Today
Terrific evening last night. Paul & I went to see the comedian Bill Bailey at the Bristol Hippodrome. We laughed and laughed. One of things we've noticed about BB is the complete lack of gratuitous swearing; in fact any swearing at all. He actually mentioned it during the show, saying that the use of swearing to enhance comedy provides diminishing returns so he prefers not to do it.
We talked about this with our nephew and he told a very funny tale of another comedian/musician who does swear in his act who received a comment from a fan to the effect that a man who plays the piano has no need to swear. We're not sure what was meant by this: is it that all your aggression can be vented via the musical instrument, or is the implication that pianists are rather higher up emotionally and mentally in the scheme of things so don't need this rather unimaginative way of expressing themselves?
In My Day
Daddy thought that swearing should be an act involving the imagination and he came out with his own phrases such as "mahogany kippers" when stubbing a toe or dropping the hammer. Occasionally he would change them with a little flourish - "donner und blitzen" was probably a more predictable phrase, among many.
He was quite aware of the phases normally reserved for swearing and he took one of two approaches. Some, such as the "F" and "C" words he used regularly in everyday speech in their proper context, arguing that if we heard these words often enough the novelty would wear off and we wouldn't be tempted to use them in anger ourselves. I don't think mamma approved much of this, but she said little, knowing when resistance would be useless. She never herself swore.
With some others he showed an old-fashioned superstition that sat uncomfortably with his modern and avowedly atheist views. Words such as "bloody" - meaning "by our lady" were quite unacceptable. The strangest and worst was to say "blimey" as this really means "God blind me" and who knew when God (who didn't exist, according to Daddy) might decide to do what you asked? I guess this was a hangover from the teachings of his mother, and I suppose we all have a little superstition in us somewhere.
At college I had a friend who thought that the best way to express anger and frustation was to say "bunny rabbits". Awesome, really.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
One Lump or Two
Today
A success over the weekend with my cooking. We'd invited the gang from the Wine Circle over to ours and I said I'd provide a cream tea. I prayed for rain, which ensured an afternoon of delightful sunshine and we crowded into our garden for tea, Pimm's and a selection of crustless sandwiches, scones with cream and jam, Victoria Sponge, lemon cake, carrot cake and Pauls' own recipe vanilla ice-cream. Wasps hovered expectantly, undeterred by the number of corpses around the place, and gorged on white wine.
Everything was done to a turn (I must say, I bake a mean scone) and we all (even Agnes who'd scrambled under the tablecloth covering the food, as well as the flies protectors to discover how much she liked the icing on the carrot cake) tucked in. Eventually we were all filled up with delicious carbohydrate and relaxed with tea or Pimm's and exchanged anecdotes. Lyn talked about the sanctity of "high tea" on Sundays when she was a girl. "Well, this is a high tea" she said.
In My Day
"Cream tea" can mean a number of things, but must always include scones, cream and tea. When we were children we rarely went into restaurants but often into tea shops. You could always get tea and bread-and-butter. Scones were available with cream - sometimes clotted which I found a bit too much - and jam. Wasps were often an accompaniment to these delights, crawling up the windowpanes of the tea shops or hovering around if we were outside. There might be a plate of cakes - cream-filled or rock and fairy cakes and it could be a quite a job choosing the right one.
"High tea" had a greater variety of possible definitions. It seemed that this was always eaten on a Sunday and at home was likely to include cheese, ham and salad as well as bread and butter and, maybe, cake. I learnt just how different when visiting other people's houses. A great luxury in those days was tinned salmon and this was often on the table at friends' houses. I was indifferent to its somewhat watery taste and a little put off by the puce colour and soggy texture. There might be pork pies, filled with unidentifiable meat and uneatably rubbery jelly and, a real horror this, tongue. There might be jelly with blancmange or tinned fruit. Fresh fruit was a rarity.
I also learnt quite quickly that some people ate "dinner" at midday when we ate lunch and "tea" meant the evening meal which we called supper. It was only years later that I understood the deep class divide that this reveals. So an invitation to "tea" could mean anything from tea and biscuits to a fully cooked meal. It was impossible to prepare for this without asking awkward question beforehand. It's a bit rude to ask your hosts whether you'll actually get anything to eat!
Paul's family also used to have a high tea on Sundays. I found the amount of carbohydrate that I was expected to put away very daunting and somehow felt full and dyspeptic without feeling satisfied. But Mum was not satisfied with lady-like pickings and was apt to take it amiss if I didn't stuff my face with bread, pastries from Bondolfi's bakery in Meads and the notorious "bung-in" cake. One quickly realises the benefit of tea; it really helps to offset that stodgy feeling.
Anyway, I really enjoyed the opportunity to show off what I can do in the baking line, but am not quite sure I'm up to Lyn's suggestion that we do it once a month.
A success over the weekend with my cooking. We'd invited the gang from the Wine Circle over to ours and I said I'd provide a cream tea. I prayed for rain, which ensured an afternoon of delightful sunshine and we crowded into our garden for tea, Pimm's and a selection of crustless sandwiches, scones with cream and jam, Victoria Sponge, lemon cake, carrot cake and Pauls' own recipe vanilla ice-cream. Wasps hovered expectantly, undeterred by the number of corpses around the place, and gorged on white wine.
Everything was done to a turn (I must say, I bake a mean scone) and we all (even Agnes who'd scrambled under the tablecloth covering the food, as well as the flies protectors to discover how much she liked the icing on the carrot cake) tucked in. Eventually we were all filled up with delicious carbohydrate and relaxed with tea or Pimm's and exchanged anecdotes. Lyn talked about the sanctity of "high tea" on Sundays when she was a girl. "Well, this is a high tea" she said.
In My Day
"Cream tea" can mean a number of things, but must always include scones, cream and tea. When we were children we rarely went into restaurants but often into tea shops. You could always get tea and bread-and-butter. Scones were available with cream - sometimes clotted which I found a bit too much - and jam. Wasps were often an accompaniment to these delights, crawling up the windowpanes of the tea shops or hovering around if we were outside. There might be a plate of cakes - cream-filled or rock and fairy cakes and it could be a quite a job choosing the right one.
"High tea" had a greater variety of possible definitions. It seemed that this was always eaten on a Sunday and at home was likely to include cheese, ham and salad as well as bread and butter and, maybe, cake. I learnt just how different when visiting other people's houses. A great luxury in those days was tinned salmon and this was often on the table at friends' houses. I was indifferent to its somewhat watery taste and a little put off by the puce colour and soggy texture. There might be pork pies, filled with unidentifiable meat and uneatably rubbery jelly and, a real horror this, tongue. There might be jelly with blancmange or tinned fruit. Fresh fruit was a rarity.
I also learnt quite quickly that some people ate "dinner" at midday when we ate lunch and "tea" meant the evening meal which we called supper. It was only years later that I understood the deep class divide that this reveals. So an invitation to "tea" could mean anything from tea and biscuits to a fully cooked meal. It was impossible to prepare for this without asking awkward question beforehand. It's a bit rude to ask your hosts whether you'll actually get anything to eat!
Paul's family also used to have a high tea on Sundays. I found the amount of carbohydrate that I was expected to put away very daunting and somehow felt full and dyspeptic without feeling satisfied. But Mum was not satisfied with lady-like pickings and was apt to take it amiss if I didn't stuff my face with bread, pastries from Bondolfi's bakery in Meads and the notorious "bung-in" cake. One quickly realises the benefit of tea; it really helps to offset that stodgy feeling.
Anyway, I really enjoyed the opportunity to show off what I can do in the baking line, but am not quite sure I'm up to Lyn's suggestion that we do it once a month.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Where did you get that hat?
Today
It's not often I write two blogs in one day - but this suggested itself. On Facebook, two references to hats. One was a new picture of brother David in a baseball cap that he describes as a "veritable trophy". Hmmmm. The other was a question from a friend as to whether to buy a new "fascinator", presumably for an upcoming wedding.
I don't know which I'm less likely to wear; the fascinator probably, as baseball caps do at least keep off the sun. From which you may gather that I am not a fan of hats.
In My Day
There was a time when not to wear a hat out of doors was simply unthinkable. Looking at photos even from as late as the 1940's you see men wearing trilbies and caps, women wearing hats or headscarves.
Daddy used to wear a trilby when he went out; there are many pictures of him 
in the album wearing such an object. I am not sure of its purpose, other than to state that he was conforming. I don't think he saw it as a style statement as stylish dressing wasn't Daddy's forte. Maybe it kept his bald patch warm and dry.
in the album wearing such an object. I am not sure of its purpose, other than to state that he was conforming. I don't think he saw it as a style statement as stylish dressing wasn't Daddy's forte. Maybe it kept his bald patch warm and dry.Mamma wore hats only on posh occasions and, to be frank, they rarely suited her. I have an abiding memory of a lilac gauze-covered "coolie" hat that she wore a fair bit, mainly to Townswomens' Guild conventions. She kept her hats on the top of the wardrobe. I had the prescience to know that hats and I are not destined to be happy companions and I didn't try on her hats; played with her jewellery box, tried on her high heels, yes, hats, no.
My first memory of wearing a hat was when I started at Grammar school. The uniform required a velour hat in winter, straw boater in summer; later we wore berets. It didn't really matter, I hated them all and looked grim in them. If I could have invented an allergy or religious reason to be let off wearing them, I would have done. There is a picture of me wearing a knitted bobble hat at the Proms, but I think I only donned it for the photo as a gesture of solidarity as we had knitted them ourselves.
Hats mess up my already rather fragile hair, blow off in the wind and I only wear them if my head is threatening to freeze or the sun is threatening to burn my shoulders or turn my hair a neon orange.
I think my attitude to fascinators is affected by seeing a very drunk Irish woman at a very posh wedding in Wicklow a few years back, abusing the staff in colourful and slurred language while a ridiculous black feather contraption waggled about on her head.
I went to a wedding the other week and there were all manner of hats and fascinators dancing about on people heads. Not on mine, though, and that's a promise I've made to all who invite me to weddings (including in the unlikely event of my being mother of the Bride).
Maketh Man
Today
A big discussion on Facebook recently about mannerly behaviour. Comments on FB can travel a long way and it surprises me that people don't monitor their remarks or seem to be aware that FB is read by children, older people, even their parents. And my most mannerly nephew John was expressing despair over people's unpleasant behaviour that leads to all sorts of unkindness and even cruelty.
It's impossible to change the world, but you can influence your bit of it by refusing to resort to vulgar language or behaviour and by treating others with respect and attention. Of course, there are cultural differences, but a little thought quickly sorts that out.
And some people just fit into the category of "nature's gentlemen and ladies"; without learning a complex set of rules, they have a natural courtesy that comes from within.
In My Day
Daddy was certainly one of nature's gentlemen. He had natural ebullience, originality, charm and generosity that overcame any objections that could be made on the basis of his poverty-stricken background. His mother had tried very hard to give him the kind of good manners that come from the heart and these he passed onto us. For example, not to watch what others ate, counting anxiously every mouthful in case they had more, and he always gave people a courteous hearing.
Mamma's background was more straightforwardly upper middle-class, although with a German twist. She never fully mastered the labyrinthine details of English posh manners, but her inability to tell a lie and complete lack of snobbery stood in their place very well. I never once heard her make a barbed remark or act vindictively.
Of course there were tricky moments. On one occasion Paul's mother had invited my parents to a meal at Ravenhurst. She pushed the boat out with snow-white napery, silver candlesticks, the lot. Unfortunately, as she wasn't the world's best cook, the meal itself was just short of disaster, with limp vegetables and soggy pastry. I guess she realised this, but instead of shutting up she said effusively to Mamma, "I'm sorry it's so plebeian." She was clearly looking for reassurances that all was well. Mamma, who, remember, never lied, said "Well you are plebeian, why try to be anything else?" There was a frosty silence and quick change of subject. How well I understood both viewpoints.
Tricia, who had also had an early struggle, found it hard to differentiate between the form and substance. There's a famous family story which she told us many times. One of her boyfriends was a major with a double-barrelled name. She told the tale of going out to dinner with this man. The Maitre D came over to check that all was well and the major asked for his name. "Mr Smith", was the reply. "Well," snorted our double-barrelled hero, "I hardly thought you were Mrs!" This story was intended to show up the Maitre D's low oirigins in that he didn't know that the norm at that time was simply to bark out your surname. One day, I'd had enough. "Well, " I said, "I think that was very rude." "Oh, quite," said Tricia "The man simply had no idea." "No, I mean your friend Major what's his name. The man was simply doing his job and he was humiliated in front of you for a very minor faux pas." Tricia, to do her justice, paused, considered, conceded and, best of all, never told the story again.
These days we have lost many of the forms of manners, so we will just have to rely on the manners that come from the heart.
A big discussion on Facebook recently about mannerly behaviour. Comments on FB can travel a long way and it surprises me that people don't monitor their remarks or seem to be aware that FB is read by children, older people, even their parents. And my most mannerly nephew John was expressing despair over people's unpleasant behaviour that leads to all sorts of unkindness and even cruelty.
It's impossible to change the world, but you can influence your bit of it by refusing to resort to vulgar language or behaviour and by treating others with respect and attention. Of course, there are cultural differences, but a little thought quickly sorts that out.
And some people just fit into the category of "nature's gentlemen and ladies"; without learning a complex set of rules, they have a natural courtesy that comes from within.
In My Day
Daddy was certainly one of nature's gentlemen. He had natural ebullience, originality, charm and generosity that overcame any objections that could be made on the basis of his poverty-stricken background. His mother had tried very hard to give him the kind of good manners that come from the heart and these he passed onto us. For example, not to watch what others ate, counting anxiously every mouthful in case they had more, and he always gave people a courteous hearing.
Mamma's background was more straightforwardly upper middle-class, although with a German twist. She never fully mastered the labyrinthine details of English posh manners, but her inability to tell a lie and complete lack of snobbery stood in their place very well. I never once heard her make a barbed remark or act vindictively.
Of course there were tricky moments. On one occasion Paul's mother had invited my parents to a meal at Ravenhurst. She pushed the boat out with snow-white napery, silver candlesticks, the lot. Unfortunately, as she wasn't the world's best cook, the meal itself was just short of disaster, with limp vegetables and soggy pastry. I guess she realised this, but instead of shutting up she said effusively to Mamma, "I'm sorry it's so plebeian." She was clearly looking for reassurances that all was well. Mamma, who, remember, never lied, said "Well you are plebeian, why try to be anything else?" There was a frosty silence and quick change of subject. How well I understood both viewpoints.
Tricia, who had also had an early struggle, found it hard to differentiate between the form and substance. There's a famous family story which she told us many times. One of her boyfriends was a major with a double-barrelled name. She told the tale of going out to dinner with this man. The Maitre D came over to check that all was well and the major asked for his name. "Mr Smith", was the reply. "Well," snorted our double-barrelled hero, "I hardly thought you were Mrs!" This story was intended to show up the Maitre D's low oirigins in that he didn't know that the norm at that time was simply to bark out your surname. One day, I'd had enough. "Well, " I said, "I think that was very rude." "Oh, quite," said Tricia "The man simply had no idea." "No, I mean your friend Major what's his name. The man was simply doing his job and he was humiliated in front of you for a very minor faux pas." Tricia, to do her justice, paused, considered, conceded and, best of all, never told the story again.
These days we have lost many of the forms of manners, so we will just have to rely on the manners that come from the heart.
Sunday, August 09, 2009
Sing your heart out
Today
I'm getting ready for my annual visit to Cropthorne. What could be better than a few days in a beautiful spot, among friends, singing some of the World's most ravishing music?
Paul usually comes along for the ride, and spends his time relaxing in the gardens or visiting the local preserved railway.
I've been appointed the official archive-keeper (how interesting it is, to realise how accurately people observe you!) and have spent the last few days bringing the records up to date.
In My Day
I realise that I've been going to Cropthorne for 17 years. Now this isn't a publicly advertised event, something that appears in your junk mail or even on the more specialised ads connected with musical or choir groups. It's strictly invitation only. So I'd never heard of the Laetare Singers. It was at a rehearsal of a madrigal group to which I belonged that my friend Neill slipped me a piece of paper which was the invitation to join this event. He said nothing more about it and I assumed that it was open to all. I applied to go. It was only for four days and surely Paul could cope without me.
A couple of days later I received a call from a lady called Barbara Johnson. She sounded a bit schoolmistressy and began to question me about my credentials for joining the group. Did I sight-read? Was I in a choir already? I thought she was going to ask me about my social background and genealogy. Clearly you had to be someone special to join this lot. I began to despair of being good enough. Eventually I said desperately, "I'm a friend of Neill's." "Ah, well," said Barbara, as if I'd said "open sesame", "That's fine - we look forward to meeting you."
On the day in question I set off alone and found the spot without too much difficulty. Cropthorne is a lovely Worcestershire village near Pershore and Holland House, a Jacobean house, sits on the banks of the Avon in restful gardens.
There were about thirty people there, most of them over sixty in age and I felt very much the youngest. I only knew Neill and his wife. Barbara turned out to be an elderly lady with the appearance and demeanour of Queen Victoria and she ruled over the cultural, social and moral aspects of the event with smiling inflexibility. We were led by a conductor called Peter Johnson and I learnt many things and was given an opportunity to show that I could still hit a top "C".
There was also an evening where the group put on a more home-grown, light-hearted entertainment and my penchant for dressing up and acting foolishly was quickly identified and harnessed for a Cropthorne version of Macbeth.
Since that time, strangers have become friends and I have now become one of the over-sixties. "Laetare" means "rejoice" and that's exactly what I intend to do.
I'm getting ready for my annual visit to Cropthorne. What could be better than a few days in a beautiful spot, among friends, singing some of the World's most ravishing music?
Paul usually comes along for the ride, and spends his time relaxing in the gardens or visiting the local preserved railway.
I've been appointed the official archive-keeper (how interesting it is, to realise how accurately people observe you!) and have spent the last few days bringing the records up to date.
In My Day
I realise that I've been going to Cropthorne for 17 years. Now this isn't a publicly advertised event, something that appears in your junk mail or even on the more specialised ads connected with musical or choir groups. It's strictly invitation only. So I'd never heard of the Laetare Singers. It was at a rehearsal of a madrigal group to which I belonged that my friend Neill slipped me a piece of paper which was the invitation to join this event. He said nothing more about it and I assumed that it was open to all. I applied to go. It was only for four days and surely Paul could cope without me.
A couple of days later I received a call from a lady called Barbara Johnson. She sounded a bit schoolmistressy and began to question me about my credentials for joining the group. Did I sight-read? Was I in a choir already? I thought she was going to ask me about my social background and genealogy. Clearly you had to be someone special to join this lot. I began to despair of being good enough. Eventually I said desperately, "I'm a friend of Neill's." "Ah, well," said Barbara, as if I'd said "open sesame", "That's fine - we look forward to meeting you."
On the day in question I set off alone and found the spot without too much difficulty. Cropthorne is a lovely Worcestershire village near Pershore and Holland House, a Jacobean house, sits on the banks of the Avon in restful gardens.
There were about thirty people there, most of them over sixty in age and I felt very much the youngest. I only knew Neill and his wife. Barbara turned out to be an elderly lady with the appearance and demeanour of Queen Victoria and she ruled over the cultural, social and moral aspects of the event with smiling inflexibility. We were led by a conductor called Peter Johnson and I learnt many things and was given an opportunity to show that I could still hit a top "C".
There was also an evening where the group put on a more home-grown, light-hearted entertainment and my penchant for dressing up and acting foolishly was quickly identified and harnessed for a Cropthorne version of Macbeth.
Since that time, strangers have become friends and I have now become one of the over-sixties. "Laetare" means "rejoice" and that's exactly what I intend to do.
Friday, August 07, 2009
Deed Poll
Today
Very pleased that the Bed Workshop has agreed to pay for the cost of the repair to our French bed. "I'd like the cheque payable to Alice Barrett, please," I said.
As a result of the somewhat absurd money-laundering precautions, all my bank accounts have to be in my legal, rather than used name. Even though my account does indicate my "known as" name, I often encounter jobsworth cashiers in my bank who refuse to accept cheques made out in my used name, even when they know me by sight.
When I protest, their helpful advice is to go and change my name by deed poll. This I refuse to do merely for the convenience of the bank's regulations.
In My Day
It came as a sort of unshocking surprise to Paul when his mother informed him that the surname he'd been called by all his life wasn't actually legally his; Dad being his stepfather, not his natural father.
She gave him his birth certificate and left him to his own thoughts on the subject.
For a while, it didn't really matter. He continued to be known by the same name, officialdom being rather more relaxed in those days, and he didn't own a passport.
When he wanted to get married, however, it was altogether different. He had no desire to marry using the legal name to which he felt no connection. We discussed perhaps adopting mine but that didn't seem quite right. So Paul went to a local solicitor and changed his name to the one he'd always used anyway. Simple!
We still have that scrap of paper, proving not only that he did the deed, but also where he felt his filial loyalties lay. And that's as important as the name itself.
Very pleased that the Bed Workshop has agreed to pay for the cost of the repair to our French bed. "I'd like the cheque payable to Alice Barrett, please," I said.
As a result of the somewhat absurd money-laundering precautions, all my bank accounts have to be in my legal, rather than used name. Even though my account does indicate my "known as" name, I often encounter jobsworth cashiers in my bank who refuse to accept cheques made out in my used name, even when they know me by sight.
When I protest, their helpful advice is to go and change my name by deed poll. This I refuse to do merely for the convenience of the bank's regulations.
In My Day
It came as a sort of unshocking surprise to Paul when his mother informed him that the surname he'd been called by all his life wasn't actually legally his; Dad being his stepfather, not his natural father.
She gave him his birth certificate and left him to his own thoughts on the subject.
For a while, it didn't really matter. He continued to be known by the same name, officialdom being rather more relaxed in those days, and he didn't own a passport.
When he wanted to get married, however, it was altogether different. He had no desire to marry using the legal name to which he felt no connection. We discussed perhaps adopting mine but that didn't seem quite right. So Paul went to a local solicitor and changed his name to the one he'd always used anyway. Simple!
We still have that scrap of paper, proving not only that he did the deed, but also where he felt his filial loyalties lay. And that's as important as the name itself.
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