Today
I had a most enjoyable visit to my nephew this week. I met new baby Charlotte, who's a sweet and relaxed child, and had a chance to become better acquainted with her older sister Amelia. Once she'd got over her shyness and climbed out from under the table she was full of life showing off and chattering away. Her mother told me (by way of apology, possibly, for her daughter's unusual get-up) that she'd been playing dressing up with her cousin Victoria earlier in the day. Amelia seemed to be wearing: Jeans with knickers worn on top, Batman's Robin style, a multi coloured tutu and a pink balloon skirted pinafore dress over a jumper.
I commented on the tutu. "Are you going to do ballet when you're old enough?" I asked. "Yes, I am!" she replied in a voice that brooked no opposition.
"Well, you know, your cousin Becky used to do ballet."
In My day
Becky always had plenty of physical confidence, and she danced to music from the time she could sit up. Tricia seemed convinced that ballet would be her thing and encouraged us to organise it. So, from the age of three, she was enrolled in a ballet school in Eastbourne. Between us, Paul, Tricia and I got her there and back each week. Becky certainly enjoyed the dancing and was reasonably talented. Her innate sense of rhythm and desire to get things right were a good combination.
In order to please her Gran, I think Lizzie also attempted some ballet classes. But she was by this time approaching nine years' old and dancing was never her passion so she soon stopped going, to Tricia's slight disappointment who, I think, had dreams of a Pavlova emerging somewhere from within the family.
From time to time the school would put on performances and arrange trips to the theatre. We went to see "La Fille Mal Gardee" at Eastbourne's Congress Theatre with all the little ones in front row seats, and another time to see "Coppelia".
Waiting while the children finished the class had its enlivening moments. One of the most gifted children in Becky's class was a black girl. "Well", said Tricia, by way of explanation, "It's in their blood!" Paul wanted to ask if she thought that came from all those years dancing around the cooking pot, but decided to keep the peace.
The great event was the school's display performance. For this they hired the Congress theatre, making it a prestigious event. The older classes performed ballet, tap and modern dance extravaganzas. Becky's class put on a performance of "The Tailor of Gloucester". Becky, as one of the taller ones, was dressed up as a boy tailor mouse in eighteenth century costume. This came to me to stitch, ready cut out, and I was hard put to get it to fit Becky who was growing rapidly; I think the sleeves were much too short. The performance was delightful, Becky didn't put a foot wrong and we still have a lovely picture of her with her best friend Lara who was a girl mouse.
The move to Somerset combined with Becky shooting up to six foot put a stop to ballet, but she still loves to dance and has grace and rhythm.
Amelia, I feel sure you'll have a lovely time and I would like invitations to see you perform, please.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Thursday, November 18, 2010
On yer Bike
Today
My sister has recently discovered the joys and benefits of walking. She trots off on Sussex walks most weekends and tries to get some walking in, rain or shine, daily.
She was thinking about attempting to walk the 4.5 miles to work every day and wondered in what sort of a state she'll arrive.
In My Day
In 1982 we moved to the house in Westham. We settled the girls into the local school, just 3 minutes walk away. My journey into work involved a daily train journey. The terrain was flat and I began to wonder whether it would be possible to cycle the 6 miles there and back into Eastbourne daily.
I did my sums: a bike would cover the cost of my train ticket in about 6 months and I'd get fit and slim.
I put this into practice by first buying a bike! One frosty February morning, having seen the girls into school, I heaved out the machine. The morning was freezing. With cold winds whipping my face and body, I'd soon be hypothermic, I reasoned. So I put on a shirt, followed by a nice warm jumper, topped with a woollen blouson jacket. I put on some heavyweight needlecord trousers. Grabbed scarf and gloves and set off.
By the time I'd got over the level crossing the gloves were off, followed shortly by the scarf. As I struggled up the (very slight) incline towards Langney, I had to stop to remove my jacket. I was hard pushed to find somewhere to stow this, but managed. Finally, the jumper came off.
I pedalled triumphantly into St Anne's House carpark, put my bike in the cycle shed and went up to the office. I was out of breath, wheezing freely and a dangerous shade of beetroot. I stood at the office door as colleagues looked expectantly at me. I just stayed there, gasping and unable to utter any other sound for about five minutes. I was also very hot and sweaty, despite the removal of clothes. The office was toasty warm and my pleas for open windows were not welcomed by the staff.
The good news is that I learnt to dress more lightly and did eventually get used to it, arriving at work only slightly dishevelled, unless it had been pouring with rain. So I guess Beatrice, with her walking, will become accustomed too.
My sister has recently discovered the joys and benefits of walking. She trots off on Sussex walks most weekends and tries to get some walking in, rain or shine, daily.
She was thinking about attempting to walk the 4.5 miles to work every day and wondered in what sort of a state she'll arrive.
In My Day
In 1982 we moved to the house in Westham. We settled the girls into the local school, just 3 minutes walk away. My journey into work involved a daily train journey. The terrain was flat and I began to wonder whether it would be possible to cycle the 6 miles there and back into Eastbourne daily.
I did my sums: a bike would cover the cost of my train ticket in about 6 months and I'd get fit and slim.
I put this into practice by first buying a bike! One frosty February morning, having seen the girls into school, I heaved out the machine. The morning was freezing. With cold winds whipping my face and body, I'd soon be hypothermic, I reasoned. So I put on a shirt, followed by a nice warm jumper, topped with a woollen blouson jacket. I put on some heavyweight needlecord trousers. Grabbed scarf and gloves and set off.
By the time I'd got over the level crossing the gloves were off, followed shortly by the scarf. As I struggled up the (very slight) incline towards Langney, I had to stop to remove my jacket. I was hard pushed to find somewhere to stow this, but managed. Finally, the jumper came off.
I pedalled triumphantly into St Anne's House carpark, put my bike in the cycle shed and went up to the office. I was out of breath, wheezing freely and a dangerous shade of beetroot. I stood at the office door as colleagues looked expectantly at me. I just stayed there, gasping and unable to utter any other sound for about five minutes. I was also very hot and sweaty, despite the removal of clothes. The office was toasty warm and my pleas for open windows were not welcomed by the staff.
The good news is that I learnt to dress more lightly and did eventually get used to it, arriving at work only slightly dishevelled, unless it had been pouring with rain. So I guess Beatrice, with her walking, will become accustomed too.
Sunday, November 07, 2010
Jelly Belly
Today
Beatrice was on Facebook today, extolling the virtues of pork pies. Apparently the very sight of one weakens her knees (and presumably her dieting resolve).
Personally, I can't stand the things.
In My Day
Pork pies did feature in our childhood. Mostly they were large and round and were sliced and handed round to be eaten with salad. The raised pastry crust, although golden and tempting to look at, was solid and heavy. Next there was a very nasty pale wobbly meat jelly. Finally, in the middle, there was a fairly solid lump of pink pork meat. My main problem was how to dispose of the worst bits without Daddy or Mamma noticing. The jelly was most definitely the most unpleasant part. As far as I was concerned, jelly came in red, green or orange and had fruity bits in it. This stuff tasted vile and felt in the mouth like the kind of food that might feature at a Hallow e'en horror party.
Sometimes Mamma and Daddy would buy a pukka Melton Mowbray pork pie, often from a stand at the Ideal Home Exhibition. These were the Platonic ideal of pork pies, the pie to which all others aspire; although the only difference I could detect was that they had a lot more jelly in them.
We were also given veal and ham pies from time to time. These were usually bought as slabs at the grocers or deli, cut from an oblong pie. They were marginally better than the pork pies in that they had no jelly and the meat tasted better. Also, unless you were very unlucky, they had a big slice of hard boiled egg in the middle. Well and away the best bit, even if they tasted a bit of ham.
As always. my dietary preferences were at odds with the rest of the family and I somehow found that I couldn't get my point across and only had recourse to sulking.
Actually, Paul has just told me that my food tastes are "odd" so maybe I'm not just at odds with my family on this, but the whole world. What I do know is that Melton Mowbray is not on my list of towns to visit.
Beatrice was on Facebook today, extolling the virtues of pork pies. Apparently the very sight of one weakens her knees (and presumably her dieting resolve).
Personally, I can't stand the things.
Pork pies did feature in our childhood. Mostly they were large and round and were sliced and handed round to be eaten with salad. The raised pastry crust, although golden and tempting to look at, was solid and heavy. Next there was a very nasty pale wobbly meat jelly. Finally, in the middle, there was a fairly solid lump of pink pork meat. My main problem was how to dispose of the worst bits without Daddy or Mamma noticing. The jelly was most definitely the most unpleasant part. As far as I was concerned, jelly came in red, green or orange and had fruity bits in it. This stuff tasted vile and felt in the mouth like the kind of food that might feature at a Hallow e'en horror party.
Sometimes Mamma and Daddy would buy a pukka Melton Mowbray pork pie, often from a stand at the Ideal Home Exhibition. These were the Platonic ideal of pork pies, the pie to which all others aspire; although the only difference I could detect was that they had a lot more jelly in them.
We were also given veal and ham pies from time to time. These were usually bought as slabs at the grocers or deli, cut from an oblong pie. They were marginally better than the pork pies in that they had no jelly and the meat tasted better. Also, unless you were very unlucky, they had a big slice of hard boiled egg in the middle. Well and away the best bit, even if they tasted a bit of ham.
As always. my dietary preferences were at odds with the rest of the family and I somehow found that I couldn't get my point across and only had recourse to sulking.
Actually, Paul has just told me that my food tastes are "odd" so maybe I'm not just at odds with my family on this, but the whole world. What I do know is that Melton Mowbray is not on my list of towns to visit.
Monday, November 01, 2010
White Nights
Today
Brighton was heaving, mostly with people dressed as zombies (sometimes with ties worn over their grave-clothes and all of them with impeccable party manners) or accident victims, intent on seeing in the new time-age as well as celebrating Hallow e'en.
We did our best, but by 1.30 pm we were walking companionably back up the hill to the flat. Paul got to bed later than I by dint of first passing out on the sofa for an hour, but I'm not sure whether that counts.
Yesterday, walking into town at about midday, we saw many a reveller, still dressed in bloody rags (well, we assumed it was still fancy dress and not the real thing), making their way home after the party.
In My Day
When I was a student, all-night parties were de rigueur. It wasn't a proper party if you weren't sitting on some appallingly dirty carpet, clutching a glass of bad wine listening to Bob Dylan at about 5.00 am. You eventually fell asleep as the dawn broke, curled up uncomfortably in an old quilt with your head on a equally filthy sofa cushion. When you awoke you tried to pretend that a: you'd had a great time, b: you had absolutely loved sleeping on the floor and c: you weren't desperate to rush off home to be sick and have a bath and hairwash.
I remember 2 rather better occasions. The fact that they were both at 4BH, therefore on home territory, may have made them more enjoyable. One was a party given by Chris. I know that I was wearing silver tights which caused a sensation. I think we had the usual dancing, drinking and talking. As it began to get light someone suggested breakfast. We walked up to the just-opened grocery, bought eggs, bacon etc and went back home to make an enormous fry-up. I have no idea where Mamma and Daddy were but they put in no kind of appearance.
Brighton, for reasons best known to its partying soul, has decided that it's probably best to avoid going to bed at all on the night the clocks go back. Whether this is because the residents hope to catch a glimpse of the tear in the fabric of time caused by this event or just like the idea that you get an extra hour of frolicking, so to speak, I can't tell.
We had planned to be part of this happening. First we went to St Bartholomews Church ("The Ark") to hear the Monteverdi 
Vespers. Afterwards, the church was continuing to host free musical events until 2.00, rounding off with matins. We were diverted from our intention of staying for this by bumping into our upstairs neighbours who invited us to the nearest hostelry for drinks.
Vespers. Afterwards, the church was continuing to host free musical events until 2.00, rounding off with matins. We were diverted from our intention of staying for this by bumping into our upstairs neighbours who invited us to the nearest hostelry for drinks.Brighton was heaving, mostly with people dressed as zombies (sometimes with ties worn over their grave-clothes and all of them with impeccable party manners) or accident victims, intent on seeing in the new time-age as well as celebrating Hallow e'en.
We did our best, but by 1.30 pm we were walking companionably back up the hill to the flat. Paul got to bed later than I by dint of first passing out on the sofa for an hour, but I'm not sure whether that counts.
Yesterday, walking into town at about midday, we saw many a reveller, still dressed in bloody rags (well, we assumed it was still fancy dress and not the real thing), making their way home after the party.
In My Day
When I was a student, all-night parties were de rigueur. It wasn't a proper party if you weren't sitting on some appallingly dirty carpet, clutching a glass of bad wine listening to Bob Dylan at about 5.00 am. You eventually fell asleep as the dawn broke, curled up uncomfortably in an old quilt with your head on a equally filthy sofa cushion. When you awoke you tried to pretend that a: you'd had a great time, b: you had absolutely loved sleeping on the floor and c: you weren't desperate to rush off home to be sick and have a bath and hairwash.
I remember 2 rather better occasions. The fact that they were both at 4BH, therefore on home territory, may have made them more enjoyable. One was a party given by Chris. I know that I was wearing silver tights which caused a sensation. I think we had the usual dancing, drinking and talking. As it began to get light someone suggested breakfast. We walked up to the just-opened grocery, bought eggs, bacon etc and went back home to make an enormous fry-up. I have no idea where Mamma and Daddy were but they put in no kind of appearance.
The other was the famous party at which I met Bob Kenna. To begin with I wasn't invited to this party, which was Beatrice's, because I would upset the gender balance in some way. As I prepared to go out instead, a (female) guest phoned to cancel so Beatrice graciously allowed me to stay. This was a very jolly party; we no doubt danced to the Beachboys, Beatles and Stones. I think Mamma and Daddy were home but they kept out of the way. This was the kind of party where much snogging went on in various places but you simply ignored it. The weather was mild and damp and at 4.00 am a group of us fancied a walk round the streets of Upper Norwood. Linking arms we set off round the block, all feeling most jolly. By the time we got back, I was very firmly Bob's girlfriend and I don't think Beatrice ever forgave me.
Actually, I'm just the smallest bit ashamed that I lacked the stamina to manage the whole night on Saturday.
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