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.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
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.
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!
.
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.
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.
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