Today
We spent a charming evening on Friday with a new friend of Paul's and his very creative and fascinating parents.
During the evening they talked about some county sporting event during which a friend's very unpedigree dog had his wicked way with the Duchess of Norfolk's dog whose pedigree went back to the Conquest. The results, apparently, were some unidentifiable and officially useless pups for whose support the Duchess sportingly refused to accept payment.
"Of course," said our host "most pedigree animals have much shorter lives than mixed breeds."
In My Day
Back in 1984, when we were living at Montfort Close, we decided that a dog would be just the thing. We chose a rescue dog, being unwilling to devote the necessary time to training a puppy, and also knowing just how many unwanted animals there are who need homes.
In this way Caspian came into our lives, He was such a jolly dog, full of zest for living, and he gave us much. He was very handsome, despite being of inextricably mixed parentage, with clean, tall lines, an alert well-proportioned head, smart tan and white markings and a cheerful tail that looked like pampas grass.
Sometimes we found ourselves in the company of people whom I would describe as "breed snobs". They invariably had excruciating accents and would ask about Cas's breed as though it was the only important thing about him.
This set Paul's teeth on edge. He would reply in a very good imitation of their county accents: "Oh, he's a Sussex Downlander" His interlocutor would admit that this breed was new to them and ask what the significant breeding points were. "Well," Paul would continue "the breed isn't yet recognised by the Kennel Club.... but the main characteristic is that the dog has to have been conceived somewhere on the Sussex Downs!" His voice would abruptly return to normal and the snob would turn away, vaguely suspicious that they'd been laughed at.
Cas, true to his mutt origins, lived a long and healthy life, dying at the advanced age of seventeen after a stroke carried him off. And I still miss him.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Needles & Pins
Today
I don't usually bring drinks into the room where I do my sewing; instead my glass of water resides on the bookcase on the landing and I take a sip while I'm passing by. And tea is taken downstairs. What happened this morning is one of the reasons why. I was stitching away at the little handbag that I'm making for my great-niece, pulling out pins as I went. In an attempt to prevent the floor becoming totally covered in pins I pop them into my pin tin as I go. Except that, for reasons that are mysterious, I'd decided to put my glass in that location and was merrily popping pins into the water instead.
In My Day
I made the intimate acquaintance of Mamma's Singer Sewing machine when I was about eighteen. Dresses in those days rarely reached more than half-way down the thigh and generally took a mere three yards of fabric. I ran up many a dress.
One I remember clearly, it was in lime green georgette with an empire waistline and little black cube-shaped buttons on the bodice. The fabric was so sheer that I decided that I needed to make an under-dress to go with it. For this I bought the finest white lawn that I could find. Cut and pinned and sat down to stitch.
Perhaps Daddy felt sorry for me, working away in the other room so hard or maybe he'd made a pot of tea for the whole family and thought I'd like a cup. He tiptoed in (at any rate I didn't hear him) and placed the cup just on the other side of the sewing machine. With dedicated precision, I fed the entire under-dress into the cup of tea before I noticed what was happening. I had to wash the still-partly pinned garment, dry and iron it before I could continue.
Which is why drinks in the craft/sewing area have been banned ever since, until today.
At least I noticed what I'd done before attempting to take a drink or there might have been quite a different end to this story.
I don't usually bring drinks into the room where I do my sewing; instead my glass of water resides on the bookcase on the landing and I take a sip while I'm passing by. And tea is taken downstairs. What happened this morning is one of the reasons why. I was stitching away at the little handbag that I'm making for my great-niece, pulling out pins as I went. In an attempt to prevent the floor becoming totally covered in pins I pop them into my pin tin as I go. Except that, for reasons that are mysterious, I'd decided to put my glass in that location and was merrily popping pins into the water instead.
In My Day
I made the intimate acquaintance of Mamma's Singer Sewing machine when I was about eighteen. Dresses in those days rarely reached more than half-way down the thigh and generally took a mere three yards of fabric. I ran up many a dress.
One I remember clearly, it was in lime green georgette with an empire waistline and little black cube-shaped buttons on the bodice. The fabric was so sheer that I decided that I needed to make an under-dress to go with it. For this I bought the finest white lawn that I could find. Cut and pinned and sat down to stitch.
Perhaps Daddy felt sorry for me, working away in the other room so hard or maybe he'd made a pot of tea for the whole family and thought I'd like a cup. He tiptoed in (at any rate I didn't hear him) and placed the cup just on the other side of the sewing machine. With dedicated precision, I fed the entire under-dress into the cup of tea before I noticed what was happening. I had to wash the still-partly pinned garment, dry and iron it before I could continue.
Which is why drinks in the craft/sewing area have been banned ever since, until today.
At least I noticed what I'd done before attempting to take a drink or there might have been quite a different end to this story.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Down in the Dumps
Today
What with his aching back, increasing deafness and the continuing dreary weather, Paul's been feeling a bit depressed. It's been making him rather grumpy which is difficult to live with.
"There are two difficulties for loved ones when someone has depression," I said. "Firstly, you feel somehow responsible as though it's up to you to put things right. Secondly, the depressed person often doesn't simply say "I'm sad, help me"; they are withdrawn, grumpy or snipe at people so that one reacts to the behaviour, not the underlying cause."
We talked about the different types of depression - the type that is a result of external difficulties and the depression that descends without warning like a cloud and disappears in much the same way.
In My Day
When Lizzie was born, safe and beautiful after a long and difficult labour I should have been euphoric. Once the initial flurry of relations and congratulations was over, I found myself engulfed by lethargy and inactivity. Getting up in the morning was often only achieved because I knew that the midwife was due or some other external factor. On many days, if Paul's job hadn't meant that he could come home for lunch, I might not have got up until evening.
Paul would clear up the breakfast things, get himself some lunch and go back to work without comment. By evening I would at least have managed to get dressed. I must have looked so unutterably sad that Paul would sometimes ask me what was the matter. This would simply trigger unstoppable tears. I lost all interest in the physical side of our marriage and have lost count of the nights when I pretended to be asleep.
It wasn't as though Lizzie was a problem. After the first ten days or so she slept all night and was pretty placid during the daytime. I managed to feed her and keep her clean but that was about all.
Poor Paul! We were so young and had no idea what was going on. We didn't think to ask for help and simply soldiered on. I confused my experience with the "baby blues" - a tearful state that occurs when the baby's about three days old and is gone within another three - and had no idea that I had proper post-natal depression and maybe could have received some help.
Suddenly, one day, when Lizzie was about twenty months old, the cloud lifted and the sun came back out, prompting me to ask "what was all that about?" The experience prompted me to offer counselling to sufferers with PND because it's got nothing to do with one's own actions or external difficulties; it just arrives, then goes, without warning.
These days, with the medicalisation of everything, it's easy to confuse conditions that are actually an illness and those which are part of the normal feelings associated with life's difficulties.
What with his aching back, increasing deafness and the continuing dreary weather, Paul's been feeling a bit depressed. It's been making him rather grumpy which is difficult to live with.
"There are two difficulties for loved ones when someone has depression," I said. "Firstly, you feel somehow responsible as though it's up to you to put things right. Secondly, the depressed person often doesn't simply say "I'm sad, help me"; they are withdrawn, grumpy or snipe at people so that one reacts to the behaviour, not the underlying cause."
We talked about the different types of depression - the type that is a result of external difficulties and the depression that descends without warning like a cloud and disappears in much the same way.
In My Day
When Lizzie was born, safe and beautiful after a long and difficult labour I should have been euphoric. Once the initial flurry of relations and congratulations was over, I found myself engulfed by lethargy and inactivity. Getting up in the morning was often only achieved because I knew that the midwife was due or some other external factor. On many days, if Paul's job hadn't meant that he could come home for lunch, I might not have got up until evening.
Paul would clear up the breakfast things, get himself some lunch and go back to work without comment. By evening I would at least have managed to get dressed. I must have looked so unutterably sad that Paul would sometimes ask me what was the matter. This would simply trigger unstoppable tears. I lost all interest in the physical side of our marriage and have lost count of the nights when I pretended to be asleep.
It wasn't as though Lizzie was a problem. After the first ten days or so she slept all night and was pretty placid during the daytime. I managed to feed her and keep her clean but that was about all.
Poor Paul! We were so young and had no idea what was going on. We didn't think to ask for help and simply soldiered on. I confused my experience with the "baby blues" - a tearful state that occurs when the baby's about three days old and is gone within another three - and had no idea that I had proper post-natal depression and maybe could have received some help.
Suddenly, one day, when Lizzie was about twenty months old, the cloud lifted and the sun came back out, prompting me to ask "what was all that about?" The experience prompted me to offer counselling to sufferers with PND because it's got nothing to do with one's own actions or external difficulties; it just arrives, then goes, without warning.
These days, with the medicalisation of everything, it's easy to confuse conditions that are actually an illness and those which are part of the normal feelings associated with life's difficulties.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Dolly Mixture
Today
On facebook today such a lovely picture of my great niece Amelia lying down next a range of dolls in diminishing sizes. She looked very cute and complacent, obviously enjoying herself.
I made a comment "I remember the day that Becky went to bed with 16 dollies".
In My Day
Becky just loved her dolls. She had "Tiny Tears" "Cheekaboo" "Sindy" in just about all possible configurations. She had all sorts of other dolls, her favourite being "Reecham-Beecham" a black dolly dressed in rompers hand-knitted by Mennonites in Kitchener, Canada. Add to that "My Little Pony" and you can imagine the storage problems.
She early learnt that dolls' arms and legs could be removed, but not so easily how to put them back on again, so her room occasionally resembled the aftermath of a dolly-chainsaw massacre, littered with limbs and torsoes.
When we lived at Montfort Close in Westham, Becky had a rather magnificent hand-made "Captain's" bed to take full advantage of the small space. There were raised sides to stop her falling out; just a gentle dip in the middle so that she could climb in and out.
Becky was a sound sleeper, but one night we were awoken by a resounding crash from her room. We rushed in - Becky was still asleep, but on the floor, wrapped up in her duvet. How could it have happened that she had wriggled far enough down the bed to reach the only unprotected few inches? Easy. She taken all her dollies to bed with her. There they were, straddled across the entire width of the top of the bed, pushing Becky effectively down the bed till she's fallen out. We counted sixteen.
We had to make some hasty rules regarding the number of dollies she had in her bed and check at bedtime.
Personally I think it's just another example of the pure malice exhibited by dolls when we're not looking.
On facebook today such a lovely picture of my great niece Amelia lying down next a range of dolls in diminishing sizes. She looked very cute and complacent, obviously enjoying herself.
I made a comment "I remember the day that Becky went to bed with 16 dollies".
In My Day
Becky just loved her dolls. She had "Tiny Tears" "Cheekaboo" "Sindy" in just about all possible configurations. She had all sorts of other dolls, her favourite being "Reecham-Beecham" a black dolly dressed in rompers hand-knitted by Mennonites in Kitchener, Canada. Add to that "My Little Pony" and you can imagine the storage problems.
She early learnt that dolls' arms and legs could be removed, but not so easily how to put them back on again, so her room occasionally resembled the aftermath of a dolly-chainsaw massacre, littered with limbs and torsoes.
When we lived at Montfort Close in Westham, Becky had a rather magnificent hand-made "Captain's" bed to take full advantage of the small space. There were raised sides to stop her falling out; just a gentle dip in the middle so that she could climb in and out.
Becky was a sound sleeper, but one night we were awoken by a resounding crash from her room. We rushed in - Becky was still asleep, but on the floor, wrapped up in her duvet. How could it have happened that she had wriggled far enough down the bed to reach the only unprotected few inches? Easy. She taken all her dollies to bed with her. There they were, straddled across the entire width of the top of the bed, pushing Becky effectively down the bed till she's fallen out. We counted sixteen.
We had to make some hasty rules regarding the number of dollies she had in her bed and check at bedtime.
Personally I think it's just another example of the pure malice exhibited by dolls when we're not looking.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Public Laughter
Today
A very jolly evening last night at the Theatre Royal, Bath at a performance of Private Lives by Noel Coward. It's always fresh and the dilemma still has relevance for today. It must have been quite shocking when it was written.
We took Lizzie who's very fond of Noel Coward.
"This calls for a Blog", I said to Lizzie. "Oh, everyone knows that story," she said. maybe, but it's still fun to tell.
In My Day
Theatre treats were fairly rare back in the 70's and early 80's as we had little cash and generally needed a babysitter. For some reason, we'd acquired tickets to see Private Lives at the Devonshire Park theatre in Eastbourne. I think it must have been in about 1982. We took Lizzie with us and went off to the theatre in great excitement.
It was a matinee and the place was full of genteel ladies who lunch. They'd probably popped in from the backwaters of East Sussex for shopping and thought they'd take in a little culture.
The play started. Our seats, if I remember, were quite high up and we were practically at eye level with the actors on their hotel balconies. As the play progressed the audience occasionally tittered in a polite, English drawing room kind of way. All except Lizzie, who was fully alive to the humour and guffawed without restraint. The actors just loved her, eventually turning her way as though she was the only person in this God-forsaken provincial dive worth the trouble of acting for. We laughed too, as much at Lizzie's evident enjoyment as at the play.
Experiences like that colour our feeling about certain things for the rest of our lives. Although last night's audience laughed heartily in all the right places so that Lizzie didn't stand out quite so much.
A very jolly evening last night at the Theatre Royal, Bath at a performance of Private Lives by Noel Coward. It's always fresh and the dilemma still has relevance for today. It must have been quite shocking when it was written.
We took Lizzie who's very fond of Noel Coward.
"This calls for a Blog", I said to Lizzie. "Oh, everyone knows that story," she said. maybe, but it's still fun to tell.
In My Day
Theatre treats were fairly rare back in the 70's and early 80's as we had little cash and generally needed a babysitter. For some reason, we'd acquired tickets to see Private Lives at the Devonshire Park theatre in Eastbourne. I think it must have been in about 1982. We took Lizzie with us and went off to the theatre in great excitement.
It was a matinee and the place was full of genteel ladies who lunch. They'd probably popped in from the backwaters of East Sussex for shopping and thought they'd take in a little culture.
The play started. Our seats, if I remember, were quite high up and we were practically at eye level with the actors on their hotel balconies. As the play progressed the audience occasionally tittered in a polite, English drawing room kind of way. All except Lizzie, who was fully alive to the humour and guffawed without restraint. The actors just loved her, eventually turning her way as though she was the only person in this God-forsaken provincial dive worth the trouble of acting for. We laughed too, as much at Lizzie's evident enjoyment as at the play.
Experiences like that colour our feeling about certain things for the rest of our lives. Although last night's audience laughed heartily in all the right places so that Lizzie didn't stand out quite so much.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Positive Ageing
Today
We've been tackling a couple of health issues lately. I've been signed off by my podiatrist. He commented that it had been helpful that I'd sought advice so early. "Some people put up with things until they can hardly move" he said "and that makes treatment so much harder."
Paul, on the other hand, belongs to the grin until you can't bear it school of thought. He was getting used to his back teeth falling out and thought the loss of a crown simply meant that he would have to have it screwed back in on the NHS. Not so, the tooth and crown loss turned out to be a symptom of a deep-seated infection leading to bone loss in the jaw and to a £3K+ bill for implants.
He's also become so used to dizziness and intermittent hearing loss that he thought it was just part of the ageing process. I nagged him "You shouldn't have to put up with this, go and ask for help." Having made sure he avoided the GP at the practice who attributes all ills to Paul's supersize, he saw a locum who told him that he had a deep-seated infection in one ear. Paul's bunging in the drops and hoping for an improvement.
In My Day
One of my less pleasant, but certainly educational, jobs was a stint as a nursing auxiliary at the D'Arcy Nursing Home in Hove. A group of impecunious and very elderly ladies (mostly - I think we had one gentleman) spent the remnants of their pensions for the privilege of a room at this place. Quite frankly, the standard of care was just about adequate and depended much on the skill and attitude of individual staff members. There was no attempt to rehabilitate residents after injuries and care was really limited to keeping them clean and fed. We hardly ever saw a doctor or physio.
Two of the ladies suffered very badly from arthritis. the way they dealt with this complaint was driven by their personalities and again the home made no efforts to encourage independence. In a little room near the office was a sweet old dear - let's call her Gladys. She was resigned and smiling and as a result was totally bedridden, requiring a high level of care by the nurses who had to lift her on and off commodes, and feed and clean her. One day it was my turn. I had to cut her nails. Inactivity and arthritis meant that her hands were in a permanently clenched position. I prised open these hands so that I could cut the overlong nails and clean the palms of her hands which were smelly and covered with unsloughed dead skin cells.
Let's call lady number two Ethel. She was a cantankerous woman who was obliged to share a room with a willfully demented old dear. Ethel bossed this person about, refusing to accept that she was as helpless as she made out. Ethel refused all help-struggling up on arthritic legs every day to get to the washroom to have a good wash, taking herself to the toilet and so on. This meant that she remained much more independent than Gladys. She was unpopular with the nurses because of the cantankerous ways, but I rather admired her energy and independence. When she unfortunately fell out of bed one night so that she really was confined to bed for a couple of days I was only too happy to give her blanket baths, knowing how important cleanliness was to her. And she was soon back up again.
I can't see the point of just putting up with things if I don't have to. Who knows, I guess my cantankerous days are something to look forward to.
We've been tackling a couple of health issues lately. I've been signed off by my podiatrist. He commented that it had been helpful that I'd sought advice so early. "Some people put up with things until they can hardly move" he said "and that makes treatment so much harder."
Paul, on the other hand, belongs to the grin until you can't bear it school of thought. He was getting used to his back teeth falling out and thought the loss of a crown simply meant that he would have to have it screwed back in on the NHS. Not so, the tooth and crown loss turned out to be a symptom of a deep-seated infection leading to bone loss in the jaw and to a £3K+ bill for implants.
He's also become so used to dizziness and intermittent hearing loss that he thought it was just part of the ageing process. I nagged him "You shouldn't have to put up with this, go and ask for help." Having made sure he avoided the GP at the practice who attributes all ills to Paul's supersize, he saw a locum who told him that he had a deep-seated infection in one ear. Paul's bunging in the drops and hoping for an improvement.
In My Day
One of my less pleasant, but certainly educational, jobs was a stint as a nursing auxiliary at the D'Arcy Nursing Home in Hove. A group of impecunious and very elderly ladies (mostly - I think we had one gentleman) spent the remnants of their pensions for the privilege of a room at this place. Quite frankly, the standard of care was just about adequate and depended much on the skill and attitude of individual staff members. There was no attempt to rehabilitate residents after injuries and care was really limited to keeping them clean and fed. We hardly ever saw a doctor or physio.
Two of the ladies suffered very badly from arthritis. the way they dealt with this complaint was driven by their personalities and again the home made no efforts to encourage independence. In a little room near the office was a sweet old dear - let's call her Gladys. She was resigned and smiling and as a result was totally bedridden, requiring a high level of care by the nurses who had to lift her on and off commodes, and feed and clean her. One day it was my turn. I had to cut her nails. Inactivity and arthritis meant that her hands were in a permanently clenched position. I prised open these hands so that I could cut the overlong nails and clean the palms of her hands which were smelly and covered with unsloughed dead skin cells.
Let's call lady number two Ethel. She was a cantankerous woman who was obliged to share a room with a willfully demented old dear. Ethel bossed this person about, refusing to accept that she was as helpless as she made out. Ethel refused all help-struggling up on arthritic legs every day to get to the washroom to have a good wash, taking herself to the toilet and so on. This meant that she remained much more independent than Gladys. She was unpopular with the nurses because of the cantankerous ways, but I rather admired her energy and independence. When she unfortunately fell out of bed one night so that she really was confined to bed for a couple of days I was only too happy to give her blanket baths, knowing how important cleanliness was to her. And she was soon back up again.
I can't see the point of just putting up with things if I don't have to. Who knows, I guess my cantankerous days are something to look forward to.
Wednesday, February 03, 2010
Green eyed monster
Today
I'm very happy that Abby is OK and arrives daily, cannon-ball style, for her supper. What I don't really understand is why she's still so jealous of the kitties. They pay her little attention but she seems entirely unable to assert her place in the household, which has never been withheld from her. Actually, I think all her hissing and growling is a sign of her weakness as she has never actually tried facing the kitties down.
In My Day
When I told people that I was expecting another baby, nearly five years after the first, I was given many dire warnings about the awful consequences of such a large gap and the terrible jealousy that my first born would experience and express and with which I'd have to cope. Parenting magazines were full of articles on how to manage this destructive threat to our family peace and there were many armchair child psychologists lined up with horror stories designed to unnerve me further.
In my unsubtle way, I simply spoke to four-year old Lizzie about the problem. "Are you worried about the new baby?" I asked. Liz admitted to a little uncertainty, so I quickly invented something which actually turns out to be true. "No need to worry", I said "Each baby is born with its own love wrapped up with it." Quite so.
Liz seemed delighted with her new sister and, what's more, her sister seemed delighted with her. When Becky was one, a couple of people, assuming jealousy, gave Lizzie a present too. She was genuinely puzzled; it wasn't her day and, anyway, she'd had lots of fun with me, preparing for the party.
In a recent Facebook entry Beatrice asked whether resentment grows or diminishes with time. The answer, of course, depends on whether you starve or feed the beast. And the same goes for jealousy. Just trust me, Abby, I will never alter my love for you.
I'm very happy that Abby is OK and arrives daily, cannon-ball style, for her supper. What I don't really understand is why she's still so jealous of the kitties. They pay her little attention but she seems entirely unable to assert her place in the household, which has never been withheld from her. Actually, I think all her hissing and growling is a sign of her weakness as she has never actually tried facing the kitties down.
In My Day
When I told people that I was expecting another baby, nearly five years after the first, I was given many dire warnings about the awful consequences of such a large gap and the terrible jealousy that my first born would experience and express and with which I'd have to cope. Parenting magazines were full of articles on how to manage this destructive threat to our family peace and there were many armchair child psychologists lined up with horror stories designed to unnerve me further.
In my unsubtle way, I simply spoke to four-year old Lizzie about the problem. "Are you worried about the new baby?" I asked. Liz admitted to a little uncertainty, so I quickly invented something which actually turns out to be true. "No need to worry", I said "Each baby is born with its own love wrapped up with it." Quite so.
Liz seemed delighted with her new sister and, what's more, her sister seemed delighted with her. When Becky was one, a couple of people, assuming jealousy, gave Lizzie a present too. She was genuinely puzzled; it wasn't her day and, anyway, she'd had lots of fun with me, preparing for the party.
In a recent Facebook entry Beatrice asked whether resentment grows or diminishes with time. The answer, of course, depends on whether you starve or feed the beast. And the same goes for jealousy. Just trust me, Abby, I will never alter my love for you.
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