I participated in the London to Brighton Classic Car Run, driving his Humber Imperial. We meet lots of people, all enjoying this little dipping of the toe into the 30's or 50's and many passers-by say things like "they don't make them like that any more!" (Which may be a good thing.) The run always starts from a location in Surrey - this year from Brooklands near Weybridge.
We drove up the evening before and decided to eschew the M25 and cut across country via Farnham. We took the A31 across the Hog's Back, skirted Guildford to pick up the A3.
"I used to cycle these roads", I said to Paul "But the A3 wasn't this terrifying 3-lane dual carriageway in those days. I wouldn't do it now."
In My Day
I was given a bike when I was about 12. Not being naturally sporty, I took a little time to learn and can remember the moment when I managed to "do it by mineself". The boys and, later on, Beatrice had bikes . We frequently took ourselves off cycling the North Downs and I can't remember Mamma or Daddy expressing any anxiety; probably they charged the boys with keeping an eye, but I was blissfully unaware of this.
We were all capable map-readers and I quickly learnt how to recognise road numbers and names. Roads south took us through Croydon, almost inevitably. East - through Addiscombe to cycle into Kent and that long curving road (not really changed today) into Sevenoaks.
West, maybe through Waddon with its chocolatey Paynes Poppets factory. South along the Purley Way. A favourite route took the A25 via Leatherhead (where David went to school) and along the A3 and the A31 Hog's Back Road. The Hog's Back is one of those amazing roads which travel along the edge of the North Downs - the slopes north to London and the escarpment down to Godalming and the Devil's Punchbowl to the south.
Of course there were lorries on the road in those days, but far fewer and certainly not the huge continental artics seen today. The roads, even the A31 dual carriageway, were far less busy and didn't seem at all terrifying. So the rides were enjoyable challenges; struggle up the hilly bits, ride through the "jelly-leg" that would set in after about 10 miles or so and enjoy stopping at a beauty spot somewhere or other. And the A3 was just an ordinary road; 20 years later, which was the next time I drove along it, I was astonished by this high-powered arterial road, driving straight into London.
It was quite normal for us to cycle twenty five or thirty miles, arriving home, dusty and tired, with an enormous appetite.
It does seem ironic, with our current anxiety and using up our energy resources and encouragement to get our our bikes, that the roads are so much less easy on the cyclist than they used to be.
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