Today
Becky was making arrangements for her babysitter. First, making sure that she and Carmen had a chance to meet, second, that the babysitter had a comfortable somewhere to sit and third, that there was a nice supper available. All right and proper and pretty standard stuff, you might say.
In My Day
When I was between fifteen and eighteen I belonged to the St John's Church Youth Club in Upper Norwood. One of the things we offered was a babysitting service. The customers had access to a pool of young people whose credentials they could trust and we earned some very useful pocket money.
Clients came in all forms. The best were those who invited you to meet the children; maybe read them a bedtime story. Then they showed you the kitchen where there would be tea and coffee, a snack or access to biscuits etc. If you were lucky you had a very comfortable evening during which you watched TV or got some "A" level work done (I think that I completed most of my theatre design coursework while babysitting) and had peacefully sleeping children.
There was one family whose idea of meeting the children first was to leave their four sons (aged between about three and nine) racketing about their very untidy and dirty house while they scooted cheerfully off. I considered it a real achievement if I could get them all in bed before the parents got home. I rarely had time for a snack and a sit down (anyway their sofas were all pretty grimy). They did pay well, though.
At another home the little baby never stopped crying. The parents would tiptoe out, leaving baby and me to get acquainted as best we could while she screamed her poor little heart out. I guess she got to know me in the end but she still cried and I think that the parents were unwise not to give us any stress-free time together before bedtime.
I had two extreme clients. There was a couple who simply had no idea of time. "Home by eleven" could mean home by two am. I would be getting more and more anxious; had there been an accident? Dare I have a little doze on the sofa? How was I going to get up in the morning? They did pay well, but that wasn't really the point. On the final occasion that I sat for them, Daddy called at about one am, understandably worried about me. When I said that the parents weren't back he announced his intention of coming to get me. He had to walk there and twenty minutes later he turned up, frothed into a right rage. He told me to come with him. I said that I couldn't leave the children and we were still arguing when the parents breezed in. Daddy told them what he thought of them and then marched back up the hill, refusing a lift, while I was driven home. I didn't go back there.
Much the best were the parents of little Paul. They were quite well-off and his mother used to leave out a lovely meal for me and was very friendly. They came to trust me with Paul with whom I got on famously and invited me to join a family party at Marazion in Cornwall where a ruby wedding was being celebrated. My job was to look after Paul and his little cousin when the family went out for evening jaunts. The rest of the time I was free and I took advantage of this, walking along the coast and drawing pictures of local objects and St Michael's Mount. The cousin cried rather a lot when she was with me, but she was very young and we hadn't been introduced, but otherwise it was a very enjoyable salaried holiday.
I was completely untrained and these families trusted me with their little ones. Whether this was a tribute to my reliability or a comment on their difficulties with childcare I can't say.
Wednesday, April 22, 2015
Sunday, April 19, 2015
Rejoice and Sing
Today
I don't know why or how some tunes suddenly arrive unbidden in our heads, but this morning I've found myself humming Hava Nagila
In My Day
For some reason, when I was in the sixth form at school we all knew this song. I don't think that we had much of a Jewish contingent at Selhurst Grammar School for Girls and I suspect that there was more than a little snobbery in the fact that we even knew the Jewish words. We didn't know the meaning of them, I think.
I remember an excursion to the theatre at Stratford-upon-Avon to see, I think, Julius Caesar, which was one of our A-level texts. The trip involved an overnight stay at a hostel, a visit to Ann Hathaway's cottage and other sites. At last we arrived at the theatre, far too early and had to wait for the doors to open. How to spend the time? We joined hands in a circle and danced round, faster and faster, singing Hava Nagila, also faster and faster, until we fell apart, laughing. I've no idea what other people thought of a dozen or so seventeen year-old schoolgirls dancing crazily; today we would probably be regarded as some kind of street theatre, but we were quite uninhibited and kept the dancing going until the theatre opened and we could be thrilled by "et tu, Brute".
Here's modern video of proper Jewish people dancing it:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vx9DTDDG8lc
I've since discovered that it's a fairly modern song, that the words basically mean "sing and rejoice" and are sung at Bar/bat mitzvahs. Not so unsuitable for girls on the threshold of adult life to sing joyously.
I don't know why or how some tunes suddenly arrive unbidden in our heads, but this morning I've found myself humming Hava Nagila
In My Day
For some reason, when I was in the sixth form at school we all knew this song. I don't think that we had much of a Jewish contingent at Selhurst Grammar School for Girls and I suspect that there was more than a little snobbery in the fact that we even knew the Jewish words. We didn't know the meaning of them, I think.
I remember an excursion to the theatre at Stratford-upon-Avon to see, I think, Julius Caesar, which was one of our A-level texts. The trip involved an overnight stay at a hostel, a visit to Ann Hathaway's cottage and other sites. At last we arrived at the theatre, far too early and had to wait for the doors to open. How to spend the time? We joined hands in a circle and danced round, faster and faster, singing Hava Nagila, also faster and faster, until we fell apart, laughing. I've no idea what other people thought of a dozen or so seventeen year-old schoolgirls dancing crazily; today we would probably be regarded as some kind of street theatre, but we were quite uninhibited and kept the dancing going until the theatre opened and we could be thrilled by "et tu, Brute".
Here's modern video of proper Jewish people dancing it:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vx9DTDDG8lc
I've since discovered that it's a fairly modern song, that the words basically mean "sing and rejoice" and are sung at Bar/bat mitzvahs. Not so unsuitable for girls on the threshold of adult life to sing joyously.
Saturday, April 11, 2015
Changing Trains
Today
There was a recent thread on Facebook in which my nephew was wondering about trains to Stockport. "All trains change at Crewe!" I airily remarked "not these days", said my nephew. "Unless you want to go to Cheltenham from Birmingham New Street!" I added.
There's some history to this:
In My Day
On 8 March 1996 a train carrying liquid CO2 suffered an axle failure and collided with a mail train at Rickerscote, near Stafford. One of the trains came to rest against the end wall of a house.
This meant that it was several days before the loco could be removed and trains in this busy area get back to normal.
At the same time I had business in the North West and travelled by train from Bristol Parkway to Preston via a number of train changes at Birmingham New Street and Nuneaton.
I'd had a chilly, lonely, but productive week, and was very anxious to get home on the Friday. After much struggling (Nuneaton featured again, I think) I eventually got to Birmingham New Street by about nine at night. The station was chaos; flocks of people milled around trying to find their platform and announcements contradicted earlier ones.
At last I found the platform for Bristol. The train was a long time coming. Near me on the platform were a jolly couple of men, both aged about 60. They were cheerfully drunk and I gathered from their conversation that they'd done quite well at Cheltenham Races that had been on that week. They both had broad northern accents and discussed vociferously whether they were on the right platform. "All trains change at Crewe!" announced one old geezer. "Quite right", slurred his mate "all trains do change at Crewe".
Shortly after this the train trundled up and we all piled in, the two ageing drunks with the rest. The train stayed for some time and our companions regaled the compartment, talking about how great the '60s had been "Easy Rider - best film ever made", said one guy as though he'd spent his youth on a motorbike road trip, not drudging away up North. "It's like wartime", agreed his friend "maybe we should all sing some Vera Lynn". And he lifted up his voice in "We'll Meet Again."
The train began to pull out "Great!" said drunk number one "We'll soon be home". "Oh, yes! All trains change at Crewe!"
As we got going one of the men leaned across the gangway to a young women and said, "Where are you going, love?" "Bristol Temple Meads", came the reply. There was a long silence while a ripple of laughter went round the compartment.
He looked accusingly at me "You knew we were on the wrong train." "How was I to know?" I replied. "You haven't spoken a word of sense since you got on the train!"
It turned out that they were trying to get home to Stockport and had to leave the train at the next stop which happened to be Cheltenham. So they had to spend their hard-earned races winnings on overnight accommodation and fresh train tickets.
So, you are right, Chris, not all trains change at Crewe. But that incident cheered up a long and tiring journey and has made me smile ever since.
There was a recent thread on Facebook in which my nephew was wondering about trains to Stockport. "All trains change at Crewe!" I airily remarked "not these days", said my nephew. "Unless you want to go to Cheltenham from Birmingham New Street!" I added.
There's some history to this:
In My Day
On 8 March 1996 a train carrying liquid CO2 suffered an axle failure and collided with a mail train at Rickerscote, near Stafford. One of the trains came to rest against the end wall of a house.This meant that it was several days before the loco could be removed and trains in this busy area get back to normal.
At the same time I had business in the North West and travelled by train from Bristol Parkway to Preston via a number of train changes at Birmingham New Street and Nuneaton.
I'd had a chilly, lonely, but productive week, and was very anxious to get home on the Friday. After much struggling (Nuneaton featured again, I think) I eventually got to Birmingham New Street by about nine at night. The station was chaos; flocks of people milled around trying to find their platform and announcements contradicted earlier ones.
At last I found the platform for Bristol. The train was a long time coming. Near me on the platform were a jolly couple of men, both aged about 60. They were cheerfully drunk and I gathered from their conversation that they'd done quite well at Cheltenham Races that had been on that week. They both had broad northern accents and discussed vociferously whether they were on the right platform. "All trains change at Crewe!" announced one old geezer. "Quite right", slurred his mate "all trains do change at Crewe".
Shortly after this the train trundled up and we all piled in, the two ageing drunks with the rest. The train stayed for some time and our companions regaled the compartment, talking about how great the '60s had been "Easy Rider - best film ever made", said one guy as though he'd spent his youth on a motorbike road trip, not drudging away up North. "It's like wartime", agreed his friend "maybe we should all sing some Vera Lynn". And he lifted up his voice in "We'll Meet Again."
The train began to pull out "Great!" said drunk number one "We'll soon be home". "Oh, yes! All trains change at Crewe!"
As we got going one of the men leaned across the gangway to a young women and said, "Where are you going, love?" "Bristol Temple Meads", came the reply. There was a long silence while a ripple of laughter went round the compartment.
He looked accusingly at me "You knew we were on the wrong train." "How was I to know?" I replied. "You haven't spoken a word of sense since you got on the train!"
It turned out that they were trying to get home to Stockport and had to leave the train at the next stop which happened to be Cheltenham. So they had to spend their hard-earned races winnings on overnight accommodation and fresh train tickets.
So, you are right, Chris, not all trains change at Crewe. But that incident cheered up a long and tiring journey and has made me smile ever since.
Friday, April 10, 2015
Shades
Today
Becky sent me a gorgeous picture showing Carmen wearing her new sunglasses. Very cool.
Everyone these days owns sunglasses; they're are seen as essential, even in cloudy Britain.
I don't much like them for myself and hardly ever wear them. In fact, I am only using them now because of my recent cataract operations.
In My Day
I don't think we had sunglasses as children. In fact, nobody we knew had them. My parents never wore any and, day to day, if I saw someone wearing dark glasses I assumed that they were blind or partially sighted and wore them for protection.
Paul's Mum used to wear sunglasses by the time I first met her and told of an occasion when she was in her 80s when she forgot them and sat sunning herself in the Italian garden in Eastbourne and damaged her eyelids. But then Tricia was also inclined to sit in the sun rather too much. This picture taken during the '50s shows her and friends in Hastings where none of these otherwise glamorous mums are wearing sunglasses. They probably weren't wearing skin protection either.
I remember once buying a little pair of sunglasses for Lizzie when she was about two and Mum disapprovingly telling me that they would "draw" the eyes. I asked her what she meant and she said "well you know, draw". Which clarified things perfectly.
What I am wondering is whether our eyes are the better or worse for this as surely we must be adapted as a species to a reasonably high level of light entering our eyes.
Well, chacun etc and one generation's luxury is another's essential and Carmen does look rather cute in hers. And I doubt whether her eyes will be any the worse for them.
Becky sent me a gorgeous picture showing Carmen wearing her new sunglasses. Very cool.
Everyone these days owns sunglasses; they're are seen as essential, even in cloudy Britain.
I don't much like them for myself and hardly ever wear them. In fact, I am only using them now because of my recent cataract operations.
In My Day
I don't think we had sunglasses as children. In fact, nobody we knew had them. My parents never wore any and, day to day, if I saw someone wearing dark glasses I assumed that they were blind or partially sighted and wore them for protection.
Paul's Mum used to wear sunglasses by the time I first met her and told of an occasion when she was in her 80s when she forgot them and sat sunning herself in the Italian garden in Eastbourne and damaged her eyelids. But then Tricia was also inclined to sit in the sun rather too much. This picture taken during the '50s shows her and friends in Hastings where none of these otherwise glamorous mums are wearing sunglasses. They probably weren't wearing skin protection either.I remember once buying a little pair of sunglasses for Lizzie when she was about two and Mum disapprovingly telling me that they would "draw" the eyes. I asked her what she meant and she said "well you know, draw". Which clarified things perfectly.
What I am wondering is whether our eyes are the better or worse for this as surely we must be adapted as a species to a reasonably high level of light entering our eyes.
Well, chacun etc and one generation's luxury is another's essential and Carmen does look rather cute in hers. And I doubt whether her eyes will be any the worse for them.
Wednesday, April 08, 2015
Decade
Today
Today is something of an anniversary, it being just about 10 years since I started this blog. While I've actually blogged 476 times, I've noticed that I write fewer blogs these days and have been wondering why this is. Is it because I'm running out of memories, is it that some memories are not right to share with the world at large or is it that I've already told them so many times that they are becoming repetitive?
This has got me thinking about the memories that we share and how and when we share them.
In My Day
Mamma and Daddy both used to share memories of their younger days with us. Daddy's were mostly harrowing tales of his slum childhood, days in prison as a conscientious objector and stories about his toxic second wife just before and during the War (although the objective truth of this last one is a little called into question by reading his diaries....).
Mamma told us tales of her comfortable childhood in Germany where it seemed that she was involved in all sorts of community events and enjoyed a rich cultural life. She described life at the "Household School" where she was taught all the housewifely arts and told me about walking in the Hartz Mountains with her father where she experienced terrifying thunderstorms.
Although we knew about the impact of Nazi Germany on her life, horror stories didn't come from her; it was mainly Daddy who filled in the gaps. Even stories about time spent as a lowly gardener or nanny took on a shine as she regaled us with stories about the quirks and oddities of the people she worked for and sweet stories about children she cared for. And her gardening knowledge seemed to be an endless store. She seemed to be able to give a spin to stories many of which, as I became older and learnt more, were actually stories of repression and hid the deep frustration she must have felt about losing her opportunities and family life so brutally.
I loved these stories and didn't mind how many times I heard them. Sometimes she'd preface them with "Stop me if you'd heard this one before", and, being brutal as children so often are, we'd shout her down vociferously. In truth, I think that many tales can stand repeated telling, like good books and films, and it may be that my memory of what my parents used to tell is partly so good precisely because of that repetition.
Becky and Richard have given us a book in which to put various bits of family history as a future gift for Carmen. I think it's quite a sweet idea, but I hope she also reads my diaries, blogs and books when she's older and lets me tell her tales of my life endlessly .....
Today is something of an anniversary, it being just about 10 years since I started this blog. While I've actually blogged 476 times, I've noticed that I write fewer blogs these days and have been wondering why this is. Is it because I'm running out of memories, is it that some memories are not right to share with the world at large or is it that I've already told them so many times that they are becoming repetitive?
This has got me thinking about the memories that we share and how and when we share them.
In My Day
Mamma and Daddy both used to share memories of their younger days with us. Daddy's were mostly harrowing tales of his slum childhood, days in prison as a conscientious objector and stories about his toxic second wife just before and during the War (although the objective truth of this last one is a little called into question by reading his diaries....).
Mamma told us tales of her comfortable childhood in Germany where it seemed that she was involved in all sorts of community events and enjoyed a rich cultural life. She described life at the "Household School" where she was taught all the housewifely arts and told me about walking in the Hartz Mountains with her father where she experienced terrifying thunderstorms.
Although we knew about the impact of Nazi Germany on her life, horror stories didn't come from her; it was mainly Daddy who filled in the gaps. Even stories about time spent as a lowly gardener or nanny took on a shine as she regaled us with stories about the quirks and oddities of the people she worked for and sweet stories about children she cared for. And her gardening knowledge seemed to be an endless store. She seemed to be able to give a spin to stories many of which, as I became older and learnt more, were actually stories of repression and hid the deep frustration she must have felt about losing her opportunities and family life so brutally.
I loved these stories and didn't mind how many times I heard them. Sometimes she'd preface them with "Stop me if you'd heard this one before", and, being brutal as children so often are, we'd shout her down vociferously. In truth, I think that many tales can stand repeated telling, like good books and films, and it may be that my memory of what my parents used to tell is partly so good precisely because of that repetition.
Becky and Richard have given us a book in which to put various bits of family history as a future gift for Carmen. I think it's quite a sweet idea, but I hope she also reads my diaries, blogs and books when she's older and lets me tell her tales of my life endlessly .....
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