Today
The family's all gathered at the flat for Christmas. Lizzie got here last night and Becky & Richard arrived this morning. As we sat in the sitting room and chatted Liz said "Where's the Christmassy music, then?" "Oh, sorry," I said and whacked on the Waitresses and Abba.
Liz asked me if I'd remembered to bring "Phil Spector's Christmas Album" from home. "No", I said "But I'm sure we can download it from Napster." Which I did and am now listening to.
In My Day
Every family has its own Christmas traditions, I'm sure, including the sort of entertainment. When we lived at Rowan Avenue the Christmas ritual always involved popping next door to the Levetts for a morning drink before we separated to celebrate in our own ways.
John would have put up a small, dense tree, hung with lights in the form of old-fashioned coaches. He always preferred to cut this tree himself, trudging through Friston Forest with little Matthew trailing behind disconsolately in the mud, wailing about being wet and cold. As our tree wasn't lit until we could light the candles (magical enough), Lizzie would be enchanted by this softly glowing tree.
In the background, barely audible, Phil Spector's Christmas album would be playing. As we grown-ups chatted and drank wine, ignoring the music, Liz would be drinking in the music. No wonder it's an indelible part of her list of Christmas rituals.
When the album was re-released a few years ago, we really had no option but to buy one for Liz. Shame she'd already snapped up about five copies herself.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Stuck
Today
Before leaving for Brighton we popped over to my brother Chris's with the family Christmas presents. "So sorry I haven't any for you," said Chris "I'm planning to buy them next week." He then explained that he was driving over via the Euro Tunnel to the Christmas market in Achen and was hoping to get loads of lovely German Christmas goodies for everyone.
Only he didn't, because the trains all broke down being unable to cope with the sudden change in temperature from cold France to hot tunnel. 1000's of passengers were stranded and it's taken days to get things moving again. At least he wasn't stranded at the wrong end.
In My Day
Snow before Christmas is always a shocker in Britain, it's true; most snow falling in January or February. In 1967 I was a student in Worthing in Sussex. I'd planned to go home for the weekend - it must have been early December. I wanted to save money and had booked myself home on the bus.
We were still in class when we saw the first flakes of snow begin to fall. By the time I'd got my bags and was ready to go, there was a full-scale blizzard. Clearly the buses weren't going to run. I struggled down to the seafront where the bus station was to reclaim my fare. I could hardly walk for the wind and couldn't see for the driving snow.
I then struggled up to the train station - the trains still appeared to be running so I hopped on. I think it was about one pm. And, indeed the train did run, taking a mere nine hours to get to East Croydon. We stopped at every station to take on fugitives and crawled along as the snow worsened. Huge flashes from the train's electrics as they touched the often obscured third rail lit up the snowy embankments. I learnt later that this was the last train that got through that day.
I don't remember how I made the final lap from East Croydon to home; maybe things weren't so bad in London.
It's OK, Chris. I fully understand and sympathise if I don't get any pressies this year.
Before leaving for Brighton we popped over to my brother Chris's with the family Christmas presents. "So sorry I haven't any for you," said Chris "I'm planning to buy them next week." He then explained that he was driving over via the Euro Tunnel to the Christmas market in Achen and was hoping to get loads of lovely German Christmas goodies for everyone.
Only he didn't, because the trains all broke down being unable to cope with the sudden change in temperature from cold France to hot tunnel. 1000's of passengers were stranded and it's taken days to get things moving again. At least he wasn't stranded at the wrong end.
In My Day
Snow before Christmas is always a shocker in Britain, it's true; most snow falling in January or February. In 1967 I was a student in Worthing in Sussex. I'd planned to go home for the weekend - it must have been early December. I wanted to save money and had booked myself home on the bus.
We were still in class when we saw the first flakes of snow begin to fall. By the time I'd got my bags and was ready to go, there was a full-scale blizzard. Clearly the buses weren't going to run. I struggled down to the seafront where the bus station was to reclaim my fare. I could hardly walk for the wind and couldn't see for the driving snow.
I then struggled up to the train station - the trains still appeared to be running so I hopped on. I think it was about one pm. And, indeed the train did run, taking a mere nine hours to get to East Croydon. We stopped at every station to take on fugitives and crawled along as the snow worsened. Huge flashes from the train's electrics as they touched the often obscured third rail lit up the snowy embankments. I learnt later that this was the last train that got through that day.
I don't remember how I made the final lap from East Croydon to home; maybe things weren't so bad in London.
It's OK, Chris. I fully understand and sympathise if I don't get any pressies this year.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Needles
Today
I popped over to my neighbour's yesterday to drop off a couple of pressies for the children. She showed me her half-decorated tree, explaining that said children had quarrelled so much over the job that she'd told them that it would stay that way if they didn't buck their ideas up. Seeing me notice that it's a fake she excused herself by saying that their two great dogs would damage a real one. She also complained that the Christmas tree at her place of work had dropped its needles within a day of being put up.
"I saw a good idea today," I said "Rent-a-living-tree. Brilliant! you have a live Xmas tree that doesn't shed and you return it at the end of the period, so don't have the problem of whether, after all, to chuck it out rather than start a mini-forest in your tiny back garden."
In My Day
Choosing the right tree, managing it and then disposing of it have always been issues. When I was a child our enormous tree was called by my parents a "fir". I don't think it was kept moist and, having started out rather sparse (deliberately chosen to make candle-management safer), it quickly became sparser as the needles dropped in showers. If you reached up to touch the tree needles became embedded in your clothing. The blasted things got all over the house, even sometimes into the beds.
Once the tree came down, the heaps of needles were vacuumed up, clogging up our elderly Hoover in seconds. The tree itself was usually taken into the garden where we would attempt to burn it. This wasn't as easy as it sounds; with practically no oil-filled needles to catch the flame and with wide spread branches which hindered the passage of the flames up and down, the tree could be surprisingly resistant. We often had to stuff newspaper between the branches all the way up to get it to stay alight.
So this potentially exciting event was often a little bit disappointing.
I think I might try the "rent-a-tree" idea myself next year.
I popped over to my neighbour's yesterday to drop off a couple of pressies for the children. She showed me her half-decorated tree, explaining that said children had quarrelled so much over the job that she'd told them that it would stay that way if they didn't buck their ideas up. Seeing me notice that it's a fake she excused herself by saying that their two great dogs would damage a real one. She also complained that the Christmas tree at her place of work had dropped its needles within a day of being put up.
"I saw a good idea today," I said "Rent-a-living-tree. Brilliant! you have a live Xmas tree that doesn't shed and you return it at the end of the period, so don't have the problem of whether, after all, to chuck it out rather than start a mini-forest in your tiny back garden."
In My Day
Choosing the right tree, managing it and then disposing of it have always been issues. When I was a child our enormous tree was called by my parents a "fir". I don't think it was kept moist and, having started out rather sparse (deliberately chosen to make candle-management safer), it quickly became sparser as the needles dropped in showers. If you reached up to touch the tree needles became embedded in your clothing. The blasted things got all over the house, even sometimes into the beds.
Once the tree came down, the heaps of needles were vacuumed up, clogging up our elderly Hoover in seconds. The tree itself was usually taken into the garden where we would attempt to burn it. This wasn't as easy as it sounds; with practically no oil-filled needles to catch the flame and with wide spread branches which hindered the passage of the flames up and down, the tree could be surprisingly resistant. We often had to stuff newspaper between the branches all the way up to get it to stay alight.
So this potentially exciting event was often a little bit disappointing.
I think I might try the "rent-a-tree" idea myself next year.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Shrimp
Today
Why is it that people think that vegetarians eat fish? The whole point of being veggie is that you don't consume flesh. At our choir social last night our kind and generous hosts provided a vegetarian risotto that was full of prawns. That the hostess tried to rummage around to find a prawnless bit was missing the point. Instead I had a very nice couscous with apricots and almonds, drank plenty of Pinot Grigio and decided that I was fine.
In My Day
My dislike of seafood, even when I was otherwise willing to eat fish, probably stems from those childhood visits to Brighton when the first thing Daddy would do was buy us each a pint of shrimps. These creatures had to be taken out of a greasy paper bag, then their shells, heads and legs had to be removed before you were able to find that tiny morsel of pink, salty, rubbery flesh. What was there to like about this experience?
When I was doing the COP training, back in 1986, the computer liaison officer at the Bexhill Tax Office where I was carrying out the training, very kindly invited me to her home for supper.
She and her husband were just starting out and were clearly not especially well off. But they'd cooked me a wonderful, expensive meal, starting with the biggest prawn cocktail I'd ever seen. Prawns were an expensive luxury then so I could hardly refuse.
"Oh, .....," I said "You have gone to a lot of trouble!" and proceeded to swallow each one whole so as to minimise the taste and avoid that dreadful rubbery texture. With some difficulty I avoided seconds. And the rest of the meal was fine.
The worst thing about prawns and shrimps is the way their little beady eyes look at you while you're unpeeling them.
Why is it that people think that vegetarians eat fish? The whole point of being veggie is that you don't consume flesh. At our choir social last night our kind and generous hosts provided a vegetarian risotto that was full of prawns. That the hostess tried to rummage around to find a prawnless bit was missing the point. Instead I had a very nice couscous with apricots and almonds, drank plenty of Pinot Grigio and decided that I was fine.
In My Day
My dislike of seafood, even when I was otherwise willing to eat fish, probably stems from those childhood visits to Brighton when the first thing Daddy would do was buy us each a pint of shrimps. These creatures had to be taken out of a greasy paper bag, then their shells, heads and legs had to be removed before you were able to find that tiny morsel of pink, salty, rubbery flesh. What was there to like about this experience?
When I was doing the COP training, back in 1986, the computer liaison officer at the Bexhill Tax Office where I was carrying out the training, very kindly invited me to her home for supper.
She and her husband were just starting out and were clearly not especially well off. But they'd cooked me a wonderful, expensive meal, starting with the biggest prawn cocktail I'd ever seen. Prawns were an expensive luxury then so I could hardly refuse.
"Oh, .....," I said "You have gone to a lot of trouble!" and proceeded to swallow each one whole so as to minimise the taste and avoid that dreadful rubbery texture. With some difficulty I avoided seconds. And the rest of the meal was fine.
The worst thing about prawns and shrimps is the way their little beady eyes look at you while you're unpeeling them.
Sunday, December 06, 2009
Highest Bidder
Today
Rather jolly lunch with my relations from the Midlands today. We went to one of those pubs that relies on a massively fast throughput on Sunday but after 45 minutes they found us a table.
Maybe it was the wait that brought on the hysteria or that preponderance of fried "combo" dishes and chips. When my tea arrived with a little gold-wrapped chocolate mint I decided to put the mint up for auction. Bids came thick and fast; after I'd rejected my niece's husband's car keys on the grounds that it wasn't that kind of party, the clear winner was Jo with a bid of £3.75. her uncle tried to slip under the wire with £4.00, but Jo got the choccy.
In My Day
When I was small, there were no TV programmes showing you how to flog your heirlooms and the idea of an auction was rather foreign to me. Mamma and Daddy certainly didn't haunt auction rooms and generally didn't take chances. There was one notable annual exception to this.
Every year we used to go to the local Vicar's garden party. Given our urban location it was rather strange to find oneself in an idyllic well-groomed garden that wouldn't have been out of place in Midsomer Worthy. There were the usual stalls and stands. The most exciting event was the "Dutch Auction" There would be a series of (probably donated) gifts. A large sheet was held out and people chucked money in. At a given signal the chucking would stop and the last person to have chucked would get the prize, even if they'd only put in half a crown.
In this way Mamma once bagged a beautiful porcelain Chinese tea set in gold and translucent white for about a shilling. Each paper-fine cup had the face of a chinese girl in relief in the base. Mamma loved it and used it for ages. I believe David still has it.
Chris once bid £5.00 at Christies for three bottles of genuine Napolean brandy. He got the brandy and I helped him discover how good it was one Christmas back in Cricklewood.
Jo, having won the bid, gave her Uncle the chocolate anyway and got to keep the money.
Rather jolly lunch with my relations from the Midlands today. We went to one of those pubs that relies on a massively fast throughput on Sunday but after 45 minutes they found us a table.
Maybe it was the wait that brought on the hysteria or that preponderance of fried "combo" dishes and chips. When my tea arrived with a little gold-wrapped chocolate mint I decided to put the mint up for auction. Bids came thick and fast; after I'd rejected my niece's husband's car keys on the grounds that it wasn't that kind of party, the clear winner was Jo with a bid of £3.75. her uncle tried to slip under the wire with £4.00, but Jo got the choccy.
In My Day
When I was small, there were no TV programmes showing you how to flog your heirlooms and the idea of an auction was rather foreign to me. Mamma and Daddy certainly didn't haunt auction rooms and generally didn't take chances. There was one notable annual exception to this.
Every year we used to go to the local Vicar's garden party. Given our urban location it was rather strange to find oneself in an idyllic well-groomed garden that wouldn't have been out of place in Midsomer Worthy. There were the usual stalls and stands. The most exciting event was the "Dutch Auction" There would be a series of (probably donated) gifts. A large sheet was held out and people chucked money in. At a given signal the chucking would stop and the last person to have chucked would get the prize, even if they'd only put in half a crown.
In this way Mamma once bagged a beautiful porcelain Chinese tea set in gold and translucent white for about a shilling. Each paper-fine cup had the face of a chinese girl in relief in the base. Mamma loved it and used it for ages. I believe David still has it.
Chris once bid £5.00 at Christies for three bottles of genuine Napolean brandy. He got the brandy and I helped him discover how good it was one Christmas back in Cricklewood.
Jo, having won the bid, gave her Uncle the chocolate anyway and got to keep the money.
Tuesday, December 01, 2009
Scatty-cat
Today
On facebook today, my niece wondered how long it would be before her kitten got bored with attacking the Christmas tree baubles. It's interesting; much of the charm of kittens is their enthusiasm for chasing and attacking dangly things. Then we get upset when they can't resist a huge source of dangly things which we have created.
In My Day
When Abby was a kitten she just loved to attack the Christmas tree. She raced round and round, smacking every bauble within reach. I made sure that the bottom row, so to speak, wasn't made of glass and tried to relax. Paul had other ideas and kept trying to stop her. Eventually she pulled a bauble right off the tree. It was a tiny cylindrical painted wooden Santa. Paul expressed exasperation.
"Let her keep it," I said to Paul "She's broken the string anyway." Abby loved this toy and played with it much over the next few months.
At that time, she was rather the dominant cat; Arietty kept out of the way as much as possible and often had to be coaxed indoors. On one occasion Abby was playing with the father Christmas across the floor while Arietty looked on from a perch on the arm of the sofa. When Abby lost interest, Arietty got down and began to bat this toy about. Boy! Did she know what she was doing! She smacked and jumped and clawed at this rodent substitute. She gave us a virtuoso display of vicious merciless killing. It was like a kung-fu master showing a child how it was done.
Abby watched, appalled and fascinated, and never again dared to challenge Arietty's authority. Arietty became number one cat from that day on. And Abby has ignored every Christmas tree since, perhaps because it reminds her of her humiliation.
Actually I blame Phillipa for having put the Christmas tree up so early.
On facebook today, my niece wondered how long it would be before her kitten got bored with attacking the Christmas tree baubles. It's interesting; much of the charm of kittens is their enthusiasm for chasing and attacking dangly things. Then we get upset when they can't resist a huge source of dangly things which we have created.
In My Day
When Abby was a kitten she just loved to attack the Christmas tree. She raced round and round, smacking every bauble within reach. I made sure that the bottom row, so to speak, wasn't made of glass and tried to relax. Paul had other ideas and kept trying to stop her. Eventually she pulled a bauble right off the tree. It was a tiny cylindrical painted wooden Santa. Paul expressed exasperation.
"Let her keep it," I said to Paul "She's broken the string anyway." Abby loved this toy and played with it much over the next few months.
At that time, she was rather the dominant cat; Arietty kept out of the way as much as possible and often had to be coaxed indoors. On one occasion Abby was playing with the father Christmas across the floor while Arietty looked on from a perch on the arm of the sofa. When Abby lost interest, Arietty got down and began to bat this toy about. Boy! Did she know what she was doing! She smacked and jumped and clawed at this rodent substitute. She gave us a virtuoso display of vicious merciless killing. It was like a kung-fu master showing a child how it was done.
Abby watched, appalled and fascinated, and never again dared to challenge Arietty's authority. Arietty became number one cat from that day on. And Abby has ignored every Christmas tree since, perhaps because it reminds her of her humiliation.
Actually I blame Phillipa for having put the Christmas tree up so early.
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