Roaring 40s

Today

It's hard to believe, but Lizzie turned forty yesterday. There's a level at which I don't feel that I can be old enough to have a daughter this age.

In My Day

I was just under twenty-five when Lizzie was born and in many ways I wasn't old enough to have a child. It seemed like a good idea at the time when I chucked away my pills, but as the pregnancy progressed I seemed to understand less and less.

I blithely assumed that I would carry on working full-time after she was born; otherwise we couldn't even have afforded the rent. I didn't factor in the possibility of a: the baby needing some special care b: me being unwell c: being unable to find a childminder. I assumed that I could cope with working full-time and providing breast milk for my baby.

I talked pretty big about the whole thing and read a book about psychoprophylaxis which basically said that childbirth is painless so long as you breathed right - what a lie that was.

In other words, I hadn't a clue.

It didn't help that the dates were all in confusion and the due date came and went without any sign of a birth; Lizzie eventually making her appearance six weeks later. Despite having read all these books, I didn't recognise the classic sign that labour was about to start, which was that I started spring-cleaning the flat and preparing enough food to last Paul six months. When I started to wash the kitchen floor at midnight Paul asserted himself and marched me to bed.

When I awoke later that night with the first contractions, I briefly fell apart, sitting on the edge of the bed and shaking. In some ways my profound ignorance was helpful; otherwise I might have been more anxious about how long the process was taking and questioned the midwife's cheery assurance that the second stage would be over in about six hours.

In fact, I'd say that the first few years of caring for Lizzie, despite my outward assurance, were more based on a wing and a prayer than anything else. We really did our growing up together, Lizzie and I.

At any rate, at the party on Saturday I've absolutely no intention of behaving as though I'm old enough to have a forty-year old daughter.

Diversion

Today

On Tuesday, anxious not to be named and shamed as a late arriver at choir, I set off in plenty of time. Best laid plans, alas! As I approached Havyatt on the Glastonbury road I saw the blue lights ahead. Cars were turning back. What to do? I turned left, taking the turning to Baltonsborough. The lanes were dark and narrow and I lost all sense of direction. Other cars had also gone this way but they all seemed to know where they were going. I didn't know whether I'd end up back in Pilton or in a ploughed field. Eventually, I saw a sign marked Glastonbury and found my way, across the marshes road, to the rehearsal. I was about ten minutes late and slunk into my seat.

In My Day

I remember a similar occasion about fifteen years ago. I set off for choir. This time the road closure was at Steanbow, just west of Pilton. "Easy!" I thought "I can pick up the Wells Road via North Wootton".

I turned right and soon was lost in a maze of dark and tiny lanes. The banks pressed in closer and closer. There was no other traffic and I had no idea where I was. There were no road signs; I suspected that I was going in circles.

I turned another dark corner and suddenly there in front of me was a new born calf. It was lying in the road and didn't get onto its feet as I approached. It was clearly alive, but only just. I sat there for a while. There were no signs of habitation nearby. The road was so narrow that I doubted my ability to turn round in the space.

At last I got nervously out of the car. How hurt was the creature? Suppose I couldn't shift it. Suppose a car came fast round the corner and hit me and the calf! Suppose there was its mother close by, all ready to biff me if I touched her baby. It was such a dark night; I could barely make anything out. Gently I pushed the calf into hedgerow.  It let me move it and made no attempt to escape.

Gingerly I squeezed past it. The next house I saw was all in darkness. I had no mobile signal. At last I reached the Wells Road. I stopped when I had a signal and called the police, although I'm not sure how explicit I was able to be about the position of the calf.

I got to choir half an hour late and was roundly told off by the music director, who didn't appear to believe my story.

Milko-o-oh!

Today

As we now live in a village without a shop, we can no longer just "pop out" to top up on bread or milk. It involves heaving out the car and driving to the next village or to Tesco.

So we were very interested indeed when a chap called a week or so ago offering us a doorstep milk delivery service. Apparently they offer more than just milk. He did emphasise that the milk would again be delivered in "proper" glass bottles but I can't say that altered the attraction for me.

"Will the milkman have a horse?" I joked.

In My Day

When I was a child in London, milk was delivered daily by the Express Dairy, from a man driving a horse and cart. I think that the horse was called George, unless that was the milkman. We were very fond of both milkman and horse. The milkman would signal his arrival with a muezzin-type call - "Milko-o-oh" with a rising cadence at the end.

We would go out and talk to the horse who was very docile and the milk would be brought in.

At that time the milkman delivered milk. the pint bottles were taller than today's more stumpy ones and you could get silver top (the ordinary kind), gold top (Jersey creamy milk) red top (homogenised) and sterilised milk which came in a slightly different design of bottle and which looked slightly brownish, and cream. The days of delivering juices, bread etc were firmly in the future. In fact, I think that Mamma and Daddy saw it as the start of the decline of the great British Milkman, descending into milk delivery anarchy.

We were also fiercely partisan over the delivery company; only Express Dairies were any good; perish the thought of buying milk from United Dairies (now Unigate)!

The demise of our horsedrawn milk delivery system, replaced by milk floats delivering also orange juice and bread seems to be one of those moments, like the end of steam or the trams, that mark our movement out of childhood.

Returning to doorstep deliveries, after years of buying milk in plastic containers from Tesco, is going back in a good way, I feel. And so far, so good, the milkman has successfully delivered milk &  juice as requested all week. No horse, though.

Overgrowth

Today

The garden at Spencer House is largely a neglected tangle of overgrown trees and spreading laurels. I think that the previous owners were reluctant to prune so much as a twig.

Last week Wesz and I penetrated to the depths behind the new shed and found piles of old prunings, many brambles and dark sodden earth beneath the dense cover of laurels and self-seeded sycamore.

At the front I have planted bulbs around the roots of the beech tree and have all sorts of ideas about what to do with the woodland.

In My Day

This garden is the closest I have had to one resembling that at 4BH. It's not so large, of course.

The entrance to 4BH was via a gate that led into a large drive. on all sides were trees and shrubs, some of which were becoming totteringly elderly and inclined to topple when stressed. At the back was a large lawn, at least as long as the house was tall. And beyond that "The Wilderness" -an overgrown orchard which was eventually compulsorily purchased for housing.

Daddy persuaded the council to put a kink into the fence to allow us to keep our walnut tree, although why I can't imagine, unless it was for the pleasure of seeing squirrels get them before we could.

All around the more managed areas was a raised bank covered with trees. On one side, connecting with next door, this was pretty narrow but 4BH was  a corner property so on the other side there was a large and irregular area full of trees and brambles.

I think we played there a fair bit - David tunnelled through the banks to create his marble railway; long after we'd stopped playing with it marbles would turn up if you scuffed the earth. I loved finding those gleaming spheres with their twists of vivid colour.

There was an ivy-covered mulberry tree behind the copper beeches which had a low. nearly horizontal branch. As with the walnut we never enjoyed the fruit much which mainly belonged to the wasps, but I did make myself a den there one summer, with an old mattress and a painted sign reading "Ivy House".

These hidden places appear in my dreams and are often covered with daffodils; a detail about which I'm unsure.

I would like to turn my wilderness into a riot of bluebells and colourful shrubs and I'd dearly love to get rid of most of the damp and dripping laurels.

Love is in the Air

Today

Becky's wedding on Saturday was lovely. The sun shone and there was love being expressed everywhere you looked. The readings and singing during the ceremony were all about love in its many forms. from "Love Rescue Me" to a whimsical reading in which the writer offers love and asks for tolerance for her many failings.

Of course, Becky & Richard are "in love", but it also seems clear that they love each other which may not be the same thing.

In My Day

During my teens, I found the whole idea of being "in love" rather strange. I didn't really like boys and thought that they didn't really like me.

I had a few boyfriends but, while I enjoyed their company and wasn't immune to sexual feelings, I couldn't empathise with the boys' evident besottedness. In fact, there was something a little bit frightening about their intensity.

I suppose that my relationship with Paul started out in much the same way. We had fun together and much in common, but I wasn't in love.

When did I realise that I loved him and was also "in love"? Was it the time I ran down the hill with wet hair in freezing weather to meet him? That may have been the start. I remember a defining moment. It must have been a Sunday morning and I was with Paul at his parents' flat in Eastbourne. We were curled up together when Paul suddenly looked at me. "Your face is full of love" he said, slightly wonderingly. I burst into tears, overcome by the truth of his statement. And that feeling hasn't changed.

Not having been "in love" more than once, I can't hope to understand those whose feelings of love are constantly in a state of change.

What I do know is that love is a gift and I never lose my sense of privilege when I am on the receiving end.