Today
In the process of house-hunting we are constantly finding ourselves seduced by yet another charming property. The bungalow with the 1 acre garden was a case in point. Immaculately, kept, probably unchanged since it was first built back in the '70s.
I look at the mirrored fitted wardrobes and the coloured suites and half-tiled splash backs in the bathrooms. "It's like stepping back in time", I whispered to Paul.
In My Day
How exciting it was to buy our very first home! The house in Rowan Avenue was a new build and we were told that we could choose our bathroom suite from a range. Goodbye, the chipped white enamel baths and austere tiles of our childhood. Goodbye horrible antiquated baths on little claw feet that collected the dirt underneath. We debated the merits of avocado, rose or aqua. Would maize yellow work? What cute little tiles with their matching swirly patterns on white! How sensible the matching plastic bath panel that would keep dirt at bay! In the end, there were only two suites left and our friends the Levetts who were buying next door bid hard for the aqua which left us with the rose pink.
Later, when we moved to Mead Close we became the proud owners of an avocado bathroom suite! This colour looks pretty great on an avocado but does little to enhance the look of any bathroom. However, we were pretty broke and even when we remodelled the bathroom for the first time had to keep it. I had great difficulty in finding a fitted porcelain sink in the colour, which had by now joined the ranks of the drearily outdated, and probably spent over the odds to get one.
As one might expect, the plain white Victorian bath (complete with claw feet) has made a comeback and today we all love our neutral coloured bathrooms.
I have a suspicion that, not long from now, the avocado bathroom suite will be described by estate agents as a "period feature".
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Friday, September 23, 2011
Music to my Ears
Today
This morning Paul was reciting, pretty well verbatim, from an album that his Dad used to play, with a mixture of solemnity and excitement, back in 1957. This album was called "A Journey into Stereophonic Sound" in which a posh-voiced narrator described the various things captured by this new recording method - the ceremony of the keys at the Tower, an express train whooshing past, The Ride of the Valkyrie. "How awed we were in those days", said Paul wistfully "imagine today's kids being excited by something like this."
In My Day
We had a vast collection of records. The family myth goes that Mamma first saw Daddy when he was painting the hall ceiling at 4 BH whilst listening to Beethoven's 7th on 78s. He had to climb down every four minutes to change the record.
The existence of the Henry Wood Gramophone Circle ensured that we would amass an ever-growing collection of records. Our 78 record deck had two turntables and records were doubled sided, odds and evens. This meant that you could move smoothly from disc one to two, and be turning over disc one ready and so on. A forty minute symphony could run to ten or more discs and were housed in boxes that were pretty heavy.
The decision to move to 33 rpm was a major one - there was a considerable outlay and we needed a broad classical repertoire. In the end the bullet was bitten and we made the change. We had a collection of over a thousand records which were housed in a filing cabinet in the room where the meetings were held. There were many advantages over 78s, quite apart from the greater length of each side. They were less susceptible to breakages and, while you could no longer play them with just about anything, including a rusty nail, the styli were miracles of precision. I remember that we had a little paper disc marked out with three concentric rings of black lines, one for 78, one for 45, one for 33rpm. The idea was that if the turntable was turning at exactly 33rpm the relevant black lines would blur into grey. It was possible to play a record designed for 33rpm at 45 or even 78 with hilarious (or so we thought) results. I think Mamma & Daddy rather frowned on this.
The move to stereo was less dramatic; after all, the recordings were still on vinyl and revolved at 33rpm. The change was more in the equipment and the careful placing of speakers. But gradually new recordings were made and our collection was updated. I don't recall feeling as much excitement about this as Paul and his Dad did and in fact am not sure that my hearing is really sensitive enough for the nuances of hifi.
I can usually tell when a pre-stereo recording is played on the radio as it has a curious quality of sounding as though the musicians are in a small room with me which I find rather endearing.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Property Ladder
Today
The value of properties in our area seems to follow mysterious rules which we are finding hard to grasp. A near derelict bungalow a couple of miles away is priced at £70K more than an immaculate bungalow in another village, merely, it would seem because the second bungalow has less land and is on a busy road. It's also clear that some places are priced the way they are because the owner has to realise a certain amount to clear debts or be able to buy a new place, with scant attention to reality.
In My Day
The difference in property prices from one place to another was starkly obvious to us back in 1980. The house at Rowan Avenue was so tiny and all we could afford. We couldn't see any way of climbing the property ladder given the crazy house prices in the south-east.
The best place to live, from the point of view of cost, (according to the Sunday supplements)was in Humberside; Scunthorpe to be exact. Simple! We gathered details of properties in and around the area and set off to view, taking Lizzie with us.
Aside from the fact that we had to spend one night in the car when we discovered that some friends with whom we hoped to stay had moved, we had a very interesting time.
We looked at properties being redeveloped from derelict cottages in New Holland which were already showing damp, despite the newness of the conversion. We looked at several houses in Scunthorpe, from the impossible to the scrubbed up and new.
One house we liked very much was a Victorian house in the village of Winterton, about twenty miles from Scunthorpe. It was a very good size, rather shabby and well within our budget. Winterton has a rather old-fashioned high street with signs of elegance and departed grandeur. The house had a delightful walled garden and our fantasies began to run riot. We left, full of plans and hope.
It was early February and we ignored the dreariness of the landscape, flat and featureless. We ignored the grey, murky damp weather. We ignored the clear evidence that the whole area was on the downward slide. The new Humber bridge had taken away New Holland's only reason for existence and there was dereliction, enlivened with distant views of cooling towers, visible on every side. We didn't know a soul and would have had to create an entire new social structure for ourselves and the girls. And did we want them growing up with Hull accents?
The real reason for the cheapness of property was staring at us in our faces and eventually we had to look fully back at it. Jobs. Where there's no work the property ladder goes in one direction only - down. The ambulance service didn't operate a transfer system and when Paul popped into Scunthorpe Ambulance Station they told him that they were up to full strength. Any hope I had of a transfer would depend on Paul working there.
So it was back to Sunny Eastbourne (it really is sunny and the brightness of the skies told their own story) and the much slower ascent up the stairway.
At least we don't have to worry about mortgages or jobs now and can please ourselves. Although I have vetoed the bungalow with the gorgeous acre of garden on the premise that Paul is unlikely ever to mow the grass or wield a pair of secateurs.
The value of properties in our area seems to follow mysterious rules which we are finding hard to grasp. A near derelict bungalow a couple of miles away is priced at £70K more than an immaculate bungalow in another village, merely, it would seem because the second bungalow has less land and is on a busy road. It's also clear that some places are priced the way they are because the owner has to realise a certain amount to clear debts or be able to buy a new place, with scant attention to reality.
In My Day
The difference in property prices from one place to another was starkly obvious to us back in 1980. The house at Rowan Avenue was so tiny and all we could afford. We couldn't see any way of climbing the property ladder given the crazy house prices in the south-east.
The best place to live, from the point of view of cost, (according to the Sunday supplements)was in Humberside; Scunthorpe to be exact. Simple! We gathered details of properties in and around the area and set off to view, taking Lizzie with us.
Aside from the fact that we had to spend one night in the car when we discovered that some friends with whom we hoped to stay had moved, we had a very interesting time.
We looked at properties being redeveloped from derelict cottages in New Holland which were already showing damp, despite the newness of the conversion. We looked at several houses in Scunthorpe, from the impossible to the scrubbed up and new.
One house we liked very much was a Victorian house in the village of Winterton, about twenty miles from Scunthorpe. It was a very good size, rather shabby and well within our budget. Winterton has a rather old-fashioned high street with signs of elegance and departed grandeur. The house had a delightful walled garden and our fantasies began to run riot. We left, full of plans and hope.
It was early February and we ignored the dreariness of the landscape, flat and featureless. We ignored the grey, murky damp weather. We ignored the clear evidence that the whole area was on the downward slide. The new Humber bridge had taken away New Holland's only reason for existence and there was dereliction, enlivened with distant views of cooling towers, visible on every side. We didn't know a soul and would have had to create an entire new social structure for ourselves and the girls. And did we want them growing up with Hull accents?
The real reason for the cheapness of property was staring at us in our faces and eventually we had to look fully back at it. Jobs. Where there's no work the property ladder goes in one direction only - down. The ambulance service didn't operate a transfer system and when Paul popped into Scunthorpe Ambulance Station they told him that they were up to full strength. Any hope I had of a transfer would depend on Paul working there.
So it was back to Sunny Eastbourne (it really is sunny and the brightness of the skies told their own story) and the much slower ascent up the stairway.
At least we don't have to worry about mortgages or jobs now and can please ourselves. Although I have vetoed the bungalow with the gorgeous acre of garden on the premise that Paul is unlikely ever to mow the grass or wield a pair of secateurs.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Baby Bag
Today
Lizzie's friend Ruth was getting in a tizzy today. Her baby is due in three weeks and she was uncertain about the wisdom of a trek into Birmingham with no mobile phone. Suppose she went into labour in a public place? And she hadn't even packed her hospital bag.....
In My Day
Knowing when to expect the birth of your baby was an even less exact science back in the '70s than it is now. There were no scans and doctors relied on the date of your last period, your size and a bit of prodding around.
When I was carrying Lizzie, all these factors were in conflict. As I am one of those women whose cycle was very variable indeed, the expected birth date was at best a guess. I quickly became very large, but the usual signs (baby's first kick etc) were rather later than normal. Pauls' mum took to phoning every day or so to ask whether I'd felt any movement which wasn't very reassuring.
When the due date approached I, too packed a little bag. I trotted along to the hospital each week for a check-up. "If I call from the clinic," I told Paul "just pick it up and come in with it." Each week I'd unpack the daily essentials from the bag.
Lizzie's head engaged at the right time but after that.... nothing. I began to wonder whether my pregnancy would ever end. When I was three weeks overdue they ran a test to see whether the placenta was still up to the job. This unsophisticated test involved my carrying a sort of demijohn with me everywhere I went for a day and putting every drop of wee I did into it! Not very dignified, especially as we'd agreed to meet my parents for a day out in Horsham.
Placenta just fine. "I think we'll wait for nature", said my genial obstetrician, after he'd taken an X-ray to make sure that there weren't two Lizzies.
So the bag remained in the corner of the room, looking more and more forlorn, for six weeks after Liz was due, while nature had a bit of a think about it. Which is when she eventually, with the help of a bit of a pull from the obstetrician, decided to make her appearance.
Maybe this experience explains why Lizzie is very, very rarely late these days.
Lizzie's friend Ruth was getting in a tizzy today. Her baby is due in three weeks and she was uncertain about the wisdom of a trek into Birmingham with no mobile phone. Suppose she went into labour in a public place? And she hadn't even packed her hospital bag.....
In My Day
Knowing when to expect the birth of your baby was an even less exact science back in the '70s than it is now. There were no scans and doctors relied on the date of your last period, your size and a bit of prodding around.
When I was carrying Lizzie, all these factors were in conflict. As I am one of those women whose cycle was very variable indeed, the expected birth date was at best a guess. I quickly became very large, but the usual signs (baby's first kick etc) were rather later than normal. Pauls' mum took to phoning every day or so to ask whether I'd felt any movement which wasn't very reassuring.
When the due date approached I, too packed a little bag. I trotted along to the hospital each week for a check-up. "If I call from the clinic," I told Paul "just pick it up and come in with it." Each week I'd unpack the daily essentials from the bag.
Lizzie's head engaged at the right time but after that.... nothing. I began to wonder whether my pregnancy would ever end. When I was three weeks overdue they ran a test to see whether the placenta was still up to the job. This unsophisticated test involved my carrying a sort of demijohn with me everywhere I went for a day and putting every drop of wee I did into it! Not very dignified, especially as we'd agreed to meet my parents for a day out in Horsham.
Placenta just fine. "I think we'll wait for nature", said my genial obstetrician, after he'd taken an X-ray to make sure that there weren't two Lizzies.
So the bag remained in the corner of the room, looking more and more forlorn, for six weeks after Liz was due, while nature had a bit of a think about it. Which is when she eventually, with the help of a bit of a pull from the obstetrician, decided to make her appearance.
Maybe this experience explains why Lizzie is very, very rarely late these days.
Thursday, September 01, 2011
Party On
Today
We had a delightful time on Sunday, off to Glyndebourne to see "the Turn of the Screw". A pity we had to miss the family & friends coming to the flat to celebrate Becky's birthday. Still, as Becky had bought the tickets as a Fortieth anniversary present, there was no contest really.
We chatted to some other opera-goers about this. "Ah", they said knowingly "She just wanted you out of the way while she parties." We laughed. "Certainly the value attached to getting parents out of the way goes up as the children get older", I joked. "But I'm not complaining!"
In My Day
As I was growing up I heard many horror stories of young peoples' parties getting out of hand (the stories got into the newspapers which shows what a new phenomenon they were back in the '60s) but never seemed to have any friends who'd actually trashed their parents' house.
Eventually, of course, we had to consider the issue of the girls having parties in their teens. Maybe it was because we lived so far in the country that roving young 'uns were unlikely to turn up or because the size of the family meant that most parties mainly consisted of cousins, but we rarely had problems. Lizzie never seemed to mind much if we were around anyway.
Becky, who loved her independence, preferred to strike a bargain. One Christmas (about 1993, I think) she asked if she could have a party while we were out at the annual Flare Xmas do. We had planned to stay overnight in Bath. "OK", we said "We're doing some Christmas shopping and expect to be back about four. So you've time to get it in order. Get this wrong and it's the last time." A little anxiously we set off for our own frolics (consisting, I seem to remember of a crazed murder mystery event). The following day, having done a fair bit of shopping we phonedBecky to warn her that we were on our way.
The house was gleaming - just one little wine stain which Becky was busily cleaning up. She'd certainly kept her side of the bargain and earned a few more points in her progress towards independence.
When, a few years later we trusted her alone in the house for ten days during Glastonbury Festival week, and found the house equally immaculate on our return, friends laughed at our gullibility. "What about all those wild parties she had while you away?" one scoffed. "Well", I said "if she did have parties, she can clearly handle it as everything was tickety-boo."
And even though chocolate from a chocolate fountain hit the ceiling during Cousmass 2005, causing Becky to have a complete sense of humour bypass, it was all cleaned up by the time we returned and we only knew about because the girls told us.
As we knew some people whose apparently docile daughter invited a trashing set of local youths to the house during parental absences, not once but twice (I think CDs melted into the carpet featured), we feel rather proud to have such a reliable daughter.
And I was sorry to miss seeing the little ones and Richard's family on Sunday.
We had a delightful time on Sunday, off to Glyndebourne to see "the Turn of the Screw". A pity we had to miss the family & friends coming to the flat to celebrate Becky's birthday. Still, as Becky had bought the tickets as a Fortieth anniversary present, there was no contest really.
We chatted to some other opera-goers about this. "Ah", they said knowingly "She just wanted you out of the way while she parties." We laughed. "Certainly the value attached to getting parents out of the way goes up as the children get older", I joked. "But I'm not complaining!"
In My Day
As I was growing up I heard many horror stories of young peoples' parties getting out of hand (the stories got into the newspapers which shows what a new phenomenon they were back in the '60s) but never seemed to have any friends who'd actually trashed their parents' house.
Eventually, of course, we had to consider the issue of the girls having parties in their teens. Maybe it was because we lived so far in the country that roving young 'uns were unlikely to turn up or because the size of the family meant that most parties mainly consisted of cousins, but we rarely had problems. Lizzie never seemed to mind much if we were around anyway.
Becky, who loved her independence, preferred to strike a bargain. One Christmas (about 1993, I think) she asked if she could have a party while we were out at the annual Flare Xmas do. We had planned to stay overnight in Bath. "OK", we said "We're doing some Christmas shopping and expect to be back about four. So you've time to get it in order. Get this wrong and it's the last time." A little anxiously we set off for our own frolics (consisting, I seem to remember of a crazed murder mystery event). The following day, having done a fair bit of shopping we phonedBecky to warn her that we were on our way.
The house was gleaming - just one little wine stain which Becky was busily cleaning up. She'd certainly kept her side of the bargain and earned a few more points in her progress towards independence.
When, a few years later we trusted her alone in the house for ten days during Glastonbury Festival week, and found the house equally immaculate on our return, friends laughed at our gullibility. "What about all those wild parties she had while you away?" one scoffed. "Well", I said "if she did have parties, she can clearly handle it as everything was tickety-boo."
And even though chocolate from a chocolate fountain hit the ceiling during Cousmass 2005, causing Becky to have a complete sense of humour bypass, it was all cleaned up by the time we returned and we only knew about because the girls told us.
As we knew some people whose apparently docile daughter invited a trashing set of local youths to the house during parental absences, not once but twice (I think CDs melted into the carpet featured), we feel rather proud to have such a reliable daughter.
And I was sorry to miss seeing the little ones and Richard's family on Sunday.
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