Today
A friend's Facebook status today said that, as it was tipping down with rain, they were off to the zoo. "After all", she explained "We're British!"
In My Day
Somewhere in the British psyche is the assumption that events go ahead whatever the weather. In the arena in Verona the music stops with one drop of rain.
We were living in Southampton at the time, which makes it 1986, and our friends the Levetts came to visit. One of the local attractions was the Beaulieu Motor Museum. So off we set, complete with picnic. I'm sure we had a lovely time; the men enjoyed the classic car show and talked cars, carburettors and the old days. We girls didn't really object to the display of fine old cars and chatted as old friends do.
Eventually we all felt hungry and went to collect the picnic, groundsheet etc. Beaulieu has some beautiful woods and we found a clearing and spread out the food. This wasn't just an affair of a few sandwiches; I'd undoubtedly made salad, little rice burgers, hard-boiled eggs and provided cheese, bread and so on. So it took a while to lay it all out, complete with serviettes and plates. We ignored the darkening skies.
As the first drops of rain pattered gently on the leaves above we resolutely munched on. It became chilly. The rain began to penetrate the leaves and land on ourselves and the food. What of it? We're British! A little rain doesn't upset us! We cut into the cheese and filled our mugs with wine, pretending this was all just as it should be.
Suddenly Beverley started guffawing with laughter. "What's up?" we asked. "This is crazy, we're nuts!" she laughed. "Anywhere else in world people would have packed up by now. Anyway, I'm soaked!" We saw the funny side, packed up our sodden picnic and went home.
Now, as then, Beverley had shed the crystal light of common sense. "Bonkers Mad!" was her verdict on her daughter's plans for a day out. Quite.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Live Music
Today
In her latest letter Beatrice described a very jolly Friday night at a local wine bar that culminated in live music. "I really like it when that happens", I enthused.
In My Day
I recall one event, back in 1998. We decided that the way to celebrate Mother's Day would be to book a Landmark Trust property in Suffolk. We chose this location because it also meant that Becky, at that time in university in Norwich, could meet us there.
We took the dog who greatly enjoyed his time at this property, which is a mediaeval manor house with no chimney, only louvres to release the smoke (not that we were in this part; we stayed in the new, Elizabethan wing). The only way to get to the house was on foot. We parked the car at the field gate, donned wellies, put our bags into the thoughtfully provided wheelbarrows, and were all set.
On the way we had passed through a pretty little village called Hawkedon. We pulled up outside The Queen's Head, which was advertising Mother's Day lunches, and Paul went in and booked a table. Perfect.
Sunday dawned fair and chilly and, leaving Cas happily playing with some little piles of stones, we walked across the fields to the pub. We were greeted by the Australian landlady, who looked like a contender for England's roughest landlady. We had a fair-to-middling lunch. The landlady was very chatty, and when Paul had got over being told that she'd thought him to be a "right w****r" when she first saw him, we were chatty too. She told us that there was going to be some live music that afternoon and why didn't we stay on?
"Well, we would," we said "But we've left the dog at the cottage." "Oh, that's alright, my barman will drive you over to get him!" Which he did; Cas arrived and was very happy with a bowl of water and some packets of crisps of his very own.
Mum decided that a few more Harvey's Bristol Creams couldn't do her any harm and talked long and volubly to anyone who'd listen about her lovely granddaughter. Her lovely granddaughter proved her student credentials by putting away several pints of the local ale, "Old Ken" by name and playing snooker with the locals. Paul also put away much Old Ken and became very jocose. I concentrated on red wine and listened to many anecdotes delivered by the landlord. Did we dance a bit? Maybe.
As it began to get dusk, mindful of the walk across the fields, we said we'd have to go. The landlady again proffered the help of her barman. He was the only one who hadn't been drinking and, forgiving Paul for an earlier remark when he'd complained about his elbow being stiff from pulling pints, to the effect that it was the only thing that was (let's blame Old Ken), popped us all, including Cas, into his car when the music had finished. We only had the walk across the field from the gate to accomplish which we did. Paul & Becky instantly went to bed to work through the Old Ken while Mum and I stayed by the fire, talking and updating the log book.
I remember all of this. What I can't remember anything about was the music except that it was very loud.
In her latest letter Beatrice described a very jolly Friday night at a local wine bar that culminated in live music. "I really like it when that happens", I enthused.
In My Day
I recall one event, back in 1998. We decided that the way to celebrate Mother's Day would be to book a Landmark Trust property in Suffolk. We chose this location because it also meant that Becky, at that time in university in Norwich, could meet us there.We took the dog who greatly enjoyed his time at this property, which is a mediaeval manor house with no chimney, only louvres to release the smoke (not that we were in this part; we stayed in the new, Elizabethan wing). The only way to get to the house was on foot. We parked the car at the field gate, donned wellies, put our bags into the thoughtfully provided wheelbarrows, and were all set.
On the way we had passed through a pretty little village called Hawkedon. We pulled up outside The Queen's Head, which was advertising Mother's Day lunches, and Paul went in and booked a table. Perfect.
Sunday dawned fair and chilly and, leaving Cas happily playing with some little piles of stones, we walked across the fields to the pub. We were greeted by the Australian landlady, who looked like a contender for England's roughest landlady. We had a fair-to-middling lunch. The landlady was very chatty, and when Paul had got over being told that she'd thought him to be a "right w****r" when she first saw him, we were chatty too. She told us that there was going to be some live music that afternoon and why didn't we stay on?
"Well, we would," we said "But we've left the dog at the cottage." "Oh, that's alright, my barman will drive you over to get him!" Which he did; Cas arrived and was very happy with a bowl of water and some packets of crisps of his very own.
Mum decided that a few more Harvey's Bristol Creams couldn't do her any harm and talked long and volubly to anyone who'd listen about her lovely granddaughter. Her lovely granddaughter proved her student credentials by putting away several pints of the local ale, "Old Ken" by name and playing snooker with the locals. Paul also put away much Old Ken and became very jocose. I concentrated on red wine and listened to many anecdotes delivered by the landlord. Did we dance a bit? Maybe.
As it began to get dusk, mindful of the walk across the fields, we said we'd have to go. The landlady again proffered the help of her barman. He was the only one who hadn't been drinking and, forgiving Paul for an earlier remark when he'd complained about his elbow being stiff from pulling pints, to the effect that it was the only thing that was (let's blame Old Ken), popped us all, including Cas, into his car when the music had finished. We only had the walk across the field from the gate to accomplish which we did. Paul & Becky instantly went to bed to work through the Old Ken while Mum and I stayed by the fire, talking and updating the log book.
I remember all of this. What I can't remember anything about was the music except that it was very loud.
Friday, October 21, 2011
L'enfant et les Sortileges
Today
Last night I spent a most enjoyable evening in the company of The Rambert Dance Company. One of their pieces was a delightful interpretation of Ravel's "L'Enfant et les Sortileges" in which the dancers portrayed children at play. Sometimes it was light-hearted, sometime sinister; children were fighting one minute, best friends the next. They joined in a range of apparently spontaneous dancing against an enchanted forest backdrop that, too, changed from beautiful to terrifying.
On the way home I talked to Paul about the games we played as children. "Are they quite lost now?" I asked.
In My Day
I don't go to many small children's parties these days but when I do, it seems that the adults have provided a bouncy castle, a MacDonald's tea or children's entertainer to take charge while they sit around, drinking wine and chatting. The kinds of games we used to play seem little in evidence.
I went to a fair number of children's parties when I was small and certainly Beatrice and I gave parties on our birthdays. (I don't remember any given by the boys - I wonder if that's accurate?) There was a standard set of games to be played. You didn't need to have the rules explained; they got into your brain sort of osmotically.
Nearly all of them involved some sort of skill and prizes and forfeits were the order of the day. We played blind man's buff, pinning the tail on the donkey, held races and skipping contests. "Simon Says" was guaranteed to produce much laughter as Simon thought of more and more absurd things for you to do. I suppose that game could be seen as the start of the ten steps to tyranny, but we enjoyed it; all the more when it was your turn to be Simon.
Some games were quite scary "What's the Time, Mr Wolf?" could produce a real thrill of fear as you waited for the moment when he shouted "Dinner Time!" and rushed at you.
One game I dredged up from my memory was "Oranges & Lemons". This was a dance in which two children (usually the tallest) stood facing each other with their hands forming an arch. The rest of the children would form a sort of a crocodile and weave under the arch as we all sang the song. As we came to the bit "Here comes the candle to light you to bed" the singing became a chant and went faster and faster and the arch would move up and down in a sawing motion. The trick was to dodge through when the arch was at its highest so that you weren't caught. Some luckless child would eventually become pinioned as the chopper came down faster and faster and you were "dead". This child probably had to pay a forfeit, too.
All in all, parties could be competitive affairs and it's no wonder that the occasional child would hide under the table and refuse to come out! But maybe they are just another preparation for the unpredictability of life itself and I'm not at all convinced that a tiny bit of fear, especially in a safe context, isn't healthy for the development of children.
Last night I spent a most enjoyable evening in the company of The Rambert Dance Company. One of their pieces was a delightful interpretation of Ravel's "L'Enfant et les Sortileges" in which the dancers portrayed children at play. Sometimes it was light-hearted, sometime sinister; children were fighting one minute, best friends the next. They joined in a range of apparently spontaneous dancing against an enchanted forest backdrop that, too, changed from beautiful to terrifying.
On the way home I talked to Paul about the games we played as children. "Are they quite lost now?" I asked.
In My Day
I don't go to many small children's parties these days but when I do, it seems that the adults have provided a bouncy castle, a MacDonald's tea or children's entertainer to take charge while they sit around, drinking wine and chatting. The kinds of games we used to play seem little in evidence.
I went to a fair number of children's parties when I was small and certainly Beatrice and I gave parties on our birthdays. (I don't remember any given by the boys - I wonder if that's accurate?) There was a standard set of games to be played. You didn't need to have the rules explained; they got into your brain sort of osmotically.
Nearly all of them involved some sort of skill and prizes and forfeits were the order of the day. We played blind man's buff, pinning the tail on the donkey, held races and skipping contests. "Simon Says" was guaranteed to produce much laughter as Simon thought of more and more absurd things for you to do. I suppose that game could be seen as the start of the ten steps to tyranny, but we enjoyed it; all the more when it was your turn to be Simon.
Some games were quite scary "What's the Time, Mr Wolf?" could produce a real thrill of fear as you waited for the moment when he shouted "Dinner Time!" and rushed at you.
One game I dredged up from my memory was "Oranges & Lemons". This was a dance in which two children (usually the tallest) stood facing each other with their hands forming an arch. The rest of the children would form a sort of a crocodile and weave under the arch as we all sang the song. As we came to the bit "Here comes the candle to light you to bed" the singing became a chant and went faster and faster and the arch would move up and down in a sawing motion. The trick was to dodge through when the arch was at its highest so that you weren't caught. Some luckless child would eventually become pinioned as the chopper came down faster and faster and you were "dead". This child probably had to pay a forfeit, too.
All in all, parties could be competitive affairs and it's no wonder that the occasional child would hide under the table and refuse to come out! But maybe they are just another preparation for the unpredictability of life itself and I'm not at all convinced that a tiny bit of fear, especially in a safe context, isn't healthy for the development of children.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Packing it in
Today
As is usual for this time of year, at least in David's world, there is a glut of courgettes/marrows. Having mentioned something about this on Facebook, it now appears that he is committed to sending a courgette (just one?) to our niece Andie up in the Midlands.
I don't know the best way of packing up a courgette so that it won't get bruised or crushed (will bubblewrap do the business?) and it'll have to be sent first class to ensure that "straight from the garden" freshness.
In My Day
Mamma was never one for forgetting birthdays and anniversaries and we could guarantee that each wedding anniversary would produce a highly appropriate gift.
In 1975 we had just moved to Rowan Avenue when our fourth anniversary came round. I'm not very good at the detail of anniversary meanings, only knowing silver, pearl, gold etc with any certainty, so when a somewhat squashed cardboard box arrived from Mamma for our anniversary, I was very excited and very curious.
We opened up the box together. Inside, residing lopsidedly on some kitchen paper, was a pineapple. It seems that the fourth anniversary is "fruit and flowers" and Mamma thought that a pineapple would be just the thing.
Two problems, tho'. Firstly, it was clear that she hadn't quite mastered the art of packing it, because half of it was quite crushed. Secondly, I suspect that she'd sent it parcel post, pineapples being rather heavy, and this one was now well beyond its "use by" date and the half that wasn't crushed was mildewed.
We thanked Mamma as enthusiastically as we could, rather regretting our lost pineapple, and never had the temerity to ask her why she hadn't just taken the easy option and send flowers via Interflora!
As is usual for this time of year, at least in David's world, there is a glut of courgettes/marrows. Having mentioned something about this on Facebook, it now appears that he is committed to sending a courgette (just one?) to our niece Andie up in the Midlands.
I don't know the best way of packing up a courgette so that it won't get bruised or crushed (will bubblewrap do the business?) and it'll have to be sent first class to ensure that "straight from the garden" freshness.
In My Day
Mamma was never one for forgetting birthdays and anniversaries and we could guarantee that each wedding anniversary would produce a highly appropriate gift.
In 1975 we had just moved to Rowan Avenue when our fourth anniversary came round. I'm not very good at the detail of anniversary meanings, only knowing silver, pearl, gold etc with any certainty, so when a somewhat squashed cardboard box arrived from Mamma for our anniversary, I was very excited and very curious.
We opened up the box together. Inside, residing lopsidedly on some kitchen paper, was a pineapple. It seems that the fourth anniversary is "fruit and flowers" and Mamma thought that a pineapple would be just the thing.
Two problems, tho'. Firstly, it was clear that she hadn't quite mastered the art of packing it, because half of it was quite crushed. Secondly, I suspect that she'd sent it parcel post, pineapples being rather heavy, and this one was now well beyond its "use by" date and the half that wasn't crushed was mildewed.
We thanked Mamma as enthusiastically as we could, rather regretting our lost pineapple, and never had the temerity to ask her why she hadn't just taken the easy option and send flowers via Interflora!
Brainiac
Today
Writing to my sister today, I was reflecting on the varying qualities of us four siblings. "There's no doubt about it", I wrote "Chris is just cleverer than I am."
In My Day
It's difficult enough having older siblings always there to point out the inadequacies inevitable to your junior status, without it being obvious that they are cleverer than you anyway. This was nowhere more obvious than in my relationship with Chris. David was away at boarding school for so much of the time that his undoubted braininess was less in daily evidence, so to speak.
Chris was often left in charge of Beatrice and me and, if Mamma's diaries are to be believed, was very good at it. It seemed that whatever he turned his hand to he could do well. He was good at maths and English and music and sport and so on. He was also clearly quite good-looking. I clung tenaciously to my superiority in the arts world but I remember one year we made our own Christmas cards and I thought that Chris's were superior to mine both in point of design and use of colour. And he once did a design for the family Christmas cake that made it the cake to end all cakes.
I think I probably believed just about everything he told me into the bargain and it's only in adulthood that I've separated out the true from the rubbish from the teasing.
One Christmas I was given a puppet as a gift. It was a string puppet and I loved it. I called it Poko which was about all the ownership I could claim. I was only nine and, maybe, if I could have taken Poko away in secret to practise, I might have mastered the necessary skills. Chris took up this puppet and immediately was master of the art. There's a picture in the family album that says it all.
I am ever grateful to Chris for being my champion, friend and mentor, but I have to remind myself that I've made a pretty good hand out of adulthood and that there is more to life than braininess.
Writing to my sister today, I was reflecting on the varying qualities of us four siblings. "There's no doubt about it", I wrote "Chris is just cleverer than I am."
In My Day
It's difficult enough having older siblings always there to point out the inadequacies inevitable to your junior status, without it being obvious that they are cleverer than you anyway. This was nowhere more obvious than in my relationship with Chris. David was away at boarding school for so much of the time that his undoubted braininess was less in daily evidence, so to speak.
Chris was often left in charge of Beatrice and me and, if Mamma's diaries are to be believed, was very good at it. It seemed that whatever he turned his hand to he could do well. He was good at maths and English and music and sport and so on. He was also clearly quite good-looking. I clung tenaciously to my superiority in the arts world but I remember one year we made our own Christmas cards and I thought that Chris's were superior to mine both in point of design and use of colour. And he once did a design for the family Christmas cake that made it the cake to end all cakes.I think I probably believed just about everything he told me into the bargain and it's only in adulthood that I've separated out the true from the rubbish from the teasing.
One Christmas I was given a puppet as a gift. It was a string puppet and I loved it. I called it Poko which was about all the ownership I could claim. I was only nine and, maybe, if I could have taken Poko away in secret to practise, I might have mastered the necessary skills. Chris took up this puppet and immediately was master of the art. There's a picture in the family album that says it all.
I am ever grateful to Chris for being my champion, friend and mentor, but I have to remind myself that I've made a pretty good hand out of adulthood and that there is more to life than braininess.
Sunday, October 09, 2011
Perambulations
Today
Such a funny picture on Facebook today of my little great-niece Evie with her brother in the doll's pram. He looked very happy to be there!
In My Day
How Becky loved her doll's pram. It was a very neat little affair with hood and collapsible wheeled base. I think it may have been handed down from Lizzie who was given it for her fifth birthday. I had bought it using some money-off vouchers given me in the maternity ward when I was having Becky.
Becky had many dolls and cuddly toys and spent hours with selected "babies" tucked up in this pram, wheeling them around the garden at Montfort Close.
There was another little child of about her age living in the close, Heidi Turner by name, and she often came down to play with Becky.
On one occasion I saw the two of them, each with their doll's prams solemnly doing the garden circuit. I strolled up to say "hello" and peeked into the prams to see which dolls were being given an airing today. My relaxed demeanour changed rapidly when I saw that the "dolls" were actually our two tortoises, on their backs, most firmly and neatly tucked in with turned-down sheets and everything. Their little front legs were waving about helplessly and they looked most miserable.
I scooped out the unfortunate animals and popped them back into their enclosure. It was hard to be angry with the two little girls who were only about five years' old and who had clearly thought that Columbus and Bobbie would be all the better for their airing. I carefully explained the danger. Becky certainly understood but I'm not sure about Heidi because I later found her bouncing Columbus along the ground making the sort of revving noises that are usually reserved for playing with toy cars. I was less gentle with her that time.
At least Max is more than capable of making his feelings clear when he gets tired of being wheeled about by his sister.
Such a funny picture on Facebook today of my little great-niece Evie with her brother in the doll's pram. He looked very happy to be there!
In My Day
How Becky loved her doll's pram. It was a very neat little affair with hood and collapsible wheeled base. I think it may have been handed down from Lizzie who was given it for her fifth birthday. I had bought it using some money-off vouchers given me in the maternity ward when I was having Becky.
Becky had many dolls and cuddly toys and spent hours with selected "babies" tucked up in this pram, wheeling them around the garden at Montfort Close.
There was another little child of about her age living in the close, Heidi Turner by name, and she often came down to play with Becky.
On one occasion I saw the two of them, each with their doll's prams solemnly doing the garden circuit. I strolled up to say "hello" and peeked into the prams to see which dolls were being given an airing today. My relaxed demeanour changed rapidly when I saw that the "dolls" were actually our two tortoises, on their backs, most firmly and neatly tucked in with turned-down sheets and everything. Their little front legs were waving about helplessly and they looked most miserable.
I scooped out the unfortunate animals and popped them back into their enclosure. It was hard to be angry with the two little girls who were only about five years' old and who had clearly thought that Columbus and Bobbie would be all the better for their airing. I carefully explained the danger. Becky certainly understood but I'm not sure about Heidi because I later found her bouncing Columbus along the ground making the sort of revving noises that are usually reserved for playing with toy cars. I was less gentle with her that time.
At least Max is more than capable of making his feelings clear when he gets tired of being wheeled about by his sister.
Friday, October 07, 2011
Toast
Today
There's no doubt about it, toast made from my home-made bread is very special.Very crispy and good with jam. The slices are rather too large for our toaster so I cook them under the grill. Ordinary sliced bread goes in the toaster, of course. The toaster at the flat is a Dualit and relies on you depressing and raising a lever to get at the bread, unlike the standard pop-up toaster, and tends to allow smoke to waft perilously close to the smoke detector.
In My Day
At 4BH we actually owned a toasting fork which wasn't purely ornamental. In winter time when the fire was lit we would often make toast and do crumpets at the fire using this implement. There was an art to getting it just right. If you put it over flames, the bread would simply go up in flames too. But you wanted to avoid smokey bits as the toast then merely tasted sooty. The way to do it was to find a nice patch of hot glowing coals and hold the bread over that. There was a moment to be caught between the bread being merely rather hot and turning into charcoal. I think we often had to chuck away toast or eat charcoal and soot smeared with butter, because we'd missed these crucial details. Your face got pretty hot and red in the process and you became in need of refreshing cups of tea pretty regularly!
We did use the eye-level grill of our gas cooker to make toast as well. This was for many years rather above eye-level for me which made making toast hazardous in a different way.
How exciting it was when Daddy bought our first pop-up toaster! It was a dining room, not kitchen item and toast would be made at the table as we needed it. I think that it had two wide slots, each of which took two slices of bread. Mamma had by this time discovered Wonderloaf so toasting became a standardised process. To get your toast cooked on both sides you had to remove it after it had popped up and reverse the pieces. Daddy was a fan of what he called "Dutch Toast" whereby you had one toasted and one untoasted side, putting the butter and marmalade on the soft side. I don't know where Daddy got the name from; maybe he made it up so that this half-and-half affair would acquire some status and desirability. Certainly when I googled it I found images of rounded items that resembled large Melba toasts with unappetising slices of Gouda cheese on them!
What is interesting is that toast, probably originally a way of using up stale bread, is now an essential part of breakfast and is best made with fresh bread.
There's no doubt about it, toast made from my home-made bread is very special.Very crispy and good with jam. The slices are rather too large for our toaster so I cook them under the grill. Ordinary sliced bread goes in the toaster, of course. The toaster at the flat is a Dualit and relies on you depressing and raising a lever to get at the bread, unlike the standard pop-up toaster, and tends to allow smoke to waft perilously close to the smoke detector.
In My Day
At 4BH we actually owned a toasting fork which wasn't purely ornamental. In winter time when the fire was lit we would often make toast and do crumpets at the fire using this implement. There was an art to getting it just right. If you put it over flames, the bread would simply go up in flames too. But you wanted to avoid smokey bits as the toast then merely tasted sooty. The way to do it was to find a nice patch of hot glowing coals and hold the bread over that. There was a moment to be caught between the bread being merely rather hot and turning into charcoal. I think we often had to chuck away toast or eat charcoal and soot smeared with butter, because we'd missed these crucial details. Your face got pretty hot and red in the process and you became in need of refreshing cups of tea pretty regularly!
We did use the eye-level grill of our gas cooker to make toast as well. This was for many years rather above eye-level for me which made making toast hazardous in a different way.
How exciting it was when Daddy bought our first pop-up toaster! It was a dining room, not kitchen item and toast would be made at the table as we needed it. I think that it had two wide slots, each of which took two slices of bread. Mamma had by this time discovered Wonderloaf so toasting became a standardised process. To get your toast cooked on both sides you had to remove it after it had popped up and reverse the pieces. Daddy was a fan of what he called "Dutch Toast" whereby you had one toasted and one untoasted side, putting the butter and marmalade on the soft side. I don't know where Daddy got the name from; maybe he made it up so that this half-and-half affair would acquire some status and desirability. Certainly when I googled it I found images of rounded items that resembled large Melba toasts with unappetising slices of Gouda cheese on them!
What is interesting is that toast, probably originally a way of using up stale bread, is now an essential part of breakfast and is best made with fresh bread.
Crossing Plant
Today
Many of the properties we view are enhanced, if that's the word, by being covered with vegetation. Nothing, it is true, gives a house such an air of venerability as being covered with ivy. But the house at Croscombe is all but smothered under a clematis "Montana Rubens" and a huge wisteria and the owner of one house in Chilcompton was despairingly resigned to the ingress of his clematis into the garage.
In My Day
Our house in Stoke St Michael was built in the late 1970s, so when we moved in in 1986, it still had rather a raw look, so to speak. I took the back garden in hand, sowing grass seed on the muddy patch and planting a range of shrubs. Now for the front! The previous owners had, somewhat recklessly, planted five conifers directly in front of the house which threatened the foundations and each other, but the house itself was still rather bare.
"The thing to give it instant gravitas", I said to Paul with confidence "is a Russian Vine - it's known as "mile-a-minute" because it grows so fast!" Paul, whose horticultural knowledge is about as extensive as mine is of Sanskrit, blithely took my word for it. He even attached the trellis to the house front for me.
The plant was bought, planted and prospered. How wonderful the house looked, covered in this gracious vine. In summer it was covered with racemes of tiny creamy flowers and I began to feel very proud of my sagacity. OK, it had twisted itself inextricably around the TV aerial cable, but that didn't seem to affect our TV watching.
The plant first became seen as a problem when it encroached into our bedroom via the ever-open window. Tendrils waved threateningly over the bed and I began to have "Little Shop of Horrors" types of dreams. Would it engulf us in the night and would our strangled corpses be discovered by people who had to hack their way through with machetes?
Next, it found its way into the loft forcing its way under the eaves. Lack of sunlight made these outriders turn white and spindly. Somehow that made it all seem even more threatening. Pruning the beast only seemed to encourage it.
Eventually, after a couple of years' growth had sent it over the roof, causing our little house to all but disappear I decided it had to go.
With energy I began to cut it away at the base. The stems aren't particularly tough and soon I had cut through them all. But it wouldn't come down, as it was still firmly attached to the TV cable.
So up I went into the spare room and leaned out of the window with my secateurs, hacking away at strand after strand. The vine swayed menacingly. Finally, I thought "Nothing for it! The cable with have to go, too." I cut through the cable and the vine's last hold on the house was gone. The entire plant crashed onto the front garden taking with it the trellis. "Geronimo!" I shouted. An answering cheer went up. It seemed that all the neighbours had gathered to watch this astounding event and that they were as glad as I was to see it go !
So, venerable or not, those clematis and wisteria had better watch out!
Many of the properties we view are enhanced, if that's the word, by being covered with vegetation. Nothing, it is true, gives a house such an air of venerability as being covered with ivy. But the house at Croscombe is all but smothered under a clematis "Montana Rubens" and a huge wisteria and the owner of one house in Chilcompton was despairingly resigned to the ingress of his clematis into the garage.
In My Day
Our house in Stoke St Michael was built in the late 1970s, so when we moved in in 1986, it still had rather a raw look, so to speak. I took the back garden in hand, sowing grass seed on the muddy patch and planting a range of shrubs. Now for the front! The previous owners had, somewhat recklessly, planted five conifers directly in front of the house which threatened the foundations and each other, but the house itself was still rather bare.
"The thing to give it instant gravitas", I said to Paul with confidence "is a Russian Vine - it's known as "mile-a-minute" because it grows so fast!" Paul, whose horticultural knowledge is about as extensive as mine is of Sanskrit, blithely took my word for it. He even attached the trellis to the house front for me.
The plant was bought, planted and prospered. How wonderful the house looked, covered in this gracious vine. In summer it was covered with racemes of tiny creamy flowers and I began to feel very proud of my sagacity. OK, it had twisted itself inextricably around the TV aerial cable, but that didn't seem to affect our TV watching.
The plant first became seen as a problem when it encroached into our bedroom via the ever-open window. Tendrils waved threateningly over the bed and I began to have "Little Shop of Horrors" types of dreams. Would it engulf us in the night and would our strangled corpses be discovered by people who had to hack their way through with machetes?Next, it found its way into the loft forcing its way under the eaves. Lack of sunlight made these outriders turn white and spindly. Somehow that made it all seem even more threatening. Pruning the beast only seemed to encourage it.
Eventually, after a couple of years' growth had sent it over the roof, causing our little house to all but disappear I decided it had to go.
With energy I began to cut it away at the base. The stems aren't particularly tough and soon I had cut through them all. But it wouldn't come down, as it was still firmly attached to the TV cable.
So up I went into the spare room and leaned out of the window with my secateurs, hacking away at strand after strand. The vine swayed menacingly. Finally, I thought "Nothing for it! The cable with have to go, too." I cut through the cable and the vine's last hold on the house was gone. The entire plant crashed onto the front garden taking with it the trellis. "Geronimo!" I shouted. An answering cheer went up. It seemed that all the neighbours had gathered to watch this astounding event and that they were as glad as I was to see it go !
So, venerable or not, those clematis and wisteria had better watch out!
Wednesday, October 05, 2011
Wheelie Awful
Today
I heard a story today about a young man who thought that it was a great idea to practice doing handbrake turns and wheelies in the local Tesco carpark during business hours. The local police and magistrates let him feel the full weight of the law including imposing a driving ban and the destruction of his car.
"That's a bit draconian", commented Paul. "Well, he was warned three times and the carpark was in use. He might have injured a child..." I countered.
In my Day
I am ever grateful to Paul for teaching me how to drive. He allowed me to take the wheel on almost all our journeys and was methodical and calm.
There are some maneuvers which are best not practised too often on the public highway. Back in 1985 supermarkets closed on Sundays so Paul did, indeed, take me to the local Tesco carpark for some practice.
Not, I hasten to add, to do handbrake turns and wheelies, but to get on top of clutch control, reversing around corners, parking and steering. Paul would take a few two litre lemonade bottles with us. These he artistically placed in chicanes across the carpark and I had to drive between them and reverse around them without knocking any over.
I had to reverse around the kerbstones in the car park and do three-point turns between lemonade bottles. Week after week Paul would take me and I became better and better at these skills and still do a mean hill start.
We were often entirely alone in the carpark and no-one ever came to tell us off.
So what do learner drivers do today, now that shops are open seven days a week?
I heard a story today about a young man who thought that it was a great idea to practice doing handbrake turns and wheelies in the local Tesco carpark during business hours. The local police and magistrates let him feel the full weight of the law including imposing a driving ban and the destruction of his car.
"That's a bit draconian", commented Paul. "Well, he was warned three times and the carpark was in use. He might have injured a child..." I countered.
In my Day
I am ever grateful to Paul for teaching me how to drive. He allowed me to take the wheel on almost all our journeys and was methodical and calm.
There are some maneuvers which are best not practised too often on the public highway. Back in 1985 supermarkets closed on Sundays so Paul did, indeed, take me to the local Tesco carpark for some practice.
Not, I hasten to add, to do handbrake turns and wheelies, but to get on top of clutch control, reversing around corners, parking and steering. Paul would take a few two litre lemonade bottles with us. These he artistically placed in chicanes across the carpark and I had to drive between them and reverse around them without knocking any over.
I had to reverse around the kerbstones in the car park and do three-point turns between lemonade bottles. Week after week Paul would take me and I became better and better at these skills and still do a mean hill start.
We were often entirely alone in the carpark and no-one ever came to tell us off.
So what do learner drivers do today, now that shops are open seven days a week?
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