Today
I'd be the first to admit that I'm inclined to jump in rather too quickly when people are saying things. You could call it quick thinking or you could call it interrupting. But, either way it must be annoying and it's rude.
This morning, while I was trying out whether Velcro pads were the way to replace the rosette on my shoes, Paul was talking about whether we should go ahead with an item we wanted to order.
Partly because, I guessed at what he was about to say, and partly because I wanted to concentrate on the shoe, I was rather dismissive. Paul, not surprisingly, was a little put out.
Later I said "I'm really sorry; I was just plain rude," and was forgiven.
In My Day
In that part of my life when I thought that to be a needlework teacher would be just the ticket, I did a teaching practice at Ratton School in Eastbourne. The needlework teacher was a small, determined woman who hailed from Manchester. She told me that we'd be doing patchwork and started the class off. She usually remained in attendance during my classes and to have her dumpy brown presence (she seemed generally to be wearing brown) at the back of the class was a little disconcerting.
This was a fairly good school and the girls were by and large, pretty compliant. One of the hardest-working girls was a redhead who also hailed from Manchester. One day she wanted to ask a question. She put up her hand and rose to ask the question. I can't remember the question but I do remember that, without thinking, I replied in a broad stage Mancunian accent. The class froze, the girl tuned bright red and Mrs Unsworth glowered. There seemed nothing for it "I'm so sorry," I said "that was very rude of me." The girl sat down and Mrs Unsworth relaxed. It seemed that I'd redeemed myself.
It does seem as though a: I haven't really improved over the years and b: that it's best to admit it and apologise. At least that way you have the saving graces of honesty and humility.
And using velcro was a shocking idea, by the way.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Null and Void
Today
Paul has become enthusiastic about tracking down details of his family. He has spent a fair amount of time on Mum's side, eventually accepting that, contrary to family myth, that a direct link to Edgar Allen Poe was unlikely, but confirming that the family did originate from Co. Tipperary as Nan had always told him.
He then started searching census and other records for details of his father and has indeed tracked down some convincing details. Unfortunately, his father was a bit of a rogue and used 2 slightly differing names. Paul, as I once before blogged, had known from the time he was 18 that Dad wasn't his father and believed that he and his mother were divorced.
In My Day
I think that Paul learnt the full extent of his father's roguery at the same time as I did. It was 1973 and we were holidaying with Tricia, James and Lizzie in a caravan at Blue Anchor Bay near Minehead.
One evening, after the young un's were tucked up, Mum started to talk about her husbands. Paul's father was her second husband, the first having bolted to India to teach tennis to Maharajahs.
She described how she was working as a waitress at the Grand Hotel in Leigh-on-sea and how this dashing, very tall man started to chat her up. (She always said that he was six foot four, which was enormous for the time.) She took a fancy to him and eventually they married. His name was William Watson. She already had Paul's sister, Jenny, and in 1950, when they were living in Hastings, Paul came along.
There followed an unstable period where the marriage was clearly not working. Mum described one occasion at a house in Brighton where Watson allegedly stretched a wire across the stairs in the darkened house so that she would trip and, maybe, be killed. Watson eventually disappeared and Mum began to put her life back together, joining forces with Barry (Dad).
Of course, one thing she wanted to do was divorce Watson, but it became very difficult to track him down. Dad was very shrewd and a few things occurred along the trail that roused his suspicions. Eventually he was successful, not so much in finding Watson as in finding his first wife, to whom he was still married under the name of Watts, and who was, I believe, living in Wales. This poor lady had had no suspicion that her husband was a bigamist, although I'm sure she suspected him of a range of shenanigans.
In this way, Tricia was able to apply successfully to the courts for an annulment and could put the whole sorry episode behind. Its only lasting joy was Paul.
"While I realise that it was easier to dodge the law and commit bigamy in those days", I remarked "It must make life a very complicated affair!"
Paul has become enthusiastic about tracking down details of his family. He has spent a fair amount of time on Mum's side, eventually accepting that, contrary to family myth, that a direct link to Edgar Allen Poe was unlikely, but confirming that the family did originate from Co. Tipperary as Nan had always told him.
He then started searching census and other records for details of his father and has indeed tracked down some convincing details. Unfortunately, his father was a bit of a rogue and used 2 slightly differing names. Paul, as I once before blogged, had known from the time he was 18 that Dad wasn't his father and believed that he and his mother were divorced.
In My Day
I think that Paul learnt the full extent of his father's roguery at the same time as I did. It was 1973 and we were holidaying with Tricia, James and Lizzie in a caravan at Blue Anchor Bay near Minehead.
One evening, after the young un's were tucked up, Mum started to talk about her husbands. Paul's father was her second husband, the first having bolted to India to teach tennis to Maharajahs.
She described how she was working as a waitress at the Grand Hotel in Leigh-on-sea and how this dashing, very tall man started to chat her up. (She always said that he was six foot four, which was enormous for the time.) She took a fancy to him and eventually they married. His name was William Watson. She already had Paul's sister, Jenny, and in 1950, when they were living in Hastings, Paul came along.
There followed an unstable period where the marriage was clearly not working. Mum described one occasion at a house in Brighton where Watson allegedly stretched a wire across the stairs in the darkened house so that she would trip and, maybe, be killed. Watson eventually disappeared and Mum began to put her life back together, joining forces with Barry (Dad).
Of course, one thing she wanted to do was divorce Watson, but it became very difficult to track him down. Dad was very shrewd and a few things occurred along the trail that roused his suspicions. Eventually he was successful, not so much in finding Watson as in finding his first wife, to whom he was still married under the name of Watts, and who was, I believe, living in Wales. This poor lady had had no suspicion that her husband was a bigamist, although I'm sure she suspected him of a range of shenanigans.
In this way, Tricia was able to apply successfully to the courts for an annulment and could put the whole sorry episode behind. Its only lasting joy was Paul.
"While I realise that it was easier to dodge the law and commit bigamy in those days", I remarked "It must make life a very complicated affair!"
Friday, March 11, 2011
Dedicated Follower of Fashion
Today
Over the past few months I have much enjoyed reading my friend Sian's fashion blog, first on the Ophelia Diaries and now on Facebook as Style Brief. She's clearly having so much fun and from a small beginning has now been to Paris and London Fashion Weeks and clinked champagne glasses with the fashion cognoscenti.
I think that Sian has always loved fashion and her enthusiasm and unerring instinct for what's best on the High Street seems to be paying off.
There are those who think that such an interest is trivial, but I must admit to loving fashion myself. I am always childishly pleased when I discover that an idea I've had which I think is unique, is deemed to be "on trend". And I'm very happy when a fashion style I like also seems right for my 63-year-old figure.
I love programmes like Project Runway, although I'm less interested in the diva-like actitivities of some top models and designers. Jean-Paul, your clothes might be cute, but you are not God.
In My Day
This is the story of how I was blind to my opportunity of becoming a leader of fashion. Like I said, I always loved clothes and fashion, probably dating from my adored bunny-embroidered dress that I wore when I was three. In my teens I bought trendy shoes just as soon as I had any money of my own and ran up many a mini-dress on Mamma's sewing machine. These I usually designed and made myself; a very sharp learning curve up which I sometimes struggled. I remember winning a prize in a local competition for one of my dress designs.
After I failed to get a place to do fine art at degree level I turned my thoughts to something more practical - theatre design, maybe, or fashion? Because my foundation course studies had been limited to fine art I wasn't prepared to apply to one of the prestigious London schools, such at the LSF or St Martin's. So, instead, I applied to some home counties colleges for courses at City & Guilds level.
On a fine warm day in July 1967 I presented myself and a portfolio of fashion designs, unsupported by evidence of any skills in cutting or stitching, to the Berkshire College of Art in Maidenhead. The tutors showed me the sewing and cutting rooms and then examined my portfolio
"Well," they said doubtfully "we do offer a City & Guilds and some of our students do manage to get into East End factories as cutters...." This sounded as though sights were set rather low and I saw my dreams of becoming another Mary Quant fade.
"What we could do," offered the head of department "is tailor a one-year course for you. This will groom you so that you can apply to a London fashion school for a degree course next year."
I thanked them and left. When I later was offered a place at West Sussex College of Art to do theatre design, I was dazzled by all sorts of romantic ideas about the theatre and took it, despite my lack of talent.
Only many years later did I realise what those half-hearted sounding people at Maidenhead were trying to tell me. That I had some talent for fashion that could be developed and they were willing to make a place specially for me so that I'd have the chance. I don't know why I didn't see it at the time; I certainly didn't have advisors who could see clearly either.
I don't exactly regret not following through; if I'd had real passion maybe I would have found another way. And my life has certainly been interesting, although I never took up theatre design, despite my City & Guilds.
It would have been rather fun though to have been a leader, rather than follower, of fashion! Sian, go for it! I wish you the best.
Over the past few months I have much enjoyed reading my friend Sian's fashion blog, first on the Ophelia Diaries and now on Facebook as Style Brief. She's clearly having so much fun and from a small beginning has now been to Paris and London Fashion Weeks and clinked champagne glasses with the fashion cognoscenti.
I think that Sian has always loved fashion and her enthusiasm and unerring instinct for what's best on the High Street seems to be paying off.
There are those who think that such an interest is trivial, but I must admit to loving fashion myself. I am always childishly pleased when I discover that an idea I've had which I think is unique, is deemed to be "on trend". And I'm very happy when a fashion style I like also seems right for my 63-year-old figure.
I love programmes like Project Runway, although I'm less interested in the diva-like actitivities of some top models and designers. Jean-Paul, your clothes might be cute, but you are not God.
In My Day
This is the story of how I was blind to my opportunity of becoming a leader of fashion. Like I said, I always loved clothes and fashion, probably dating from my adored bunny-embroidered dress that I wore when I was three. In my teens I bought trendy shoes just as soon as I had any money of my own and ran up many a mini-dress on Mamma's sewing machine. These I usually designed and made myself; a very sharp learning curve up which I sometimes struggled. I remember winning a prize in a local competition for one of my dress designs.
After I failed to get a place to do fine art at degree level I turned my thoughts to something more practical - theatre design, maybe, or fashion? Because my foundation course studies had been limited to fine art I wasn't prepared to apply to one of the prestigious London schools, such at the LSF or St Martin's. So, instead, I applied to some home counties colleges for courses at City & Guilds level.
On a fine warm day in July 1967 I presented myself and a portfolio of fashion designs, unsupported by evidence of any skills in cutting or stitching, to the Berkshire College of Art in Maidenhead. The tutors showed me the sewing and cutting rooms and then examined my portfolio
"Well," they said doubtfully "we do offer a City & Guilds and some of our students do manage to get into East End factories as cutters...." This sounded as though sights were set rather low and I saw my dreams of becoming another Mary Quant fade.
"What we could do," offered the head of department "is tailor a one-year course for you. This will groom you so that you can apply to a London fashion school for a degree course next year."
I thanked them and left. When I later was offered a place at West Sussex College of Art to do theatre design, I was dazzled by all sorts of romantic ideas about the theatre and took it, despite my lack of talent.
Only many years later did I realise what those half-hearted sounding people at Maidenhead were trying to tell me. That I had some talent for fashion that could be developed and they were willing to make a place specially for me so that I'd have the chance. I don't know why I didn't see it at the time; I certainly didn't have advisors who could see clearly either.
I don't exactly regret not following through; if I'd had real passion maybe I would have found another way. And my life has certainly been interesting, although I never took up theatre design, despite my City & Guilds.
It would have been rather fun though to have been a leader, rather than follower, of fashion! Sian, go for it! I wish you the best.
Tuesday, March 01, 2011
Stuff
Today
"Which is worse", asked Beatrice "to still have singles by Gilbert O'Sullivan or by The Seekers?" The consensus seems to be that G O'S is worse.
But what fascinates me is that she and Nell still have these items, forty-odd years on, and have carried them with them from place to place and, for Beatrice, through three marriages. What made her feel that it was worth filling a packing case with them?
In My Day
They say that 3 house moves equal one house fire in terms of what is lost. I certainly have very little of what I started out with when I first left home. I didn't have very much, it's true, and probably had no way of playing records in my student digs. So much would have been left at 4BH. Mamma and Daddy moved to Ribblesdale in Dorking while I was still at college in about 1969. Shoe-horning their own possessions into a two-bedroomed bungalow must have been challenging enough, without continuing to give house-room to my stuff.
So I expect that much would have been chucked out. Maybe I became accustomed to letting my things go and perhaps I'm a "chucker-out" by nature. I find the thought of a loft full of now unused items quite burdensome.
So, what did I think was worth carrying with me through about a dozen changes of home? My sewing machine and fabrics, to be sure. Clothes, of course, although many are chucked out on a routine basis. Until I was married, about the only books that came with me were, for some reason, Mamma's art books; as I write I can see the large format Phaidon Boticelli book that I so loved as a child, and Laine's Arabian Nights - now down to three volumes - will anyone admit to having the fourth? I still have the first piece of "art" embroidery that I did for A-level and will mount and frame it one day. Lizzie has my old diaries.
The truth is that, almost all that I have now I acquired since I moved to Somerset, even diaries and archival material; a few bits of artwork done by the girls remain. And I certainly have no old singles purchased when I was eighteen.
Several of my friends still have their, now grown-up, children's clutter filling up their houses. This may include their old favourite CDs which could surface to ridicule in thirty years' time, who knows?
"Which is worse", asked Beatrice "to still have singles by Gilbert O'Sullivan or by The Seekers?" The consensus seems to be that G O'S is worse.
But what fascinates me is that she and Nell still have these items, forty-odd years on, and have carried them with them from place to place and, for Beatrice, through three marriages. What made her feel that it was worth filling a packing case with them?
In My Day
They say that 3 house moves equal one house fire in terms of what is lost. I certainly have very little of what I started out with when I first left home. I didn't have very much, it's true, and probably had no way of playing records in my student digs. So much would have been left at 4BH. Mamma and Daddy moved to Ribblesdale in Dorking while I was still at college in about 1969. Shoe-horning their own possessions into a two-bedroomed bungalow must have been challenging enough, without continuing to give house-room to my stuff.
So I expect that much would have been chucked out. Maybe I became accustomed to letting my things go and perhaps I'm a "chucker-out" by nature. I find the thought of a loft full of now unused items quite burdensome.
So, what did I think was worth carrying with me through about a dozen changes of home? My sewing machine and fabrics, to be sure. Clothes, of course, although many are chucked out on a routine basis. Until I was married, about the only books that came with me were, for some reason, Mamma's art books; as I write I can see the large format Phaidon Boticelli book that I so loved as a child, and Laine's Arabian Nights - now down to three volumes - will anyone admit to having the fourth? I still have the first piece of "art" embroidery that I did for A-level and will mount and frame it one day. Lizzie has my old diaries.
The truth is that, almost all that I have now I acquired since I moved to Somerset, even diaries and archival material; a few bits of artwork done by the girls remain. And I certainly have no old singles purchased when I was eighteen.
Several of my friends still have their, now grown-up, children's clutter filling up their houses. This may include their old favourite CDs which could surface to ridicule in thirty years' time, who knows?
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