Tuesday, December 28, 2010

Dry

Today

After much feasting and frolicking involving a fair number of champagne cocktails and bottles of wine, I'm taking a break. Might even have a couple of dry days to allow my internal organs a little respite.

There's still a full wine-rack, fridge dedicated to white wine & Prosecco, a drinks cupboard with three shelves of fortified wines and cocktail ingredients. Paul has his precious real ale shelf and Santa brought about 4 bottles of single-malt whisky for Paul to enjoy.

In My Day

When did we become able to have permanently stocked drinks cupboards? Is it just down to the much cheaper price and greater availability of alcohol or is it down to better finances? I can't say I know.

When we were first married we had very little alcohol at all. If we popped to the pub Paul might have a beer or two and I might drink cider or Martini. Wine by the glass was not often available in pubs. Even the cheapest wine (and it generally tasted cheap as well) was too expensive for everyday. I remember dreadful vinegary wines called "El Roberto" or "Hirondelle" - this latter approved by the vinously challenged suits at "Which" magazine; thus giving it the middle-class stamp of approval.

There was booze at parties, but even then, the ubiquitous six-pack or giant cans of lager were often the most prominent items. On ordinary nights, even social ones, we drank appalling instant coffee. This was almost certainly as damaging for our livers, but at least it was cheap.

Because we had so little, there was a tendency for any that we had to disappear fairly rapidly. I also developed "Christmas Anxiety" a situation where I was so worried that  wouldn't have any treats to offer guests that I placed a complete embargo on any treat consumption until last thing on Christmas Eve. Paul was generally pretty rebellious about this! One Christmas (maybe it was 1984, the year of the dropped turkey) I decided to plan in advance. Starting in September, I bought one bottle of something (whisky, Martini, sherry, Southern Comfort etc) each week at the Supermarket. When I got home I hid these bottles in the wardrobe so that we wouldn't be tempted to drink it all early. (I also bought a food item, such as Quality Street etc in the same way).

When Christmas came we found ourselves with a bulging drinks cabinet and food cupboard; more than we could possibly get through. I felt rather self-congratulatory and have tended to pre-buy ever since.

It's true that the quality of what we can afford these days is vastly higher than it used to be, but whether that means that, coupled with the greater quantity, we are better off in body and spirit, I couldn't say.

Thursday, December 23, 2010

The Other Hand

Today

My sister Beatrice is recovering from a series of seizures which occurred about ten days ago. Unfortunately she also suffered some "collateral" damage during one seizure when she smashed and dislocated her shoulder. She now has a shiny new titanium one but has invasive surgery to cope with as well.

It's her right shoulder which makes everything so much more difficult. In fact, often the first thing people ask when commiserating on an injured hand or arm is "Is it your right one?"

My right shoulder is in trouble too; probably from a frenzied bout of picture framing a week or so ago. It's extraordinary just how much we rely on our handed-ness to do the simplest things. I found just swilling out the bath this morning quite awkward and had to plan how I was going to carry out this otherwise instinctive set of movements.

In My Day

I believe that our handed-ness is innate so we simply don't remember how we became used to one hand being the leader, so to speak. This dependency goes deeper than mere habit: interference can cause deep damage. Paul's Auntie Joyce was left-handed at a time when this was seen as the mark of the Devil. So it was beaten out of her, changing her from a bright little chatterbox into a stammering and confused individual.

Just how handed-ness links into the brain is shown by this little story:

When I was married, back in 1971, I naturally changed my name from Dixon to Barrett. I adapted immediately to this and never once made an error when signing cheques, documents and letters.

I think it was in 1973 or so, when I was working in the computer pay section of the Inland Revenue. A group of us was chatting over our coffee and someone was bragging about their ability to use either hand seamlessly. I admitted that I was strongly right-handed, to the extent that my right hand is noticeably larger than the left. My colleague signed his name equally well with each hand, then proffered the paper to me and invited me to write my usual signature with my left hand.

With a grandiose sweep and without a moment's hesitation my left hand wrote "Julia Dixon", a name which my right hand had abandoned two years previously. I stared at this name, feeling rather strange as though something deep within me had been disturbed. Clearly the two sides of my brain were operating in quite separate ways and this revelation was quite upsetting to my equilibrium.

Anyway, I've told Beatrice that this is a golden opportunity for her to get on the with the next set of Mamma's diaries which is hands-free, using voice recognition software.

Tuesday, December 21, 2010

The Truth from Above

Today

Last week we had our autumn concert and, as usual, I was asked to give a reading. I chose "Advent Calendar" by Rowan Williams. This poem passionately links the coming of Christ to the variable English winter weather.

Having chosen the poem, I soon realised that it has many layers and I worked hard on the interpretation. Although I was feeling rather poorly at the time, I delivered it well and many people offered congratulations. As many of them are dedicated and committed Christians, I was especially flattered.

I found myself reflecting that, not believing in the literal or even implied meaning doesn't mean that I can't see its power nor understand its importance to other people. The final piece in the puzzle is that empathy and understanding are more significant than personal belief when communicating to others.

In My Day

I remember this coming home to me most forcefully some years ago. David had asked me whether I would sing a carol with Alice on cello and him on organ at the little non-conformist chapel in his village. The chapel has long since ceased to operate so I guess that this was back in about 1989. The chosen song was "Mary's Boy Child" the calypso carol made famous by Harry Belafonte. We worked hard on the calypso rhythm and were ready.

The little chapel was full and various people with a wide range of talents contributed in song and poetry. Now it was our turn. The carol is fairly long so I invited the congregation to join in alternate choruses. They listened so attentively and with so much joy on their faces as we performed the first verse and took up the chorus with enthusiasm. I felt the uplift and allowed myself to be supported by their shared joy and belief. I hoped and believed that our little contribution informed and enhanced their belief. And the feeling of elation lingers still.

As a singer, I feel that it is my privilege and duty to use song to bring a better understanding of all aspects of human life experience and beliefs, whatever they are. And if I managed that last Saturday then I feel very satisfied.

Monday, November 22, 2010

Dancing Queen

Today

I had a most enjoyable visit to my nephew this week. I met new baby Charlotte, who's a sweet and relaxed child, and had a chance to become better acquainted with her older sister Amelia. Once she'd got over her shyness and climbed out from under the table she was full of life showing off and chattering away. Her mother told me (by way of apology, possibly, for her daughter's unusual get-up) that she'd been playing dressing up with her cousin Victoria earlier in the day. Amelia seemed to be wearing: Jeans with knickers worn on top, Batman's Robin style, a multi coloured tutu and a pink balloon skirted pinafore dress over a jumper.

I commented on the tutu. "Are you going to do ballet when you're old enough?" I asked. "Yes, I am!" she replied in a voice that brooked no opposition.

"Well, you know, your cousin Becky used to do ballet."

In My day

Becky always had plenty of physical confidence, and she danced to music from the time she could sit up. Tricia seemed convinced that ballet would be her thing and encouraged us to organise it. So, from the age of three, she was enrolled in a ballet school in Eastbourne. Between us, Paul, Tricia and I got her there and back each week. Becky certainly enjoyed the dancing and was reasonably talented. Her innate sense of rhythm and desire to get things right were a good combination.

 In order to please her Gran, I think Lizzie also attempted some ballet classes. But she was by this time approaching nine years' old and dancing was never her passion so she soon stopped going, to Tricia's slight disappointment who, I think, had dreams of a Pavlova emerging somewhere from within the family.

From time to time the school would put on performances and arrange trips to the theatre. We went to see "La Fille Mal Gardee" at Eastbourne's Congress Theatre with all the little ones in front row seats, and another time to see "Coppelia".
  
Waiting while the children finished the class had its enlivening moments. One of the most gifted children in Becky's class was a black girl. "Well", said Tricia, by way of explanation, "It's in their blood!" Paul wanted to ask if she thought that came from all those years dancing around the cooking pot, but decided to keep the peace.

The great event was the school's display performance. For this they hired the Congress theatre, making it a prestigious event. The older classes performed ballet, tap and modern dance extravaganzas. Becky's class put on a performance of "The Tailor of Gloucester". Becky, as one of the taller ones, was dressed up as a boy tailor mouse in eighteenth century costume. This came to me to stitch, ready cut out, and I was hard put to get it to fit Becky who was growing rapidly; I think the sleeves were much too short. The performance was delightful, Becky didn't put a foot wrong and we still have a lovely picture of her with her best friend Lara who was a girl mouse.

The move to Somerset combined with Becky shooting up to six foot put a stop to ballet, but she still loves to dance and has grace and rhythm.

Amelia, I feel sure you'll have a lovely time and I would like invitations to see you perform, please.

Thursday, November 18, 2010

On yer Bike

Today

My sister has recently discovered the joys and benefits of walking. She trots off on Sussex walks most weekends and tries to get some walking in, rain or shine, daily.

She was thinking about attempting to walk the 4.5 miles to work every day and wondered in what sort of a state she'll arrive.

In My Day

In 1982 we moved to the house in Westham. We settled the girls into the local school, just 3 minutes walk away. My journey into work involved a daily train journey. The terrain was flat and I began to wonder whether it would be possible to cycle the 6 miles there and back into Eastbourne daily.

I did my sums: a bike would cover the cost of my train ticket in about 6 months and I'd get fit and slim.

I put this into practice by first buying a bike! One frosty February morning, having seen the girls into school, I heaved out the machine. The morning was freezing. With cold winds whipping my face and body, I'd soon be hypothermic, I reasoned. So I put on a shirt, followed by a nice warm jumper, topped with a woollen blouson jacket. I put on some heavyweight needlecord trousers. Grabbed scarf and gloves and set off.

By the time I'd got over the level crossing the gloves were off, followed shortly by the scarf. As I struggled up the (very slight) incline towards Langney, I had to stop to remove my jacket. I was hard pushed to find somewhere to stow this, but managed. Finally, the jumper came off.

I pedalled triumphantly into St Anne's House carpark, put my bike in the cycle shed and went up to the office. I was out of breath, wheezing freely and a dangerous shade of beetroot. I stood at the office door as colleagues looked expectantly at me. I just stayed there, gasping and unable to utter any other sound for about five minutes. I was also very hot and sweaty, despite the removal of clothes. The office was toasty warm and my pleas for open windows were not welcomed by the staff.

The good news is that I learnt to dress more lightly and did eventually get used to it, arriving at work only slightly dishevelled, unless it had been pouring with rain. So I guess Beatrice, with her walking, will become accustomed too.

Sunday, November 07, 2010

Jelly Belly

Today

Beatrice was on Facebook today, extolling the virtues of pork pies. Apparently the very sight of one weakens her knees (and presumably her dieting resolve).

Personally, I can't stand the things.

In My Day

Pork pies did feature in our childhood. Mostly they were large and round and were sliced and handed round to be eaten with salad. The raised pastry crust, although golden and tempting to look at, was solid and heavy. Next there was a very nasty pale wobbly meat jelly. Finally, in the middle, there was a fairly solid lump of pink pork meat. My main problem was how to dispose of the worst bits without Daddy or Mamma noticing. The jelly was most definitely the most unpleasant part. As far as I was concerned, jelly came in red, green or orange and had fruity bits in it. This stuff tasted vile and felt in the mouth like the kind of food that might feature at a Hallow e'en horror party.

Sometimes Mamma and Daddy would buy a pukka Melton Mowbray pork pie, often from a stand at the Ideal Home Exhibition. These were the Platonic ideal of pork pies, the pie to which all others aspire; although the only difference I could detect was that they had a lot more jelly in them.

We were also given veal and ham pies from time to time. These were usually bought as slabs at the grocers or deli, cut from an oblong pie. They were marginally better than the pork pies in that they had no jelly and the meat tasted better. Also, unless you were very unlucky, they had a big slice of hard boiled egg in the middle. Well and away the best bit, even if they tasted a bit of ham. 

As always. my dietary preferences were at odds with the rest of the family and I somehow found that I couldn't get my point across and only had recourse to sulking.

Actually, Paul has just told me that my food tastes are "odd" so maybe I'm not just at odds with my family on this, but the whole world. What I do know is that Melton Mowbray is not on my list of towns to visit.

Monday, November 01, 2010

White Nights

Today
Brighton, for reasons best known to its partying soul, has decided that it's probably best to avoid going to bed at all on the night the clocks go back. Whether this is because the residents hope to catch a glimpse of the tear in the fabric of time caused by this event or just like the idea that you get an extra hour of frolicking, so to speak, I can't tell.

We had planned to be part of this happening. First we went to St Bartholomews Church ("The Ark") to hear the Monteverdi Vespers. Afterwards, the church was continuing to host free musical events until 2.00, rounding off with matins. We were diverted from our intention of staying for this by bumping into our upstairs neighbours who invited us to the nearest hostelry for drinks.

Brighton was heaving, mostly with people dressed as zombies (sometimes with ties worn over their grave-clothes and all of them with impeccable party manners) or accident victims, intent on seeing in the new time-age as well as celebrating Hallow e'en. 

We did our best, but by 1.30 pm we were walking companionably back up the hill to the flat. Paul got to bed later than I by dint of first passing out on the sofa for an hour, but I'm not sure whether that counts.

Yesterday, walking into town at about midday, we saw many a reveller, still dressed in bloody rags (well, we assumed it was still fancy dress and not the real thing), making their way home after the party.

In My Day

When I was a student, all-night parties were de rigueur. It wasn't a proper party if you weren't sitting on some appallingly dirty carpet, clutching a glass of bad wine listening to Bob Dylan at about 5.00 am. You eventually fell asleep as the dawn broke, curled up uncomfortably in an old quilt with your head on a equally filthy sofa cushion. When you awoke you tried to pretend that a: you'd had a great time, b: you had absolutely loved sleeping on the floor and c: you weren't desperate to rush off home to be sick and have a bath and hairwash.

I remember 2 rather better occasions. The fact that they were both at 4BH, therefore on home territory, may have made them more enjoyable. One was a party given by Chris. I know that I was wearing silver tights which caused a sensation. I think we had the usual dancing, drinking and talking. As it began to get light someone suggested breakfast. We walked up to the just-opened grocery, bought eggs, bacon etc and went back home to make an enormous fry-up. I have no idea where Mamma and Daddy were but they put in no kind of appearance.

The other was the famous party at which I met Bob Kenna. To begin with I wasn't invited to this party, which was Beatrice's, because I would upset the gender balance in some way. As I prepared to go out instead, a (female) guest phoned to cancel so Beatrice graciously allowed me to stay. This was a very jolly party; we no doubt danced to the Beachboys, Beatles and Stones. I think Mamma and Daddy were home but they kept out of the way. This was the kind of party where much snogging went on in various places but you simply ignored it. The weather was mild and damp and at 4.00 am a group of us fancied a walk round the streets of Upper Norwood. Linking arms we set off round the block, all feeling most jolly. By the time we got back, I was very firmly Bob's girlfriend and I don't think Beatrice ever forgave me.

Actually, I'm just the smallest bit ashamed that I lacked the stamina to manage the whole night on Saturday.  

Thursday, October 21, 2010

Trauma

Today

Living as we do, in a country village, we are treated to a chorus of all kinds of animal noises, day and night. This ranges from the neighbour's cockerels, one of whom crows the theme song from "The Good the Bad & the Ugly" from three o'clock in the morning, to the braying of the resident donkeys.

We were walking up the lane the other day and Paul asked me to show him the location of the Great Donkey Incident. "Of course", I replied.

In My Day

I think it was in about 1993. Our friends the Levetts had come to stay. At that time that meant John, Beverley and their two youngest daughters, aged about three and five. As usual, we had a very convivial Saturday evening. I promised Sian and Sophie that we would walk the dog up the lane the following morning and say hello to the donkeys.

On Sunday morning, Paul was on early shift, John was sorting out some plumbing for us and Beverley, having been thoroughly convivial the night before, was in no fit state to go anywhere. So I got the girls into their coats, selected some snacks (carrots, apple and some toast crusts) for the donkeys, grabbed Caspian and set off up the lane.

It was a lovely spring morning and the little girls competed as to who should hold Caspian's lead (he, knowing that he had children "controlling" him, was very gentle and walked slowly). We turned up the lane towards the field where the donkeys were. The trouble was that there was no gate. To get to see the animals, we had to scramble up an embankment to a gap in the hedge. This was quite hard for the two little ones and I basically had to haul them both up. I looped Cas's lead round a hawthorn to leave my hands free.

The donkeys were friendly and soon came trotting over. All went well as they gently took the carrot and apple from the girls' hands. Then I took out the toast crusts and offered them. Some fell on the ground at their feet. This was the signal for Cas to tear into the field, his lead having come unlooped, and go straight for the toast crusts! Carrots he could ignore but these were rightfully his!

Until that moment I hadn't realised just what an appalling noise two donkeys can make. And we were about three foot away from them. The girls added to it by screaming with fright while the dog raced around the donkeys' feet trying to get at the last of the crusts. I expected to see the farmer with his shotgun any minute. Somehow I had to get hold of Cas before he had his head kicked in, get the two children who were by this time yelling for their mummy, back down the steep bank without incident and get us all home.

I yelled at Cas who generally had the sense to know when he was really for it and came sheepishly back through the hedge. Then we struggled back down and I heaved the girls around the rest of the walk because I didn't think that  Beverley was quite up to things yet. The donkeys continued to bray and their gradually receding voices accompanied us back home.

I don't think that Sian and Sophie suffered lasting trauma, but who knows? Only they can say.

Saturday, October 16, 2010

Eye Contact

Today
I just can't resist programmes like the X factor., BGT etc. Last week I was very interested in the comments about Matt Cardle. He appeared to be having a love affair with his mike, when he wasn't screwing up his eyes.The judges had an issue with the fact that he seemed to be singing  to himself. "Eye contact!" was the consistent comment.

In My Day

I'm no X Factor contestant but I do understand the importance of eye contact.

I think it must have been in about 1995 or 1996. I attended a Baroque singing study weekend at Jackdaws near Frome. The course was run by Evelyn Tubb, a seasoned early music exponent and colleague of Emma Kirkby. We gathered together on the first night and all sang the song we wished to develop. Mine was Purcell's "If Music be the Food of Love". I'd sung it at Beatrice's wedding but had always felt uncomfortable about the interpretation.

Included in the course fee was a master class with Evelyn. Such a privilege! I went into the room. There were quite a few observers. Evelyn was nothing if not to the point. "Julia," she said "when you speak, your voice commands our attention. You have a very sweet voice but you must learn to connect in the same way when you sing."


She asked the observers to gather in a circle around me. "Now!" she said to me "Sing the Purcell to "la" and as you do so, walk around the circle, taking hold of each person's hands in turn and gazing into their eyes."

This I did, finding it a most extraordinary experience. Evelyn forced me to connect with my audience in the most direct way. After the session, which lasted about half an hour, I felt really drained; sending your emotions out in such an unambiguous way was tiring.

But I do really know how important this is and my singing has been the better ever since for having the ability to connect with my audience. Way to go, Matt!

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

Drink Up

Today

While making the coffee this morning Paul was recapping some old advertising slogans. "The water in Majawkah!" he proclaimed, recalling the Heinken ads of the '80s. "Mackeson's Stout! it looks good, it tastes good and, by golly, it does you good!" "Of course", he added wistfully "you're not allowed to make claims like that any more..."

"I don't know", I said "Stouts are full of iron and B vitamins"

In My Day

Alcohol used to be seen as having many medicinal properties. In Victorian times doctors would prescribe red wine in cases of illness and you used to be able to buy "tonic" wines.

For a brief spell in my late teens I worked as a cleaner at Orchard Lodge Care Home in Annerley in South London. The main occupants were elderly men who would probably otherwise have been on the streets. There they received food, lodging (in long, bare-boarded dormitories with a chamber pot under each bed) and medical attention. Many of the old boys ate very little and probably had mild vitamin and iron deficiencies. The doctors at this place were a pragmatic bunch and knowing that getting the geezers to take pills daily would be a problem, used to prescribe half a pint of stout daily. There was approximately a 100% chance that this medicine would be taken.

The prescriptions were hardly of the NHS variety; instead they were in the form of a voucher, redeemable at the pub over the road. On sunny days I would see half a dozen of more of the men sitting on benches outside the pub, each with his half-pint glass of Mackeson's or Guinness.

The last time I heard of stout being recommended medicinally was when I was breast-feeding Becky. The midwife assured me that a pint of Guinness daily would improve my milk no end. I confess to not much liking beer of any kind but I did sink a few pints of Guinness until breast abscesses put an end to that activity for good.

The problem with stout is that, having the highest calorific value of any beer, it also makes you stout.

Monday, October 11, 2010

Loony Tunes

Today

My sister has a tendency to give names to inanimate objects. Today she was talking about her new washing machine which is Turkish. She's named it "Rondo" after "Rondo alla Turca" by Mozart.

"Ah!" I said "round and round and round crazily, then."

In My Day

In 2003, after a stressful time getting Tricia settled into residential care, I decided that we needed a break and booked us a weekend in Prague.

Near to Christmas and very cold, it was. We were staying in a lovely hotel near the castle. In the foyer was the largest ever gingerbread house whose scent permeated through the bar and restaurant. I don't know when it was eaten; we were never offered any. Despite the bitingly cold air we had a lovely time walking the streets, watching the erection of an enormous Christmas tree in the main square and enjoying unbelievably hearty meals that consisted mainly of potato.

We also quickly discovered that Prague is a city of music. We bought tickets to see "The Marriage of Figaro" at the beautiful Estates theatre (where Dion Giovanni was first performed). It was strange to hear Italian singing and see Czech subtitles! In the streets there were any number of small folk bands singing lugubrious Slavonic songs with violin and accordion accompaniment.

On our way back to hotel we noticed bundles of flyers tied to lampposts. These turned out to be for a chamber lunchtime concert at the castle. The timing was perfect: it would fill in nicely the gap between check-out and going to the airport.

The programme didn't look too promising - a lot of classical pot-boilers and an unlikely combination of pianist, flautist and viola player. We were ushered into a room in the castle which was heavily decorated with bellicose murals and ceiling paintings.

The performers took us through a range of Baroque and Rococo classics with verve and enjoyment. The viola player was a dark and moody Slavonic man who could have emerged from a Russian novel. He glowered at us, the other players and his instrument. The flautist was a woman with a willowy top half and enormous bottom who swayed romantically through all her pieces.

The pianist was one of the shortest women I'd seen in a long time. She was dumpy and middle-aged and was very frumpily dressed. This was apart from her shoes which were platform soled extravaganzas that would challenge Naomi Campbell.

The finale was Mozart's "Rondo all Turca". The tiny pianist climbed up onto the piano stool and gave it her all.  Her eyes gleamed at the audience in a mad fashion and she was off! I wouldn't be surprised if she set a new record for how quickly she got through it. At least a 1600rpm spin speed. The concert could have been so dull; instead it was joyous and full of emotional vigour. And how we cheered at the end of the Mozart and clapped the little, now sweating, pianist for her crazed interpretation and for lightening a dull November afternoon.

I wonder if Beatrice's Rondo will give her as much enjoyment.

Saturday, October 09, 2010

Sequestered Spot

Today

There's a joke about retired people wondering how they ever found time to work. I've been retired for four years and I find myself driven to feel that I must achieve something significant every day. I stitch, take photographs, make books, picture frames. I sing in at least three choirs and officiate in one. I have two rental properties to manage. And that's before mundane things such as housework and the garden. And before any travelling is taken into account. Somehow, if I spend a day simply reading, dozing or pottering I feel I have to apologise for my lack of productiveness.

And I'm not alone. All around me are over 60's caring for grandchildren, sitting on magistrates' benches, doing crafts, evening classes, engaging in charitable activities.

We notice admiringly that women of seventy today look twenty years younger than their mothers did at the same age. And that's the ones without Botox. We are expected to be as supple as thirty year-olds, going off to aerobics, pilates and the gym.

I heard somewhere that the retirement age of sixty-five came about because Bismarck wanted to avoid spending too much on war veterans' pensions and discovered that they were mostly dead by sixty-five anyway. And we are now likely to spend 40% or our lives retired.

Of course, it may be just a baby-boomer thing. We are never going to die, of course, and we want to cram every last scrap of flavour into our lives.

In My Day

I don't think that it was like this for previous generations. I remember a business contact who was about twenty years older than me describing the joys of retirement - getting up late, breakfasting in his dressing gown and not moving from his chair until he'd finished the crossword. I was horrified.

Daddy, of course, was terrified of retirement, refusing to give up full-time employment until a stroke at the age of seventy four forced him to retire. In about 1967 Mamma and he moved to their retirement home in Dorking out of which he then hardly ever set foot, except to conduct genteel travelling excursions. He seemed perfectly happy to read, watch television and take short local walks to ensure that he didn't completely seize up. Mamma devoted her time to tending her garden (a traditional retirement pursuit if ever there was one), playing bridge locally and keeping the bungalow in good order.

Paul's father had already retired when I met Paul and he too, cared for the garden, did most of the cooking and made wines. Tricia retired from her job at Elsie Battle Ladies' Fashions in about 1972. This was already part-time. She was looking after her grandson, by now aged about ten, and her mother - but these weren't new activities taken on to offset the tedium of retirement.

The point of this is that nobody seemed to  mind if you did nothing in particular once you were retired. People seemed to be less afraid of seeming to be old or of their brains disintegrating from lack of use. Older people dressed significantly differently and there was often a good deal of snobbery about the use of hair dye. 

I looked up synonyms of "retirement" on a Thesaurus today and discovered "Sequester". I wonder when I'll truly be ready for my sequestered spot.

Friday, October 08, 2010

Fond Farewell

Today

I'm very saddened to hear of the death of Gregory, a very old friend of mine. Although I knew he was fairly frail (he used to joke about his collection of hospital specialists) this was unexpected. He'd only recently set up his Facebook page and we were planning to meet up at the Brighton Early Music festival at the end of the month.

I last saw him at Paul's 60th bash in June where he joined in with great spirit. I realise that I've known him longer than any friend with whom I'm still in touch. He was such a loving, sweet-natured and enthusiastic man and he always offered me love.

In My Day

Gregory was a man of several identities. I don't mean this in any sinister way. I first knew him as Colin. He had a very fine tenor voice and had given himself a stage name "Giovanni Gervase". For some reason, for many years I referred to him as Colin Gervase. He answered to Colin long after he'd adopted the name Gregory as part of his conversion to Christian Orthodoxy. But I'm now used to thinking of him as Gregory.

I got to know him through The Byrdian Society" a small madrigal group formed with the stated aim of raising funds for the Norwood Preservation Society. I don't think we ever made much money; our music was hardly mainstream and we had no talent for marketing. Following that I joined the Catholic church choir where Gregory was choirmaster. I do remember a very spirited concert of medieval Christmas Carols which we performed at 4BH to a packed house.

Gregory, I think, struggled for most of his adult life with unrewarding jobs and financial hardship. But he was always passionate about the music of the great Renaissance masters. We sang together for many years and he always had faith in my singing, unobtrusively pushing me to achieve more; the pinnacle being singing Allegri's Miserere.

As it often is with long-lasting friendships, we sometimes lost touch with each other. When we found each other it was always with great joy and pleasure. We've been in continuous touch for about the past ten years and always made the effort to meet up.

Gregory, thank you for showing me the joy of singing and for always being my friend.

Wednesday, October 06, 2010

Clean Inside

Today

On Facebook today my niece's status said that Dettol had solved all her problems for the time being. Well it's nice to know that problems can be so easily solved, if temporarily, by something from a bottle.

In My Day

Daddy was a great believer in Dettol. Maybe his Milroy's disease had given him a horror of all bacteria or perhaps it was his childhood years of poverty and grime that led him to wage such war. The bottle of brown liquid, smelling strongly of - well, to my childhood nose, of hygiene and cut knees - was heaved out on a very regular basis.

Got a scratch or cut knee? Dettol was the answer. Mosquito bite? Swab with Dettol. Sore throat? Gargle with Dettol. Daddy discovered that it dealt with mildew very effectively. A few drops in the bath and you knew you were clean all over. Generally it was far too strong to be used neat. It was diluted with water, whereupon the water turned a milky colour, reminiscent of Pernod. Dettol was dropped onto the lint that went under bandages and plasters. We washed our hands after a day on public transport (the "polio wash" Daddy called it) with a drop of Dettol in the water.

I'm surprised Daddy didn't think of selling us as advertising, we used so much. The bottle itself sported a green shield with a massive sword slicing through the middle. No wonder we believed in its power to defend us.

Daddy may have taken this belief a little too far. When he found himself suffering from a gastric ulcer which didn't respond to the then merely palliative treatment involving the consumption of very bland food, he took charge. He decided to have a daily drink of Dettol. I believe he did dilute it before consumption. Now he was really clean, inside and out. In one way his instinct was right (we now know that most gastric ulcers are caused by Helicobacter Pylori and the treatment is antibiotics) and the ulcers did clear up, never to return. Triumphantly, Daddy continued to uphold Dettol's rule in the household. (I believe we had a dalliance with potassium permanganate crystals for mouth ulcers, but it didn't last.)

Years later, he developed pyloric stenosis which was caused by massive scar tissue from his old gastric ulcer, and required invasive surgery. So Dettol had its revenge.

Personally, I won't let Dettol near my skin as it brings me out in a rash, but continue to believe in its ability to keep my worktops clean and walls free of mildew.

Sunday, October 03, 2010

Flutterby

Today

Autumn is here and time to dig out warmer clothes. I persuaded Paul to climb into the loft and hand down my winter trousers. As I took one pair from him I removed what looked like a bit of paper or cloth. It turned out to be a Red Admiral butterfly that had clearly thought that hibernation in my trousers was a Good Idea.

It dropped to the floor, just under the bedroom door, and didn't move. I felt some regret and thought that I'd have handled it more carefully if I'd realised. Later it was gone and I asked Paul if he'd cleaned it up. "I haven't been near it", he answered.

Somebody, somewhere, cruelly said that if you pull the wings off a butterfly it just looks like any other ugly insect. But, rightly or wrongly, we do view them differently, and a swarm of red admirals is not regarded in the same way as a swarm of cluster flies.

In My Day

I think it must have been in 1995, the 300th anniversary of Henry Purcell's death. Purcell died on 21st November 1695, on St  Cecilia's eve. St  Cecilia is the patron saint of music and Purcell set an ode to St Cecilia to music called "Hail, Bright Cecilia!" So it seemed only right and proper that our choir should sing this work at our autumn concert, on a date as close to St Cecilia's as possible.

We assembled to give this concert at St Mary's Church in Glastonbury. The church filled up and we gathered to sing this beautiful work. The poem describes the gradual creation of all things through the action of music.

As we came to the part where the beauty of the natural world is being described, a shower of Red Admiral butterflies, disturbed by the light and warmth, fluttered down from the rafters. Some landed on our scores. My neighbour watched entranced as the beautiful black and red beast walked over her page. She didn't want to disturb it further by turning her page so I shoved my copy under her nose and we shared until the butterfly moved of its own accord.

We all felt the magic of a shared mystical moment which wouldn't have felt the same if we'd disturbed cluster flies, I'm absolutely  certain.

I hope you regained your strength, butterfly and have found a better place to pass the winter.

Sunday, September 26, 2010

Infestation

Today

Just back from a jolly few days on the Isle of Wight. We stayed in a fairly ordinary but adequate cottage near Brighstone. One comment in the visitors' book referred to the "problem" with woodlice & earwigs. I saw one of each.

In My Day

In the summer of 1977 at Rowan Avenue we were plagued with woodlice. In the kitchen in the mornings we would see maybe fifty or sixty of these creatures. We swept them up, whereupon they curled up and rolled across the floor like so many ball bearings. The cats showed no interest at all in getting rid of them.

We couldn't track down any source, such as rotten wood, in the house that might be the cause. I didn't find them at all worrying as such; there were just so many of them.

That was until shortly after I brought Becky home from hospital. I'd noticed a small dark-red mark on her abdomen that I assumed was a strawberry mark but I wanted the midwife just to confirm this.

The midwife came on her rounds and I asked her to have a quick look. Becky used to sleep in a carry-cot that was mounted on a tubular steel stand, so well off the floor. I unpopped her Babygro and there, nestled on her vest, was a woodlouse. How had it got there? I flipped the creature away and was apologising to the midwife for the next half-hour as though it had been my slovenly maternal care that had brought this about. I have no idea what the midwife thought, but at least she didn't call Social Services. And, after that, it was woodlouse wars.

All of which means that a single woodlouse seen crawling across the toilet floor of a cottage in a very rural location seems anything but a "problem"!

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

Malice Aforethought

Today

This morning I was dipping into one of my "No 1 Ladies' Detective Agency" books in which Mma Ramotswe is trying to help a client redress an old wrong. She seeks out the person to whom the wrong was done and explains the situation.

When this person looks angry Mma Ramotswe says "He is very sorry for what he did wrong; have you never done anything wrong for which you would like to apologise?"

The answer, of course, is "yes" as it is for most of us.

In My Day

I like to think of myself as without malice and with a large capacity to forgive; generally, I think that this is actually true. But it has not been developed without some difficulty and pain along the way.

When I was at primary school I bore the brunt of much teasing and bullying. I came from a strange family, didn't talk Saarf Lunnon, wasn't very pretty and was far too keen on being educated. I failed entirely to learn such protective mechanisms as keeping quiet or becoming either a bully or a clown myself. And I certainly never spoke to a teacher or my parents.

Which might explain the retributive action I took one day against the most active group of these bullying children. Finding a quiet few minutes I sat down and wrote hate-mail letters to each of them. I popped these letters into their respective desks and waited. I can't now remember what I threatened but it was enough to cause uproar. The class teacher became involved and we were all quizzed. I not only lied coolly but was even very indignant and joined in the search for the (never apprehended) culprit. When a note was shown to me with discussions about identifying the handwriting I was appalled to notice that I had so far failed to disguise mine, that a characteristically carelessly written "M" was clear for all to see who had eyes.

Fortunately for me, nobody made the connection and I escaped, scott-free. I don't know what I would have done had somebody else been punished for my crime. And I can't imagine the effect on my life and school career had I confessed or been found out. I certainly never committed such an act again and have felt ashamed ever since.

In fact, I think that this is the first time that I've admitted to this. I don't think that lasting harm was done and I apologise for the distress caused. But I do think that until now, there was just a tiny black corner in my heart that is now lightened.

Wednesday, September 08, 2010

Hirsute

Today

Beards seem to have been prominent over the last few days. My German cousin's husband, who sported a full beard at new year, just had a little drooping moustache when we saw him last week. He looked better for it, I thought, and told him so. "Oh," he replied "it's cooler this way; the beard'll be back in the winter."

Then, just a couple of days ago, I bumped into Roy, the musical director of the English Concert Singers. I had never seen him anything else than clean-shaven, so it was quite a surprise to see him sporting a venerable goatee-type grey beard. "Is this your Thomas Beecham look?" I joked. Actually, it looked very nice and well-groomed. Just not sure whether it will match his hair.

In My Day

Daddy, who in later years wore a moustache, disapproved of beards. At best they were a sign of suspect "artiness"; at worst a sign of complete disregard for respectable society and washing. How he reconciled this with his father-in-law's neat beard or the beards belonging to a whole range of his heroes, such as Sir Isaac Pitman, Sir Henry Wood and said Sir Thomas Beecham, I never fathomed.

Paul made several attempts to grow beards, often giving up at the stubble stage because he felt that it made him less attractive to the opposite sex. Eventually, in about 1982, he went the whole hog and grew a proper beard. It was very black and seemed to cover his whole face. I found it rather hard to make out his features or facial expressions and, after an emotional outburst, we agreed on a compromise. The beard stayed, but he shaved the area around the eyes and cheeks and just below the mouth so that I could identify him on a dark night.

He's basically hung onto this facial hair with only a couple of periods of time out, once when the sneezing of hay-fever became too much.

The other time followed his retirement in 1998. Several people had indicated that they thought he looked ready for retirement, when he was actually only forty-eight. "Do I look old?" he asked anxiously. "Well," I hazarded cautiously "your beard is very grey..." He rushed to the bathroom and shaved the lot off, an act which he instantly regretted.

Within two years he'd grown it back with the addition of some "Just for Men" and swears he'll never shave it off again.

I just hope that, with the advancing years, I will never have to decide whether or not to keep my beard.

Wednesday, August 11, 2010

Overloaded

Today

Having at last bought a much-needed headboard for the Chinoiserie room at the flat, we then had a lengthy discussion as how we could transport it to Brighton.

"Well", I said "the E-class has roof bars so, provided we tie it down properly, there shouldn't be a problem."

In My Day

When we were first married we had, as readers of this blog will know, a succession of tired old cars. We were also pretty broke and obtaining furniture was a hit-and-miss, hand-me-down affair.

Paul's parents once passed down to us a mattress that could be used on Becky's bed. On a certain foggy night we went up to collect this object. Paul strapped it to the roof of the Zephyr. No roof bars so he tied it to a makeshift roofrack with odd bits of string. We set off. Driving along Lottbridge Drove in Eastbourne Paul became very irritated by the driver of a Mini behind us. First the driver flashed his lights at us repeatedly. Paul cursed, "I can't go any faster!" Then the Mini drew alongside us. "Well, if you're going to overtake, get on with it!" growled Paul. The Mini stayed alongside.

Paul lowered the window, preparatory to issuing expletives. The Mini driver lowered his window "Hey, mate!" he yelled "You've lost your bed!" In the foggy darkness we hadn't noticed the mattress slide off the car into the ditch. Sheepishly, Paul thanked the Mini driver and turned round to collect the item which was fortunately wrapped in plastic and wasn't too damp.

As if this taught us nothing, we later bought a wardrobe from MFI in Southampton. This bargain item was in the "casualty" section, having already been constructed, and missing door knobs. We heaved this onto the top of the Marina, attached it with ropes threaded through the windows and set off.

It was a Saturday morning in busy Shirley High Street. As we approached the traffic lights they turned red. The car stopped. Unfortunately, the wardrobe didn't and slid forward, to hang precariously over the windscreen. Gingerly, Paul edged forward over the crossing, pulled the car up and tied the wardrobe more securely. We think the policeman standing on the pavement "looked the other way".

Let's hope we get it right this time; I should hate to think of our headboard languishing at the side of the A303.

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

Rose Bowl

Today

On Saturday we went to Paul's cousin's retirement party. There were several relations there whom I hadn't seen since 1975.

We talked about Roger's deceased mother, Norah; her vivaciousness, tendency to call out at 11.00 am in a plummy voice "Bar's open!" and her impact on our lives.

"Do you know", I said to Roger's Aunt Joan "I haven't seen you since "Miss Saltdean" in 1975".

In My Day

Roger's mother, lived in Telscombe. She had her daughter Debbbie living with her as well as her grand-daughter who was about Lizzie's age, so we often visited and were quite close for a time.

Norah had a spell as Mayor of Saltdean. One day she called us and begged us to attend a civic dance being held at Butlins, Saltdean. It was very out of season and I think she was afraid no-one would go. We flossied ourselves up and went along.

Debbie and Auntie Joan were there as well so there were some familiar faces. Norah told us that she had been asked to be on the adjudicating panel at an event that evening "Miss Saltdean 1975" and would we girls be willing to add to the numbers. I say "girls" but Joan couldn't have been far short of fifty.

We sportingly registered our names and got on with having a good time. Eventually the contest started. As this was in February and far more genteel than Miss World, we weren't expected to parade around in cossies or anything like that. Instead we joined a line-up of women and walked around the dance floor. A DJ interviewed us and I have no idea what he asked me or what I said.

Eventually, the winners were called, "In third place - Mrs Joan Barnett!" Auntie Joan stepped forward. "In second, Miss Debbie Barnett!". Debbie joined her aunt. Norah was beginning to look embarrassed. Would the rest of the council think that it was a set up?

"In first place, Julia Barrett!" announced the DJ. I joined the others, was draped in a sash and awarded a rather pretty rose bowl. Norah was by now hiding under the table. "I didn't vote for any of you!" she protested. "Well, Norah", I reassured her, "When you look at the competition, it's not really surprising that we won!"

This early success certainly didn't lead me into the Beauty Queen world and I now couldn't say what happened to the rose bowl.

Monday, August 09, 2010

Information Highway

Today

More on the power of the Internet and its capacity to inform.

I received one of those "round robin" emails today spouting on about today's over-cautious-ness with pregnant women and unborn babies, saying that we oldies survived drinking and smoking mothers and we're OK, aren't we? A little research came up with the infant mortality rates for 1930, 1950 and 2009 and showed that the rate today is 5% of what it was in 1930. So I emailed back my comments to this effect.

It does seem that the Internet provides as much mis-information as information and an awful lot is completely unverified and un-moderated. And some is downright scurrilous.

In My Day

Relying, as we did, on books, did we receive higher-quality information than nowadays? This is a very hard question to answer. Once you'd found something in, say, Chambers Encyclopedia, you tended to trust it. Verfiying the information was such a laborious task and the encyclopedia, you believed, was written to a high academic standard.

Often this was true and I've had very few occasions when I've had to say "that was complete rubbish". On the other hand, authority was much less subjected to questioning and there were very many prejudices aired in these books.

The medical dictionary, for example, said that menstruating women shouldn't bathe or wash their hair. This is tantamount to crying "unclean!" and only one stop short of saying that we shouldn't appear in public. I found that I could do both with impunity and, incidentally, felt so much better for clean hair and a bathed body.

My dictionary told me that masturbation was "self-abuse" which didn't make me any the wiser and world maps usually coloured British colonies in triumphant red as though that was all that mattered.

The encyclopedia confidently divided the world's people into three types (Caucasian, Mongoloid and Negro), which we now know is damagingly too broad-brush, and arrogantly ignored a number of obvious anomalies.

Perhaps that's the true difference between then and now; information was handed down literally, from God-like and British authorities to grateful and unquestioning recipients. Today, we can see how all the world thinks in the click of a mouse.

Not that that has stopped prejudice and bigotry from spreading just as fast.

Wednesday, August 04, 2010

Stating the obvious

Today

One of the problems with having the flat is managing the food store cupboard. While it's easy to decide what to do with perishables it's the "dry goods" that are more difficult to gauge. Just how long should we keep bags of nuts or crisps? We put everything into airtight containers but sometimes that's just not enough.

Fancying a few oat cakes with my cheese at lunchtime today, I pulled out an unopened pack. A rancid odour assailed my nostrils. The "use by" date on the base was December 2009 and it seemed clear that the fat used to make them had gone off. Into the bin with them!

In My Day

I think that "sell by" dates were introduced in the UK about thirty years ago. Before that we had to rely on judgement, old wives tales and the bleedin' obvious.

Judgement generally meant going by the look of something and how long we'd had it. Meat and fish had to be eaten quickly - they kept longer once cooked, from whence came the "joint on Sunday, cold on Monday, pie on Tuesday" kind of housekeeping. Bread went mouldy after a couple of days.

Old wives tales covered seafood being eaten immediately, regardless of whether it looked or smelled OK (they had a point there, those old wives), thunder "turning" the milk or cream and not eating rhubarb or pork  in a month with (or was it without) an "R" in it. (no summer months contain an "R")

But mostly, it's bleedin' obvious. If the milk has gone lumpy and smells funny, don't drink it! If the lettuce has gone sort of slimy and the cheese is covered in green mould then it's probably best to leave it alone. Meat with a strange rainbow sheen to it is likely to give you the runs and fish that should be white but looks kind of grey has probably passed the point where you should put it in your face.

So, while I think that the sell-by (now expanded to include "display by" and "use by") concept does afford some protection, it's really a way of letting food manufacturers off the hook as they often are vastly over-cautious with their dating. and nothing beats judgement and the bleedin' obvious.

I found some oatcakes in the cupboard with an even earlier date but they smelled just fine and I've had a couple with cheese and coleslaw.

Monday, August 02, 2010

When mother papered the parlour

Today

I can't believe I let Becky talk me into doing some of her decorating. I'd agreed to go up to help her with a massive tidy up and clear out of her flat.  As if clearing her garden of weeds, helping her clean and clear her cellar, and sorting CDs, DVDs, books and clothes wasn't enough, I found myself painting some shelves that looked perfectly OK to me.

In My Day

I really hate decorating. I don't know why it's assumed that, as soon as we reach independence, we're all capable of wielding a paint brush, trowel and pasting brush in a way that will do even a halfway decent job.

As a child, I had, of course, watched Daddy doing decorating. The only thing I learnt from him was the importance of cleaning brushes properly. 

I think I tried decorating in my teenage attic bedroom at 4BH, but my first proper foray was when I lived in Tarring with Sue Hole. Our otherwise lovely ground floor flat was looking dingy and we persuaded our landlady that we could do the needful. We went to a shop which mixed the paint for you. Eau-de-nil for the living room walls with eggshell grey woodwork, shocking pink in my room with white gloss and I can't remember what Sue wanted. At least we didn't paint the ceilings purple, walls orange and doors pink as many of our hippie colleagues did.

The colour, when mixed didn't look at all right so we went back to the shop where it was proved to us that it exactly matched the colour card. "I'll put some more green in it, if you like", said the shopkeeper, doing so. We decided to live with the resulting vivid peppermint green. I've no idea what the landlady thought of our idiosyncratic colour scheme, which I assume she discovered after we'd left. What I do know is that the quality of our work (especially mine) was of the lowest standard, with unevenly painted walls and curtains of dripping gloss.

Later on, Paul & I decorated the flat at Belmont. There I actually hung wallpaper and am amazed that it clung to the walls at all. At Rowan Avenue we decorated the lounge walls in dark brown gloss and one wall of our bedroom in mirror tiles. We again managed to put wallpaper up at Montfort Close and have decorated at Mead Close. Paul, while being very good at putting shelving and doing electrics and light fittings, has a technique even worse than mine and is a great deal messier, believing that you can clean up all the drips later.
In order to save our marriage, we now get someone in every five years or so to put on another coat of magnolia.

At Becky's I dug my heels in and refused to paint the perfectly nice pine bookcase in the lower hall.



Thursday, July 29, 2010

Fount of all Knowledge

Today

I still couldn't get that blasted ball right so in the end I typed into my Google search bar "how many pentagons to make a ball". Immediately I was directed to a craft website which told me that I need twelve and gave instructions for putting it together. Simples!

"We certainly used to be able to find things out before the Internet," I wrote to Beatrice "but it was more laborious and we probably often gave up."

In My day

When I was a child, finding things out generally involved looking in books. You asked your parents, of course, and your vastly more knowledgeable older brothers. Books of reference were found in libraries, both public and at school. I once received a dictionary after writing a prize-winning essay for the local paper and I was very pleased to get it. It not only had the usual A-Z of words; it had world maps, flags and other generally interesting facts.

We also had shelves of reference books at home. A Chambers dictionary, French, German and Latin dictionaries and a twelve volume encyclopedia. We had a medical dictionary that I would read for fun because it described so many weird illnesses, sometimes with gruesome photographs. I sympathised with that character in "Three Men in a Boat" who decided, after reading the medical dictionary, that he had every illness except housemaid's knee. We had a music dictionary and, another favourite a two-volume book entitled "People of all Nations" which depicted unashamedly colonial photographs of indigenous peoples from all over the world. Daddy had collected this in weekly instalments, then had the lot bound. My fascinated eyes would look at a picture of a woman from, say, Papua, new Guinea, dressed only in a tattered skirt and grinning toothlessly at the camera, and captioned "This dusky beauty....". I still have this publication.

I don't think we worried much about the ever changing nature of knowledge; that we are constantly finding out more and understanding both past and present in different ways.

This was nowhere more evident than in the one book which outshone all others in its compactness and range of information. Its only drawback was that it was in German. One of the few books that Mamma had brought with her was the "Knauer" - at least that's how I think it was spelt, I only ever heard Mamma say the word. If we just couldn't find out what we wanted to know Mamma would get out this extraordinarily packed book. The typeface was tiny and the paper was thin so as to accommodate more facts; there were illustrations and photographs and maps. There seemed to be nothing that the Knauer didn't know and it was with something of a thrill that I would watch while Mamma said "Let's see what the Knauer says", and then go unerringly to the right spot.

Do you know I just typed "Knauer" and "Knauer Encyclopedia" into Google and came up with nothing. Maybe that's poetic justice.

Sunday, July 25, 2010

Summing up

Today

My nephew became father to his second baby yesterday so I started stitching a gift for little Max. I used to make a soft embroidered ball for the young 'uns years ago and sat down to try to remember how it was made. It uses pentagons so that the sides eventually bend round.

First of all, make the pentagon. Well, if I draw a circle with a given diameter, apply 2PiXR. then divide the result by by five, I should get the circumference divided into five equal sections. I tried about ten times before I could make it work. By cheating a little bit I got a pattern that looked about right. The next job was to decide how many pieces I needed. That is like clinking glasses, I thought: 4+3+2+1, except that it seems that I need seven, not eight pieces.

Struggling with this has taken me about three hours and I'm still not sure that I understand the maths.

In My Day

The thing is, I never did understand maths. From the beginning, my eyes would glaze over when the subject cropped up. I could do my times tables (that was a simple matter of rote learning, after all; nothing to do with understanding) and add up and multiply. Long division defeated me.

When I went to grammar school it was even worse. Geometry was visual enough to be manageable but algebra made no sense at all. It was years later that someone explained to me the point of it all. Trigonometry was only fun because we got to go outside and measure the height of trees in the playground. And I think I missed the class in which we were taught what a logarithm is, let alone how and when to use those crazy books of tables.

Neither Mamma or Daddy seemed at all bothered by this lack in me. Daddy once wrote on a school maths report "Her Daddy can't even add up!" which sort of endorsed my failure. There was a quite unfounded idea that as I was good at the arts I must somehow suffer from a corresponding inability to reason logically. I do now think that this is utter bunkum and that, with the right kind of support and, maybe, teachers who were less theoretical in their approach I might have passed muster. As it is, my knowledge stopped at about third year level.  

And we do use all kinds of maths every day. In the supermarket this week, trying to work out whether it was cheaper to buy baked beans in a four-pack or separately, I asked my friend's fifteen year old to divide £2.06 by 4. He got his i-pod out to calculate it, despite my light-hearted chiding! At least I could do that one in my head and went straight for the four-pack, so perhaps I'm not so hopeless after all.

Tuesday, July 06, 2010

Wait a minute, Mr Postman

Today


I felt rather jolly to be invited to the birthday party of a friend's daughter. She'll be two and I've promised to  be very helpful. I've made a little dress to take her and I hope she'll like it.

Being at that party (more an accident of geography than anything else) means that I will miss that of one of my great nieces who is three on the same day. I made her a pressie too and posted it yesterday. I've made sure that she is the addressee, because when you're little, there's nothing quite so exciting as receiving some post addressed to you rather than your parents. I posted it early to make sure that it would arrive in time.

In My Day

Becky just loved her Sindy Dolls when she was little. They came in a great variety of styles - some had pink hair or sparkly outfits. One, I remember, had styleable hair that you could pull from the crown to make it longer.  Becky was rather inclined to take scissors to her Sindys' hair which, since hairstyling was never her thing, led to some odd results. You could buy endless outfits for her and a range of lifestyle accessories. Becky's bedroom was almost entirely taken up by the Sindy house.

1986, when we lived in Southampton, was at the height of this craze. As Becky's ninth birthday approached we searched for new and exciting additions to the collection that wouldn't reduce our floor space much further. The day before her birthday we were in Woolworth's and saw just the thing: Sindy hospital. This consisted of a miniature hospital bed with all the accoutrements; stethoscope, earphones, temperature chart, an X-ray screen which lit up and a number of stick-on transfers to complete the illusion.

We smuggled this object home and opened it up so that we could put the pieces together. Alas! There were a number of smaller pieces missing; no transfers, for one thing plus a couple of other omissions. We phoned Woolworth's. They were very helpful, but we'd bought the last one in stock. They could order another one, they said. Would take about a week. "But her birthday's tomorrow!" I wailed. Woolworth gave us contact details for the manufacturers.

It was by now about four pm. I rang Pedigree toys and explained my predicament. They could certainly send replacement parts free of charge, but couldn't guarantee that they would arrive by the next day. It was the best I could do so I agreed and got on with the job of wrapping gifts and making cake which wasn't so easy with crossed fingers.

The next morning, in traditional fashion, we laid the breakfast table with flowers, cards and presents. Becky was led in to see the candle-lit cake. After she'd blown out the candles she started to open her gifts, including the (unknown to her yet) incomplete Sindy hospital. She was never one to rush the card and gift opening process. Just as she finished and I was preparing to explain about the missing Sindy parts, the doorbell rang. There stood the beautiful, lovely postman. "Parcel for Miss Rebecca Barrett" he announced. There it was, arriving in the nick of time. Not just the missing parts but a full set, giving her an extra bed, X-ray screen and much more. The potential for tears turned into extra joy and the hospital gave her pleasure for years to come.

At least she wasn't into Barbie which might have necessitated a call to the US and unavoidable disappointment. Now, I just have to hope that my great-niece actually likes the gift brought by the postman!
.

Sunday, July 04, 2010

Watch the Birdie

Today

This summer we spend at least part of every day sitting, rapt, looking for signs of our latest household member. A wren has taken up residence in a wall planter right beside the French doors that lead from the dining room. Earlier we feared that the nest had been abandoned; but no, several times a day one or the other of the wrens will fly off. They have a maximum security route back. First, the safety of the interior of the viburnum, then a cautious flight to the tip of the branch nearest to the wall planter. Sometimes they call to each other, making a noise so loud you wonder how such a tiny pair of lungs could produce it.

If all is clear, the bird then flies onto a candle sconce on the wall. Finally, into the nest via a hole in the side. We haven't seen or heard any fledglings yet. 

Paul has made it clear to Abby that his continued love depends upon her not nabbing one of these wrens; I hope she's been paying attention.

In My Day

It's funny how we apply different values to the creatures with whom we share our lives; insects, except bees, are way at the bottom, birds, particularly pretty ones, are at the top.

When I was a child, our enormous garden was home to myriad birds. Most of them we didn't notice but, every now and then, one would attract our attention. For a number of years, jays would nest in the big sycamore at 4 Beulah. We would hear their raucous call and see the flash of blue and white as it darted about the garden. Blackbirds entertained us with their musical calls; sometimes Daddy swore they were singing a bit of Beethoven or Rimsky-Korsakov.

The garden was home to owls, mostly tawny, I think, and their calls added to the eeriness of night-time.

And, only once, I remember some wrens. This ill-judging pair had built their nest in the low crook of our yew tree, no more than 3 feet from the ground. The nest was highly visible, and as the babies fledged, all my cat Ariadne had to do was reach up and flip them out of the nest. I tried so hard to stop her, but realised that I was doomed to failure.

At least with a nest half-way up a windowless wall, our Somerset wrens have a much better chance of raising their babies.

Friday, June 25, 2010

Tasty Morsel

Today

An exchange on Facebook today with David about artichokes. He mentioned that he'd just eaten the first one of the season and it was really tough. I commented that there's so little on an artichoke I'm surprised we bother. David said that soon they'll be delicious.

Agreed, but still not a hearty meal.

In My Day

It's 2003, the year of "Diet Trials", so I'm pretty skinny. Becky had managed to book us into London's Ivy restaurant for her and Beatrice's birthday celebrations. (She later said that she was sure she'd seen Helena Bonham-Carter there, but that's another story.)

We glammed up and went off the the restaurant. Birthday time so we start with champagne. The menu was a mixture of schoolboy basics like steak and kidney pie, fancy modern dishes and meals designed to keep size zero stars happy.

I ordered a nice tomato and onion salad for starters. We also ordered more champagne. For my main course I chose a globe artichoke with a light port wine dip. Artichokes look impressively huge. This one was no exception. I started to peel off the leaves, dip and eat the fleshy bits. Delicious! We ordered some rose Sancerre.

Half an hour went by and I was still pulling off leaves. As I eventually unearthed the "choke" the others ordered another bottle of Sancerre. Because it took so long to eat this object my brain was fooled into thinking that I was having a proper meal, not about 60 calories' worth of main course.

Only later did it catch up with this idea and the fact that I'd had my fair share of celebratory wine. The rest, as they say, is history, except not really part of my history as I forgot everything after that (including the Helena Bonham-Carter moment). But I'm sure I kept everyone amused. And The Ivy must be used to teetering customers trying to get into taxis.

If theses artichokes are from your garden, David, I'd really like to taste one - but I'll team it with some potatoes or something.