Today
For some reason today I found myself reading an article extolling the Scandinavian virtues of leaving baby outside in a pram in all weathers. Apparently this toughens them up nicely and helps them get a teensy-weensy dose of wintry sun to top up their vitamin D. Hmmm.
This triggered an avalanche of emails and one women described with great admiration how her mother shoved her outside for hours, only bringing her in when there was a freezing fog, because this gave her time to do the chores and settled the baby into a "routine".
In My Day
In the '40s and '50s the rule was that babies were fed and watered by the clock. In the intervening four hours they were to be left strictly alone, no matter how much they cried. I wonder who decreed the four hours rule and how they settled on this being the right time between feeds. I don't know how much heartbreak this caused new mothers who had to listen to their babies screaming; many of them parked the prams at the bottom of the garden so that they couldn't hear them.
At 4BH we had a "garden room". This room was at basement level but, the house being built on a slope, it opened directly onto the back garden. It held deckchairs and garden equipment and all the kinds of junk that people today shove into their garages.
I think I must have been about three years old. Mamma had parked Beatrice in her pram in the garden room. You certainly wouldn't have been able to hear Beatrice cry from there, unless you were in the garden. Beatrice was old enough to roll over and was fastened into the pram with a leather harness (you can see from this picture what an ill-fit it was). Mamma asked me to go down and check that Beatrice was OK.
It's a miracle that I remembered my errand all the way down to the garden room. Even more of a miracle that, when I saw Beatrice, hopelessly tangled with the harness around her neck, dangling out of the pram, I realised that this was an emergency and had enough savvy to go upstairs as fast as my little legs would take me to summon help.
Although I think that we are a little inclined to over-protect our children these days, I sometimes wonder what my parents were thinking and feel a little surprised that we all made it to adulthood intact.
Today
I've just finished my lunch which was toasted crumpets with melted cheese. "Do you know," I remarked to Paul "when I was a child crumpets were always eaten with butter and golden syrup."
In My Day
As children we had a varied and fresh diet, but I think that many foods were served in strict combinations, almost as if it were the law.
The thought that I might put cheese or marmalade or Marmite on my crumpet was unimaginable.
Other regular unvarying food combinations were:
Sauerkraut with frankfurters and sauté potatoes, boiled ham and pease pudding, rissoles with mashed potatoes, carrots and frozen peas, rice pudding and tinned apricots, baked potatoes with winter salad, jelly and blancmange, tinned pears with chocolate custard, liver (always lamb's) and bacon. Even foods like cornflakes were only ever served with milk and sugar, Mamma being very scathing about the serving suggestions that showed fresh or dried fruit being added. I wonder what she would make of pouring yoghurt.
There were probably more and I expect my siblings can add to the list. The food combinations were all perfectly tasty (although David hated apricots and rice pudding and I was, and remain, unconvinced about sauerkraut) and nutritionally sound, but there was a deadly predictability about those meals. The only one on the list that varied was the winter salad to which Mamma liked to add a mystery ingredient - maybe walnuts or oranges.
The results of experiments could be strange, as when Weetabix were eaten with marmalade, resulting in a horribly dry, crumbly and sticky alternative to breakfast.
Maybe it was because we were more restricted by seasonal availability and a generally smaller range of foodstuffs or maybe we children demanded the safety of tried and tested combinations. Perhaps Mamma's busy life meant that it was easier to rely on the well-known meals that could be put together quickly. She was a good cook and I can't think that the whole thing was down to a lack of imagination on her part.
Cooking is easier these days, with microwaves, induction hobs and freezers. Crumpets can just be bunged under the grill, making the addition of cheese an easy option, rather than having to be toasted over the fire. And there's a huge range of fresh and interesting ingredients at the local supermarket which makes cooking predictable meals almost criminal.
Paul did suggest we put baked beans on the crumpets next time, but I'm not sure whether that won't be a step too far.
Today
Recently a report stated that the standard of care given by home helps was poor, with many not taking time to communicate properly with their clients or understand their physical or emotional needs. Some turned up late, on the wrong day or failed entirely to turn up without notice.
http://www.cqc.org.uk/public/news/issues-affecting-delivery-good-home-care-services
When Paul's Mum had a home help a few years ago, we were invoiced for "cleaning and companionship". And, indeed, the sweet cleaning lady talked to Mum, even taking her out for a drive in the car if her other work was done.
"You know", I said to Paul "I used to be a home help".
In My Day
This was back in my Eastbourne teacher-training days in about 1970. I didn't have much money and was looking for a way to supplement it. How did I become aware that the home help service was looking for staff? Maybe there was a notice in the college common room or, more likely, information was passed around by the college jungle telegraph.
Anyway I turned up for this work and was allocated a few houses in Polegate. There was no mention of a care plan or any suggestion that I was anything other than a cleaner provided by the council.
At one place there was an elderly, slightly disabled, lady living with her bachelor son. I have an idea that this lady kept her house pretty immaculate and there wasn't much to do in the main house. What I was expected to do was clean the son's bedroom. He wasn't disabled in any way and I don't know why he couldn't clean his own room. It was a nasty bachelor muddle. There was a heap of undifferentiated objects clustered on his sticky and dusty bedside table. I'm sure, aside from the obvious coins and pens, that there were broken ink cartridges, unclean combs and nail-care equipment, congealing rubber bands and the like. There were probably also toenail clippings. I faced every cleaners' dilemma which is whether simply to clean underneath and put back the objects, including toenail clippings, or to take a view on stuff that should be saved. Thinking more of mum than son I took a draconian view and chucked out everything that was broken or simply disgusting. There were discarded clothes and smelly bedding to deal with and the whole room had a fusty, long-unwashed-underclothes kind of smell.
Another place was unusual in that the client no longer lived there. They had moved into smaller accommodation and couldn't handle sorting out the old place. This was not normally the council's job, my boss explained, but they'd made an exception. So I was given the keys to this old Victorian house and swabbed and cleaned and cleared away debris.
There were some homes, however, where companionship was by far the most important part of my job. The houses were often small and I suspect that some of the old people cleaned up in readiness for my visit. What they wanted to do was to talk and talk about their lives and their history. As I often had little to do, I would make tea and sit with them for the designated couple of hours. And I somehow forgot to mention to my bosses that no cleaning really needed to be done, so that visits could continue.
Sometimes, when I read reports about slapdash nursing or neglected patients and old folk, I wonder what happened to simple humanity. Targeted care plans are all very well but can never replace, only supplement, the kindness and respect with which we should treat other humans.
Today
I've recently been having conversations with my brother about the nature of sin. I mentioned the idea of the "besetting sin" - the flaw that tracks your every action and how to recognise and tame it.
I said that I thought that mine is vanity. David wanted to know how this is defined - here we go then:
Vanity, Noun. Excessive pride in or admiration of one's own appearance or achievements
The question, as with many other "sins", is the extent to which it is bad or harmful and the extent to which it is empowering. "One element of vanity", I said to David "is self-respect; what makes you put your best self forward because of how you'll appear to others. That's a good thing, surely." I never slob around in a dressing gown or PJs, always being bathed and fully dressed before breakfast; after all you never know who might see you with your hair uncombed and without proper supporting underwear...
In My Day
My mother frequently said "Julia, thy name is vanity". What drove her to make this unhelpful remark and why was I singled out for this? Do I have this tendency to think too well of myself? Looking back, I see that I was very aware of the external layers, the presentation layer. I loved to dress up and to feel that I looked pretty.
I can remember many of my dresses and how much I loved them and the way I felt wearing them. I was very conscious of how I appeared and by extension, conscious of how others appeared.
It was a delight to twirl around, gazing at the effect. I loved to act, provided that the part I played was capable of being made to look good - if I was a witch, it had to be a glamorous witch.
This near-obsession with my appearance came from pride in, rather than admiration of myself, I think. I don't know to what extent it was "excessive". There was always a dichotomy between how I felt inside and how I believed I looked to other people.
Mamma made it clear that Beatrice was the pretty one and that I, at best, could be called "handsome" - not an epithet to thrill a girl. So I think that the vanity came from trying to reconcile these two differences. The surface layer was a sort of disguise to fool the world into thinking that I was better-looking than I really was. I certainly identified with the Ugly Duckling but somewhere deep inside feel that I am still waiting for that swan moment.
I'm not sure that all this fooling of others really fooled anybody or gave me any real underlying confidence to match my exterior ebullience.
It's taken me a long time to see that I was actually rather a cute child and not a bad-looking teenager and to understand that external prettiness evens out as you get older.
Not that any of this stops me wishing that I was drop-dead gorgeous, buying too many clothes and shoes and dyeing my hair.
What I am not now sure of is whether this quality of mine is really vanity at all but some other unnamed sin.
Today
It's Valentine's day and the clouds have parted long enough to give us a chilly, watery glimpse of sun. For this we are grateful and for the chance that the temperature might heave itself up above 5 degrees. The Met Office loves to offer comparisons against the norm, but there doesn't seem to be one for Valentine's Day.
In My Day
I am put in mind of two examples. Valentine's 1994; Paul was on late shift which meant that I could expect him home by about 11.45 pm. I bought a half bottle of champagne, thinking that we could toast the day before bedtime. Sometime during the evening, I noticed that snow was falling heavily. Paul called from the ambulance station at about 11.15 to say he was on his way. "It's snowing hard here, " I told him "take care..." The snow kept falling. I climbed into bed and kept warm with my book, placing the champagne & glasses by the beside. The time ticked by.I thought of Paul's journey home from Weston Super-Mare, up Burrington Combe. The snow thickened. The champagne warmed up. I repeatedly imagined that I heard the car in the drive. Eventually at 1.15 am Paul arrived home, having taken a longer route to avoid Burrington Combe and almost coming a cropper at Oakhill. "I've got some champagne," I said "but it's a bit warm; you probably won't want it." "Give it here!" he replied, snuggling into the warm bed where we toasted Valentine and Paul's safe arrival.
Moving swiftly on to 1998. February was warm. My diary records daffodils out by mid-month. On 14th the day dawned clear and warm with a temperature in the upper teens. I packed a picnic and we set off for the Swannery at Abbotsbury in Dorset. The weather stayed glorious and became warmer and warmer as we drove south. Eventually we arrived at the Swannery and ate our picnic in the car park (including champagne) and headed off towards the entrance. Alas for warm weather! The hot sun had brought in a sea mist.We stumbled around the Swannery, cold and damp, laughing our heads off.
All of which goes to show how irrelevant the weather is for the really important celebrations.
Today
My best friend has been recently struggling with the task of clearing her mother's house, following her move into residential care. Stuff that looks in good condition and has given sterling service is no good to anybody and some of it contravenes modern safety regulations. Other things trigger memories and are hard to part with, even when you know they'll probably end up in the loft or garage and never be looked at again.
Dealing with the detritus of a long life is always somewhere between heart-breaking and touching. What makes it doubly hard in this case is that my friend is an only child, so there are no siblings with whom to share both the emotions and responsibility in an equal way.
In My Day
I've had to do this task twice, once after Mamma died and once when Paul's Mum went into residential care. After Mamma died we made an immediate disposal of items and agreed to meet up a couple of weeks later for a thorough sort-out. What made getting through that day possible was that we four siblings somehow managed to turn the event into a jamboree, with laughter and silly family jokes and a decent lunch out. So the weight of the task was lifted by being shared.
And as for the stuff itself, there have been some strange relics. I took all Mamma's baking trays, but eventually realised that they were wonky and grimy beyond redemption and that new ones would cost about 75p each from the supermarket. And I still have and have used her wooden darning "mushrooms". For years David used the old "double saucepan" that Mamma used for making porridge. This bottom section of the object was never washed and was encrusted with forty years' worth of lime deposits. When David eventually announced he was throwing it out there was a family outcry and I think Beatrice took it to plant pansies in.
When Tricia went into residential care, the job was shared with Paul's sister and nephew. Paul and I had carried out a huge sort-out about a year previously, so that there was less pure junk than there might have been. On the other hand we had to decide what Mum might like to have in her tiny room and as she had been in a council flat we didn't have the luxury of much time.
Mum had absolutely loads of clothes - some of them representing chic purchases made in the '60s or '70s, others dating from her post-retirement scavenging forays into charity shops. Once we'd selected items suitable for Mum's new life we bagged up the rest to take to the charity shop. Jenny and I drove to the Langney Shopping Centre to dispose of the stuff. The carpark was fairly full and we had to park well away from the centre and at the top of a slope. I suggested to Jenny that we use a shopping trolley to transport the stuff. Jenny got a trolley and we started loading up. As I turned to close the boot of the car, the full trolley escaped and careered down the slope toward to centre entrance. The sight of Jenny (who's not especially fleet of foot) dashing after this trolley, trying to grab it before it smashed into a car or person was silly enough to make us both laugh and get companionably on with the rest of the task.
After this kind of experience, you swear that you won't allow your house to harbour useless clutter to save your children from this heartbreak job, but I suspect that for many of us it will be another thing that we never quite get round to. And your children will have to decide what goes and what is dumped and you won't be able to do anything about it.
Today
Last week I was in Paris for the day with Becky. In the Marche de St Orgueille we passed a bookshop which had a stand outside with Mr Men and Little Miss books, all in French.
With much amusement we browsed, eventually buying M Etourdi (Mr Forgetful) because we wanted to know how the transition between "There's a sheep loose in the lane" and "there's a goose asleep in the rain" was managed in French. Not rhymingly, we found, with "Un Mouton s'est echappe" becoming "Votre moineau s'est envole". (your sparrow has flown away). I guess you have to be a French child to see the connection.
In My Day
As a small child Becky absolutely loved her Mr Men books which started with the innocuous Mr Happy. Special favourites were Mr Noisy (when Becky brought her play-school volume voice into the kitchen all we had to yell was "Speak up, I can't hear you!" and she would immediately quieten down), Mr Messy, Mr Fussy (nephew Mark would read this to Becky, guffawing over Mr Fussy's cutting the lawn with nail scissors), and Mr Worry. Mr Bump was always useful when she'd had a tumble or knock (you can buy Mr Bump sticking plasters) and we all laughed at the solution to Mr Small's problem - lead boots.
But the incorrigible Mr Forgetful was far and away the favourite. We never tired of "There's a goose asleep in the rain" and it's got into our lexicon of daily phrases when messages are mis-heard or wrongly delivered. Becky would tuck Mr Forgetful under her pillow at night and was always happy to have it read to her.
Actually, Etourdi really means scatterbrained or feather-brained which isn't quite the same thing as being forgetful, but I hope to have the chance to enjoy these books in French or English with the next generation of young 'uns.
Today
One's life turns so much on tiny decisions made at unmemorable times in our lives and sometimes one can't help wondering where other paths might have led. Like the diminished seventh - the "Clapham Junction" of music, there are times when things could lead anywhere. This morning, while listening to a piece played by David Munro's Early Music Consort, I found myself thinking about my involvement in early music.
In My Day
Browsing the local paper in Worthing, one day back in 1969, I noticed an article featuring a local early music ensemble named Musica Antiqua of Worthing. There was a picture of the group and a description of their activities. I didn't buy the paper but memorised the name of the music director - Mike Uridge. This was an uncommon name and there was only one in the book. I wrote to the address and offered my services as an experienced early music soprano. I was politely turned down - they were at full complement.
I forgot about it and got on with my studenty life. A few weeks later, early (well, early if you're a student) on a Sunday morning there came a knock at the door of our student house in Station Road. Nobody else seemed to be stirring so I hastily scrambled into some sort of kaftan and opened the door. There stood a very respectable middle aged couple, dressed as though they'd just come from church. I clutched the bosom of my kaftan, hoping that it was actually covering my bosom and waited. They explained that they were from Musica Antiqua and would like to speak to Julia Dixon as they now had a vacancy in the choir. I introduced myself and agreed to go to their house a few days later for an audition. This I did, so impressing them with my sight-reading skills that I was immediately invited to join.
They later told me that they'd initially turned me down because my immaculate italic script in the letter made them think that I was an elderly person and it was only because of an unexpected resignation of a soprano that desperation drove them to seek me out. My semi-clothed and youthful appearance at my front door had been quite a surprise
The group comprised about ten people at the time - some instrumentalists, some singers, some both. Mike Uridge, an accountant in real life, turned out to be a small eager man who had a large and growing collection of medieval wind instruments. He had a passion for early music and made arrangement of pieces to suit our forces. At various times we had about 30 wind instruments, including sackbuts, cornetts, rackets, an instrument made out of a Swiss mountain goat's horns, and every conceivable type of recorder from deep bass to the "gartleinflotlein" (a word Mike so much liked saying that he introduced the instrument into everything possible), spinet, cello, violin, viols and drums. Mike would take a huge purpose-made suitcase onto stage and place it open on a table from where he would grab instruments as needed.
During my time we progressed from giving free performances in nursing homes to full-blown concerts. We participated in the Brighton Festival, sang in Coventry Cathedral, provided the entertainment for medieval banquets, and made two records.
I eventually left regretfully when the move to Eastbourne made weekly travel to Worthing too difficult and costly.
I lost contact with Mike for many years. When I met him again, nearly twenty-five years later, I discovered that he had become quite an authority on medieval instruments. I also discovered that Musiqua Antiqua had split over the question of whether to go professional or not.
"Supposing", I said to Paul "that I'd still been with them and we had gone professional - what would my life be now?" Different, that much is certain, and maybe our music would be played on Radio three as well as David Munro's.
At 4BH we had a "garden room". This room was at basement level but, the house being built on a slope, it opened directly onto the back garden. It held deckchairs and garden equipment and all the kinds of junk that people today shove into their garages.
