New Me

Today

With a mixture of resignation and hope, I've returned to Weight Watchers. I'm not as big as when "Diet Trials" started, but I'm nearly 2st overweight and WW does do what it says on the tin, so to speak.

I'm not in the league of people whose lives are endangered by their weight and I have to admit that my motivation is largely vanity. Secretly, I hope that, this time, the weight loss will transform me into a real drop-dead beautiful woman.

In My Day

Our valuation of ourselves is very much shaped in our childhood and I became accustomed to the knowledge that my sister Beatrice was the "pretty one". My parents sometimes called me "handsome" which no girl wants to hear.

I looked and could see it was true; Beatrice had hair like a golden waterfall, a rosebud mouth and large and lustrous eyes. She was chubbier than I, something about which I believe I was occasionally merciless.

So the only way in which I could be beautiful was in my imaginings and they were constant. I was always slim, not to say thin, of course. I had a pale and luminous skin and  vivid red corkscrew curling hair. I was usually a fairy princess and I loved to dress up in old velvet and satin curtains and wear a crown to make the point. Importantly, I didn't have to do or say anything for men to drop at my feet, mesmerised by the red hair and fascinating profile.

When I could, I also tried to make up for my lack of personal beauty by wearing the best clothes I could, persuading my nothing-much hair into flattering styles and trying not to get too fat. My quest for beauty was made harder, I thought, by my early development of sizeable breasts. I don't think Mamma helped by remarking admiringly on those clothes which minimised their apparent size.

In my teens I wasn't interested enough in boys to do any of the usual girly flirting and simply didn't recognise the fact that I did, actually, attract some admiring glances.

Paul, on first meeting me, constantly told me that I was pretty and was surprised that only Beatrice had been singled out for this description in childhood. But I can't shake off the feeling that I'm rather plain and need all the help, short of surgery, that I can get.

It's not Cricket

Today

My brother David maintains a Facebook photo album "Strange & Beautiful Creatures" in which he puts pictures that range from the amazing to the repulsive.

This morning he showed a bright green cricket perching on his finger. Very lovely.

In My Day

In 1994 or thereabouts we spent a holiday in Guernsey. One beautiful sunny day we took the ferry to the island of Herm and had a lovely time walking about gazing at the impossibly blue seas and sky. Eventually lunch beckoned and we joined other day trippers at the island's only pub for an al fresco lunch.

We noticed an enormous vivid green cricket perched on our sunshade and we and a number of other diners admired it. Disturbed by the bustle the creature hopped away and for a few minutes we lost sight of it. Then, to our horror and amusement, we saw that it had settled on the very large bottom of a female fellow-day tripper. She was completely unaware as we gazed in fascination, wondering whether she would squash the creature as she settled back or whether it would continue its progress up her body.

In the end Paul couldn't bear it any longer and said to me "I've got to rescue it!" "Fine," said I "but the remark "Did you know there's a cricket on your bum?" followed by placing your hands on said bum could sound like a very bad chat-up line and she seems to have a very large male companion in tow!"

This didn't deter Paul who somehow managed the introduction without either receiving a black eye or causing the woman to move suddenly and destroy the cricket. Gently he cupped his hands around the gloriously green creature and let it hop onto the nearby foliage.

One of David's Facebook friends expressed horror that David could bear to allow the cricket to perch on his hand and I must say that I've always been an admirer of Paul's ability to pick up creepy-crawlies of all kinds, usually with the aim of saving their lives. It's not something I'm very good at.

Ps & Qs

Today

Now that Richard is about to become a family member, I've taken to calling him "My Boy" or sometimes, in recognition of his penchant for Spanish, "Mi Chico". Yesterday morning I asked how to say "would you like some more coffee?" in Spanish. He told me. Becky explained, "Literally it means "do you want to take more coffee"".

"Does Spanish have a polite form of "want"? I asked. "as in "would like", "vorrei" or "voudrais" in other European languages?" "Not really," said Richard "I find that I have to be more sort of gruff when I'm in Spain".

This reminded me of a little story which I then told them.

In My Day

It must have been in about 1975. We were living at Rowan Avenue in Eastbourne and David & Joan had come to visit with Matthew, aged two and a half and Isabella, aged one. Because we had three small children in the house I fixed a safety gate half-way along the landing.

This action separated the guest room from the bathroom. At about three in the morning I was awakened by a loud wail from Matthew. I got up, as did Joan, to find him standing at the gate saying loudly "I would like to go to the loo, I would like to go to the loo!" We sorted Matthew out and went back to bed.

In the morning, when the incident was discussed over breakfast, Joan was immensely proud that her two-year old, in a moment of crisis in a strange house, had remembered his manners by saying "I would like", rather than "I want"! This was seen as more of an achievement than the fact that he hadn't wet himself or the bed. She talked about this with a combination of amusement and pride for some time to come.

I, however, can't now remember how to offer someone another cup of coffee in Spanish, whether rudely or not.

In Your Dreams

Today

Last night I dreamt about Mamma. I dreamt that she was in a nursing home in Bexhill. She looked so well and beautiful that I couldn't work out why she was in a nursing home at all.

I also couldn't understand why nobody had told me she was there. I railed at my brother David for not telling me. When he protested that he had, I replied that that was impossible; otherwise I'd have been writing to and visiting her all the time.

I have a variant on this dream from time to time.

In My Day

Mamma did actually spend a little time in a nursing home and, curiously, it was I that arranged it. In late 1980 or very early 1981 she had been having treatment for the hole in the lining of her lungs. Litre after litre of fluid had been drained, but as long as the lining was damaged the fluid kept on appearing. So she received treatment to patch it up.

Eventually the hospital was ready to discharge her and it didn't seem quite right that Mamma should just go home alone to the bungalow at Dorking while she convalesced. I don't know why it was decided that she come to Eastbourne, rather than to the more spacious homes occupied by my brothers in London. Maybe it was her choice.

But equally, I couldn't accommodate someone who needed the kind of care that Mamma did in my tiny house. So I trailed around Eastbourne trying to find an establishment that suited my otherwise independent mother's needs. Eventually I found a place that didn't smell of wee and seemed to offer sufficient privacy and respect and Mamma went in, somewhat dubiously.

I told my doctor what I'd arranged and one day he popped in to see her. Perhaps he expected a doddery old dear, on her last legs. What he found was a feisty, intelligent woman who now had nothing to do and no reason to get better. "I don't belong here", said my mother. "I agree!" replied Dr Grant. Surrounded by decaying old people, knowing no-one but me, Mamma was in the completely wrong element.

So, we took her back to Dorking and settled her in as well as we could. As it happened she wasn't going to get better anyway, and the lung cancer took her away from us in November 1981.

I miss you very much, Mamma; and feel happy that you looked so beautiful in my dream.