Today
After much feasting and frolicking involving a fair number of champagne cocktails and bottles of wine, I'm taking a break. Might even have a couple of dry days to allow my internal organs a little respite.
There's still a full wine-rack, fridge dedicated to white wine & Prosecco, a drinks cupboard with three shelves of fortified wines and cocktail ingredients. Paul has his precious real ale shelf and Santa brought about 4 bottles of single-malt whisky for Paul to enjoy.
In My Day
When did we become able to have permanently stocked drinks cupboards? Is it just down to the much cheaper price and greater availability of alcohol or is it down to better finances? I can't say I know.
When we were first married we had very little alcohol at all. If we popped to the pub Paul might have a beer or two and I might drink cider or Martini. Wine by the glass was not often available in pubs. Even the cheapest wine (and it generally tasted cheap as well) was too expensive for everyday. I remember dreadful vinegary wines called "El Roberto" or "Hirondelle" - this latter approved by the vinously challenged suits at "Which" magazine; thus giving it the middle-class stamp of approval.
There was booze at parties, but even then, the ubiquitous six-pack or giant cans of lager were often the most prominent items. On ordinary nights, even social ones, we drank appalling instant coffee. This was almost certainly as damaging for our livers, but at least it was cheap.
Because we had so little, there was a tendency for any that we had to disappear fairly rapidly. I also developed "Christmas Anxiety" a situation where I was so worried that wouldn't have any treats to offer guests that I placed a complete embargo on any treat consumption until last thing on Christmas Eve. Paul was generally pretty rebellious about this! One Christmas (maybe it was 1984, the year of the dropped turkey) I decided to plan in advance. Starting in September, I bought one bottle of something (whisky, Martini, sherry, Southern Comfort etc) each week at the Supermarket. When I got home I hid these bottles in the wardrobe so that we wouldn't be tempted to drink it all early. (I also bought a food item, such as Quality Street etc in the same way).
When Christmas came we found ourselves with a bulging drinks cabinet and food cupboard; more than we could possibly get through. I felt rather self-congratulatory and have tended to pre-buy ever since.
It's true that the quality of what we can afford these days is vastly higher than it used to be, but whether that means that, coupled with the greater quantity, we are better off in body and spirit, I couldn't say.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Thursday, December 23, 2010
The Other Hand
Today
My sister Beatrice is recovering from a series of seizures which occurred about ten days ago. Unfortunately she also suffered some "collateral" damage during one seizure when she smashed and dislocated her shoulder. She now has a shiny new titanium one but has invasive surgery to cope with as well.
It's her right shoulder which makes everything so much more difficult. In fact, often the first thing people ask when commiserating on an injured hand or arm is "Is it your right one?"
My right shoulder is in trouble too; probably from a frenzied bout of picture framing a week or so ago. It's extraordinary just how much we rely on our handed-ness to do the simplest things. I found just swilling out the bath this morning quite awkward and had to plan how I was going to carry out this otherwise instinctive set of movements.
In My Day
I believe that our handed-ness is innate so we simply don't remember how we became used to one hand being the leader, so to speak. This dependency goes deeper than mere habit: interference can cause deep damage. Paul's Auntie Joyce was left-handed at a time when this was seen as the mark of the Devil. So it was beaten out of her, changing her from a bright little chatterbox into a stammering and confused individual.
Just how handed-ness links into the brain is shown by this little story:
When I was married, back in 1971, I naturally changed my name from Dixon to Barrett. I adapted immediately to this and never once made an error when signing cheques, documents and letters.
I think it was in 1973 or so, when I was working in the computer pay section of the Inland Revenue. A group of us was chatting over our coffee and someone was bragging about their ability to use either hand seamlessly. I admitted that I was strongly right-handed, to the extent that my right hand is noticeably larger than the left. My colleague signed his name equally well with each hand, then proffered the paper to me and invited me to write my usual signature with my left hand.
With a grandiose sweep and without a moment's hesitation my left hand wrote "Julia Dixon", a name which my right hand had abandoned two years previously. I stared at this name, feeling rather strange as though something deep within me had been disturbed. Clearly the two sides of my brain were operating in quite separate ways and this revelation was quite upsetting to my equilibrium.
Anyway, I've told Beatrice that this is a golden opportunity for her to get on the with the next set of Mamma's diaries which is hands-free, using voice recognition software.
My sister Beatrice is recovering from a series of seizures which occurred about ten days ago. Unfortunately she also suffered some "collateral" damage during one seizure when she smashed and dislocated her shoulder. She now has a shiny new titanium one but has invasive surgery to cope with as well.
It's her right shoulder which makes everything so much more difficult. In fact, often the first thing people ask when commiserating on an injured hand or arm is "Is it your right one?"
My right shoulder is in trouble too; probably from a frenzied bout of picture framing a week or so ago. It's extraordinary just how much we rely on our handed-ness to do the simplest things. I found just swilling out the bath this morning quite awkward and had to plan how I was going to carry out this otherwise instinctive set of movements.
In My Day
I believe that our handed-ness is innate so we simply don't remember how we became used to one hand being the leader, so to speak. This dependency goes deeper than mere habit: interference can cause deep damage. Paul's Auntie Joyce was left-handed at a time when this was seen as the mark of the Devil. So it was beaten out of her, changing her from a bright little chatterbox into a stammering and confused individual.
Just how handed-ness links into the brain is shown by this little story:
When I was married, back in 1971, I naturally changed my name from Dixon to Barrett. I adapted immediately to this and never once made an error when signing cheques, documents and letters.
I think it was in 1973 or so, when I was working in the computer pay section of the Inland Revenue. A group of us was chatting over our coffee and someone was bragging about their ability to use either hand seamlessly. I admitted that I was strongly right-handed, to the extent that my right hand is noticeably larger than the left. My colleague signed his name equally well with each hand, then proffered the paper to me and invited me to write my usual signature with my left hand.
With a grandiose sweep and without a moment's hesitation my left hand wrote "Julia Dixon", a name which my right hand had abandoned two years previously. I stared at this name, feeling rather strange as though something deep within me had been disturbed. Clearly the two sides of my brain were operating in quite separate ways and this revelation was quite upsetting to my equilibrium.
Anyway, I've told Beatrice that this is a golden opportunity for her to get on the with the next set of Mamma's diaries which is hands-free, using voice recognition software.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
The Truth from Above
Today
Last week we had our autumn concert and, as usual, I was asked to give a reading. I chose "Advent Calendar" by Rowan Williams. This poem passionately links the coming of Christ to the variable English winter weather.
Having chosen the poem, I soon realised that it has many layers and I worked hard on the interpretation. Although I was feeling rather poorly at the time, I delivered it well and many people offered congratulations. As many of them are dedicated and committed Christians, I was especially flattered.
I found myself reflecting that, not believing in the literal or even implied meaning doesn't mean that I can't see its power nor understand its importance to other people. The final piece in the puzzle is that empathy and understanding are more significant than personal belief when communicating to others.
In My Day
I remember this coming home to me most forcefully some years ago. David had asked me whether I would sing a carol with Alice on cello and him on organ at the little non-conformist chapel in his village. The chapel has long since ceased to operate so I guess that this was back in about 1989. The chosen song was "Mary's Boy Child" the calypso carol made famous by Harry Belafonte. We worked hard on the calypso rhythm and were ready.
The little chapel was full and various people with a wide range of talents contributed in song and poetry. Now it was our turn. The carol is fairly long so I invited the congregation to join in alternate choruses. They listened so attentively and with so much joy on their faces as we performed the first verse and took up the chorus with enthusiasm. I felt the uplift and allowed myself to be supported by their shared joy and belief. I hoped and believed that our little contribution informed and enhanced their belief. And the feeling of elation lingers still.
As a singer, I feel that it is my privilege and duty to use song to bring a better understanding of all aspects of human life experience and beliefs, whatever they are. And if I managed that last Saturday then I feel very satisfied.
Last week we had our autumn concert and, as usual, I was asked to give a reading. I chose "Advent Calendar" by Rowan Williams. This poem passionately links the coming of Christ to the variable English winter weather.
Having chosen the poem, I soon realised that it has many layers and I worked hard on the interpretation. Although I was feeling rather poorly at the time, I delivered it well and many people offered congratulations. As many of them are dedicated and committed Christians, I was especially flattered.
I found myself reflecting that, not believing in the literal or even implied meaning doesn't mean that I can't see its power nor understand its importance to other people. The final piece in the puzzle is that empathy and understanding are more significant than personal belief when communicating to others.
In My Day
I remember this coming home to me most forcefully some years ago. David had asked me whether I would sing a carol with Alice on cello and him on organ at the little non-conformist chapel in his village. The chapel has long since ceased to operate so I guess that this was back in about 1989. The chosen song was "Mary's Boy Child" the calypso carol made famous by Harry Belafonte. We worked hard on the calypso rhythm and were ready.
The little chapel was full and various people with a wide range of talents contributed in song and poetry. Now it was our turn. The carol is fairly long so I invited the congregation to join in alternate choruses. They listened so attentively and with so much joy on their faces as we performed the first verse and took up the chorus with enthusiasm. I felt the uplift and allowed myself to be supported by their shared joy and belief. I hoped and believed that our little contribution informed and enhanced their belief. And the feeling of elation lingers still.
As a singer, I feel that it is my privilege and duty to use song to bring a better understanding of all aspects of human life experience and beliefs, whatever they are. And if I managed that last Saturday then I feel very satisfied.
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