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"!
Sunday, September 26, 2010
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.
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)