Today
Fashion, they say, goes in circles. (This is the second time I've started a blog in this way.) I was talking to Paul about the current fashion for leggings and remembered the last time they were fashionable which was back in about 1992.
"The thing is," I said "The fashion isn't identical. The item is worn in quite a different way from the way we wore it in 1992."
"Not so much a single circle as overlapping circles," suggested Paul. Quite
In My Day
I, as has been said before, am not immune to the lure of fashion. Back in the early 90's leggings were indeed fashionable. Every shop stocked them and it was possible to buy a vast range of colours and even some with psychedelic swirls and patterns. I dived into this style with relish. I have long legs and could, I felt, flatter this particular one. One wore them with baggy jumpers or loose shirts finished with pumps or trainers. They were always a seriously casual look; not one for the office.
The leggings were generally made of knitted cotton, like t-shirt material. If I was lucky, I could find a pair that reached to my ankles. They rarely stayed at the ankle; the fabric tending to bag at the knees and ride up above the ankle when one sat down. So the look you left the house with didn't last very long.
Perhaps it was this design flaw that led to the '90s leggings look being rapidly relegated to the "clothes to slop around in" department. And that is death to a fashion trend.
This time around the leggings cling pleasingly, staying where they're put, and are more often worn under pretty dresses and with high heels. Although, when you see the look being worn by two-year olds (with Ugg-style boots instead of high heels), you know it's shortly to be relegated to the "wouldn't be seen dead in" department. Which is death to a fashion trend. Pity, I've just bought a rather nice pair in metallic bronze.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Rub-a-dub-dub
Today
We're off to Brighton tomorrow so I made sure that all the clothes were washed, dried and put away. Not too onerous, especially as the sunshine enabled al fresco drying.
We have a running joke in which Paul comments on the magical appearance of clean socks, underwear, shirts etc. He did seriously thank me the other day for ensuring, over forty years, an endless supply of clean clothes and bedding. "All part of the service".
In My Day
Mamma also had the task of ensuring an endless supply of clean clothing for herself, a husband and four children. Apart from sheets and shirt collars, she did it all herself, by hand. Washing involved putting detergents or soap powder into a large bowl and rubbing and pummelling the items. We had a washboard which consisted of wooden slats on a frame. Really dirty stuff was rubbed fiercely up and down this object.
Then the soapy items were wrung out by hand and rinsed in what appeared to be endless draughts of cold water. When you had either a: decided that you'd rinsed out all the soap or b: got bored with trying, you gave them another wring and then put them through the mangle to get out the maximum amounts of water. The washing was either hung out on the line or, when it was too wet and cold, on indoor airers or draped over the fireguard. Mamma swore by gypsy pegs which she bought from an itinerant hardware vendor.
I was often involved in all these tasks. My hands went from too hot and slimy with soap to red and freezing from the cold water. I often had insufficient strength to turn the mangle. If I'd failed to rinse an item properly this would often result in slight burn marks when I ironed so I had no hiding place.
It was hard labour and I'm surprised we didn't all develop huge muscles. We were certainly very careful indeed about thoughtlessly slinging clothes into the dirty laundry.
These items found their way into our cupboards or the vastly overloaded ironing basket which was beyond the ingenuity of humankind to empty.
Eventually Mamma acquired a washing machine which had a mangle fixed to the top and which managed to tie shirt sleeves into impossible knots and, several years later, a spin dryer which used to dance across the floor in its attempts to get the water out of our laundry. A few years ago I was on a self-catering holiday with some friends and suggested one day that we get some laundry done while we went out. They were indignant. "We didn't come on holiday to do washing!" they exclaimed. "But, ladies", I said "It's a machine. We don't have to do anything." They were not convinced; in their minds, I think, they still saw themselves standing over a galvanised sink with a washboard and mangle.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
All in Good Time
Today
Paul took me only a little by surprise this morning when he announced that he needed to allow half an hour to get to his dentist's appointment. "But it's a ten-minute drive!" I said, before remembering that he is anxious about being late and would rather hang about for twenty minutes than be a minute late.
By the time we are adult, it seems, we have an attitude to time-keeping that is more or less fixed. There are those whose anxiety prompts then not just to get the early bus but the one before that, in case. Then there are those who saunter up, half or an hour late, not apparently having noticed the passage of time nor how irritated you are. Of course, some people have timekeeping down to a fine art.
Generally, I'm fairly good with time, although marriage to Paul has meant that I sometimes find myself arriving earlier than I'd wish. When it's to catch a plane, this just blends in to the overall tedium of airport lounges; when it's to a dinner party, it can be embarrassing to catch the hosts still vacuuming!
In My Day
As a child you are simply hustled along by parents who have their own idea of timekeeping and you don't really know how they arrive at the necessary judgement. My parents had four children to hustle, so they probably allowed plenty of time.
Daddy's job at Hansard was ruled by time and he couldn't afford to be late. I do recall one occasion, after a late sitting, when Daddy arrived by the skin of his proverbial to catch the last train, only to find that it had departed early. He had to get a taxi all the way home and was not best pleased. He complained and the railway company, notwithstanding their terms and conditions which probably included the words "we do not guarantee that trains will run on time or at all", paid his taxi fare and offered him a week's holiday in a camping coach in the New Forest as compensation. (I still remember that holiday, taken at Easter and freezing cold.)
So where did I get my attitude to time? I don't know, but I do remember what was probably the first occasion that I was given the responsibility for getting somewhere on time. I was about seven and Daddy and Mamma allowed me to walk to school on my own. I don't know what they could have been thinking.
The walk was mainly along busy South Norwood Hill in South London. I had to negotiate the complexities of the junction with (equally busy) Church Road. Even in the '50s the road was full of buses, cars and lorries. The walk to Cypress Road School was about a mile and a half.
I'm sure that I was sent off in good time to arrive at nine O'clock. I still hadn't arrived by ten. I have a memory of how I dawdled, crossing the road several times; I'm not sure why. I looked into gardens and dreamt of this and that, probably imagining myself as a princess or fairy queen. Perhaps I walked along low walls and then went back and did it again. Eventually, I was caught up with and taken into school. Somebody described how they'd observed my snail's pace and meandering progress.
I don't think that I was trying to avoid going to school; I just had no idea of the passage of time. Maybe that incident was embarrassing enough for me to pay better attention in future.
What I am sure of is, that if this incident had occurred today, Mamma and Daddy would have attracted the attention of social services and I might have spent some time in care. And that would have been a very bad time, never mind the timekeeping.
Paul took me only a little by surprise this morning when he announced that he needed to allow half an hour to get to his dentist's appointment. "But it's a ten-minute drive!" I said, before remembering that he is anxious about being late and would rather hang about for twenty minutes than be a minute late.
By the time we are adult, it seems, we have an attitude to time-keeping that is more or less fixed. There are those whose anxiety prompts then not just to get the early bus but the one before that, in case. Then there are those who saunter up, half or an hour late, not apparently having noticed the passage of time nor how irritated you are. Of course, some people have timekeeping down to a fine art.
Generally, I'm fairly good with time, although marriage to Paul has meant that I sometimes find myself arriving earlier than I'd wish. When it's to catch a plane, this just blends in to the overall tedium of airport lounges; when it's to a dinner party, it can be embarrassing to catch the hosts still vacuuming!
In My Day
As a child you are simply hustled along by parents who have their own idea of timekeeping and you don't really know how they arrive at the necessary judgement. My parents had four children to hustle, so they probably allowed plenty of time.
Daddy's job at Hansard was ruled by time and he couldn't afford to be late. I do recall one occasion, after a late sitting, when Daddy arrived by the skin of his proverbial to catch the last train, only to find that it had departed early. He had to get a taxi all the way home and was not best pleased. He complained and the railway company, notwithstanding their terms and conditions which probably included the words "we do not guarantee that trains will run on time or at all", paid his taxi fare and offered him a week's holiday in a camping coach in the New Forest as compensation. (I still remember that holiday, taken at Easter and freezing cold.)
So where did I get my attitude to time? I don't know, but I do remember what was probably the first occasion that I was given the responsibility for getting somewhere on time. I was about seven and Daddy and Mamma allowed me to walk to school on my own. I don't know what they could have been thinking.
The walk was mainly along busy South Norwood Hill in South London. I had to negotiate the complexities of the junction with (equally busy) Church Road. Even in the '50s the road was full of buses, cars and lorries. The walk to Cypress Road School was about a mile and a half.
I'm sure that I was sent off in good time to arrive at nine O'clock. I still hadn't arrived by ten. I have a memory of how I dawdled, crossing the road several times; I'm not sure why. I looked into gardens and dreamt of this and that, probably imagining myself as a princess or fairy queen. Perhaps I walked along low walls and then went back and did it again. Eventually, I was caught up with and taken into school. Somebody described how they'd observed my snail's pace and meandering progress.
I don't think that I was trying to avoid going to school; I just had no idea of the passage of time. Maybe that incident was embarrassing enough for me to pay better attention in future.
What I am sure of is, that if this incident had occurred today, Mamma and Daddy would have attracted the attention of social services and I might have spent some time in care. And that would have been a very bad time, never mind the timekeeping.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Jungle
Today
Last night I had a dream about lions. The obvious trigger for this is the forthcoming event at which my brother David plans to say farewell to a loved stuffed lion, in a manner yet to be determined.
But the dream contained much that was fearful and involved eland in the back garden and trying to avoid the lion. It seems that many people have similar dreams, so what do they signify?
In My Day
I really only remember childhood dreaming as a fearful experience. I quite regularly dreamt of lions and tigers. While the details of the dreams varied, there were some common features.
Firstly, there was always the anxiety that the beast would get into the house. So it became very important to keep doors and windows shut and locked. If the dream contained tigers which were always much more ferocious than lions, there was an added fear that their strength and ferocity would enable them simply to smash through the windows.
Secondly, the other important issue was to ensure that they didn't see me. Seeing me would spark off their ferocity and put me in danger of attack. So I had to hide (if I was in the open it was very difficult) and try to ensure that I either got or stayed indoors. Sometimes, as in last night's dream, there were sufficient distractions (eland etc) to divert the beast's attention, thus enabling me to get to safety.
From where, exactly, do such dreams emanate? Is it simply that we need a focus on which to act out our anxieties and, to modern western children, lions and tigers are familiar enough in concept but alien enough to be used to embody fear? If we lived in another time or place we might put wild boars or polar bears or the fairies into our dreams as object of fear.
And it's not just so that we can experience fear; it's so that we can outwit the object of terror. In none of my dreams to date has the beast entered the house or actually harmed me. I have always managed to avoid it so that the threat is more potential than actual. Interestingly, I also never dream about lions and tigers in their natural habitat; they always present their danger in an urban or domestic setting. They are out of place, which makes them simultaneously more threatening and at a disadvantage.
I don't suppose that the disposal of Abacus the lion will in any way affect the dreams I have, but I'll be there to say goodbye anyway.
Last night I had a dream about lions. The obvious trigger for this is the forthcoming event at which my brother David plans to say farewell to a loved stuffed lion, in a manner yet to be determined.
But the dream contained much that was fearful and involved eland in the back garden and trying to avoid the lion. It seems that many people have similar dreams, so what do they signify?
In My Day
I really only remember childhood dreaming as a fearful experience. I quite regularly dreamt of lions and tigers. While the details of the dreams varied, there were some common features.
Firstly, there was always the anxiety that the beast would get into the house. So it became very important to keep doors and windows shut and locked. If the dream contained tigers which were always much more ferocious than lions, there was an added fear that their strength and ferocity would enable them simply to smash through the windows.
Secondly, the other important issue was to ensure that they didn't see me. Seeing me would spark off their ferocity and put me in danger of attack. So I had to hide (if I was in the open it was very difficult) and try to ensure that I either got or stayed indoors. Sometimes, as in last night's dream, there were sufficient distractions (eland etc) to divert the beast's attention, thus enabling me to get to safety.
From where, exactly, do such dreams emanate? Is it simply that we need a focus on which to act out our anxieties and, to modern western children, lions and tigers are familiar enough in concept but alien enough to be used to embody fear? If we lived in another time or place we might put wild boars or polar bears or the fairies into our dreams as object of fear.
And it's not just so that we can experience fear; it's so that we can outwit the object of terror. In none of my dreams to date has the beast entered the house or actually harmed me. I have always managed to avoid it so that the threat is more potential than actual. Interestingly, I also never dream about lions and tigers in their natural habitat; they always present their danger in an urban or domestic setting. They are out of place, which makes them simultaneously more threatening and at a disadvantage.
I don't suppose that the disposal of Abacus the lion will in any way affect the dreams I have, but I'll be there to say goodbye anyway.
Saturday, April 09, 2011
Tough Love
Today
Abby is poorly. She hasn't eaten for nearly a week. She spent two days at the vet where they diagnosed a urinary infection, rehydrated her intravenously and brought her temperature down. She's back home but still won't eat and I've had to force some water into her, an act against which she struggled vigorously. I still have to get antibiotics into her and she's not very happy with me.
I'll probably have to resort to wrapping her up in a towel so that she can't fight me when I get the tablets and water in. I suppose the fact the she has some fight is a good sign.
In My Day
In 1993 my little cat Amelia was starting to show signs of her age. She was pretty arthritic and rarely left the house and garden. Her fur, never her strong point, began to look "staring" and dry as though she'd been in a spin dryer. He little white patches began to look yellowish, as she stopped caring for herself, and I took to washing her gently.
When she stared bringing up her food we took her to the vet who said that her kidneys were becoming atrophied (quite common in older female cats), prescribed a special diet and gave her six months to live. Amelia couldn't even manage this diet. She clearly knew she was dying as she decided to go on a walkabout of her favourite haunts. We saw her walking with a stumbling, drunken gait down the neighbour's path. When she came home she climbed into her bed.
She refused all food and I became worried that she would die of starvation and thirst. So I found a 10ml syringe and simply forced a mixture of milk and water into her about every hour. She didn't seem to be in any kind of pain and simply allowed me to poke the syringe into her mouth; putting up no resistance. A day or so later I felt her becoming colder and colder. Eventually, one night when I popped her into her bed I knew how unlikely it was that she would still be alive in the morning.
And I was right; she'd slipped away, apparently peacefully, because she was still in the same position that I'd left her. She was nineteen, which is quite a good age, and. given that one has to die, she managed it with grace and ease.
Abby, I don't think you're at this stage yet, but you really must let me sort you out - it's for your own good and, in this case, I really do know best.
Abby is poorly. She hasn't eaten for nearly a week. She spent two days at the vet where they diagnosed a urinary infection, rehydrated her intravenously and brought her temperature down. She's back home but still won't eat and I've had to force some water into her, an act against which she struggled vigorously. I still have to get antibiotics into her and she's not very happy with me.
I'll probably have to resort to wrapping her up in a towel so that she can't fight me when I get the tablets and water in. I suppose the fact the she has some fight is a good sign.
In My Day
In 1993 my little cat Amelia was starting to show signs of her age. She was pretty arthritic and rarely left the house and garden. Her fur, never her strong point, began to look "staring" and dry as though she'd been in a spin dryer. He little white patches began to look yellowish, as she stopped caring for herself, and I took to washing her gently.
When she stared bringing up her food we took her to the vet who said that her kidneys were becoming atrophied (quite common in older female cats), prescribed a special diet and gave her six months to live. Amelia couldn't even manage this diet. She clearly knew she was dying as she decided to go on a walkabout of her favourite haunts. We saw her walking with a stumbling, drunken gait down the neighbour's path. When she came home she climbed into her bed.
She refused all food and I became worried that she would die of starvation and thirst. So I found a 10ml syringe and simply forced a mixture of milk and water into her about every hour. She didn't seem to be in any kind of pain and simply allowed me to poke the syringe into her mouth; putting up no resistance. A day or so later I felt her becoming colder and colder. Eventually, one night when I popped her into her bed I knew how unlikely it was that she would still be alive in the morning.
And I was right; she'd slipped away, apparently peacefully, because she was still in the same position that I'd left her. She was nineteen, which is quite a good age, and. given that one has to die, she managed it with grace and ease.
Abby, I don't think you're at this stage yet, but you really must let me sort you out - it's for your own good and, in this case, I really do know best.
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