Today
When you are living through one of the wettest summers since about 1759, it helps to look at the advantages. One of those is that flaws in a building quickly become apparent. So, while we still have builders in the house, we could ask them to check out the damp patch appearing on our newly decorated sitting room wall. The trouble, it seems, is from an ill-fitting seal on the balcony above and will be remedied by our talented builder.
In My Day
In 2000 or thereabouts we decided to extend 7 Mead Close in the only possible way - upwards. We looked around and selected a local builder who came up with an attractive design, including gable, that maximised the available space. That summer was fairly dry, although cold, and work started briskly.
We endured weeks of "radio wars" with several builders all playing their radios simultaneously on different stations, and coped with having scaffolding all round the building. It would all be worth it.
After a while we began to notice that work was slowing down. Unknown workers appeared, brought in from agencies, of very variable quality. The builder began to get twitchy about being paid some money. Clearly his business was in trouble and he couldn't afford to keep on his regular staff or sub-contractors.
Eventually, in October, the final touches were put into place. We went to bed that night, relieved to be rid of bodging carpenters, ill-mannered labourers and skip drivers and the encircling scaffolding. That night the wind got up and the rain teemed down all night. The kitchen faced west and received the full brunt.
In the morning I went downstairs to admire the new kitchen, to find water pouring in through the lintel above the window. The paint hung in hammocks , spilling water freely and there was a large damp patch where the extension joined the house. As I stood there, open-mouthed, the builder rang. "Can I come by and get my final payment?" he asked. "Well, when you've sorted out all this water that's pouring into my kitchen," I replied.
He came over and assessed the problem. It seems that the incompetent jobbing brickies had inserted the lintel porous side out and had not correctly fitted the flashing between the extension and main house. Out came the window and the whole front had to be redone. When the plasterer turned up he said "I only came because I knew it was you - I haven't been paid for the past three jobs I've done for this company."
Eventually building control came and signed off the job and we paid our builder. Without the rain we might never have noticed until he was a distant spot on the horizon.
Even so, I wouldn't mind finding out what might happen after a long dry spell.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Sunday, August 26, 2012
Changing Places
Today
The other day I received a lovely email from my Honduran cousin Ernesto, in response to my change of address notification. We'd had such a lovely time visiting my cousins in Honduras this Spring and this was the first time I'd met most of them. "Don't leave it another sixty years", said Ernesto.
Now, Honduras is a third world country and isn't exactly a popular destination for European settlers, so how did I come to have first cousins living in Tegucigalpa?
In My Day
My German mother was born in 1913 to an Aryan mother and Jewish father. She had two older brothers, Heinrich (Heine) and Ernst and a much younger sister Maria.
By all accounts she had a comfortable and privileged childhood in a village near Hamburg. Her father no longer lived with them but they had plenty of everything - good food, company, culture and education.
In 1933, at nineteen years' old. my mother stood on the brink of of adulthood. She'd matriculated from school and was preparing to enter university where she hoped to study art history, a choice generally reserved for someone who does not expect to face poverty or difficulty.
Also in 1933 Hitler came to power and almost immediately set about dismantling opportunities for Jews and part-Jews. As a result Mamma was barred from engaging in any kind of higher education and her opportunities quickly dwindled to those of manual labourer or domestic servant.
As the situation became worse, she, her brothers and many other Jews and part-Jews who were able to, left Germany. Mamma was following a boyfriend Heinz (was he a chef? I dimly remember her telling me this) who had escaped to the US. She came to England with her English employers, but never left, probably being trapped by the outbreak of WWII.
Heine and Ernst happened to have friends in Guatemala so going there seemed the easiest thing to do. It must have been a long journey by several boats to arrive in a place so different from Europe where little German was spoken and where all your hard-won skills were useless. There Ernst met a Honduran woman (very beautiful, judging by the pictures) married her and settled in Honduras where he had five children and worked for a pharmaceutical company in Tegucigalpa. It was clear that he relied for quite a while on the international brotherhood of Jews who will help their own.
(Heine, although he, too, married locally, later returned to Berlin where his family still lives).
Mamma never saw Ernst again, although they did write to each other.
Their story is matched in many ways by others in the whole history of humanity who have been forced to leave their home by war, hunger or persecution. For some the result was disastrous, for others the key to success. But for all of them it's a terrifying choice, born of desperation, and we should never forget that when considering the position of newcomers into our own country.
I feel sure that if Mamma and Ernst were alive today they would have been delighted at our cousinly meeting. And, no, Ernesto, I'll try not to leave it another sixty years.
The other day I received a lovely email from my Honduran cousin Ernesto, in response to my change of address notification. We'd had such a lovely time visiting my cousins in Honduras this Spring and this was the first time I'd met most of them. "Don't leave it another sixty years", said Ernesto.
Now, Honduras is a third world country and isn't exactly a popular destination for European settlers, so how did I come to have first cousins living in Tegucigalpa?
In My Day
My German mother was born in 1913 to an Aryan mother and Jewish father. She had two older brothers, Heinrich (Heine) and Ernst and a much younger sister Maria.
By all accounts she had a comfortable and privileged childhood in a village near Hamburg. Her father no longer lived with them but they had plenty of everything - good food, company, culture and education.
In 1933, at nineteen years' old. my mother stood on the brink of of adulthood. She'd matriculated from school and was preparing to enter university where she hoped to study art history, a choice generally reserved for someone who does not expect to face poverty or difficulty.
Also in 1933 Hitler came to power and almost immediately set about dismantling opportunities for Jews and part-Jews. As a result Mamma was barred from engaging in any kind of higher education and her opportunities quickly dwindled to those of manual labourer or domestic servant.
As the situation became worse, she, her brothers and many other Jews and part-Jews who were able to, left Germany. Mamma was following a boyfriend Heinz (was he a chef? I dimly remember her telling me this) who had escaped to the US. She came to England with her English employers, but never left, probably being trapped by the outbreak of WWII.
Heine and Ernst happened to have friends in Guatemala so going there seemed the easiest thing to do. It must have been a long journey by several boats to arrive in a place so different from Europe where little German was spoken and where all your hard-won skills were useless. There Ernst met a Honduran woman (very beautiful, judging by the pictures) married her and settled in Honduras where he had five children and worked for a pharmaceutical company in Tegucigalpa. It was clear that he relied for quite a while on the international brotherhood of Jews who will help their own.
(Heine, although he, too, married locally, later returned to Berlin where his family still lives).
Mamma never saw Ernst again, although they did write to each other.
Their story is matched in many ways by others in the whole history of humanity who have been forced to leave their home by war, hunger or persecution. For some the result was disastrous, for others the key to success. But for all of them it's a terrifying choice, born of desperation, and we should never forget that when considering the position of newcomers into our own country.
I feel sure that if Mamma and Ernst were alive today they would have been delighted at our cousinly meeting. And, no, Ernesto, I'll try not to leave it another sixty years.
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Glory Hole
Today
One of the reasons we bought Spencer House is to be able to bring the Bentley in out of the rain. We can also put the E-Class away.
So we are working very hard, shifting the boxes out of the garage into their right places. When you talk to people or look around you realise that very few folk actually put their cars into their garages; preferring to use them as dumping grounds for everything they haven't the room for indoors or in lieu of a shed.
In My Day
There were, if I remember correctly, two garages at 4BH. they were wooden structures with pitched roofs and double doors. there was one either side of the house, set back well from the road. As we generally didn't have a car (except for our brief fling with Douglas the Daimler), they clearly didn't house motor vehicles. In fact, I can't remember what was in them. Not garden equipment as that was either in the basement "garden room" or the shed.
The shed was also a pitched roof structure, built laterally against the rear of the garage at the top of the slope. This meant that the slope of the roof ended on one side against the wall of the garage.
At some point in our lives we thought that it would be a good idea to play on this roof. You scrambled up onto the shed roof and once up there you could slide down the slope, clamber over the garage, take up a picnic - anything. Mamma and Daddy didn't seem at all worried for our safety and I actually don't think there were any accidents.
Looking st these pictures reminds me how we girls wore dresses to play in and the boys shirt, ties and jackets. the picture was clearly posed as we all seem uncertain as to what act to put on the for the camera. But we did play on the garage and shed roofs pretty often, although I was, as usual, slightly at variance with the prevailing mood, being afraid
a) of the dangers b) of getting my dress dirty.
Anyway, I am looking forward to being the proud owner of a garage that actually houses cars.
One of the reasons we bought Spencer House is to be able to bring the Bentley in out of the rain. We can also put the E-Class away.
So we are working very hard, shifting the boxes out of the garage into their right places. When you talk to people or look around you realise that very few folk actually put their cars into their garages; preferring to use them as dumping grounds for everything they haven't the room for indoors or in lieu of a shed.
In My Day
There were, if I remember correctly, two garages at 4BH. they were wooden structures with pitched roofs and double doors. there was one either side of the house, set back well from the road. As we generally didn't have a car (except for our brief fling with Douglas the Daimler), they clearly didn't house motor vehicles. In fact, I can't remember what was in them. Not garden equipment as that was either in the basement "garden room" or the shed.The shed was also a pitched roof structure, built laterally against the rear of the garage at the top of the slope. This meant that the slope of the roof ended on one side against the wall of the garage.
At some point in our lives we thought that it would be a good idea to play on this roof. You scrambled up onto the shed roof and once up there you could slide down the slope, clamber over the garage, take up a picnic - anything. Mamma and Daddy didn't seem at all worried for our safety and I actually don't think there were any accidents.
Looking st these pictures reminds me how we girls wore dresses to play in and the boys shirt, ties and jackets. the picture was clearly posed as we all seem uncertain as to what act to put on the for the camera. But we did play on the garage and shed roofs pretty often, although I was, as usual, slightly at variance with the prevailing mood, being afraida) of the dangers b) of getting my dress dirty.
Anyway, I am looking forward to being the proud owner of a garage that actually houses cars.
Saturday, August 18, 2012
Ice Music
Today
After a long day, organising yet more stuff at Spencer House, we are relaxing with some Sancerre Rose and Sigur Ros. Lovely, swimmy music which is truly relaxing me.
In My Day
Was it about 2002? We were in London and decided to catch a ballet performance by the Merce Cunningham Dance Company at the Queen Elizabeth Hall. Becky joined us for this (it was only much later that I discovered what an aversion she has to Avant-garde ballet.)
For the second piece, Merce Cunningham came on stage with his lighting, costume and set directors and his choreographer. He announced that they would draw from a hat to determine which combination of two lighting and stage sets, costumes, choreography and music would form the performance, giving quite a random result. Music would either be by Radiohead or Sigur Ros, an Icelandic band. I knew of Radiohead but had never heard of Sigur Ros so had no idea of what kind of sound world would be involved.
The result, which was fabulously beautiful to my and Paul's eyes (altho' not to Becky who was rather bored) included the Sigur Ros music. The dancers managed to be silent on their bare feet and the images of their beautiful shapes against the swirling backdrop and mysterious Sigur Ros music set the bar for fabulous modern dance, as far as I was concerned.
Merce Cunningham died in 2009, a real loss to the art world; but he changed my heart forever.
After a long day, organising yet more stuff at Spencer House, we are relaxing with some Sancerre Rose and Sigur Ros. Lovely, swimmy music which is truly relaxing me.
In My Day
Was it about 2002? We were in London and decided to catch a ballet performance by the Merce Cunningham Dance Company at the Queen Elizabeth Hall. Becky joined us for this (it was only much later that I discovered what an aversion she has to Avant-garde ballet.)
For the second piece, Merce Cunningham came on stage with his lighting, costume and set directors and his choreographer. He announced that they would draw from a hat to determine which combination of two lighting and stage sets, costumes, choreography and music would form the performance, giving quite a random result. Music would either be by Radiohead or Sigur Ros, an Icelandic band. I knew of Radiohead but had never heard of Sigur Ros so had no idea of what kind of sound world would be involved.The result, which was fabulously beautiful to my and Paul's eyes (altho' not to Becky who was rather bored) included the Sigur Ros music. The dancers managed to be silent on their bare feet and the images of their beautiful shapes against the swirling backdrop and mysterious Sigur Ros music set the bar for fabulous modern dance, as far as I was concerned.
Merce Cunningham died in 2009, a real loss to the art world; but he changed my heart forever.
Friday, August 17, 2012
"They've Paved Paradise and Put up a Parking Lot"
Today
There seems to be some kind of law that, having driven past your destination, finding there are no parking spaces, you pay for an hour's parking when you are unlikely to be more than ten minutes and walk back to find that in your absence an enormous parking space has become available right outside.
This happened to me in Wells today and started a train of thought about how we attach significance to the most random occurences.
In My Day
When we lived at Montfort Close, in 1984, one of our neighbours, was an exceedingly large lady named Kate with a daughter about the same age as Becky. Naturally, we became friendly and for a while saw a lot of each other.
She was a very deeply religious person, regularly attending church. Her view of God was personal to an absurd degree and we soon coined a name for this: "The God of the parking space". She seemed genuinely to believe that if she drove into Eastbourne on a crowded Saturday afternoon and prayed very hard, that God would find her a parking space. How this would work if there were more people praying for a space that there were spaces available, was never made clear. Pretty harmless, you might say, but Kate coupled this with a tendency to talk about black South African natives in a tone of disgust as "Kaffirs" and thought nothing of trying cruelly to drive a wedge between Liz and Becky.
Then there was a friend of Paul's Mother who, faced with uncertainty about her accommodation, said that God had visited her and told her to build a loft conversion, which I guess is something anyone could work out with a modicum of common sense.
Now, as far as I'm concerned, the jury's out on whether there's a god or not, but a belief in a God who deals in parking spaces and loft extensions, while ignoring bigger issues such as cruelty or racial discrimination, smacks more of stone-age paganism than well-grounded spiritual understanding.
Although it might be interesting to discover if there is a statistical correlation between their belief and success at parking.
There seems to be some kind of law that, having driven past your destination, finding there are no parking spaces, you pay for an hour's parking when you are unlikely to be more than ten minutes and walk back to find that in your absence an enormous parking space has become available right outside.
This happened to me in Wells today and started a train of thought about how we attach significance to the most random occurences.
In My Day
When we lived at Montfort Close, in 1984, one of our neighbours, was an exceedingly large lady named Kate with a daughter about the same age as Becky. Naturally, we became friendly and for a while saw a lot of each other.
She was a very deeply religious person, regularly attending church. Her view of God was personal to an absurd degree and we soon coined a name for this: "The God of the parking space". She seemed genuinely to believe that if she drove into Eastbourne on a crowded Saturday afternoon and prayed very hard, that God would find her a parking space. How this would work if there were more people praying for a space that there were spaces available, was never made clear. Pretty harmless, you might say, but Kate coupled this with a tendency to talk about black South African natives in a tone of disgust as "Kaffirs" and thought nothing of trying cruelly to drive a wedge between Liz and Becky.
Then there was a friend of Paul's Mother who, faced with uncertainty about her accommodation, said that God had visited her and told her to build a loft conversion, which I guess is something anyone could work out with a modicum of common sense.
Now, as far as I'm concerned, the jury's out on whether there's a god or not, but a belief in a God who deals in parking spaces and loft extensions, while ignoring bigger issues such as cruelty or racial discrimination, smacks more of stone-age paganism than well-grounded spiritual understanding.
Although it might be interesting to discover if there is a statistical correlation between their belief and success at parking.
Friday, August 03, 2012
Itchy and Scratchy
Today
After a dismally cold and wet June and July, last week suddenly perked up, giving us warm and beautiful weather.
Unfortunately, the insects also perked up, deciding to seize the carpe diem and get on with what they do best- multiplying. In Lizzie's four-cat household this unfortunately meant fleas. From forgotten corners these beasts leapt up in their thousands, biting all mortal flesh in their paths.
Liz and Wesz went on the offensive with flea bombs, vacuuming, spraying. The cats were not just given one treatment each; the "Frontline" drops clearly not having been up to the task of stemming the tide. So, the cats were sprayed, squirted, combed and bathed.
"They really show their personalities when confronted with the bathing", said Lizzie.
I bet they do.
In My Day
When we lived at Rowan Avenue, back in 1977, our usual supply of two cats was augmented by another two. Beatrice's marriage break-up had left her with nowhere to house her two cats for the time being. Thus Pickles and Algernon came to join us. The cats seemed to rub along OK, though Pickles was a bit of a loner.
But we ran into the same problem as Lizzie; a massive flea infestation hit the house. There wasn't the same array of sprays, drops and inoculation available and we seemed to be relying on powder. This simply didn't penetrate Pickles' dense orange fluff so the fleas continued. I talked to a friend about it. "Bathe them in vinegar," she advised airily. I was unsure about this and asked the vet. "Well, if you're going to bathe cats," the receptionist said guardedly "we do a special anti-flea shampoo." I bought a large quantity and set off home.
Finally the wily Algernon; he allowed us to pick him up and place him in the water. His plan was clear: he was going to let us drop our guard so he could make a dash for it. Unfortunately for him, he couldn't disguise the slight tensing of his muscles as he prepared for flight. I tightened my grip around his chest and the job was done. The four miserable creatures looked at each other and wandered off. We did clear up the fleas, though.
These days we use the "Program" bi-annual injection system which ensures that fleas can't breed, and we never see one. As I point out to Abby when taking her for her jabs, she's forgotten how being eaten alive by fleas feels or she'd be more grateful.
After a dismally cold and wet June and July, last week suddenly perked up, giving us warm and beautiful weather.
Unfortunately, the insects also perked up, deciding to seize the carpe diem and get on with what they do best- multiplying. In Lizzie's four-cat household this unfortunately meant fleas. From forgotten corners these beasts leapt up in their thousands, biting all mortal flesh in their paths.
Liz and Wesz went on the offensive with flea bombs, vacuuming, spraying. The cats were not just given one treatment each; the "Frontline" drops clearly not having been up to the task of stemming the tide. So, the cats were sprayed, squirted, combed and bathed.
"They really show their personalities when confronted with the bathing", said Lizzie.
I bet they do.
In My Day
When we lived at Rowan Avenue, back in 1977, our usual supply of two cats was augmented by another two. Beatrice's marriage break-up had left her with nowhere to house her two cats for the time being. Thus Pickles and Algernon came to join us. The cats seemed to rub along OK, though Pickles was a bit of a loner.But we ran into the same problem as Lizzie; a massive flea infestation hit the house. There wasn't the same array of sprays, drops and inoculation available and we seemed to be relying on powder. This simply didn't penetrate Pickles' dense orange fluff so the fleas continued. I talked to a friend about it. "Bathe them in vinegar," she advised airily. I was unsure about this and asked the vet. "Well, if you're going to bathe cats," the receptionist said guardedly "we do a special anti-flea shampoo." I bought a large quantity and set off home.
- Rule number one: as it says on the IKEA assembly instructions, it is advisory to be two persons.
- Rule number two: don't let the still unbathed cats see what you're up to, or they'll disappear for a fortnight.
- Rule number three: figure out how you're going to get them dry afterwards - some cats become homidical at the sound of a hairdryer.
- Rule number four: know your cats; that way, you'll be one step ahead.
Finally the wily Algernon; he allowed us to pick him up and place him in the water. His plan was clear: he was going to let us drop our guard so he could make a dash for it. Unfortunately for him, he couldn't disguise the slight tensing of his muscles as he prepared for flight. I tightened my grip around his chest and the job was done. The four miserable creatures looked at each other and wandered off. We did clear up the fleas, though.
These days we use the "Program" bi-annual injection system which ensures that fleas can't breed, and we never see one. As I point out to Abby when taking her for her jabs, she's forgotten how being eaten alive by fleas feels or she'd be more grateful.
Thursday, August 02, 2012
Donner und Blitzen
Today
It seems that the better our weather forecasting technology is, the more the forecast changes. Yesterday's forecast for today in this area showed thunderstorms. Today, there's no sign of this prediction, just more rain. "They're always doing that", I grumbled to Paul. "I haven't had a good thunderstorm for years."
In My Day
As a child I was terrified of thunderstorms and it seemed that we had a good few in 1950s London. Hot and sticky days would reach a climax with heavy mauve clouds filling the sky. Probably my older brothers had filled my head with tales of people being struck by lightning and given me useful advice about not sheltering under trees (how could I avoid it when the entire garden was filled with huge trees?) and wearing (or was it not wearing?) rubber-soled shoes, so I was primed for fear.
Often the storm would start in the middle of the night. I'd wake, transfixed with terror as the first rumble sounded. As it approached our location I would make the decision. Just about the only thing that would induce me to venture out into our ghost-filled house at night was a storm. Straight into my parents' bedroom I'd go and climb into their bed. They slept at that time on 2 beds pushed together and I would crawl into the "crack" in the middle and lie there, still afraid but also comforted, until the last rumble died away. I would watch bolts of lightning strike the lawn and listen, trembling, as the thunder cracked around. Mamma and Daddy offered me no especial attention; they just made room for me and then went on sleeping.
One evening, I guess I was about ten, there was an enormous storm. Daddy was in charge, Mamma being at the Proms, and he decided to switch out the lights and stand with us to watch the storm. He taught us how to estimate the distance of the storm by counting the number of seconds between flash and rumble (five for one mile apparently, and calculated by saying "one, Dulwich College, two Dulwich College" and so on to ensure the second was given full value).
Encircled by my family, I somehow lost my fear and began to enjoy the spectacle.
There is still much rubbish talked about storms; one of my favourite being a remark by Paul's Mum "You mustn't run during a storm; it's the most dangerous thing you can do." As though the storm was a malevolent beast chasing you down the street.
Thunderstorms seem rarer these days and I rather miss them.
It seems that the better our weather forecasting technology is, the more the forecast changes. Yesterday's forecast for today in this area showed thunderstorms. Today, there's no sign of this prediction, just more rain. "They're always doing that", I grumbled to Paul. "I haven't had a good thunderstorm for years."
In My Day
As a child I was terrified of thunderstorms and it seemed that we had a good few in 1950s London. Hot and sticky days would reach a climax with heavy mauve clouds filling the sky. Probably my older brothers had filled my head with tales of people being struck by lightning and given me useful advice about not sheltering under trees (how could I avoid it when the entire garden was filled with huge trees?) and wearing (or was it not wearing?) rubber-soled shoes, so I was primed for fear.
Often the storm would start in the middle of the night. I'd wake, transfixed with terror as the first rumble sounded. As it approached our location I would make the decision. Just about the only thing that would induce me to venture out into our ghost-filled house at night was a storm. Straight into my parents' bedroom I'd go and climb into their bed. They slept at that time on 2 beds pushed together and I would crawl into the "crack" in the middle and lie there, still afraid but also comforted, until the last rumble died away. I would watch bolts of lightning strike the lawn and listen, trembling, as the thunder cracked around. Mamma and Daddy offered me no especial attention; they just made room for me and then went on sleeping.
One evening, I guess I was about ten, there was an enormous storm. Daddy was in charge, Mamma being at the Proms, and he decided to switch out the lights and stand with us to watch the storm. He taught us how to estimate the distance of the storm by counting the number of seconds between flash and rumble (five for one mile apparently, and calculated by saying "one, Dulwich College, two Dulwich College" and so on to ensure the second was given full value).
Encircled by my family, I somehow lost my fear and began to enjoy the spectacle.
There is still much rubbish talked about storms; one of my favourite being a remark by Paul's Mum "You mustn't run during a storm; it's the most dangerous thing you can do." As though the storm was a malevolent beast chasing you down the street.
Thunderstorms seem rarer these days and I rather miss them.
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