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.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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. 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.
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.
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.
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.
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