Tuesday, July 12, 2011

Wardrobe Mistress

Today

I spent a day in Bath yesterday. The new Southgate shopping centre is pretty awful; faked-looking, rather oppressive and with no street-life. And it's causing the regular shops in the main streets to close down.

I talked over this regrettable change to Bath with the friends with whom I lunched. "The other regrettable change", I said "is that there's a Radley shop bang in the centre of town. What's a girl to do?" I only have about ten Radley bags plus two hand-luggage sized suitcases, so there's plenty of scope.

In My Day

I don't know what drives some of us to be happy with one bag and two pairs of trousers while others feel that they always need to squeeze another item into their wardrobe.

Daddy could never see the need for more than one set of clothes (plus maybe some to do the gardening or decorating in). Mamma would arrange for him to be measured for a new suit but he would never wear it until the old one got to the point of making him look like a dangerous tramp. Shirts could be eked out by using detachable collars which were changed daily.

In many ways Daddy was a generous and open-handed father and husband. He proudly used to say that he didn't give Mamma "housekeeping" money, he gave her his purse. But when it came to buying new clothes, Mamma had to resort to stratagems and wiles, or just plain nagging.

Sometimes Mamma would plead on my behalf for new clothes; I found this embarrassing and a bit humiliating. I, too, used to have to make one outfit do for many occasions when other girls seemed to have so much choice. I learnt that they had clean socks and knickers daily (I was wise enough to say nowt when this subject came up) and a range of pretty clothes to choose from.

I suppose it was inevitable that the first thing I bought with my paper round money was a pair of shoes over which I'd been lusting for some time. By the time I was sixteen I'd learnt how to make skirts and dresses for myself and how to scour shops for remnants. It meant that I was mistress of my own wardrobe and have never since felt the need to beg permission or apologise for the acquisition of as many clothes, shoes and bags as I want.

So, if Daddy's intention was to teach me a stern lesson about the frivolity of such fripperies as Radley bags, I'm afraid it failed to hit home. Radley has a lovely new colour this season "Virtual Pink". Yum.

Saturday, July 09, 2011

Sound of Music

Today

"I've got a crazy idea", said Beatrice to me this morning. Nothing new, then. She went on to expound it which is that the family gets together to put on a performance of Handel's Acis & Galatea. I don't think it had got much beyond the idea stage and I suggested that she flesh out a few details before making a proposition to the rest of the family.

In My Day

I think Beatrice's interest in this work comes from a deep sense of unfinished business. Back in 1985 she and I joined a singing group called The Eastbourne Opera and Oratorio Workshop. We met on Saturday mornings in a dingy church or church hall in Upperton Road in Eastbourne. There a small and motley group of singers gathered to work their way through a range of pieces. When we joined, the work in progress was Acis & Galatea.

The talents of the singers were very varied indeed; there being some who could barely read music and others who had musical but no other skills.

Our tenor had a voice of tremulous beauty; he was a middle-aged bachelor, with all the hall-marks of the type. Badly, not to say raggedly dressed in ancient and smelly clothes, with no communication skills and permanently bad hair and teeth, he was accompanied to rehearsals by a dragon-faced mother who sat at the back of the hall until we'd finished. The thought of his playing Acis to anyone's Galatea was pretty nauseating, but close your eyes and your heart melted with the sound of his voice.

As is common with almost all  singing groups, we had more women than men and they were pretty well all younger, better-looking and better at singing than almost all the men so our sound was rather lumpy at times. The soloists for this work were already chosen and the group slogged through the choruses, occasionally making real music. Our tutor clearly had a passion for the piece and managed to get a spark of drama out of us from time to time.

I never discovered whether there was any intention of actually giving a finished performance of the work; certainly concert dates weren't mentioned and there was no choreography of any kind suggested. I left Eastbourne before the charms of Acis & Galatea had been exhausted so can't tell how it all ended.

Beatrice, having persuaded me to Sing "As When the Dove" at her wedding, obviously wants more, much more! And who knows, she just might pull it off. 

Wednesday, July 06, 2011

Risky

Today

This morning, on our walk up the lane, our discussion was triggered by the phone-hacking scandal, currently in progress. This led us to the legitimacy of investigative journalism. I mentioned the range of "facts" uncovered by such journalism in the Madelaine McCann disappearance.

I commented on the layout of the holiday resort where the McCanns were staying and the surprisingly large distance between the restaurant and the apartment where the girls were sleeping. "It's easy for us to judge," said Paul "but we took many risks when the girls were small and are only vindicated by the fact that they are still here and very much grown up."

In My Day

We chose the house in Rowan Avenue, back in 1975, partly because our best friends were buying the other side of the semi, so to speak. The house, while not jerry-built, had fairly thin walls and it was easy to hear noises from the other side of the wall.

In those days we were far too poor to afford baby-sitters on a regular basis but wanted to spend time with our friends. "Well", I reasoned "If we can hear noises, we can hear baby-noises. And next door is only thirty seconds away." So we often popped next door where rowdy games of Nap and endless cups of instant coffee made up the bulk of our entertainments.

We took it in turns to pop next door about every twenty minutes to half hour to check on the girls and make sure they were OK.

On one occasion, during the period that Beatrice was living with us, it was Beatrice's turn to "pop" next door. Off she went. Ten minutes, twenty minutes went by; no Beatrice. Just as I began to wonder what might be the matter, she returned, looking frazzled. She explained why this was so.

"I checked Lizzie and she was fast asleep and fine", she said. "Then I went into Becky's room. The bedding was on the floor but no sign of Becky." In a panic Beatrice had gone from room to room. No Becky. Windows and doors were secured and there was no sign of any problems. Becky was a well-known escapologist and Beatrice started to fear the worst. How could she come back and face me with the news that Becky had disappeared and might have been abducted or might be wandering off in the dark towards the main road?

Slowly she went back to the room and absently gathered up the tumbled bed clothes. And there was Becky, still fast asleep, half under the bed. She had clearly fallen out of bed, still sleeping, taking the bedclothes with her.

Laughing and crying, Beatrice told us what had happened. We laughed too and didn't really face up to the implications of our actions.

Little Maddie, whatever happened to you, never mind if anyone was a little careless, I can't imagine what you must have or may be suffering and I wish you well.

Saturday, July 02, 2011

Idyllic

Today

I've always thought that the tale behind how Wagner's Siegfried Idyll was written is very romantic. Last night we listened to this rapturous little piece, courtesy of Lizzie, who'd given Paul a CD of Wagner orchestral items for his birthday.

"Doesn't this just release a flood of memories?" asked Paul. Indeed.

In My Day

When we were first married and living in the flat at Belmont in Brighton we somehow cobbled together a usable Hi-fi from various bits and pieces - an amplifier from me, a deck from who knows where and some speakers housed in old fashioned cabinets.

And didn't we love our music! We played whatever we could, on sometimes old and scratchy vinyl discs.

When Lizzie was a baby, she went through a phase, very common among newborns, of being rather fretful during early evening. Maybe it was a just a result of the change from her day at the childminder's to home and my tiredness and inability to cope that triggered this off. We quickly discovered that music soothed her troubled, if not exactly savage, breast, especially the Siegfried Idyll. It was no hardship to play this again and again as her crying tailed off and she settled into peaceful slumber.

It enabled us to get on with whatever chores were needed. I remember when we decorated the living room; we bought a creamy coloured paint named "County Cream" and its smell filled the room as strongly as did the sounds of Wagner, so that the two became somehow linked.

In some ways those days seem like another world, when we worried and scrabbled around to cope from day to day, with barely any idea of what we were doing. In others ways it's just the beginning of the thread that brings us to today.

And surely our story is every bit as romantic as Richard and Cosima Wagner's.