Today
I was watching the first few minutes of "How Clean is your House?" the other day. In a modern easy-to-clean house with the latest Dyson in the corner, a young couple were living in a dismal and dirty muddle. Given how easy being clean is these days, it always fascinates me how some folk simply don't know how to get started. Perhaps they like it that way or simply don't notice. I think it was Quentin Crisp who said that you stop noticing the dust after the first 2 years.
I sometimes wonder if it's a symptom of a deeper inability to cope but am coming to the view that it's just laziness and lack of organisation.
In My Day
Daddy used to tell us about his 2nd wife who was clearly too posh to wash. Apparently she ignored dirt of every variety. This was borne out when I met in 1977 for the first time 2 of her Canadian grandchildren who'd been sent over to spend a few weeks of the Summer with her. When their mother arrived they were desperate "There's cat poo ingrained in the carpets," they told her "and fleas everywhere."
As part of her upbringing, Mamma went to a "household" school. This was where girls of a good middle class background went to learn how to manage a household. As that was in 1933 when Hitler came to power, signalling the end of her education in consequence, it was a good thing that she could manage a house.
She was able to get work as nanny/housekeeper and told us many tales.
In England during the war, she did emergency fostering. Many a forlorn child was brought to her for care. She told us of one baby, brought in the middle of the night; mother's whereabouts unknown. Mamma asked no questions and popped the baby into a cot.
In the morning she went to attend to it - it was covered on sores. Mamma was aghast - what could be wrong? My more savvy father said "they're bed bugs and the baby must have brought them here." He proceeded to rip up the carpet and blowtorch skirting boards and burn the cot.
It says something about Mamma that she calmly cleaned and deloused Daddy's children by his 2nd wife when they were unceremoniously dumped on the doorstep; even making a little nightie for my 8 year old 1/2 sister as she was being bathed.
I suppose housework is repetitive; they do say that that the trouble is, you do it and then 6 months later you have to do it all again.
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
Saturday, May 17, 2008
What a load of rubbish
Today
Ever since the council brought in new refuse collection regulations, putting out the rubbish has become a core part of our week.
First, the wheelie bin. We only have a green one, because the brown ones are for garden waste and our garden isn't really big enough to produce much waste. This is emptied of non-food waste every 2 weeks. So we have to make sure that we know which week is which.
Then food, paper, cans and clothing are collected weekly. The food goes into a special container. So as not to make it totally disgusting we use compostible bin lines which can only be bought, it seems, from a local shop which opens about every third Wednesday between 11.00 and 13.30.
We have to put the bins out onto the pavement ourselves and complicated arrangements are made between neighbours when we're on holiday.
Our council doesn't collect card or plastic, so, to avoid a ridiculous build up of these items over the 2 weeks, we trot off to the recycling centre about once a week as well. This establishment proudly proclaims its recycling achievements, currently running at about 79%.
Our kitchen has a little grove of waste bins, suitably labelled, cluttering up one end.
In My Day
Rubbish collection was a much simpler matter when I was a child. We had huge galvanised corrugated aluminium bins with matching lids into which all rubbish was put. The bins were apt to fall over in high winds and the lids could travel miles. They were all kept at the top of the slope between the front and back gardens and were for the use of all inhabitants of the house.
The only thing that wasn't put straight in the bin was ash from the fire. This was wrapped in newspaper and put to cool on the back step. Why newspaper I have never understood as on at least one occasion the bin caught fire and set the back porch alight. The ash was sometimes used to combat mud or ice - something I've done myself when trying to get out of the Close in the snow.
The point about these bins was that the rubbish all went straight in; it not only wasn't sorted it also wasn't wrapped. In the Summer the bins became absolutely vile. Flies and wasps swarmed around them and maggots bred with terrifying speed. Being asked to take out the rubbish was a task to be avoided and I think that we girls generally managed to make it a boys' job.
From time to time Mamma would advance on the bins, after they'd been emptied, with Jeye's Fluid and buckets of hot water. Although the Jeye's Fluid smelled vile I quickly associated it with the garden becoming a nicer place to be. When I discovered that other people wrapped their rubbish up in newspaper I was amazed. I probably became one of the first to purchase bin liners and still, with double-wrapped rubbish, clean out the wheelie bin with disinfectant.
I am still astonished by the amount of rubbish we generate, despite using proper shopping bags and having that annoying habit of taking off a good deal of packaging at the checkout.
Ever since the council brought in new refuse collection regulations, putting out the rubbish has become a core part of our week.
First, the wheelie bin. We only have a green one, because the brown ones are for garden waste and our garden isn't really big enough to produce much waste. This is emptied of non-food waste every 2 weeks. So we have to make sure that we know which week is which.
Then food, paper, cans and clothing are collected weekly. The food goes into a special container. So as not to make it totally disgusting we use compostible bin lines which can only be bought, it seems, from a local shop which opens about every third Wednesday between 11.00 and 13.30.
We have to put the bins out onto the pavement ourselves and complicated arrangements are made between neighbours when we're on holiday.
Our council doesn't collect card or plastic, so, to avoid a ridiculous build up of these items over the 2 weeks, we trot off to the recycling centre about once a week as well. This establishment proudly proclaims its recycling achievements, currently running at about 79%.
Our kitchen has a little grove of waste bins, suitably labelled, cluttering up one end.
In My Day
Rubbish collection was a much simpler matter when I was a child. We had huge galvanised corrugated aluminium bins with matching lids into which all rubbish was put. The bins were apt to fall over in high winds and the lids could travel miles. They were all kept at the top of the slope between the front and back gardens and were for the use of all inhabitants of the house.
The only thing that wasn't put straight in the bin was ash from the fire. This was wrapped in newspaper and put to cool on the back step. Why newspaper I have never understood as on at least one occasion the bin caught fire and set the back porch alight. The ash was sometimes used to combat mud or ice - something I've done myself when trying to get out of the Close in the snow.
The point about these bins was that the rubbish all went straight in; it not only wasn't sorted it also wasn't wrapped. In the Summer the bins became absolutely vile. Flies and wasps swarmed around them and maggots bred with terrifying speed. Being asked to take out the rubbish was a task to be avoided and I think that we girls generally managed to make it a boys' job.
From time to time Mamma would advance on the bins, after they'd been emptied, with Jeye's Fluid and buckets of hot water. Although the Jeye's Fluid smelled vile I quickly associated it with the garden becoming a nicer place to be. When I discovered that other people wrapped their rubbish up in newspaper I was amazed. I probably became one of the first to purchase bin liners and still, with double-wrapped rubbish, clean out the wheelie bin with disinfectant.
I am still astonished by the amount of rubbish we generate, despite using proper shopping bags and having that annoying habit of taking off a good deal of packaging at the checkout.
Friday, May 16, 2008
No Sweat
Today
Yesterday was a pretty sweaty day. Firstly an hour at the gym, so, when I returned I had a lovely bath.
Later we played badminton. I did beat Paul 2:1 but it was quite tough and he had me running all over the court.
Back home I said "I'm so disgusting I think I'll have another bath". Which I did. Put on some nicer clothes and was fine for the evening.
In My Day
Our great Victorian pile was not lived in by us alone. We had tenants in about 2 floors of it. They mostly had flatlets consisting of two rooms and kitchenette. What they didn't have was the then unthinkable luxury of en-suite. Instead, on the first floor landing there was a single toilet for the use of first floor tenants and a separate bathroom which was shared by us and these same tenants.
The bathroom was pretty large and contained a bath and a basin. On the floor was lino and there was a cork bathmat. The room was heated by a paraffin heater (it smelled vile) which I was afraid to use. The bath was heated by a gas contraption called a "geyser". Quite frankly, it acted like one, giving you water of an unpredictable temperature with much spluttering and roaring. The gas flames flared and blazed as the water poured into the bath. It would probably be condemned today.
So, having a bath was a bit of an adventure and only happened once a week at most. The idea that you would nip up and bathe twice a day was unthinkable. In fact I think that Mamma thought that too much bathing was bad for you.
The room wasn't too secure either, so one bathed in the constant anxiety that Mr Nash (A bachelor tenant who gave no evidence that he bathed at all) would come in. In fact, I remember Julia Lawrence, who brought up 4 children in the other two bedroomed flatlet, actually did come in to get some washing that she'd left to dry and was very brisk about my modest shudderings.
I was amazed to discover that friends at school bathed every day - it seemed impossible. I never admitted to them what my arrangements were like. and I hope I didn't actually smell.
What I can't understand is how the other women at my body conditioning class maintain full make-up and don't produce so much as a single bead of sweat.
Yesterday was a pretty sweaty day. Firstly an hour at the gym, so, when I returned I had a lovely bath.
Later we played badminton. I did beat Paul 2:1 but it was quite tough and he had me running all over the court.
Back home I said "I'm so disgusting I think I'll have another bath". Which I did. Put on some nicer clothes and was fine for the evening.
In My Day
Our great Victorian pile was not lived in by us alone. We had tenants in about 2 floors of it. They mostly had flatlets consisting of two rooms and kitchenette. What they didn't have was the then unthinkable luxury of en-suite. Instead, on the first floor landing there was a single toilet for the use of first floor tenants and a separate bathroom which was shared by us and these same tenants.
The bathroom was pretty large and contained a bath and a basin. On the floor was lino and there was a cork bathmat. The room was heated by a paraffin heater (it smelled vile) which I was afraid to use. The bath was heated by a gas contraption called a "geyser". Quite frankly, it acted like one, giving you water of an unpredictable temperature with much spluttering and roaring. The gas flames flared and blazed as the water poured into the bath. It would probably be condemned today.
So, having a bath was a bit of an adventure and only happened once a week at most. The idea that you would nip up and bathe twice a day was unthinkable. In fact I think that Mamma thought that too much bathing was bad for you.
The room wasn't too secure either, so one bathed in the constant anxiety that Mr Nash (A bachelor tenant who gave no evidence that he bathed at all) would come in. In fact, I remember Julia Lawrence, who brought up 4 children in the other two bedroomed flatlet, actually did come in to get some washing that she'd left to dry and was very brisk about my modest shudderings.
I was amazed to discover that friends at school bathed every day - it seemed impossible. I never admitted to them what my arrangements were like. and I hope I didn't actually smell.
What I can't understand is how the other women at my body conditioning class maintain full make-up and don't produce so much as a single bead of sweat.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
It's just a name
Today
Such a lovely ev.JPG)
ening last Thursday, getting acquainted with my new great-niece. She's still very little but is as pretty as pretty. She was pretty contented, too, sleeping for a while in my arms. And when she became fretful, I sang "Edelweiss" (on the instructions of her parents) and she quickly calmed down again.
I'd made her a little beanie hat out of pussy cat printed fleece and it fitted a treat and kept her little head warm when we went out into the garden.
Her name is very pretty, too - Amelia. "I used to have a cat called Amelia" I said to my nephew. "Oh, I remember", he said.
In My Day
I can't now remember the reason why I became fixated, back in 1974, on having a kitten. We were still living at the flat in Belmont in Brighton which was up three flights of stairs and we weren't supposed to have pets at all.
We trekked round all the pet shops in Brighton - not a kitten in sight. Finally, with reluctance, I went into a dirty little pet shop near the station. This had a bad reputation for leaving animals in the window all day, etc, and I didn't really want to do business with them. However, they did have a kitten. A little, scrappy, 6-week old black & white female. I looked at her little terrified face. "How much?" I asked. "£0.75p", was the reply. "I'll take her, plus food, litter, flea spray and worming tablets" (I could see at a glance that she needed all these things).
I tucked the trembling creature into my coat and we went home. We had to get her up the stairs without being detected. This was made harder by two-year old Lizzie's excitement at our having made the purchase. She delightedly and loudly talked about the cat all the way up the stairs, oblivious to our entreaties to hush!
The kitten was very scared and spent the first two days hiding, mainly, it must be stated, from the exuberant Lizzie. It took a long time to house-train her and even longer finally to get rid of the fleas and worms that were making her so miserable.
She lived for 19 years and during that time had a litter of four kittens herself. She made sure that one of us was in attendance during the delivery (rather uncomfortably as she'd chosen the understairs cupboard). She was always a little scraggy but was was unfailingly affectionate. She died gracefully a few weeks after her lifelong companion Agamemnon died, just before her 19th birthday.
We named her Amelia, and though she was never as pretty as pretty, we hope that something of her affectionate and gentle nature will be reflected in her human namesake.
Such a lovely ev
.JPG)
ening last Thursday, getting acquainted with my new great-niece. She's still very little but is as pretty as pretty. She was pretty contented, too, sleeping for a while in my arms. And when she became fretful, I sang "Edelweiss" (on the instructions of her parents) and she quickly calmed down again.I'd made her a little beanie hat out of pussy cat printed fleece and it fitted a treat and kept her little head warm when we went out into the garden.
Her name is very pretty, too - Amelia. "I used to have a cat called Amelia" I said to my nephew. "Oh, I remember", he said.
In My Day
I can't now remember the reason why I became fixated, back in 1974, on having a kitten. We were still living at the flat in Belmont in Brighton which was up three flights of stairs and we weren't supposed to have pets at all.
We trekked round all the pet shops in Brighton - not a kitten in sight. Finally, with reluctance, I went into a dirty little pet shop near the station. This had a bad reputation for leaving animals in the window all day, etc, and I didn't really want to do business with them. However, they did have a kitten. A little, scrappy, 6-week old black & white female. I looked at her little terrified face. "How much?" I asked. "£0.75p", was the reply. "I'll take her, plus food, litter, flea spray and worming tablets" (I could see at a glance that she needed all these things).
I tucked the trembling creature into my coat and we went home. We had to get her up the stairs without being detected. This was made harder by two-year old Lizzie's excitement at our having made the purchase. She delightedly and loudly talked about the cat all the way up the stairs, oblivious to our entreaties to hush!
The kitten was very scared and spent the first two days hiding, mainly, it must be stated, from the exuberant Lizzie. It took a long time to house-train her and even longer finally to get rid of the fleas and worms that were making her so miserable.
She lived for 19 years and during that time had a litter of four kittens herself. She made sure that one of us was in attendance during the delivery (rather uncomfortably as she'd chosen the understairs cupboard). She was always a little scraggy but was was unfailingly affectionate. She died gracefully a few weeks after her lifelong companion Agamemnon died, just before her 19th birthday.
We named her Amelia, and though she was never as pretty as pretty, we hope that something of her affectionate and gentle nature will be reflected in her human namesake.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Easter Bunny
Today
It's Easter day today. Actually the earliest date it can be - 23rd March. So, of course, it's been snowing.
Having already discovered, as part of retirement, that weekends have less importance, we now find that Easter has also slid into insignificance. We're not religious and we have no little ones to give Easter Eggs to. And as we're no longer working we don't feel the need to take advantage of the long break.
"Should we send Easter cards?" enquired my spouse. "If you like", I replied "who to?" He could only come up with a couple of names and it didn't seem worth the bother.
Lizzie is working this weekend and Becky decided that she would like to pop down to Brighton with a friend. So no company.
To make it worse, Paul & I have been experimenting with the lemon detox diet and aren't really allowed to eat anything more than soup or the detox concoction.
So a non-event really
In My Day
Like most festivals in my childhood, Easter was celebrated along formulaic lines. The only variable was the date, and therefore, the weather.
On Easter day Mamma & Daddy would have hidden eggs all over the house. There was no concept of being given personal eggs. These eggs ranged from tiny foil-wrapped chocolate eggs to large hollow ones which were often broken by the time you found them. Our house was large with high ceilings (this often seemed to give an unfair advantage to my already advantaged brothers because they were tall enough to peer into light fittings etc). If the weather was good the eggs might be hidden in the garden.
Before the day Mamma would have spent some time hard-boiling eggs and putting sheets of German egg dye into water. The eggs came out with blue, green and pink shells. She would also boil some with onion skin to give a deep golden sheen. When the eggs were done she'd rub lard on the shells to make then shine. If the shells had cracked during the boiling process there'd be a delicate coloured veining across the white. I found that especially delightful.
"Go!" was shouted and we were allowed to search for the eggs. It always seemed that the boys found more than me or my sister but it didn't much matter as they were always fairly shared out. Mamma & Daddy always knew exactly how many eggs they'd bought and it was a rare Easter when we found them all. Stray eggs would turn up over the coming months - popping out from under cushions or rolling off books on the shelves.
The chocolate the eggs were made of was always a bit of a disappointment and, to tell the truth, I preferred the hard-boiled ones and could make quite a pig of myself on them.
Ah well, on the detox diet I'm not even allowed a boiled egg!
It's Easter day today. Actually the earliest date it can be - 23rd March. So, of course, it's been snowing.
Having already discovered, as part of retirement, that weekends have less importance, we now find that Easter has also slid into insignificance. We're not religious and we have no little ones to give Easter Eggs to. And as we're no longer working we don't feel the need to take advantage of the long break.
"Should we send Easter cards?" enquired my spouse. "If you like", I replied "who to?" He could only come up with a couple of names and it didn't seem worth the bother.
Lizzie is working this weekend and Becky decided that she would like to pop down to Brighton with a friend. So no company.
To make it worse, Paul & I have been experimenting with the lemon detox diet and aren't really allowed to eat anything more than soup or the detox concoction.
So a non-event really
In My Day
Like most festivals in my childhood, Easter was celebrated along formulaic lines. The only variable was the date, and therefore, the weather.
On Easter day Mamma & Daddy would have hidden eggs all over the house. There was no concept of being given personal eggs. These eggs ranged from tiny foil-wrapped chocolate eggs to large hollow ones which were often broken by the time you found them. Our house was large with high ceilings (this often seemed to give an unfair advantage to my already advantaged brothers because they were tall enough to peer into light fittings etc). If the weather was good the eggs might be hidden in the garden.
Before the day Mamma would have spent some time hard-boiling eggs and putting sheets of German egg dye into water. The eggs came out with blue, green and pink shells. She would also boil some with onion skin to give a deep golden sheen. When the eggs were done she'd rub lard on the shells to make then shine. If the shells had cracked during the boiling process there'd be a delicate coloured veining across the white. I found that especially delightful.
"Go!" was shouted and we were allowed to search for the eggs. It always seemed that the boys found more than me or my sister but it didn't much matter as they were always fairly shared out. Mamma & Daddy always knew exactly how many eggs they'd bought and it was a rare Easter when we found them all. Stray eggs would turn up over the coming months - popping out from under cushions or rolling off books on the shelves.
The chocolate the eggs were made of was always a bit of a disappointment and, to tell the truth, I preferred the hard-boiled ones and could make quite a pig of myself on them.
Ah well, on the detox diet I'm not even allowed a boiled egg!
Sunday, March 02, 2008
Lollipop
Today
Walking around North Lane in Brighton today, Liz became very excited at seeing Cyber Candy. It's actually a sweet shop but with items from the more obscure end of the market. "I can never remember where it is," said the delighted Liz "I always seem to find it by mistake."
The girls went in and were soon saying things like "Ooh, I remember those" "I used to love those". And so on. It was rather bizarre, hearing the girls talking nostalgically about their favourite childhood sweets like a couple of old 'uns.
The shop sold Pez, complete with dispensers, obscure flavours of Kit Kat and chocolate covered insects. The packs of insects, having reassured doubters that there were real insects inside, went on to inform you that the contents did not contain significant amounts of protein, fat or other nutrients. As if your reason for eating them was all that luscious locust meat inside.
In My Day
We used to have 6d a week pocket money and there was no restriction on spending it all on sweets. On Sunday mornings we used to walk down to Wellsley Road Rec where there was a sweet shop. We bought sherbet lemons and penny chews.
I particularly remember the little sweets which looked rather like pieces of Italian Millefiore. I liked licorice sticks and clove sweets. We bought aniseed balls, gobstoppers and bubble gum (this last was always disappointing as I couldn't get it to bubble and it tasted like old rubber). We were allowed to eat rock on seaside visits and honeycomb, candy floss and toffee apples, when we went to fairs. No wonder so many of my teeth are now made of porcelain.
I certainly remember Pez appearing in the shops. I think we were older by this time; but, even so, buying the dispensers felt like a big outlay and it was always a worry when the little spring broke.
We certainly couldn't afford chocolate, which only made an appearance at Easter, St Nicholas's night and Christmas, or if Mamma was given Black Magic as a gift (toffee and Montelimar for me, please).
At Cyber Candy what we were all agreed on was to give the chocolate covered insects a miss.
Walking around North Lane in Brighton today, Liz became very excited at seeing Cyber Candy. It's actually a sweet shop but with items from the more obscure end of the market. "I can never remember where it is," said the delighted Liz "I always seem to find it by mistake."
The girls went in and were soon saying things like "Ooh, I remember those" "I used to love those". And so on. It was rather bizarre, hearing the girls talking nostalgically about their favourite childhood sweets like a couple of old 'uns.
The shop sold Pez, complete with dispensers, obscure flavours of Kit Kat and chocolate covered insects. The packs of insects, having reassured doubters that there were real insects inside, went on to inform you that the contents did not contain significant amounts of protein, fat or other nutrients. As if your reason for eating them was all that luscious locust meat inside.
In My Day
We used to have 6d a week pocket money and there was no restriction on spending it all on sweets. On Sunday mornings we used to walk down to Wellsley Road Rec where there was a sweet shop. We bought sherbet lemons and penny chews.
I particularly remember the little sweets which looked rather like pieces of Italian Millefiore. I liked licorice sticks and clove sweets. We bought aniseed balls, gobstoppers and bubble gum (this last was always disappointing as I couldn't get it to bubble and it tasted like old rubber). We were allowed to eat rock on seaside visits and honeycomb, candy floss and toffee apples, when we went to fairs. No wonder so many of my teeth are now made of porcelain.
I certainly remember Pez appearing in the shops. I think we were older by this time; but, even so, buying the dispensers felt like a big outlay and it was always a worry when the little spring broke.
We certainly couldn't afford chocolate, which only made an appearance at Easter, St Nicholas's night and Christmas, or if Mamma was given Black Magic as a gift (toffee and Montelimar for me, please).
At Cyber Candy what we were all agreed on was to give the chocolate covered insects a miss.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
For the Record
Today
One of my Christmas presents was a Sony Walkman MP3 player. A gift from Becky who thought that I would like to be kept amused by my own choice of music while attending the gym etc. So I've signed up to Napster and spent the morning browsing music selections and downloading them onto my Walkman. It's amazingly easy (I think this is really the secret of why young people seem so clued up on technology; most of it's idiot-proof) and I've a personal and eclectic mix awaiting my pleasure.
We should also be able to play it through the car speakers. Unfortunately the adapter Paul bought me is for IPods only, but we should be able to change it.
So no lugging along half our CD collection with us whenever we go anywhere!
In My Day
The ability to save music, let alone make it portable, was not available when we were children. Out first foray was with the acquisition of reel to reel tape recorders in the '60s. They did have the merit, since lost with CDs and MP3s, of being playable backwards, with fascinating, not to say hilarious, results.
During my teenage years David had a very superior reel - to reel and he worked out how to connect it directly to the radio. This meant that he could listen to his favourite programmes even if he was out. This was just so exciting to us. Mamma would have instructions as to when to push which button (she didn't always get this right, resulting in much wailing and gnashing of teeth). I think that later David managed to automate this. As my bedroom was next to David's and as he'd rigged up a speaker in my room, this meant that I was treated to a varied, if somewhat esoteric, selection of recorded classical hits.
The recording I remember most vividly was a recording of the play Leonce & Lena. We played it again and again and practically memorised it.
All of which makes the ease, speed and variety of what's possible in the digital age really exciting.
I shall take my Walkman with me to the gym next time I go, and listen to Beethoven's Mass In C while I pound the treadmill.
One of my Christmas presents was a Sony Walkman MP3 player. A gift from Becky who thought that I would like to be kept amused by my own choice of music while attending the gym etc. So I've signed up to Napster and spent the morning browsing music selections and downloading them onto my Walkman. It's amazingly easy (I think this is really the secret of why young people seem so clued up on technology; most of it's idiot-proof) and I've a personal and eclectic mix awaiting my pleasure.
We should also be able to play it through the car speakers. Unfortunately the adapter Paul bought me is for IPods only, but we should be able to change it.
So no lugging along half our CD collection with us whenever we go anywhere!
In My Day
The ability to save music, let alone make it portable, was not available when we were children. Out first foray was with the acquisition of reel to reel tape recorders in the '60s. They did have the merit, since lost with CDs and MP3s, of being playable backwards, with fascinating, not to say hilarious, results.
During my teenage years David had a very superior reel - to reel and he worked out how to connect it directly to the radio. This meant that he could listen to his favourite programmes even if he was out. This was just so exciting to us. Mamma would have instructions as to when to push which button (she didn't always get this right, resulting in much wailing and gnashing of teeth). I think that later David managed to automate this. As my bedroom was next to David's and as he'd rigged up a speaker in my room, this meant that I was treated to a varied, if somewhat esoteric, selection of recorded classical hits.
The recording I remember most vividly was a recording of the play Leonce & Lena. We played it again and again and practically memorised it.
All of which makes the ease, speed and variety of what's possible in the digital age really exciting.
I shall take my Walkman with me to the gym next time I go, and listen to Beethoven's Mass In C while I pound the treadmill.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Stripper
Today
As earlier blogs show, Paul likes to tan. His skin is quite dark anyway, so he often ignores the need to use SPF.
During our recent WW tour I generally managed to persuade him at least to cover the more vulnerables bits. This he did; so I decided to overlook the fact that he always squeezes out too much lotion (it's a man thing), in the interests of the wider good.
In Fiji we did the whole Blue Lagoon bit. Paul tried snorkelling, until his moustache got in the way and the snorkel filled up with water. He swam about a bit in the warm water, then came up to where I was on the beach, playing with corally sand and trying to keep my hat on. "Fancy a walk along the beach?" he proposed. "OK - do you want some SPF?" "I'll be OK - we won't be gone long." And this was true - we walked along for about 40 minutes, looking at shells and coconuts and playing with 14-month old little Eva.
Later, I noticed just how red his back was. Slathered on coolants but too late. Over the next ten days the entire skin on his back peeled off. It itched like hell. I resisted (only partly successfully) the urge to help this process along by pulling bits off.
In My Day
When I was a child there was no SPF and nobody ever suggested avoiding sunshine. I did have little frilly sunbonnets up until I was about 5, I think, but we never put anything on our skins. Getting burnt seemed to be accepted and shrugged off. Mamma used to put calamine lotion on if it was very sore and itchy. This did help a bit, but one was then covered in an unsightly pinkish distemper.
I think that my skin was more sensitive than most and it didn't take much exposure to make me burn. Mamma sunbathed freely without apparent problems and we never saw Daddy in trunks, shorts or even short-sleeved shirts. The most he did was roll up his trouser legs and pop a knotted hanky on his head, like a parody of a Londoner by the seaside.
When we went to Bigbury Bay in 1957 it rained nearly all week. On the last day the sun at last came out and we spent the day on the beach, playing in rock pools and the like. Of course my back became very burnt.
On the train home the next day it was very crowded and we had to stand in the corridor for some of the way. One of Daddy's less fascinating bits of fun was a tendency to stuff crumpled bits of paper down your back when you least expected it. Normally, we just groaned, fished it out and carried on with what we were doing. Well, Daddy decided to inflict this little jape on me on the train. With my back red and raw with practically 2nd degree burning, this was even less funny than usual. I remember screeching and giving him quite a telling off. And I've always remembered it.
At least, as I told Paul, his flakes of skin were all nicely tanned.
As earlier blogs show, Paul likes to tan. His skin is quite dark anyway, so he often ignores the need to use SPF.
During our recent WW tour I generally managed to persuade him at least to cover the more vulnerables bits. This he did; so I decided to overlook the fact that he always squeezes out too much lotion (it's a man thing), in the interests of the wider good.
In Fiji we did the whole Blue Lagoon bit. Paul tried snorkelling, until his moustache got in the way and the snorkel filled up with water. He swam about a bit in the warm water, then came up to where I was on the beach, playing with corally sand and trying to keep my hat on. "Fancy a walk along the beach?" he proposed. "OK - do you want some SPF?" "I'll be OK - we won't be gone long." And this was true - we walked along for about 40 minutes, looking at shells and coconuts and playing with 14-month old little Eva.
Later, I noticed just how red his back was. Slathered on coolants but too late. Over the next ten days the entire skin on his back peeled off. It itched like hell. I resisted (only partly successfully) the urge to help this process along by pulling bits off.
In My Day
When I was a child there was no SPF and nobody ever suggested avoiding sunshine. I did have little frilly sunbonnets up until I was about 5, I think, but we never put anything on our skins. Getting burnt seemed to be accepted and shrugged off. Mamma used to put calamine lotion on if it was very sore and itchy. This did help a bit, but one was then covered in an unsightly pinkish distemper.
I think that my skin was more sensitive than most and it didn't take much exposure to make me burn. Mamma sunbathed freely without apparent problems and we never saw Daddy in trunks, shorts or even short-sleeved shirts. The most he did was roll up his trouser legs and pop a knotted hanky on his head, like a parody of a Londoner by the seaside.
When we went to Bigbury Bay in 1957 it rained nearly all week. On the last day the sun at last came out and we spent the day on the beach, playing in rock pools and the like. Of course my back became very burnt.
On the train home the next day it was very crowded and we had to stand in the corridor for some of the way. One of Daddy's less fascinating bits of fun was a tendency to stuff crumpled bits of paper down your back when you least expected it. Normally, we just groaned, fished it out and carried on with what we were doing. Well, Daddy decided to inflict this little jape on me on the train. With my back red and raw with practically 2nd degree burning, this was even less funny than usual. I remember screeching and giving him quite a telling off. And I've always remembered it.
At least, as I told Paul, his flakes of skin were all nicely tanned.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Twinkle Toes
Today
We're now in Kaua'i on the penultimate leg of our tour. Another resort which could completely change my mind about resort holidays - the Grand Hyatt at Poipu. It's beautiful, with a staggering attention to detail. We breakfast surrounded by waterfalls and pools on which swans swim and from which fish leap. We gaze at the ocean with the surging waves. Our every wish is anticpated.
And there are also shops!
One of these is called the Sandal Tree. On the somewhat tenuous grounds that I needed some "city" shoes for San Francisco, I popped in to take a look.
Ended up buying some glorious black patent peep-toe wedges with clear perspex heels and some very silly mules with strawberries for heels.
In My Day
Mamma had good legs and liked to wear stilletoes or other fashionable shoes. Daddy, so generous in so many ways, couldn't understand the need for any form of frivolous clothing, nor, indeed, nor than one set of anything.
I got my first Saturday job back in 1962 working for a trading stamp company - Pink stamps (they were the 60's equivalent of Nectar, I guess). I saved my wages till I could buy a coveted pair of shoes from Ravel in Croydon. They were in very classy brown leather with several buttoned straps across the instep and a nice heel.
I bought patent leather shoes (I & my friend Lynda often found we'd chosen the same style), wedges, white patent (I was wearing a pair of those on my first date with Paul) Roman soldier inspired sandals when they were all the rage; in fact every frivolous style you can imagine. I remember owning a pair of very high wooden platform sandals back in 1975 and having to manage luggage and the 2-year-old Liz on the underground while wearing them Ah, well, you have to suffer etc.
I still wear high heels and, in fact, own a pair of Pradas!
We're now in Kaua'i on the penultimate leg of our tour. Another resort which could completely change my mind about resort holidays - the Grand Hyatt at Poipu. It's beautiful, with a staggering attention to detail. We breakfast surrounded by waterfalls and pools on which swans swim and from which fish leap. We gaze at the ocean with the surging waves. Our every wish is anticpated.
And there are also shops!
One of these is called the Sandal Tree. On the somewhat tenuous grounds that I needed some "city" shoes for San Francisco, I popped in to take a look.
Ended up buying some glorious black patent peep-toe wedges with clear perspex heels and some very silly mules with strawberries for heels.
In My Day
Mamma had good legs and liked to wear stilletoes or other fashionable shoes. Daddy, so generous in so many ways, couldn't understand the need for any form of frivolous clothing, nor, indeed, nor than one set of anything.
I got my first Saturday job back in 1962 working for a trading stamp company - Pink stamps (they were the 60's equivalent of Nectar, I guess). I saved my wages till I could buy a coveted pair of shoes from Ravel in Croydon. They were in very classy brown leather with several buttoned straps across the instep and a nice heel.
I bought patent leather shoes (I & my friend Lynda often found we'd chosen the same style), wedges, white patent (I was wearing a pair of those on my first date with Paul) Roman soldier inspired sandals when they were all the rage; in fact every frivolous style you can imagine. I remember owning a pair of very high wooden platform sandals back in 1975 and having to manage luggage and the 2-year-old Liz on the underground while wearing them Ah, well, you have to suffer etc.
I still wear high heels and, in fact, own a pair of Pradas!
Thursday, February 07, 2008
Flied Lice
Today
Travelling in the Pacific countries has yielded a range of international cuisine. All of the countries we‘ve visited are multi-cultural and proud of it. So we’ve eaten Indian, Chinese, Japanese, Thai, Turkish, French, American, Mexican, Italian foods in the last few weeks.
The New Zealanders, especially, are very fond of their bread & dips. Generally this means a massive heap of various types of bread, pesto and other dips of a pate-type consistency. They’re a meal in themselves we quickly found out or a starter for two or more to share.
We always enjoy plates of veggie antipasti with dolmades, artichokes, pitta, hummus, olives etc. I love Indian meals where I have about five different types of veg and dhal with my rice. The Japanese meal I had last night was a lovely mix of ginger flavoured rice and little dishes of tempura veg, dumplings & noodles. And there’s always Nachos
“I sometimes think,” I said to Paul “That we often sit down to meals that my mother wouldn’t have recognised as meals at all.”
In My Day
Mamma was a good cook and we ate well as children. Food was fresh (we had veg & fruit delivered weekly) and not overcooked or dull. Some of my school friends were astonished at the range of foodstuffs we ate so I think it was probably a feature of the times.
Mamma’s range was fairly limited and, looking back, I’m surprised at just how much packet soup was consumed. And I taught her how to make shepherd’s pie and apple crumble, having learnt how at school. There was the inevitable German touch to the diet, with Wiener Schnitzel, Frankfurters and Saurkraut making appearances regularly.
Mamma made proper fish and chips and I remember the batter she used to dip the cod and the vile ancient chip pan we used (It was never washed up and the lard only changed occasionally). She made steak and kidney pies but not puddings. Her only homemade soups seemed to be Tomato – at Christmas only and made with tinned tomato juice – and cauliflower which was very creamy and I recall rather salty. She rarely baked puddings, but did do a baked rice pudding – always served with tinned apricots and my brother David’s most hated dish – and the occasional pie. Once in a while she’d do some mid-European baking: caraway seed cake, German Plum cake (this had fresh plums sliced and cooked on top of the mixture) and an apple, rum and raisin cake.
But food was always served as meal of solid courses. There might be soup to start then a meat with vegetables course and a pud which was very often tinned fruit and bird’s custard. Each course was brought to the table in serving dishes or plates. I still have Mamma’s beautiful soup tureen. The idea that we might pick from a selection of little nibbly things and call it dinner was unthinkable. And there was no “foreign” food at all.
I first had Chinese food when I and friends used to pop into a restaurant in South Kensington after a Prom and share a couple of spring rolls and some fried rice. I’m embarrassed to say that we called it “Flied Lice” and in front of the waiters
Travelling in the Pacific countries has yielded a range of international cuisine. All of the countries we‘ve visited are multi-cultural and proud of it. So we’ve eaten Indian, Chinese, Japanese, Thai, Turkish, French, American, Mexican, Italian foods in the last few weeks.
The New Zealanders, especially, are very fond of their bread & dips. Generally this means a massive heap of various types of bread, pesto and other dips of a pate-type consistency. They’re a meal in themselves we quickly found out or a starter for two or more to share.
We always enjoy plates of veggie antipasti with dolmades, artichokes, pitta, hummus, olives etc. I love Indian meals where I have about five different types of veg and dhal with my rice. The Japanese meal I had last night was a lovely mix of ginger flavoured rice and little dishes of tempura veg, dumplings & noodles. And there’s always Nachos
“I sometimes think,” I said to Paul “That we often sit down to meals that my mother wouldn’t have recognised as meals at all.”
In My Day
Mamma was a good cook and we ate well as children. Food was fresh (we had veg & fruit delivered weekly) and not overcooked or dull. Some of my school friends were astonished at the range of foodstuffs we ate so I think it was probably a feature of the times.
Mamma’s range was fairly limited and, looking back, I’m surprised at just how much packet soup was consumed. And I taught her how to make shepherd’s pie and apple crumble, having learnt how at school. There was the inevitable German touch to the diet, with Wiener Schnitzel, Frankfurters and Saurkraut making appearances regularly.
Mamma made proper fish and chips and I remember the batter she used to dip the cod and the vile ancient chip pan we used (It was never washed up and the lard only changed occasionally). She made steak and kidney pies but not puddings. Her only homemade soups seemed to be Tomato – at Christmas only and made with tinned tomato juice – and cauliflower which was very creamy and I recall rather salty. She rarely baked puddings, but did do a baked rice pudding – always served with tinned apricots and my brother David’s most hated dish – and the occasional pie. Once in a while she’d do some mid-European baking: caraway seed cake, German Plum cake (this had fresh plums sliced and cooked on top of the mixture) and an apple, rum and raisin cake.
But food was always served as meal of solid courses. There might be soup to start then a meat with vegetables course and a pud which was very often tinned fruit and bird’s custard. Each course was brought to the table in serving dishes or plates. I still have Mamma’s beautiful soup tureen. The idea that we might pick from a selection of little nibbly things and call it dinner was unthinkable. And there was no “foreign” food at all.
I first had Chinese food when I and friends used to pop into a restaurant in South Kensington after a Prom and share a couple of spring rolls and some fried rice. I’m embarrassed to say that we called it “Flied Lice” and in front of the waiters
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Country Roads
Today
Yesterday we set out from Wellington to drive to Napier on the East side of North Island. Plugged in Dolly the sat nav and off we set. After she’d taken a little time, during which Paul drove around hopefully in the wrong direction, to place herself, she began lisping out the turns.
Very good she was, too. In fact she’d have been better if I hadn’t been also reading the map and had a disagreement with her over whether to head straight up the SH2 (my preference) or continue on SH1 (hers).
I overruled her and thereby added about 30km to the journey. More scenic, tho’ which is my excuse to which I’m sticking.
Dolly’s (well, doesn’t everyone have a name for their sat nav person?) particularly useful in cities where it’s easy to become confused. But she’s not very intuitive and we found that she got so muddled on some very tight hairpins near Queenstown that she kept thinking we were heading the wrong way and instructing us to do u-turns.
In My Day
I absolutely love maps and am living proof that women can read them. I probably got this from Mamma who had a huge store of OS maps. She used these to guide us on our country walks. There’s a picture in our family
album of Mamma leaning on a stile, somewhere near Godalming, clutching a map with a faraway look in her eyes.
She used to dive off the lanes along paths that had previously been invisible to us, exclaiming “Ah! That’s the footpath!”. She would then lead us confidently along what to my eyes was just a clear patch of woodland or the very muddy edge of a ploughed field.
I think she frequently got lost and our best chance of reaching our destination was if it was a very well-signposted National Trust site or something similar. Daddy’s nickname for her on these occasions was “The Never-get-there”. I don’t know whether she was very pleased by this, but I also noticed that Daddy opted out of the whole direction finding thing entirely.
In my own forays I tend to stick to the lanes, unless the path is very clear and free of mud. It’s safer and quicker!
Yesterday we set out from Wellington to drive to Napier on the East side of North Island. Plugged in Dolly the sat nav and off we set. After she’d taken a little time, during which Paul drove around hopefully in the wrong direction, to place herself, she began lisping out the turns.
Very good she was, too. In fact she’d have been better if I hadn’t been also reading the map and had a disagreement with her over whether to head straight up the SH2 (my preference) or continue on SH1 (hers).
I overruled her and thereby added about 30km to the journey. More scenic, tho’ which is my excuse to which I’m sticking.
Dolly’s (well, doesn’t everyone have a name for their sat nav person?) particularly useful in cities where it’s easy to become confused. But she’s not very intuitive and we found that she got so muddled on some very tight hairpins near Queenstown that she kept thinking we were heading the wrong way and instructing us to do u-turns.
In My Day
I absolutely love maps and am living proof that women can read them. I probably got this from Mamma who had a huge store of OS maps. She used these to guide us on our country walks. There’s a picture in our family
album of Mamma leaning on a stile, somewhere near Godalming, clutching a map with a faraway look in her eyes.
She used to dive off the lanes along paths that had previously been invisible to us, exclaiming “Ah! That’s the footpath!”. She would then lead us confidently along what to my eyes was just a clear patch of woodland or the very muddy edge of a ploughed field.
I think she frequently got lost and our best chance of reaching our destination was if it was a very well-signposted National Trust site or something similar. Daddy’s nickname for her on these occasions was “The Never-get-there”. I don’t know whether she was very pleased by this, but I also noticed that Daddy opted out of the whole direction finding thing entirely.
In my own forays I tend to stick to the lanes, unless the path is very clear and free of mud. It’s safer and quicker!
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Landladies
Today
More on hotels and the like. Perhaps because New Zealand has such a small population or perhaps because there are so many people travelling around, staying a day or two here and there, much of the accommodation is in “lodges”. A lodge isn’t a B&B or a guest house or a hotel or a motel.
They seem to offer a high standard with good, even luxurious rooms. Eating is often of a gourmet standard and generally of a communal nature, with guests all seated around a large table.
At Larnach Castle at Dunedin we dined in the castle dining room with about 20 other guests. Courses were punctuated with tales of the castle.
At the moment we are at the Westwood Lodge at Franz Joseph Glacier. It’s a B&B with bar (honesty style if the owners aren’’t there to take your money), lounge, and snooker table.
In my Day
I remember the first B&B I ever went to alone. I was busy applying (Fruitlessly, a it turned out) for degree courses in art.
I’d been invited to an interview at the Devonshire Art school. I travelled down from London and booked into a B&B not far from the college. I was eighteen.
I knocked on the door of the B&B. A hatchet-faced woman opened the door. I was taken to a spartan room with a lino floor, bed and sink. Bathing and toilets were shared affairs.
The place was peppered with notices about noise, using too much water, electricity and the penalties attached to coming back after 10.00 pm. I ignored all and tried to sleep; my stomach rumbling in protest against my having been too shy to go out and find supper.
In the morning I had to prepare for my interview. I bathed and washed my hair. Had breakfast and checked out. There was a extra item on the bill. Because I’d washed my hair I’d exceeded some cleanliness limit. I paid up and fled, too embarrassed to argue.
Anyway, all that embarrassment didn’t help me as I wasn’t offered a place at the art college.
More on hotels and the like. Perhaps because New Zealand has such a small population or perhaps because there are so many people travelling around, staying a day or two here and there, much of the accommodation is in “lodges”. A lodge isn’t a B&B or a guest house or a hotel or a motel.
They seem to offer a high standard with good, even luxurious rooms. Eating is often of a gourmet standard and generally of a communal nature, with guests all seated around a large table.
At Larnach Castle at Dunedin we dined in the castle dining room with about 20 other guests. Courses were punctuated with tales of the castle.
At the moment we are at the Westwood Lodge at Franz Joseph Glacier. It’s a B&B with bar (honesty style if the owners aren’’t there to take your money), lounge, and snooker table.
In my Day
I remember the first B&B I ever went to alone. I was busy applying (Fruitlessly, a it turned out) for degree courses in art.
I’d been invited to an interview at the Devonshire Art school. I travelled down from London and booked into a B&B not far from the college. I was eighteen.
I knocked on the door of the B&B. A hatchet-faced woman opened the door. I was taken to a spartan room with a lino floor, bed and sink. Bathing and toilets were shared affairs.
The place was peppered with notices about noise, using too much water, electricity and the penalties attached to coming back after 10.00 pm. I ignored all and tried to sleep; my stomach rumbling in protest against my having been too shy to go out and find supper.
In the morning I had to prepare for my interview. I bathed and washed my hair. Had breakfast and checked out. There was a extra item on the bill. Because I’d washed my hair I’d exceeded some cleanliness limit. I paid up and fled, too embarrassed to argue.
Anyway, all that embarrassment didn’t help me as I wasn’t offered a place at the art college.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Jeg the Peg
Today
Eventually Paul just had to give in. His gronky knee wasn't even up to the level walk from our hotel to the centre of Christchurch.
So we started looking for walking sticks. After only a little searching we found a hand-made Maori stick which has little parrots with capiz shell eyes carved on it.
"Just the right height," proclaimed Paul and he's been leaning on it ever since.
In My Day
I remember when Daddy took to using a walking stick. The stick itself was quite ordinary but it soon acquired a cult status within the family. Daddy went nowhere without it. Where he went included Canada, Strasbourg, Wiesbaden, Austria, Interlaken, Hamburg, Geneva, etc, etc.
Wherever he went he bought little metal souvenirs which attached to the stick with sharp prongs. Soon his stick was weighed down with these badges of honour. We began to call it Daddy's Alpenstock. When Daddy finally became so disabled that he couldn't go further than the end of the road, the stick reminded him of all his past adventures.
Unfortunately, all that's happened with Paul is that I keep reminding him the I'm now 60 and older than him and I don't need a stick...
Eventually Paul just had to give in. His gronky knee wasn't even up to the level walk from our hotel to the centre of Christchurch.
So we started looking for walking sticks. After only a little searching we found a hand-made Maori stick which has little parrots with capiz shell eyes carved on it.
"Just the right height," proclaimed Paul and he's been leaning on it ever since.
In My Day
I remember when Daddy took to using a walking stick. The stick itself was quite ordinary but it soon acquired a cult status within the family. Daddy went nowhere without it. Where he went included Canada, Strasbourg, Wiesbaden, Austria, Interlaken, Hamburg, Geneva, etc, etc.
Wherever he went he bought little metal souvenirs which attached to the stick with sharp prongs. Soon his stick was weighed down with these badges of honour. We began to call it Daddy's Alpenstock. When Daddy finally became so disabled that he couldn't go further than the end of the road, the stick reminded him of all his past adventures.
Unfortunately, all that's happened with Paul is that I keep reminding him the I'm now 60 and older than him and I don't need a stick...
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
Room Service
Today
I’ve started my great “round the world” holiday! Hurrah! Of course it involves staying in a great number of hotels. Over the next 40 days I’ll being staying in about 25 hotels about 7 different countries, if you count the stop over at Heathrow. And that doesn’t take into account 2 cruise ships.
We’re able to afford to stay in some good hotels. Even so, they vary much. We stayed at Raffles in Singapore. Although my friend who produces the “Ultimate Hotel Guide” doesn’t rate it as highly as the Four Seasons, we liked it for its central location and air of grand colonial elegance. Turbanned attendants greeted us by name and nothing was too much trouble. Our bedroom was really a suite with dining/sitting area, large bedroom and huge bathroom which had magnificent ornamental tiles. Birds flew freely in and out of the entrance hall. And by some agreement with dirt-free Singapore, they didn’t drop any poo anywhere on the immaculate tiles.
By contrast, the Shangri-La in Sydney, despite its service and beautiful views over the harbour, feels like a corporate chain. Although they produce a cracking salad.
It’ll be great fun discovering what the rest of the countries we’re visiting have to offer.
In My Day
I’ve lost count of the number of hotels I’ve stayed in. When I worked for Flare I travelled all over Britain. I’ve stayed in everything from the most deadly 2-stars, through Travelodges with their affiliation to Little Chef food, to some weird and grand places.
One that sticks in my mind is the Tre-ysgawen Hall hotel in Anglesey. I arrived after a long drive. The hotel charged £70 per night with breakfast and evening meal so my hopes weren’t high. I drove up a long drive and arrived at the sort of hotel where it costs £1000 just to open the front door. It appeared that I was the only guest. The chef produced an elaborate menu and was disappointed when I asked for an omelette. My bedroom had“real” furniture in it. I stayed there a few times and nearly always was entirely alone. What was this place? Was it a cover for drugs running? Or money laundering? On one occasion I arrived, after a long day’s training, to find that the bar was closed. “So sorry,” said my friendly waiter, “It doesn’t apply to you – it’s because of the demonstration.” I accepted a mineral water. It was only later, during dinner, as I watched people filing into the adjacent ballroom, that I asked, “What demonstration?” “Well, more of a meeting – like where they talk to dead people”, said my waiter. “You mean that they’re having a seance next door?” I asked incredulously.
But it was true. I spent the night, feeling spooked, expecting to see ectoplasm floating across the lawn or hear mysterious rappings in the night. I later learnt that the owners’ real interest was in psychical research and they regularly held meetings, seminars and seances , and this presumably paid the somewhat meagre returns from being a hotel in the middle of nowhere. (And believe me, Anglesey is the middle of nowhere).
Although I’m no longer at the mercy of admin staff to arrange my accommodation I am at the mercy of the travel company and what the Internet can tell me. Ah, well, all part of life’s rich etc etc....
I’ve started my great “round the world” holiday! Hurrah! Of course it involves staying in a great number of hotels. Over the next 40 days I’ll being staying in about 25 hotels about 7 different countries, if you count the stop over at Heathrow. And that doesn’t take into account 2 cruise ships.
We’re able to afford to stay in some good hotels. Even so, they vary much. We stayed at Raffles in Singapore. Although my friend who produces the “Ultimate Hotel Guide” doesn’t rate it as highly as the Four Seasons, we liked it for its central location and air of grand colonial elegance. Turbanned attendants greeted us by name and nothing was too much trouble. Our bedroom was really a suite with dining/sitting area, large bedroom and huge bathroom which had magnificent ornamental tiles. Birds flew freely in and out of the entrance hall. And by some agreement with dirt-free Singapore, they didn’t drop any poo anywhere on the immaculate tiles.
By contrast, the Shangri-La in Sydney, despite its service and beautiful views over the harbour, feels like a corporate chain. Although they produce a cracking salad.
It’ll be great fun discovering what the rest of the countries we’re visiting have to offer.
In My Day
I’ve lost count of the number of hotels I’ve stayed in. When I worked for Flare I travelled all over Britain. I’ve stayed in everything from the most deadly 2-stars, through Travelodges with their affiliation to Little Chef food, to some weird and grand places.
One that sticks in my mind is the Tre-ysgawen Hall hotel in Anglesey. I arrived after a long drive. The hotel charged £70 per night with breakfast and evening meal so my hopes weren’t high. I drove up a long drive and arrived at the sort of hotel where it costs £1000 just to open the front door. It appeared that I was the only guest. The chef produced an elaborate menu and was disappointed when I asked for an omelette. My bedroom had“real” furniture in it. I stayed there a few times and nearly always was entirely alone. What was this place? Was it a cover for drugs running? Or money laundering? On one occasion I arrived, after a long day’s training, to find that the bar was closed. “So sorry,” said my friendly waiter, “It doesn’t apply to you – it’s because of the demonstration.” I accepted a mineral water. It was only later, during dinner, as I watched people filing into the adjacent ballroom, that I asked, “What demonstration?” “Well, more of a meeting – like where they talk to dead people”, said my waiter. “You mean that they’re having a seance next door?” I asked incredulously.
But it was true. I spent the night, feeling spooked, expecting to see ectoplasm floating across the lawn or hear mysterious rappings in the night. I later learnt that the owners’ real interest was in psychical research and they regularly held meetings, seminars and seances , and this presumably paid the somewhat meagre returns from being a hotel in the middle of nowhere. (And believe me, Anglesey is the middle of nowhere).
Although I’m no longer at the mercy of admin staff to arrange my accommodation I am at the mercy of the travel company and what the Internet can tell me. Ah, well, all part of life’s rich etc etc....
Monday, December 31, 2007
Another Notch
Today
I often had a party - sometimes fancy dress - and - best of all, I was always allowed up to see in the New Year.
We always sang "Auld Lang Syne" - often just me, my parents and my brothers. Beatrice was too young so I felt especially privileged.
One year I awoke on New Year's Day without any recollection of having seen in the New Year. (And even now, with copious Champagne intake - I can't say that it's happened since).
I asked Mamma about it. "Well," She said, "You were so fast asleep - I couldn't wake you up." I felt very hurt and didn't understand . In fact, I didn't really forgive her until I had my own children and found out how hard it can be sometimes to wake them .
Anyway, I really love my birthdate, with its sense of new beginnings. And I'm looking forward to being able to apply for my bus pass. Sherry, anyone?
Hurrah! Today's my birthday! And not just any old birthday. It's my 60th. In fact, I'll have to see about changing my blogger profile.
It does feel as though I'm moving into a different age slot this time; very strange. As though I'm about to morph into a person who likes to shop at Edinburgh Woollen Mill, has short fluffy grey hair, breasts permanently at half mast and who's idea of partying is a small sherry (preferably Harvey's Bristol Cream). I expect to start calling people "dear" and to become suddenly unable to cope with my computer.
Actually, I'm really looking forward to my party tonight and very much like the fact that my birthday is always party time.
In My Day
I was due to be born on Boxing Day but very wisely hung on until NYE. My parents never made me have combined Christmas and Birthday presents so I never felt short-changed by the birthday's proximity to Christmas.
Mamma always made me a special birthday cake (chocolate, not to confuse it with the fruity Christmas cake) with candles. I remember one year Daddy did the chocolate icing and very proudly pointed out to me the unevennesses (perhaps that's where I get my cake icing skills from) in the surface as thou
gh they were geographical features.
gh they were geographical features.I often had a party - sometimes fancy dress - and - best of all, I was always allowed up to see in the New Year.
We always sang "Auld Lang Syne" - often just me, my parents and my brothers. Beatrice was too young so I felt especially privileged.
One year I awoke on New Year's Day without any recollection of having seen in the New Year. (And even now, with copious Champagne intake - I can't say that it's happened since).
I asked Mamma about it. "Well," She said, "You were so fast asleep - I couldn't wake you up." I felt very hurt and didn't understand . In fact, I didn't really forgive her until I had my own children and found out how hard it can be sometimes to wake them .
Anyway, I really love my birthdate, with its sense of new beginnings. And I'm looking forward to being able to apply for my bus pass. Sherry, anyone?
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Set the table
Today
Christmas went with a swing, as usual. During the preceding few days people would say "and are you all ready for Christmas?" And we'd say "getting there!". Friends described how they'd bought the turkey, made the stuffing. We popped in to drop off cards and found them all hard at work: putting up the tree and decorations, tidying the house for visitors, preparing food, stocking freezers.
On Christmas morning, once we'd opened stockings, we all got cracking. Paul vacuumed floors, laid the fire, sorted out crockery, cutlery, glasses. Lizzie made Dauphinoise & roast potatoes, and helped me in making a Tiramisu.
I made the main courses, kept the kitchen tidy. Becky did the vegetables and tidied up the candles on the tree. Niece Ruth did the rubbish bins and put out tea lights. The dishwasher kept pace with the tide of pots & pans.
When all was done, we went and had a wonderful feast.
"It's a just like "A Christmas Carol" at the Cratchitts." I said. "Everyone had their duties".
In My Day
When I was a child, Christmas morning in our household was basically devoted to domestic work. After breakfast (which was always a bit on the scrappy, get-it-yourself side) we all had our duties. The fires would be laid (Daddy and Christopher's job). The last bits of Lametta were hung on the tree. The table was laid with a white cloth hung with ribbons. The final vegetables were prepared, (How I hated the filthy job of doing the chestnuts - but loved to eat them later), the Turkey tested and prodded, the ham put on to boil.
We tried to keep on top of the dirty washing up in our minuscule kitchen. (However did we produce such a feast? We barely had two feet of work surface.) The gifts were all arranged in the other room. During the meal we would each in turn wash up the used plates etc from the course we'd just eaten and dry up the previous lot. That way the work was all pretty well done by the time dinner was over.
Then Daddy and someone would collect David from St Paul's and the feasting would start at about 3.00 pm. after we'd finished the food would be left for us to pick at at will over the next two days. And we'd all be ready for revelling, gift opening, singing and games until bedtime.
Somehow, the hard work in preparing the celebration gave point and extra relish to the actual feast.
And I'd like to keep it that way.
Christmas went with a swing, as usual. During the preceding few days people would say "and are you all ready for Christmas?" And we'd say "getting there!". Friends described how they'd bought the turkey, made the stuffing. We popped in to drop off cards and found them all hard at work: putting up the tree and decorations, tidying the house for visitors, preparing food, stocking freezers.
On Christmas morning, once we'd opened stockings, we all got cracking. Paul vacuumed floors, laid the fire, sorted out crockery, cutlery, glasses. Lizzie made Dauphinoise & roast potatoes, and helped me in making a Tiramisu.
I made the main courses, kept the kitchen tidy. Becky did the vegetables and tidied up the candles on the tree. Niece Ruth did the rubbish bins and put out tea lights. The dishwasher kept pace with the tide of pots & pans.
When all was done, we went and had a wonderful feast.
"It's a just like "A Christmas Carol" at the Cratchitts." I said. "Everyone had their duties".
In My Day
When I was a child, Christmas morning in our household was basically devoted to domestic work. After breakfast (which was always a bit on the scrappy, get-it-yourself side) we all had our duties. The fires would be laid (Daddy and Christopher's job). The last bits of Lametta were hung on the tree. The table was laid with a white cloth hung with ribbons. The final vegetables were prepared, (How I hated the filthy job of doing the chestnuts - but loved to eat them later), the Turkey tested and prodded, the ham put on to boil.
We tried to keep on top of the dirty washing up in our minuscule kitchen. (However did we produce such a feast? We barely had two feet of work surface.) The gifts were all arranged in the other room. During the meal we would each in turn wash up the used plates etc from the course we'd just eaten and dry up the previous lot. That way the work was all pretty well done by the time dinner was over.
Then Daddy and someone would collect David from St Paul's and the feasting would start at about 3.00 pm. after we'd finished the food would be left for us to pick at at will over the next two days. And we'd all be ready for revelling, gift opening, singing and games until bedtime.
Somehow, the hard work in preparing the celebration gave point and extra relish to the actual feast.
And I'd like to keep it that way.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Oh Tannenbaum
Today
Have actually put up two Christmas trees. The first one at home is a real tree - one of those spruces that doesn't drop its needles and is quite dense. We've hung many baubles on it in many colours, some resembling sweeties in colour and shape. The clever German tree holder worked a treat (for the first time for many years we haven't had to support the tree by tying a string to the ceiling).
I've hung all the remaining metal lametta and attached bright red candles using clip on holders. And - so sorry, health & safety chaps - we actually light the candles.
The one at the flat is altogether different. As we're in a first floor flat and only occasionally visit we decided on a fake tree. Now, I've not much time for those that pretend to be spruce; instead ours is made of silvery metal branches with crystal droplets at the ends.
We've hung chaste baubles in silver, black and blue and draped white LED teeny - tiny fairy lights all over it. And Twinkle the fairy graces the top.
In My Day
Our big Victorian pile allowed us to have Christmas trees of 10 foot or more. Daddy used to turn up with the tree on some unspecified day before Christmas. I think he must have carried it home on the bus.
He would jam the tree between logs wedged into a galvanised bucket. I don't think he ever watered it. We always called the tree a "fir" and perhaps it was. The branches were always thin and well spaced out. Mamma liked this because it meant less risk from the candles.
She always bought Prices "Mini Spirettes" in multi colours. there was always some anxiety about making sure we'd get enough in time for Christmas. These were carefully placed but as the tree settled they always had to be adjusted so that they weren't hanging upside-down or too skewiff.
Then the baubles. These were saved from the previous year and more added each year. They became a time capsule of fashion in tree decoration (you can sometimes find similar baubles in fancy retro shops). They also became covered in wax as the years went by. Finally, the lametta. This was made of lead and hung like icicles from the branches. Each piece was draped string by string and it was never possible to have too much. Mamma had a huge bundle that had built up over the years.
When the candles were lit the hot air made the lametta spiral and twinkle like the very stars.
It's almost impossible to buy that lametta these days and I've almost run out - any suggestions?
Have actually put up two Christmas trees. The first one at home is a real tree - one of those spruces that doesn't drop its needles and is quite dense. We've hung many baubles on it in many colours, some resembling sweeties in colour and shape. The clever German tree holder worked a treat (for the first time for many years we haven't had to support the tree by tying a string to the ceiling).
I've hung all the remaining metal lametta and attached bright red candles using clip on holders. And - so sorry, health & safety chaps - we actually light the candles.
The one at the flat is altogether different. As we're in a first floor flat and only occasionally visit we decided on a fake tree. Now, I've not much time for those that pretend to be spruce; instead ours is made of silvery metal branches with crystal droplets at the ends.
We've hung chaste baubles in silver, black and blue and draped white LED teeny - tiny fairy lights all over it. And Twinkle the fairy graces the top.
In My Day
Our big Victorian pile allowed us to have Christmas trees of 10 foot or more. Daddy used to turn up with the tree on some unspecified day before Christmas. I think he must have carried it home on the bus.
He would jam the tree between logs wedged into a galvanised bucket. I don't think he ever watered it. We always called the tree a "fir" and perhaps it was. The branches were always thin and well spaced out. Mamma liked this because it meant less risk from the candles.
She always bought Prices "Mini Spirettes" in multi colours. there was always some anxiety about making sure we'd get enough in time for Christmas. These were carefully placed but as the tree settled they always had to be adjusted so that they weren't hanging upside-down or too skewiff.
Then the baubles. These were saved from the previous year and more added each year. They became a time capsule of fashion in tree decoration (you can sometimes find similar baubles in fancy retro shops). They also became covered in wax as the years went by. Finally, the lametta. This was made of lead and hung like icicles from the branches. Each piece was draped string by string and it was never possible to have too much. Mamma had a huge bundle that had built up over the years.
When the candles were lit the hot air made the lametta spiral and twinkle like the very stars.
It's almost impossible to buy that lametta these days and I've almost run out - any suggestions?
Monday, December 10, 2007
Tight Lacing
Today
Had a very pleasant afternoon, lunching with friends. We noticed and congratulated each other on some improvement in our figures. We noticed how our midriff "bagels" had grown smaller.
Regrettably, however, we still all had them and I doubt whether all the exercise and diet will entirely get rid. It's down to clever clothing and holding ourselves in, I suspect.
Today's fashions rely on the what's underneath being in good nick, so to speak, or covering up what shouldn't be shown. And those pin-thin models don't really help us to judge. Trinny & Susannah help in showing the way, but flab is flab.
In My Day
'Twas not always ever thus. When I was a child women were still corsetted. My mother used the services of a company called Spirella. About twice a year the "Spirella Lady" would call. She would closet herself with Mamma and measure up for the new set of corsets. I think I was sometimes allowed to be present on these occasions.
"Spirella" was a patented systems of flat metal spiral whalebone. They were flexible but held you in in all the right places. The corsets were salmon pink in colour (I don't know whether they came in other shades but that's what Mamma had) and did up with about 50 hooks and eyes. They also had laces for fine tuning and suspenders to attach to your stockings. They were very practical and a far cry from French underwear.
They also took a deal of getting into and, once hooked into them, there you stayed till bedtime.
I remember reading in one of those funny "overheard" books of a woman calling from her bedroom window to her husband "Will you be needing the use of my body or can I put my corsets on?". With Spirella in mind I can fully understand it.
The corsets conferred splendid posture as it was impossible to bend much once you'd got them on. However my mother did move with the times and, by the late '60s was wearing elasticated "corselettes".
Magic knickers do work, however, thanks, M&S. And I'll keep up with the exercise.
Had a very pleasant afternoon, lunching with friends. We noticed and congratulated each other on some improvement in our figures. We noticed how our midriff "bagels" had grown smaller.
Regrettably, however, we still all had them and I doubt whether all the exercise and diet will entirely get rid. It's down to clever clothing and holding ourselves in, I suspect.
Today's fashions rely on the what's underneath being in good nick, so to speak, or covering up what shouldn't be shown. And those pin-thin models don't really help us to judge. Trinny & Susannah help in showing the way, but flab is flab.
In My Day
'Twas not always ever thus. When I was a child women were still corsetted. My mother used the services of a company called Spirella. About twice a year the "Spirella Lady" would call. She would closet herself with Mamma and measure up for the new set of corsets. I think I was sometimes allowed to be present on these occasions.
"Spirella" was a patented systems of flat metal spiral whalebone. They were flexible but held you in in all the right places. The corsets were salmon pink in colour (I don't know whether they came in other shades but that's what Mamma had) and did up with about 50 hooks and eyes. They also had laces for fine tuning and suspenders to attach to your stockings. They were very practical and a far cry from French underwear.
They also took a deal of getting into and, once hooked into them, there you stayed till bedtime.
I remember reading in one of those funny "overheard" books of a woman calling from her bedroom window to her husband "Will you be needing the use of my body or can I put my corsets on?". With Spirella in mind I can fully understand it.
The corsets conferred splendid posture as it was impossible to bend much once you'd got them on. However my mother did move with the times and, by the late '60s was wearing elasticated "corselettes".
Magic knickers do work, however, thanks, M&S. And I'll keep up with the exercise.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Traffic Jam
Today
Spent the weekend in Southend, rehearsing for the English Concert Singers Concert. It's at St John's Smith Square next Friday and there was a lot of hard work.
We had a productive time and the pieces moved from the periphery of my brain to haunting my sleep, which means I'm internalising the music.
To get to Southend means a three and a half hour drive and we just can't find a route that avoids the M25. Getting there wasn't too bad as we were able to choose our time and avoid the known congestion times.
When we left on Sunday at about 4.45 pm we hit all the traffic. It decided to sleet along the Essex stretch (can't say that Essex did itself any favours that weekend with weather, views or facilities) and the traffic on the M25 was continuous from where we joined to past the M40. We took four and a half hours to get back home and some of Monday to recover.
In My Day
Being brought up in London meant that we rarely went anywhere by car; public transport provided most of our needs. When we did drive it was always by A or B roads as motorways hadn't been invented then. The roads weren't especially busy but they were very winding, with almost no bypassing of towns or dual carriageways. Thus, it was possible for it to take us 3 days to get to North Wales from London (see blog May 03 2005).
I did have a relatively early experience of how horrendous a motorway drive can be. Back in 1967 or so, my brothers and I decided to spend the Spring Bank holiday walking in the Lake District. Chris had recently started what turned out to be a life-long love affair with the Lake District and we were all game for it. We also went with Chris's that time girlfriend (can't remember her name, only that she was studying to become a domestic science teacher) who was also fairly game.
We went in Chris's car which was a Mini van. Like all of us in those days, he had a car that was only just on the edge of roadworthy. Of we set, preferring the overnight option. We went on the M1 and joined the then fairly new M6 at Coventry. We were all rather dozy and Chris was driving. "If I cross any of the lanes without indicating," he told me "nudge me because it means I'm asleep.
Which was very reassuring. However, I eventually succumbed to the monotony of the drive and the whooshing of the windscreen wipers and went to sleep like the others (except Chris).
What woke us up was a vile smell of burning oil. "What smell?" said Chris who had lost his sense of smell when he was about ten. The smell of an empty oil sump, that's what. Whether we'd just been neglectful about topping up, or the car used oil or had developed a leak I've no idea.
And it hardly seemed to matter. We limped into Knutsford Services at about one in the morning. Motorway services have come a long way since the '60s so you can just imagine how bad this one was. We had to organise a breakdown company to take away the Mini van and a hire car to enable us to have our holiday. We had to find somewhere to sit while waiting for all this and something to eat. And even the sandwiches these days are better than they used to be.
Spent the weekend in Southend, rehearsing for the English Concert Singers Concert. It's at St John's Smith Square next Friday and there was a lot of hard work.
We had a productive time and the pieces moved from the periphery of my brain to haunting my sleep, which means I'm internalising the music.
To get to Southend means a three and a half hour drive and we just can't find a route that avoids the M25. Getting there wasn't too bad as we were able to choose our time and avoid the known congestion times.
When we left on Sunday at about 4.45 pm we hit all the traffic. It decided to sleet along the Essex stretch (can't say that Essex did itself any favours that weekend with weather, views or facilities) and the traffic on the M25 was continuous from where we joined to past the M40. We took four and a half hours to get back home and some of Monday to recover.
In My Day
Being brought up in London meant that we rarely went anywhere by car; public transport provided most of our needs. When we did drive it was always by A or B roads as motorways hadn't been invented then. The roads weren't especially busy but they were very winding, with almost no bypassing of towns or dual carriageways. Thus, it was possible for it to take us 3 days to get to North Wales from London (see blog May 03 2005).
I did have a relatively early experience of how horrendous a motorway drive can be. Back in 1967 or so, my brothers and I decided to spend the Spring Bank holiday walking in the Lake District. Chris had recently started what turned out to be a life-long love affair with the Lake District and we were all game for it. We also went with Chris's that time girlfriend (can't remember her name, only that she was studying to become a domestic science teacher) who was also fairly game.
We went in Chris's car which was a Mini van. Like all of us in those days, he had a car that was only just on the edge of roadworthy. Of we set, preferring the overnight option. We went on the M1 and joined the then fairly new M6 at Coventry. We were all rather dozy and Chris was driving. "If I cross any of the lanes without indicating," he told me "nudge me because it means I'm asleep.
Which was very reassuring. However, I eventually succumbed to the monotony of the drive and the whooshing of the windscreen wipers and went to sleep like the others (except Chris).
What woke us up was a vile smell of burning oil. "What smell?" said Chris who had lost his sense of smell when he was about ten. The smell of an empty oil sump, that's what. Whether we'd just been neglectful about topping up, or the car used oil or had developed a leak I've no idea.
And it hardly seemed to matter. We limped into Knutsford Services at about one in the morning. Motorway services have come a long way since the '60s so you can just imagine how bad this one was. We had to organise a breakdown company to take away the Mini van and a hire car to enable us to have our holiday. We had to find somewhere to sit while waiting for all this and something to eat. And even the sandwiches these days are better than they used to be.
I do wonder sometimes just where all the cars on today's motorways actually come from. And I have this fantasy that somewhere there are some beautifully empty roads that we can whizz along without variable speed limits, speed cameras and terrifyingly huge lorries. Ah! Utopia!
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Spooky
Today
The trick or treaters have been out in force tonight. Paul and I are very relaxed about it. The kids in the village are pretty harmless and many make quite an effort to dress up.
I usually provide some little items, some taken from the previous Christmas's unwanted stocking fillers, others the more unusual sweets with appealing names like "toxic waste" or "spray candy". Paul always dons a horrific mask to terrify the children, who then address him by name "good evening, Mr B, trick or treat?".
The kids seems to love our treats which we offer them by way of lucky dip. "Wow, yours is the best house; we only get sweets normally. Are you rich?" And they never ask for money.
I forgot one year; Paul was working and the weather was foul. That didn't stop the young 'uns turning up. "So sorry," I said "I haven't got anything; you'll have to do your worst." Most were utterly taken aback and had failed to provide for this eventuality. One pair of sisters had and sprayed me with silly string. Only the weather was so bad that it blew back all over them.
In My Day
Hallowe'en was an unknown feast to us as children. We heard about it and, as I was easily spooked child, I probably had a few scary moments. Later, when I was at college and we were all into seances and Ouija boards, the subject was canvassed more often.
One year, when I was at college in Worthing, we decided to celebrate in a big way. Not far from Worthing is Chanctonbury Ring. We spent time in the pub in Findon spooking ourselves with tales of the witches coven that meets there and how, if you walk around the ring widdershins seven times the Devil will appear.
Then we donned our strongest shoes and set off, intending to arrive at midnight. Chanctonbury Ring is a ring of trees on a quite substantial hill. Unlike its neighbour the milder Cissbury Ring which has a path to the top, there was no discernable way to get to the ring. It was pitch black and we had trusted to our eyesight becoming acclimatised and had brought no torches. Anyway,we didn't want to forewarn the witches. We struggled with barbed wire, cowpats, brambles and lashing saplings. Unlike the Blair Witch Project, it was more scratchy than spooky and we soon lost all sense of which way was uphill, let alone find the witches. I think we probably all imagined that we'd be led by the sight of a huge fire with silhouettes of naked dancing witches. I don't think we had a clue as to what to do if we actually found this event.
I also don't know who it was who suggested that we abandon the project. But we all thankfully struggled back to the road and back to my flat where my domesticated flatmate had made parkin and where we had lots of cider.
All of which makes a bit of silly string seem, well, silly.
The trick or treaters have been out in force tonight. Paul and I are very relaxed about it. The kids in the village are pretty harmless and many make quite an effort to dress up.
I usually provide some little items, some taken from the previous Christmas's unwanted stocking fillers, others the more unusual sweets with appealing names like "toxic waste" or "spray candy". Paul always dons a horrific mask to terrify the children, who then address him by name "good evening, Mr B, trick or treat?".
The kids seems to love our treats which we offer them by way of lucky dip. "Wow, yours is the best house; we only get sweets normally. Are you rich?" And they never ask for money.
I forgot one year; Paul was working and the weather was foul. That didn't stop the young 'uns turning up. "So sorry," I said "I haven't got anything; you'll have to do your worst." Most were utterly taken aback and had failed to provide for this eventuality. One pair of sisters had and sprayed me with silly string. Only the weather was so bad that it blew back all over them.
In My Day
Hallowe'en was an unknown feast to us as children. We heard about it and, as I was easily spooked child, I probably had a few scary moments. Later, when I was at college and we were all into seances and Ouija boards, the subject was canvassed more often.
One year, when I was at college in Worthing, we decided to celebrate in a big way. Not far from Worthing is Chanctonbury Ring. We spent time in the pub in Findon spooking ourselves with tales of the witches coven that meets there and how, if you walk around the ring widdershins seven times the Devil will appear.
Then we donned our strongest shoes and set off, intending to arrive at midnight. Chanctonbury Ring is a ring of trees on a quite substantial hill. Unlike its neighbour the milder Cissbury Ring which has a path to the top, there was no discernable way to get to the ring. It was pitch black and we had trusted to our eyesight becoming acclimatised and had brought no torches. Anyway,we didn't want to forewarn the witches. We struggled with barbed wire, cowpats, brambles and lashing saplings. Unlike the Blair Witch Project, it was more scratchy than spooky and we soon lost all sense of which way was uphill, let alone find the witches. I think we probably all imagined that we'd be led by the sight of a huge fire with silhouettes of naked dancing witches. I don't think we had a clue as to what to do if we actually found this event.
I also don't know who it was who suggested that we abandon the project. But we all thankfully struggled back to the road and back to my flat where my domesticated flatmate had made parkin and where we had lots of cider.
All of which makes a bit of silly string seem, well, silly.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Dive Bomb
Today
The other night I made the mistake of turning on the bedroom light without first of all shutting the curtains. In a very short space of time the room was filled with flying things. They batted about the room and all looked very nasty.
There are some insects which just have to die. Wasps, crane flies, bluebottles and, of course, mosquitoes. Reluctant to have our newly painted walls stippled with squashed corpses, we sprayed the room liberally with toxins. This gave us an insect-free night, although we did have to check the bed for dead bodies first.
In My Day
The bedroom I slept in as a child was in the basement and had a window, half subterranean, that looked into the a
rea. There was no easy access to this space and it quickly became clogged with dead leaves, paper and other slimy rubbish. From time to time Daddy would clamber in and sweep up and cover everything else with Jeyes Fluid. I can remember that horrible carbolic smell.
rea. There was no easy access to this space and it quickly became clogged with dead leaves, paper and other slimy rubbish. From time to time Daddy would clamber in and sweep up and cover everything else with Jeyes Fluid. I can remember that horrible carbolic smell.In the Summer, opening my window after dark was a foolish action as the mosquitoes that bred in the usually full drain would visit me to feast on my young blood. In the dark they would whine like approaching dive bombers. Signal to put my light on and start the search and destroy mission.
This didn't stop my being bitten and having a nasty allergic reaction to their bites.
When I complained to my parents they had two solutions. One was to pour paraffin into the drain itself. This, according to Daddy, would stop the creatures from breeding as the larvae couldn't stick their little probosces into the air through the slippery paraffin. The other was dose my bedroom, using the "Flit Spray". This contained DDT which, as we now know, is more toxic than anything contained in a can of "Raid".
What I want to know is, why do mosquitoes just bite some people and not others? And why me?
Thursday, September 27, 2007
One Foot in Front of the Other
Today
On Tuesday Paul was clearing up the last remnants from Silver Street. He said it would take him a few hours so I said I would walk the 8 miles to Wells and meet him. The autumn sun was shining and I enjoyed my walk, taking pictures of autumn berries. Stopped at the little garden centre cafe, conveniently half way, for tea and facilities.
Just got going again when Paul rang. "Where are you? I've finished early and am getting bored just sitting around waiting," he said. "Well, I've still about an hour and a quarter to go", said I, "unless you want to pick me up." "Seems a bit silly to collect you just to come back into Wells," said my spouse.
"In that case", I said " I can't do anything else than just put one foot in front of the other till I get there".
In My Day
In the early days of our marriage, especially when Lizzie was little, walking was the only way to get places. I used to walk her from Seven Dials in Brighton to her childminders in Preston Road and back every day. (I remember the chip shop on the corner where I used to buy chips to share on cold evenings.)
When we moved to Rowan Avenue I had an even longer walk to the childminders, along an unmade-up road and over a railway line. Then the walk to station to get to work. I do remember rather enjoying those walks with Lizzie: I'd tell her stories and we'd pick flowers that grew out of the cracks in the path.
In about 1978, my sister lived with us at Rowan Avenue. We both worked in the same office and sometimes, on dark nights, wh
en we got off the train, the long walk home seemed impossible. Beatrice would look along the road in despair. "It's alright," I'd say "We'll get there. All we have to do is put one foot in front of the other." And it worked; suddenly we'd be home, with warmth and love awaiting us.
Anyway, in the end, Paul did come and collect me, in his beautiful Humber Super Snipe.
On Tuesday Paul was clearing up the last remnants from Silver Street. He said it would take him a few hours so I said I would walk the 8 miles to Wells and meet him. The autumn sun was shining and I enjoyed my walk, taking pictures of autumn berries. Stopped at the little garden centre cafe, conveniently half way, for tea and facilities.
Just got going again when Paul rang. "Where are you? I've finished early and am getting bored just sitting around waiting," he said. "Well, I've still about an hour and a quarter to go", said I, "unless you want to pick me up." "Seems a bit silly to collect you just to come back into Wells," said my spouse.
"In that case", I said " I can't do anything else than just put one foot in front of the other till I get there".
In My Day
In the early days of our marriage, especially when Lizzie was little, walking was the only way to get places. I used to walk her from Seven Dials in Brighton to her childminders in Preston Road and back every day. (I remember the chip shop on the corner where I used to buy chips to share on cold evenings.)
When we moved to Rowan Avenue I had an even longer walk to the childminders, along an unmade-up road and over a railway line. Then the walk to station to get to work. I do remember rather enjoying those walks with Lizzie: I'd tell her stories and we'd pick flowers that grew out of the cracks in the path.
In about 1978, my sister lived with us at Rowan Avenue. We both worked in the same office and sometimes, on dark nights, wh
en we got off the train, the long walk home seemed impossible. Beatrice would look along the road in despair. "It's alright," I'd say "We'll get there. All we have to do is put one foot in front of the other." And it worked; suddenly we'd be home, with warmth and love awaiting us.Anyway, in the end, Paul did come and collect me, in his beautiful Humber Super Snipe.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Freedom Child
Today
I've been down in Brighton this weekend for a singing workshop on Bach's B Minor Mass. About 100 of us collected in the village Hall at Alfriston and worked hard to bring some shape to the piece.
One of my neighbours, a thin, jumpy woman of about 70, asked us if we could give her a lift on the Sunday as the trains weren't running. She'd cycle to the flat from Hove, she said, if we could take her from there. No problem.
Once in the car she had much to say about the modern trend to over-protect our children. "Children need freedom more than they need protecting from - what are they called? -paedophiles" she proclaimed. "Why, when I was a child my mother never worried if I was camping in the woods. And we didn't even have a tent." Liberal or culpably negligent? Hard to say.
In My Day
I was brought up in London which, to an extent, automatically curtailed freedom. We lived on a main road and our large garden that provided most of what we needed in the way of a play environment. However, Mamma and Daddy did take a relaxed attitude over many things, allowing us to walk or bus to school unattended, for example, from the age of about 7.
The most memorable occasion was during the Summer of 1954 when I was about 6 and my brother about 9. Mamma was away all day at the Proms and Daddy gave Chris the wherewithal to take me to Hastings. Why he did this I've no idea. Perhaps we were nagging for a seaside trip or maybe he was trying a social experiment.
Anyway, off we went. Chris had return tickets and we caught the train from East Croydon to Hastings. I remember only a few things: that the weather was rather dampish and sitting on the beach not as much fun as I'd hoped. That Chris bought as a bag of plums to share and I didn't want any more after I discovered a maggot in one of mine.
And finally, that, somehow, the return tickets fell out of my brother's pocket and were lost. And he didn't have enough money for any more. Talking this over with him the other day he said he thought that we must have been older, but I don't think so because the impossible then happened: Chris burst into tears and my security was shattered. Some kind person took pity and bought us the tickets we needed. (Why should she have believed us? we must have looked trustworthy).
Was my father culpably negligent? Or did we learn some self-reliance from the episode? Who knows? Perhaps all we learnt was to burst into tears when all else fails.
Anyway, I think that our car passenger must have been so restless as a child that her mother let her go just to preserve her sanity.
I've been down in Brighton this weekend for a singing workshop on Bach's B Minor Mass. About 100 of us collected in the village Hall at Alfriston and worked hard to bring some shape to the piece.
One of my neighbours, a thin, jumpy woman of about 70, asked us if we could give her a lift on the Sunday as the trains weren't running. She'd cycle to the flat from Hove, she said, if we could take her from there. No problem.
Once in the car she had much to say about the modern trend to over-protect our children. "Children need freedom more than they need protecting from - what are they called? -paedophiles" she proclaimed. "Why, when I was a child my mother never worried if I was camping in the woods. And we didn't even have a tent." Liberal or culpably negligent? Hard to say.
In My Day
I was brought up in London which, to an extent, automatically curtailed freedom. We lived on a main road and our large garden that provided most of what we needed in the way of a play environment. However, Mamma and Daddy did take a relaxed attitude over many things, allowing us to walk or bus to school unattended, for example, from the age of about 7.
The most memorable occasion was during the Summer of 1954 when I was about 6 and my brother about 9. Mamma was away all day at the Proms and Daddy gave Chris the wherewithal to take me to Hastings. Why he did this I've no idea. Perhaps we were nagging for a seaside trip or maybe he was trying a social experiment.
Anyway, off we went. Chris had return tickets and we caught the train from East Croydon to Hastings. I remember only a few things: that the weather was rather dampish and sitting on the beach not as much fun as I'd hoped. That Chris bought as a bag of plums to share and I didn't want any more after I discovered a maggot in one of mine.
And finally, that, somehow, the return tickets fell out of my brother's pocket and were lost. And he didn't have enough money for any more. Talking this over with him the other day he said he thought that we must have been older, but I don't think so because the impossible then happened: Chris burst into tears and my security was shattered. Some kind person took pity and bought us the tickets we needed. (Why should she have believed us? we must have looked trustworthy).
Was my father culpably negligent? Or did we learn some self-reliance from the episode? Who knows? Perhaps all we learnt was to burst into tears when all else fails.
Anyway, I think that our car passenger must have been so restless as a child that her mother let her go just to preserve her sanity.
Sunday, September 09, 2007
Fluff
Today
Don't know where it all comes from. The dirt, that is.
Yesterday I fitted some new doorknobs on the kitchen cupboards. Very nice they look, too. But I also got close up to the cupboards and could see all the sticky, grimy marks around the door handles and on the shelves.
So today thought I'd do a clean up. First the bathroom. Exactly why we need 15 bottle of shampoo & conditioner, 3 tubes of identical shaving gel and enough pain killers and plasters to set up in business as a pharmacy I don't know. And I suppose 3 hot water bottles might come in handy sometime. Cleaning the shower screen is a task never done to my satisfaction. The top of the cupboard was covered in thick, soft, white dust and little balls of grey fluff rolled across the floor like tumbleweed
Then the bedroom. Disposed of all the odd socks and unwanted, unused cosmetics, 12 makeup pencil sharpeners and so on.
Finally the kitchen. Why do we have a caddy of Lapsang Souchong? We absolutely hate it. 8 jars/cans of olives, some chestnut jam bought in Corsica in 2004, never opened and 18 months by its use-by date. I could go on.
In My Day
As Paul's Mum got older she became less and less able to keep her little flat clean. Paul used to visit her often, but as they were usually flying visits he was reluctant to spend them cleaning. His sister was always on call and kept things ticking over, but she had many other demands on her time.
So, in December 2002, I suggested that we took a few days off specifically for a cleanup. We booked ourselves into a little holiday flat on the seafront (freezing, it was, with heating not designed for the winter months) went over to Mum's and got cracking.
Given that Mum's cooking was by now limited to making tea and popping ready-made macaroni cheese into the oven, it was amazing what she had. Saucepans of every size, baking tins, ancient jars of spices & herbs. Tins of this and that (raspberries dated 1984 are one example). All the paraphernalia of a long life. Most of it was dirty and old beyond redemption and we chucked it all out.
And the fluff! On top of the cupboards, behind the cupboards, everywhere. Handfuls of dusty fluff. I stuffed it all into rubbish sacks. It got up my nose, ingrained into my fingernails, into my hair. The vacuum cleaner died as soon as we asked it to do any work so we bought a new one. The hall carpet disintegrated under the strain of being cleaned and had to be replaced. We swabbed and disinfected and organised a home help.
Mum was very happy because, when all was clean we bought and decorated a fibre-optics Christmas tree which changed colour continuously, and she couldn't take her eyes off it.
Don't know where it all comes from. The dirt, that is.
Yesterday I fitted some new doorknobs on the kitchen cupboards. Very nice they look, too. But I also got close up to the cupboards and could see all the sticky, grimy marks around the door handles and on the shelves.
So today thought I'd do a clean up. First the bathroom. Exactly why we need 15 bottle of shampoo & conditioner, 3 tubes of identical shaving gel and enough pain killers and plasters to set up in business as a pharmacy I don't know. And I suppose 3 hot water bottles might come in handy sometime. Cleaning the shower screen is a task never done to my satisfaction. The top of the cupboard was covered in thick, soft, white dust and little balls of grey fluff rolled across the floor like tumbleweed
Then the bedroom. Disposed of all the odd socks and unwanted, unused cosmetics, 12 makeup pencil sharpeners and so on.
Finally the kitchen. Why do we have a caddy of Lapsang Souchong? We absolutely hate it. 8 jars/cans of olives, some chestnut jam bought in Corsica in 2004, never opened and 18 months by its use-by date. I could go on.
In My Day
As Paul's Mum got older she became less and less able to keep her little flat clean. Paul used to visit her often, but as they were usually flying visits he was reluctant to spend them cleaning. His sister was always on call and kept things ticking over, but she had many other demands on her time.
So, in December 2002, I suggested that we took a few days off specifically for a cleanup. We booked ourselves into a little holiday flat on the seafront (freezing, it was, with heating not designed for the winter months) went over to Mum's and got cracking.
Given that Mum's cooking was by now limited to making tea and popping ready-made macaroni cheese into the oven, it was amazing what she had. Saucepans of every size, baking tins, ancient jars of spices & herbs. Tins of this and that (raspberries dated 1984 are one example). All the paraphernalia of a long life. Most of it was dirty and old beyond redemption and we chucked it all out.
And the fluff! On top of the cupboards, behind the cupboards, everywhere. Handfuls of dusty fluff. I stuffed it all into rubbish sacks. It got up my nose, ingrained into my fingernails, into my hair. The vacuum cleaner died as soon as we asked it to do any work so we bought a new one. The hall carpet disintegrated under the strain of being cleaned and had to be replaced. We swabbed and disinfected and organised a home help.
Mum was very happy because, when all was clean we bought and decorated a fibre-optics Christmas tree which changed colour continuously, and she couldn't take her eyes off it.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Grand Day Out
Today
How it was that I agreed to attend the Bexhill 100 classic car club's annual classic car show last Monday I'm not sure. Perhaps because my sister is membership secretary; perhaps because Paul was longing for an excuse to bring the Humber Imperial down.
Anyway, on about the only fine August Bank Holiday in the last 50 years (and also Becky's actual 30th birthday), I found myself on a recreation ground in Bexhill with nothing to do all day but sit in or near the car and listen to people tell us all about it (often incorrectly). As I'm a person who likes to be active, this was a little stultifying, to say the least.
The day was enlivened by the presence of my nephews Jacob & James who, both in their special ways, brought extra sunshine to the day. The presence of Clive the Dalek, manipulated by my brother in law, was less exciting.
We didn't win any prizes despite the number of people who came up and said " the best car ever made - I (my father, uncle) used to have one" and despite the car's seriously shiny state.
In My Day
If you follow this blog you will know that it was Paul who introduced me to delights of elderly wheeled machinery. many a Sunday we went to classic car shows, traction engine rallies and railway exhibitions. I sometimes enjoyed the traction engine rallies as there was quite a few parades of these amazing beasts and I always liked the fairground organs with their elaborate decorations and silly boom-boom renditions of the classics. and there were usually some stalls selling honey or clothes or something. Classic car and railway exhibitions were altogether duller.
Eventually I told Paul that I'd just about exhausted the possibilities of these events and could he please find another companion? Which meant that I've managed to avoid the Dorset Steam Fair altogether.
Still, even Paul got bored on Monday and we left a whole hour before the end.
How it was that I agreed to attend the Bexhill 100 classic car club's annual classic car show last Monday I'm not sure. Perhaps because my sister is membership secretary; perhaps because Paul was longing for an excuse to bring the Humber Imperial down.
Anyway, on about the only fine August Bank Holiday in the last 50 years (and also Becky's actual 30th birthday), I found myself on a recreation ground in Bexhill with nothing to do all day but sit in or near the car and listen to people tell us all about it (often incorrectly). As I'm a person who likes to be active, this was a little stultifying, to say the least.
The day was enlivened by the presence of my nephews Jacob & James who, both in their special ways, brought extra sunshine to the day. The presence of Clive the Dalek, manipulated by my brother in law, was less exciting.
We didn't win any prizes despite the number of people who came up and said " the best car ever made - I (my father, uncle) used to have one" and despite the car's seriously shiny state.
In My Day
If you follow this blog you will know that it was Paul who introduced me to delights of elderly wheeled machinery. many a Sunday we went to classic car shows, traction engine rallies and railway exhibitions. I sometimes enjoyed the traction engine rallies as there was quite a few parades of these amazing beasts and I always liked the fairground organs with their elaborate decorations and silly boom-boom renditions of the classics. and there were usually some stalls selling honey or clothes or something. Classic car and railway exhibitions were altogether duller.
Eventually I told Paul that I'd just about exhausted the possibilities of these events and could he please find another companion? Which meant that I've managed to avoid the Dorset Steam Fair altogether.
Still, even Paul got bored on Monday and we left a whole hour before the end.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Leg Up
Today
Up, for the first time in a week, following a rather nasty cellulitits attack because of my Milroy's Disease. I was away at a singing week in the Cotswolds when it struck, and we had to leave. Since then, I've had the usual high temperature, sore leg etc.
Am now able to eat again after several days in which nibbling on half a Rich Tea was the best I could do.
In My Day
The condition's a hereditary one and Daddy had a severe case of it. As the disease carries with it the risk of streptococcal infection and antibiotics weren't invented until Daddy was in his 40s there were times when his life was despaired of.
We became accustomed to Daddy's "attacks". It meant that he would be in bed, moaning and shivering with the high temperature (I don't know why it seems to help to moan loudly when your temperature's up, but it does), and out of action for about a week.
I remember one such occasion when I was about 18. Daddy had been ill for about 2 days. I'd been to my youth drama club and the group leader, whom I rather fancied, had offered me a lift home. (What was his name? oh, yes, Noel) I was wondering how to orchestrate asking him in for coffee, when he suffered a minor injury from something sparking from the dashboard of his ancient wreck of a car (it wasn't only Paul who drove appalling old bangers in those days). Easy! he needed minor medical attention so I asked him in.
Mamma, as usual, was all gracious attention, supplying gauze, antiseptic and coffee.
We were just getting past the social niceties when there was a strange "woofing" sound from outside the door, accompanied by scratching. Mamma went over. It was Daddy, on his hands and knees, with his pyjamas nearly at his ankles. "I'm a little dog," he said. "Can I come in?"
Bored with lying in bed and unable to walk, he'd crawled the whole way down the passage from the bedroom. Not only had he ignored the fact that said passage was communal and therefore he could easily be seen by our upstairs tenants, he had clearly not considered the possibility of visitors. We hustled him back to bed.
Noel, in the meantime, fled, never to enter our house again. He avoided me at Young Players meetings after that.
It's an ill-wind, however, and one good side effect of this week has been that I've lost 9lbs.
Up, for the first time in a week, following a rather nasty cellulitits attack because of my Milroy's Disease. I was away at a singing week in the Cotswolds when it struck, and we had to leave. Since then, I've had the usual high temperature, sore leg etc.
Am now able to eat again after several days in which nibbling on half a Rich Tea was the best I could do.
In My Day
The condition's a hereditary one and Daddy had a severe case of it. As the disease carries with it the risk of streptococcal infection and antibiotics weren't invented until Daddy was in his 40s there were times when his life was despaired of.
We became accustomed to Daddy's "attacks". It meant that he would be in bed, moaning and shivering with the high temperature (I don't know why it seems to help to moan loudly when your temperature's up, but it does), and out of action for about a week.
I remember one such occasion when I was about 18. Daddy had been ill for about 2 days. I'd been to my youth drama club and the group leader, whom I rather fancied, had offered me a lift home. (What was his name? oh, yes, Noel) I was wondering how to orchestrate asking him in for coffee, when he suffered a minor injury from something sparking from the dashboard of his ancient wreck of a car (it wasn't only Paul who drove appalling old bangers in those days). Easy! he needed minor medical attention so I asked him in.
Mamma, as usual, was all gracious attention, supplying gauze, antiseptic and coffee.
We were just getting past the social niceties when there was a strange "woofing" sound from outside the door, accompanied by scratching. Mamma went over. It was Daddy, on his hands and knees, with his pyjamas nearly at his ankles. "I'm a little dog," he said. "Can I come in?"
Bored with lying in bed and unable to walk, he'd crawled the whole way down the passage from the bedroom. Not only had he ignored the fact that said passage was communal and therefore he could easily be seen by our upstairs tenants, he had clearly not considered the possibility of visitors. We hustled him back to bed.
Noel, in the meantime, fled, never to enter our house again. He avoided me at Young Players meetings after that.
It's an ill-wind, however, and one good side effect of this week has been that I've lost 9lbs.
Thursday, August 09, 2007
Deuce
Today
For the first time since late 2005, Paul & I have had a game of badminton. Pretty evenly matched, I must say, although I did have the handicap of having also walked the 5 miles to Shepton.
I can't say that we're very good at the game, but being evenly matched is key; if either one was always winning or losing it wouldn't be any fun. So I think we'll go again next week.
In My Day
As earlier blogs will attest, ours was not a sporty family. There was the occasional desultory game of cricket on the lawn (driven mostly by my brothers' enthusiasm) and we used to play "piggy in the middle"......
Sport at school divided into gymnastics, sports and games. Gym was completely unnerving. I couldn't vault the box, climb up a rope or do handstands, somersaults or cartwheels. And as for touching my toes.....
Sports involved jumping, running and throwing things. My long legs meant that my jumping was not the worst and I could balance an egg on a spoon. By I had no turn of speed, nor muscle strength for throwing heavy objects.
Games included: netball, hockey, rounders and tennis. Hockey I avoided whenever possible. Netball I was a fair-to-middling goal shooter. Rounders - I could catch and throw a ball but my inability at running meant that I was often easily caught out. My reputation for physical awkwardness meant that I was always the last to be chosen for a team (didn't the teachers see how humiliating that was? or would they have stopped it if they had?).
I was never brilliant at tennis, but I could hit the ball and as it didn't involve being in a team or cold muddy weather, I rather liked it. It generally involved a fair amount of time lolling on grass in warm weather, talking to friends. Badminton is clearly its gentler friend.
And it burns 6 points an hour!
For the first time since late 2005, Paul & I have had a game of badminton. Pretty evenly matched, I must say, although I did have the handicap of having also walked the 5 miles to Shepton.
I can't say that we're very good at the game, but being evenly matched is key; if either one was always winning or losing it wouldn't be any fun. So I think we'll go again next week.
In My Day
As earlier blogs will attest, ours was not a sporty family. There was the occasional desultory game of cricket on the lawn (driven mostly by my brothers' enthusiasm) and we used to play "piggy in the middle"......
Sport at school divided into gymnastics, sports and games. Gym was completely unnerving. I couldn't vault the box, climb up a rope or do handstands, somersaults or cartwheels. And as for touching my toes.....
Sports involved jumping, running and throwing things. My long legs meant that my jumping was not the worst and I could balance an egg on a spoon. By I had no turn of speed, nor muscle strength for throwing heavy objects.
Games included: netball, hockey, rounders and tennis. Hockey I avoided whenever possible. Netball I was a fair-to-middling goal shooter. Rounders - I could catch and throw a ball but my inability at running meant that I was often easily caught out. My reputation for physical awkwardness meant that I was always the last to be chosen for a team (didn't the teachers see how humiliating that was? or would they have stopped it if they had?).
I was never brilliant at tennis, but I could hit the ball and as it didn't involve being in a team or cold muddy weather, I rather liked it. It generally involved a fair amount of time lolling on grass in warm weather, talking to friends. Badminton is clearly its gentler friend.
And it burns 6 points an hour!
Sunday, August 05, 2007
Blondie
Today
Back after 5 weeks in various parts of Europe, travelling with my niece and then aboard the Star Clipper on the Med. It's as I feared; my hair has gone blond.
Not a nice sun-kissed golden. More a kind of straw-like orange. And, despite hating to, I wore a hat most of the time. My fault partly, I guess, for having my hair dyed in denial of the advance of age.
In My Day
My father was the type of man who referred to women's hair as their "crowning glory". My mother always had long hair kept in a bun. Not particularly glorious as her hair was actually rather thin and inclined to whispiness (a trait which I've inherited, thanks, Mamma).
As girls we, too had long hair, usually plaited or in ponytails. My sister had a waterfall of wonderful straight golden hair. Mine was brown and, as stated before, inclined to whispiness. It always took ages to dry, as we didn't have a hair dryer, and I have an awful idea that hair washing night was on Sundays every three weeks.
When I was about twelve, probably as a result of a good deal of nagging on our parts, my sister and I had our hair cut. My father took a series of regretful pictures of our hair before it was cut. Beatrice's, as usual, looked wonderful (why did she want to cut it? it was never the same again), while mine looked like an afterthought.
Our hair was cut professionally. The cut took about 8 years off Beatrice's age, making her look like a five-year old, and added about 40 to mine, catapulting me into middle age in one easy step. It's no wonder that, after a short dalliance with '60s "mod" hair doos, I promptly allowed my hair to grow again into a hippie/student mane.
My father always said that, once you cut your hair, you had a life-long struggle managing it and lining the pockets of hairdressers.
And he was right, as usual.
Back after 5 weeks in various parts of Europe, travelling with my niece and then aboard the Star Clipper on the Med. It's as I feared; my hair has gone blond.
Not a nice sun-kissed golden. More a kind of straw-like orange. And, despite hating to, I wore a hat most of the time. My fault partly, I guess, for having my hair dyed in denial of the advance of age.
In My Day
My father was the type of man who referred to women's hair as their "crowning glory". My mother always had long hair kept in a bun. Not particularly glorious as her hair was actually rather thin and inclined to whispiness (a trait which I've inherited, thanks, Mamma).
As girls we, too had long hair, usually plaited or in ponytails. My sister had a waterfall of wonderful straight golden hair. Mine was brown and, as stated before, inclined to whispiness. It always took ages to dry, as we didn't have a hair dryer, and I have an awful idea that hair washing night was on Sundays every three weeks.
When I was about twelve, probably as a result of a good deal of nagging on our parts, my sister and I had our hair cut. My father took a series of regretful pictures of our hair before it was cut. Beatrice's, as usual, looked wonderful (why did she want to cut it? it was never the same again), while mine looked like an afterthought.
Our hair was cut professionally. The cut took about 8 years off Beatrice's age, making her look like a five-year old, and added about 40 to mine, catapulting me into middle age in one easy step. It's no wonder that, after a short dalliance with '60s "mod" hair doos, I promptly allowed my hair to grow again into a hippie/student mane.
My father always said that, once you cut your hair, you had a life-long struggle managing it and lining the pockets of hairdressers.
And he was right, as usual.
Thursday, July 05, 2007
Walk on by
Today
Well, we successfully collected my great-niece from Gatwick. This, despite the evidence of increased security. Also, despite the fact that Tess marched through arrivals with such ferocious confidence that I didn't think it could possibly be her. I was expecting an uncertain 14-year old to peer anxiously from the door, scanning the waiting faces.
Paul, however, was quicker off the mark than I; spotted her and dashed off to get her.
With only one contretemps when I though I'd lost my car park ticket (in a safe place, it was), we got out smoothly and off to Brighton.
I talked to Tess about it. "Well", she said "Mum said be a confident traveller, so I was!"
In My Day
Back in 1989, Lizzie decided she wanted to go to Canada and visit relatives. She needed a passport and so we duly filled in the forms and off they went. It was close to summertime so there was the usual backlog. The days passed but there was no sign of the passport.
So, Liz, aged 16, got the train to the nearest passport office in Newport, S Wales and stood in the queue and wouldn't move till they gave her her passport. She used a mixture of flattening verbiage, desperation and teenage courage to win through.
She had such a splendid time in Canada that she went back again 3 years later to stay for 6 months.
Anyway, let's hope Tess is equally confident on the Routes Nationales - we could do with some help.
Well, we successfully collected my great-niece from Gatwick. This, despite the evidence of increased security. Also, despite the fact that Tess marched through arrivals with such ferocious confidence that I didn't think it could possibly be her. I was expecting an uncertain 14-year old to peer anxiously from the door, scanning the waiting faces.
Paul, however, was quicker off the mark than I; spotted her and dashed off to get her.
With only one contretemps when I though I'd lost my car park ticket (in a safe place, it was), we got out smoothly and off to Brighton.
I talked to Tess about it. "Well", she said "Mum said be a confident traveller, so I was!"
In My Day
Back in 1989, Lizzie decided she wanted to go to Canada and visit relatives. She needed a passport and so we duly filled in the forms and off they went. It was close to summertime so there was the usual backlog. The days passed but there was no sign of the passport.
So, Liz, aged 16, got the train to the nearest passport office in Newport, S Wales and stood in the queue and wouldn't move till they gave her her passport. She used a mixture of flattening verbiage, desperation and teenage courage to win through.
She had such a splendid time in Canada that she went back again 3 years later to stay for 6 months.
Anyway, let's hope Tess is equally confident on the Routes Nationales - we could do with some help.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Deluge
Today
Terrible rain everywhere. According to whom you pay attention, a month's rain in one day or 6 months' rain in one day. Who cares who's right; it probably depends on where you live. Those poor folk in Sheffield. It's all very well to blame the Environment Agency, but if you planned for all of these things the costs would cause an outcry instead.
Closer to home, Lizzie, not for the first time, decided that Glasto is really not much fun when everything is covered in mud and wetness. Her mobile phone's ruined and her hippie spirit is certainly tempered with a fondness for hot showers and decent beds. So she decamped (literally) on Sunday.
In My Day
Camping! At some point someone (maybe a boy scout) tried to tell us that sleeping in a makeshift home, with a wet, dark walk to the nearest loos is fun!
Early in our marriage, we decided to buy a tent. It was a frame tent with zipped inner sleeping compartments. It took ages to get up and I still marvel that our marriage survived those discussions.
We took it to Devon (the sun mostly shone, so I coped) Cornwall (when we shared it with 2 other people, so cosy) and a number of short breaks.
In 1977 I had a whole week off - jubilee week, to be exact. I was very pregnant with Becky and we took the tent to Presteigne in Wales. Got the tent erected close to a nice little stream and settled down to a nice break.
Does anyone remember queen's silver jubilee week? how it rained and rained and rained? (Rather like the coronation itself). Lizzie insisted that we have a jubilee supper with as much RW&B as we could muster. We had to try to cook and eat it tucked in under the flaps, hiding from the pouring rain.
Eventually couldn't stand it any longer. Dismantled the soaking wet tent, drove to my brother's in the Midlands and begged a bath and overnight stay. Home where we had to leave the tent spread on the lounge floor for about 4 days before it dried.
And I've never camped (except on the Inca Trail) since.
The tent died after its very own Glasto experience when it wasn't dried by the borrowers at all and simply dissolved into mildewy fragments. I was rather glad of this excuse not to have to use it again.
Terrible rain everywhere. According to whom you pay attention, a month's rain in one day or 6 months' rain in one day. Who cares who's right; it probably depends on where you live. Those poor folk in Sheffield. It's all very well to blame the Environment Agency, but if you planned for all of these things the costs would cause an outcry instead.
Closer to home, Lizzie, not for the first time, decided that Glasto is really not much fun when everything is covered in mud and wetness. Her mobile phone's ruined and her hippie spirit is certainly tempered with a fondness for hot showers and decent beds. So she decamped (literally) on Sunday.
In My Day
Camping! At some point someone (maybe a boy scout) tried to tell us that sleeping in a makeshift home, with a wet, dark walk to the nearest loos is fun!
Early in our marriage, we decided to buy a tent. It was a frame tent with zipped inner sleeping compartments. It took ages to get up and I still marvel that our marriage survived those discussions.
We took it to Devon (the sun mostly shone, so I coped) Cornwall (when we shared it with 2 other people, so cosy) and a number of short breaks.
In 1977 I had a whole week off - jubilee week, to be exact. I was very pregnant with Becky and we took the tent to Presteigne in Wales. Got the tent erected close to a nice little stream and settled down to a nice break.
Does anyone remember queen's silver jubilee week? how it rained and rained and rained? (Rather like the coronation itself). Lizzie insisted that we have a jubilee supper with as much RW&B as we could muster. We had to try to cook and eat it tucked in under the flaps, hiding from the pouring rain.
Eventually couldn't stand it any longer. Dismantled the soaking wet tent, drove to my brother's in the Midlands and begged a bath and overnight stay. Home where we had to leave the tent spread on the lounge floor for about 4 days before it dried.
And I've never camped (except on the Inca Trail) since.
The tent died after its very own Glasto experience when it wasn't dried by the borrowers at all and simply dissolved into mildewy fragments. I was rather glad of this excuse not to have to use it again.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Goodbye, Baby
Today
A very sad time for my personal trainer, whose little boy died this week. He developed a brain tumour about 8 months ago and his parents have gone through the hell of invasive treatments, the flaring up and dying down of hope.
He was only 2 and can hardly have understood what was happening to him. Why he had to be separated from his parents in an alien environment, why he'd lost his so newly acquired skills of walking and talking, why he hurt so much.
While his parents must know that they did all they could for him, they must also wonder about whether the suffering caused by the treatments was worth the eventual outcome.
In My Day
We felt somewhat similarly when my nephew's baby died, after just 3 days of premature life, a few years ago. Her parents went through the treatment hell of IVF to have her and her grip on life was just too weak for her to last.
We can never know what pain or anguish she suffered and cannot really judge whether, for her, it would have been better not to have invaded her tiny body with tubes and attachments, so that our image of her (and indeed, the only photo we have) is of an isolated scrap, effectively tied into a cot. And so that she could let go with baby dignity.
To lose a child, and so young, must bring the worst of all pain and my heart goes out to them and all who've suffered likewise.
A very sad time for my personal trainer, whose little boy died this week. He developed a brain tumour about 8 months ago and his parents have gone through the hell of invasive treatments, the flaring up and dying down of hope.
He was only 2 and can hardly have understood what was happening to him. Why he had to be separated from his parents in an alien environment, why he'd lost his so newly acquired skills of walking and talking, why he hurt so much.
While his parents must know that they did all they could for him, they must also wonder about whether the suffering caused by the treatments was worth the eventual outcome.
In My Day
We felt somewhat similarly when my nephew's baby died, after just 3 days of premature life, a few years ago. Her parents went through the treatment hell of IVF to have her and her grip on life was just too weak for her to last.
We can never know what pain or anguish she suffered and cannot really judge whether, for her, it would have been better not to have invaded her tiny body with tubes and attachments, so that our image of her (and indeed, the only photo we have) is of an isolated scrap, effectively tied into a cot. And so that she could let go with baby dignity.
To lose a child, and so young, must bring the worst of all pain and my heart goes out to them and all who've suffered likewise.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Burghthday boy
Today
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In 1957, my parents took a caravan in Challaborou
gh bay, which is more or less opposite the Island. It rained nearly every day and Mamma & Daddy must have been at the end of their wits trying to keep us all amused. They organised many trips, one of which was to Burgh Island. The family album shows that Daddy spelled it "Borough" Island.
Just returned from a weekend celebrating Paul's 57th birthday. I decided to take him to Burgh Island, which is situated just off the South Devon coast near Kingsbridge. The island is cut off from the land at high tide; at low there's a sandy causeway over which you can walk or drive. When the tide's in the Sea Tractor takes you. It's an amazing contraption, now in its 3rd incarnation.
The island has a hotel on it. It's Art Deco and many famous people such as Agatha Christie and Noel Coward stayed there. Agatha Christie wrote "Evil Under the Sun" whilst on the island.
The hotel's been refurbished and is now a luxury retreat. We ate splendidly, drank champagne and cocktails and actually danced the foxtrot & waltz on Saturday night, despite the very tiny dance floor. Other guests were very sociable and on Saturday night Paul rounded off the evening by conducting a small group in "Jerusalem", sung enthusiastically but with the effects of the many cocktails evident in the lack of tune or time.
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We sat outside the Pilchard Inn in the afternoon sunshine, drinking cider and watching children play on the sands which were rapidly shrinking as the sea encroached from both sides.
In My Day
In 1957, my parents took a caravan in Challaborou
gh bay, which is more or less opposite the Island. It rained nearly every day and Mamma & Daddy must have been at the end of their wits trying to keep us all amused. They organised many trips, one of which was to Burgh Island. The family album shows that Daddy spelled it "Borough" Island.
We did go on the Sea Tractor (an earlier version), but I don't remember the hotel at all. I do remember the Pilchard Inn - I probably found the name very funny - and also that everything was rather down at heel.
We spent plenty of time, as children should, clambering over rocks and playing in the pools left behind by the tide. I found the whole idea of possibly being cut off by the tide sort of deliciously scary. The day we spent on the island gave us the best weather of the week and my back got rather sunburnt as no-one had heard of factor 50 then.
I wrote a diary of that week and it's still safely tucked up in the album and I've always remembered that particular holiday as one of the best of my childhood.
Which gave returning to it an especial resonance as well as being a most enjoyable experience.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Seasoned traveller
Today
I've been having lots of fun lately, planning our European tour with our Canadian great-niece. She's not quite 15, but I took rather a shine to her and thought it would be fun to see some of the continent through the eyes of a Trans-Atlantic teenager.
Ah! The Internet! Booking hotels, the ferry crossing, planning the itinerary, booking tickets for events (we're seeing opera in Verona and Jazz in Montreux), everything so easy and done in a moment. And the credit card - all paid for invisibly, so it seems. Of course, it does help if you don't have to spend hours trying to penny-pinch here and there.
We're going for just over 2 weeks in mid-July and will travel in France, Italy and Switzerland. We'll take the E-class as it's big enough for our bits and pieces.
In My Day
My other big European tour was back in 1968. All the world's young people were travelling, it seemed, using nothing but their thumbs and a lot of courage. So my friend Angela and I decided that we would take some time out one summer and do the same. We each scraped together £40.00 by dint of begging from parents, saving from our grants and doing a little casual work here and there.
We did take the precaution of pre-booking a couple of hostels in the bigger tourist spots and we bought a road map of Europe. Otherwise we played in by ear. In 6 weeks we covered: France, Italy, Greece, Crete, Yugoslavia, Austria, Germany, Belgium. We got home unscathed, with a fiver to spare and traveller's tales to dine out on for the rest of our lives.
We slept in hostels, tents, the decks of ferries, fields, the beach, caves cut into cliffs and, once, in the cab of a lorry driver in Turin. We ate whatever we were given, and lived off the cheapest food available. (This was often veg, fruit and bread). We met people of all ages and types, some exceptionally kind, some needlessly unpleasant. (The story of our escape from 2 Tunisians outside Paris and how we spent the night in the woods would make a story all of its own.) We spent a fair amount of time persuading various males that we were not available for cash, lifts or otherwise.
It was all part of being young and free in the '60s and I've never forgotten it.
I shan't sneer at 5 stars, lovely meals and good hairdryers this time around, tho'.
I've been having lots of fun lately, planning our European tour with our Canadian great-niece. She's not quite 15, but I took rather a shine to her and thought it would be fun to see some of the continent through the eyes of a Trans-Atlantic teenager.
Ah! The Internet! Booking hotels, the ferry crossing, planning the itinerary, booking tickets for events (we're seeing opera in Verona and Jazz in Montreux), everything so easy and done in a moment. And the credit card - all paid for invisibly, so it seems. Of course, it does help if you don't have to spend hours trying to penny-pinch here and there.
We're going for just over 2 weeks in mid-July and will travel in France, Italy and Switzerland. We'll take the E-class as it's big enough for our bits and pieces.
In My Day
My other big European tour was back in 1968. All the world's young people were travelling, it seemed, using nothing but their thumbs and a lot of courage. So my friend Angela and I decided that we would take some time out one summer and do the same. We each scraped together £40.00 by dint of begging from parents, saving from our grants and doing a little casual work here and there.
We did take the precaution of pre-booking a couple of hostels in the bigger tourist spots and we bought a road map of Europe. Otherwise we played in by ear. In 6 weeks we covered: France, Italy, Greece, Crete, Yugoslavia, Austria, Germany, Belgium. We got home unscathed, with a fiver to spare and traveller's tales to dine out on for the rest of our lives.
We slept in hostels, tents, the decks of ferries, fields, the beach, caves cut into cliffs and, once, in the cab of a lorry driver in Turin. We ate whatever we were given, and lived off the cheapest food available. (This was often veg, fruit and bread). We met people of all ages and types, some exceptionally kind, some needlessly unpleasant. (The story of our escape from 2 Tunisians outside Paris and how we spent the night in the woods would make a story all of its own.) We spent a fair amount of time persuading various males that we were not available for cash, lifts or otherwise.
It was all part of being young and free in the '60s and I've never forgotten it.
I shan't sneer at 5 stars, lovely meals and good hairdryers this time around, tho'.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Swinging Sixties
Today
"Flower Power" was the theme of the dance we went to in Puriton last Saturday. Another of those funny little wine circle dances, but an opportunity to try out our ballroom dancing and meet old friends.
Now, the theme. R05)12_fwcdance+(3).JPG)
eaders of my blog will know that the Barretts love to dress up. So Paul donned an Afro wig, Punjabi shirt, waistcoat, beads, sunglasses and jeans into which I'd sewn enormous floral flares. I wore a long straight blond wig, caftan top, wide-legged trousers and more beads. I did my eyes '60's style with lots of black and eyelashes painted onto my cheeks. We both wore bandannas in our hair and I stuck little instant floral "tattoos" on my cheek and breast. We both carried "Make love not war" slogans on our backs.
We arrived a little after the party had started and made an entrance with our "peace, man" signs, to much applause. And we won the prize- a decent bottle of Claret
In My Day
Did we really dress like that, back in the '60's? The answer seems to be that some of us did and some of us didn't. Paul, after a dalliance with Cuban Heel boots, reverted to tweed jackets and ties. After he met me, he did attempt a kipper tie, but it didn't go with his shirt or ubiquitous cord jacket. And, anyway, that was 1971.
Some of my art college male friends actually took bits of curtain remnants and, using their Mum's ancient Singer machines, stitched flares into all their jeans. The techniques (matched by me on Saturday) was very rough indeed - it was all for show.
In the earlier part of the '60's I was most definitely into mini dresses. Using a sewing technique only slightly more refined than my colleagues', I ran up many a shift dress, usually with billowing or flared sleeves. My brother ran quite a little business making kipper ties out of velvet which he sold to Carnaby St boutiques. We were all making things up as we went along and I know that he didn't cut them on the bias and the velvet was very thick, so they must have been impossible to wear. His concession to '60's fashion was to have a huge bush of curly hair (this came quite naturally to him by virtue of just never getting it cut) and to wear caftans from time to time.
My sister was married by 1967, and somehow never got into that vein, and a friend once said to my other brother "where were you in the '60's?" Wearing a shirt and tie, that much is clear.
Once at theatre design college, I began to make long dresses out of floral cotton, which I wore every day. They were more Thomas Hardy chic than hippie. My hair was always very long and straight, but I can't remember ever wearing a bandanna in it. My friend Sue actually applied painted eyelashes to her cheeks every day, using liquid eyeliner.
We were none of us really hippies, being all too middle class, and to tell the truth, rather looked down on people who didn't appear to wash.
Looking at that picture has convinced me never to dye my hair blond
"Flower Power" was the theme of the dance we went to in Puriton last Saturday. Another of those funny little wine circle dances, but an opportunity to try out our ballroom dancing and meet old friends.
Now, the theme. R
05)12_fwcdance+(3).JPG)
eaders of my blog will know that the Barretts love to dress up. So Paul donned an Afro wig, Punjabi shirt, waistcoat, beads, sunglasses and jeans into which I'd sewn enormous floral flares. I wore a long straight blond wig, caftan top, wide-legged trousers and more beads. I did my eyes '60's style with lots of black and eyelashes painted onto my cheeks. We both wore bandannas in our hair and I stuck little instant floral "tattoos" on my cheek and breast. We both carried "Make love not war" slogans on our backs.We arrived a little after the party had started and made an entrance with our "peace, man" signs, to much applause. And we won the prize- a decent bottle of Claret
In My Day
Did we really dress like that, back in the '60's? The answer seems to be that some of us did and some of us didn't. Paul, after a dalliance with Cuban Heel boots, reverted to tweed jackets and ties. After he met me, he did attempt a kipper tie, but it didn't go with his shirt or ubiquitous cord jacket. And, anyway, that was 1971.
Some of my art college male friends actually took bits of curtain remnants and, using their Mum's ancient Singer machines, stitched flares into all their jeans. The techniques (matched by me on Saturday) was very rough indeed - it was all for show.
In the earlier part of the '60's I was most definitely into mini dresses. Using a sewing technique only slightly more refined than my colleagues', I ran up many a shift dress, usually with billowing or flared sleeves. My brother ran quite a little business making kipper ties out of velvet which he sold to Carnaby St boutiques. We were all making things up as we went along and I know that he didn't cut them on the bias and the velvet was very thick, so they must have been impossible to wear. His concession to '60's fashion was to have a huge bush of curly hair (this came quite naturally to him by virtue of just never getting it cut) and to wear caftans from time to time.
My sister was married by 1967, and somehow never got into that vein, and a friend once said to my other brother "where were you in the '60's?" Wearing a shirt and tie, that much is clear.
Once at theatre design college, I began to make long dresses out of floral cotton, which I wore every day. They were more Thomas Hardy chic than hippie. My hair was always very long and straight, but I can't remember ever wearing a bandanna in it. My friend Sue actually applied painted eyelashes to her cheeks every day, using liquid eyeliner.
We were none of us really hippies, being all too middle class, and to tell the truth, rather looked down on people who didn't appear to wash.
Looking at that picture has convinced me never to dye my hair blond
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