Today
The truth is, I feel really worn out. Over the past 30 months I have experienced turmoil as never before. The events of that time (some of which, although a matter of public record, are still painful to dwell on) created a number of cracks in my perception of myself, in how others perceive me and in how best to be supported and offer support to others. And I had no idea just how emotional turmoil wipes you out.
I have had to retrieve memories that I had sworn would remain buried until the death of those involved. Not only that, I've had to do it fairly publicly. I've given as much support to the family as I can - but I probably can't heal the fracture. I've had to forgive myself my many failings and learn to allow myself to lean on others. And I've learnt that I don't have sole responsibility and how to let go
After many weeks in which bizarre and horrible dreams and nightmares have haunted my sleep I am finally beginning to feel as though I can rebuild myself.
"I'm a bit like the Brighton Pavilion" I said to Paul today
In My Day
When we used to go to Brighton when I was a child I just loved the Pavilion. I loved the weird onion domes and the fancy chandeliers and wallpaper. My father used to make me laugh by telling me that, despite appearances, there's not a stick of real bamboo in the place.
When Paul and I lived in Brighton in the early '70s, my love affair didn't end. An added spice was given with Paul's' tales as a chauffeur to corporate events in the great ballroom with its lotus blossom chandeliers. His tales of the secret consumption of the Mayor's brandy below stairs, made my hair curl.
How sad we were to hear, back in 1973, of a fire that destroyed much of the beautiful ballroom. Work started immediately to restore the building. After some years the complete work was about to be revealed when some maddened art student got into the place and smashed chandeliers and scrawled graffiti.
Without fuss, the restoration started again. Good progress was made, but these things take time.
In the Autumn of 1987, gales swept across the south of England (Mr Michael Fish's finest hour, some would say) and the windows to the great ballroom were smashed.
Up went the scaffolding again and once more the restorers got on with the job.
We took my Canadian great niece to see the Pavilion last year and it looked as good as new.
I have great hopes that soon I too, despite not having a stick of real bamboo about me, will be as good as new.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
The Eyes Have It
Today
Much of the time spent at the gym is in front of mirrors. It's not like being in front of mirrors at home, putting on makeup or checking your hair; effectively striking a pose. At the gym you're more concerned with posture and movement. I found myself today catching glimpses of my face as others might see it.
My eyes, despite having a few crow's feet, don't seem to have changed. a sort of French navy blue and with the upper slope just the same as in my baby pictures.
Since I carried out the family album project I've been thinking about just how much we change or even whether we do.
In My Day
The Dixon family album was a sort of Magnum Opus of Daddy's. He attempted to capture all the various moments that made up our childhood. This started almost as soon as we were born. I found myself looking at those photos of us with a lifetime of experience and knowledge of my siblings and trying the see today's people there.
It was so easy! The eyes that gazed out from the pictures are the same as I see now.
David, with his quizzical look that's ever so slightly past you and looking towards some meaning not quite of this world.
Chris with his eagerness to be doing, paying close attention to the job in hand.
Me, with my steady look that, even at 18 months, brooked no nonsense.
And Beatrice with her bright anxiety to be part of everything, even things she didn't understand.
There's a picture of Chris in the album, aged about 18 months,where the posture and expression are so like those on his current Facebook picture that it's funny. Leaning back, one arm across the back of the chair, smiling, so sure that he's top of the heap.
Much of the time spent at the gym is in front of mirrors. It's not like being in front of mirrors at home, putting on makeup or checking your hair; effectively striking a pose. At the gym you're more concerned with posture and movement. I found myself today catching glimpses of my face as others might see it.
My eyes, despite having a few crow's feet, don't seem to have changed. a sort of French navy blue and with the upper slope just the same as in my baby pictures.
Since I carried out the family album project I've been thinking about just how much we change or even whether we do.
In My Day
The Dixon family album was a sort of Magnum Opus of Daddy's. He attempted to capture all the various moments that made up our childhood. This started almost as soon as we were born. I found myself looking at those photos of us with a lifetime of experience and knowledge of my siblings and trying the see today's people there.
It was so easy! The eyes that gazed out from the pictures are the same as I see now.
David, with his quizzical look that's ever so slightly past you and looking towards some meaning not quite of this world.
Chris with his eagerness to be doing, paying close attention to the job in hand.
Me, with my steady look that, even at 18 months, brooked no nonsense.
And Beatrice with her bright anxiety to be part of everything, even things she didn't understand.
There's a picture of Chris in the album, aged about 18 months,where the posture and expression are so like those on his current Facebook picture that it's funny. Leaning back, one arm across the back of the chair, smiling, so sure that he's top of the heap.
Of course, as life has proceeded, we've all experienced joy, pain, anxiety, grief, fear, laughter. And those are reflected in our eyes also. But our eyes are not so much the windows to the soul but the windows of the soul, shaping how we respond to the world.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Sunday Night Fever
Today
Quiet evening tonight after the frolics of yesterday. We settled down to Scrabble. Paul put on the accompanying music - Saturday Night Fever. He cheerfully jigged around as we played and added his own percussion until I glared at him to stop.
"Great music!" he said, wistfully, " I could really dance to this!"
In My Day
Back in the 70's we loved to dance. If we could get to or organise a disco or have a party we did. What better to dance to than SNF?
In 1978 when my sister Beatrice was living with us she decided to organise a 24 hour dance-a-thon to raise funds for the Epilepsy society. She booked a room over a local pub, organised a rolling buffet and music and advertised. I agreed to take part as did several of our friends. You were allowed 5 minutes in every hour to breathe, eat or visit the loo and my sister-in-law Jenny who didn't dance agreed to be the dance monitor, checking our times most strictly. For this event I dressed as for sport in trainers and track suit.
It was very hard going; you had to dance, not merely sway on the spot. On the other hand, going full out was simply impossible. At least that was my view.
Not that of a visiting competitor. He suffered from epilepsy but this didn't stop him coming in full white-suited SNF regalia and dancing to put John Travolta to shame. He whirled and twirled and really earned his sponsorship money. I hope he had a lot of backers.
I don't know how the event finished; Paul was suffering from some sort of 'flu which made him unwilling to suffer my continued absence. So. in the interests of marital harmony I went home after only 12 hours.
I like to think I'd have been up for the full monty, 'tho'!
Quiet evening tonight after the frolics of yesterday. We settled down to Scrabble. Paul put on the accompanying music - Saturday Night Fever. He cheerfully jigged around as we played and added his own percussion until I glared at him to stop.
"Great music!" he said, wistfully, " I could really dance to this!"
In My Day
Back in the 70's we loved to dance. If we could get to or organise a disco or have a party we did. What better to dance to than SNF?
In 1978 when my sister Beatrice was living with us she decided to organise a 24 hour dance-a-thon to raise funds for the Epilepsy society. She booked a room over a local pub, organised a rolling buffet and music and advertised. I agreed to take part as did several of our friends. You were allowed 5 minutes in every hour to breathe, eat or visit the loo and my sister-in-law Jenny who didn't dance agreed to be the dance monitor, checking our times most strictly. For this event I dressed as for sport in trainers and track suit.
It was very hard going; you had to dance, not merely sway on the spot. On the other hand, going full out was simply impossible. At least that was my view.
Not that of a visiting competitor. He suffered from epilepsy but this didn't stop him coming in full white-suited SNF regalia and dancing to put John Travolta to shame. He whirled and twirled and really earned his sponsorship money. I hope he had a lot of backers.
I don't know how the event finished; Paul was suffering from some sort of 'flu which made him unwilling to suffer my continued absence. So. in the interests of marital harmony I went home after only 12 hours.
I like to think I'd have been up for the full monty, 'tho'!
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
Faking It
Today
I've been having lots of fun with my photos. Now that I know how to mount and frame them, I hope to find a market for them.
Some of my pictures are just right, the way I took them. I don't edit them and just print them directly.
Others need a little correction - maybe the contrast or brightness needs adjustment or there's a telegraph wire right across the picture.
But with many I just have fun playing. Would that picture of abandoned Maesbury Station look better in greyscale or maybe sepia? The trad jazz band photographed in Cheltenham reduced to stark black and white. Or I take an image and place it with another from a different picture and alter the background. My picture of a fallen tree with glowing red sky, looks like an after the holocaust image and I altered one Star Clipper shot to look like a "Pirates of the Caribbean" filmset, another to look like the "Ancient Mariner" ship.
I was telling a friend about what I was doing the other day. "But that's cheating!" he said. "Photos are about capturing the moment."
In My Day
I think that photographers have always "cheated". In the early days it was just playing with exposure or development, then other techniques came along.
Daddy was no exception to this. Starting at the camera, there was the film speed, 
exposure, depth of field and lighting to consider. By using these features he would alter the relative sharpness and brightness of the shot.
exposure, depth of field and lighting to consider. By using these features he would alter the relative sharpness and brightness of the shot.Once the darkroom, he would be able to decide how to develop the shot. This was where he could correct errors. By leaving the film a longer or shorter time in the developing fluid he could determine the look of the final piece. He could further change this when developing the prints.
He used to buy "Amateur Photographer" regularly and sometimes various techniques were shown. I used to be fascinated by pictures that had reduced the image to pure black and white or to grossly exaggerated shades of grey. These effects were achieved through understanding and manipulating the chemical processes involved.
Then there was trick photography. Daddy did have a few forays into this, although I don't think he was very skilled. Twice David found himself shunted into peculiar locations. This was by virtue of the fact that his St Paul's choirboy outfit made him a suitable subject for the family Christmas card. Once Daddy put him in a bottle, another time, several times, walking out of a television screen. Another time he tried to fake a picture a David in front of St Paul's. Unfortunately, something slipped so there's a gap behind his head.
What was true then and is true now, is that doing these things is very fiddly and time-consuming and it does need a degree of skill to cheat successfully.
Another friend of mine told me regretfully the other day that he'd spent a fortune on very fancy photographic equipment only to find out that he's a lousy photographer!
Then there was trick photography. Daddy did have a few forays into this, although I don't think he was very skilled. Twice David found himself shunted into peculiar locations. This was by virtue of the fact that his St Paul's choirboy outfit made him a suitable subject for the family Christmas card. Once Daddy put him in a bottle, another time, several times, walking out of a television screen. Another time he tried to fake a picture a David in front of St Paul's. Unfortunately, something slipped so there's a gap behind his head.
What was true then and is true now, is that doing these things is very fiddly and time-consuming and it does need a degree of skill to cheat successfully.
Another friend of mine told me regretfully the other day that he'd spent a fortune on very fancy photographic equipment only to find out that he's a lousy photographer!
Monday, June 23, 2008
Caravan-tastic
Today
Had occasion to travel a good part of the M5 last Friday - from Weston-Super-Mare to Dudley, and, of course, back on Saturday.
This motorway is the route by which Midlanders escape to the West Country. And there's nothing they like so much, it seems, as to do it in caravans. "This is caravan-tastic!" I said to Paul as we avoided yet another one pulling out suddenly into the middle lane with clearly no idea of what was behind it.
There were all sorts, from fancy 6-berths, pulled by 4-trax to mucky little 2-berths with a Vauxhall Corsa struggling to heave it along. People had strung all kinds of items on the back - mostly bikes, scramblers and motorbikes. Those with Motor homes, sometimes pulled little trailers behind carrying Smart cars for local driving and many were towing boats. It fascinates me that people living 200 miles from the sea still find room to keep a boat for the few times they can actually get to Lyme Regis, or wherever.
The driving skills were as varied as the caravans; for many, I guess, towing a caravan is something they do twice a year so their lack of skills could be pardoned. Although when they cause you to take avoiding action, it's hard to feel forgiving.
In My Day
Once we'd got the need to travel with a caravan behind us (and, anyway,the car was now seriously dead) we simply had to park it in the back garden. Daddy suddenly had a brainwave. Offer the caravan as holiday lets!
The original caravan was parked under the copper beech and christened Beechbower. Daddy bought another, matching one which was put at the foot of the slope. The caravans, which were both 4-berth, had light (from Calor gas, using little gas mantles like Victorian days) and heating. Calor gas canisters graced the lawn to the side of the caravans. We had a downstairs loo, accessible from the garden and an outside tap. We were ready!
And we did get customers. Somehow the very basic facilities didn't seem to bother anybody. And many were very glad to be so close to London for so little money. What we didn't bargain for was people wanting to use the caravan as a permanent home. There was one older couple who lived there all winter. Daddy became very nervous as he knew that if they were to be regarded as permanent he would need hard standing and proper bathing fa
cilities. I think that one winter relying on Calor for heat and light was enough as they left before Daddy had to ask them to go.
One family stayed there with four children and kittens.
There was also a Sinhalese family who stayed in the caravan all summer. They were called the Arnoldas. While they only tried to squeeze three children in, they also had several dogs - a bloodhound, a golden retriever and 2 retriever puppies. I was absolutely terrified of these dogs, especially
the bloodhound, who, I was sure, had his beady eye on me and would find me out in all my wrondoings.
There's farm in our village with three caravans parked for letting on a field. The Parish Council are up in arms about them as they apparently present a health hazard.
Had occasion to travel a good part of the M5 last Friday - from Weston-Super-Mare to Dudley, and, of course, back on Saturday.
This motorway is the route by which Midlanders escape to the West Country. And there's nothing they like so much, it seems, as to do it in caravans. "This is caravan-tastic!" I said to Paul as we avoided yet another one pulling out suddenly into the middle lane with clearly no idea of what was behind it.
There were all sorts, from fancy 6-berths, pulled by 4-trax to mucky little 2-berths with a Vauxhall Corsa struggling to heave it along. People had strung all kinds of items on the back - mostly bikes, scramblers and motorbikes. Those with Motor homes, sometimes pulled little trailers behind carrying Smart cars for local driving and many were towing boats. It fascinates me that people living 200 miles from the sea still find room to keep a boat for the few times they can actually get to Lyme Regis, or wherever.
The driving skills were as varied as the caravans; for many, I guess, towing a caravan is something they do twice a year so their lack of skills could be pardoned. Although when they cause you to take avoiding action, it's hard to feel forgiving.
In My Day
Once we'd got the need to travel with a caravan behind us (and, anyway,the car was now seriously dead) we simply had to park it in the back garden. Daddy suddenly had a brainwave. Offer the caravan as holiday lets!
The original caravan was parked under the copper beech and christened Beechbower. Daddy bought another, matching one which was put at the foot of the slope. The caravans, which were both 4-berth, had light (from Calor gas, using little gas mantles like Victorian days) and heating. Calor gas canisters graced the lawn to the side of the caravans. We had a downstairs loo, accessible from the garden and an outside tap. We were ready!
And we did get customers. Somehow the very basic facilities didn't seem to bother anybody. And many were very glad to be so close to London for so little money. What we didn't bargain for was people wanting to use the caravan as a permanent home. There was one older couple who lived there all winter. Daddy became very nervous as he knew that if they were to be regarded as permanent he would need hard standing and proper bathing fa
cilities. I think that one winter relying on Calor for heat and light was enough as they left before Daddy had to ask them to go.One family stayed there with four children and kittens.
There was also a Sinhalese family who stayed in the caravan all summer. They were called the Arnoldas. While they only tried to squeeze three children in, they also had several dogs - a bloodhound, a golden retriever and 2 retriever puppies. I was absolutely terrified of these dogs, especially
the bloodhound, who, I was sure, had his beady eye on me and would find me out in all my wrondoings.There's farm in our village with three caravans parked for letting on a field. The Parish Council are up in arms about them as they apparently present a health hazard.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Pussy
Today
I can't believe it! Paul has committed us to the ownership of two new kittens! I feel sure that if the bootee had been on the other paw, so to speak, he'd have vetoed it on the grounds of the new level of responsibility etc etc. Not that I mind; I can't easily resist cats and would feel a bit bereft without one or two trundling around.
"Albinoni and Agnes", he proclaimed, incidentally also clarifying the fact that one will be male and one female.
In My Day
The naming of Barrett cats with initial letter "A" is one of those traditions that grew slowly to the point of being now considered by us to be mandatory.
My first cat (see Aug 02,2006 entry) was named by my flatmate with much the same sort of flourish that Paul gave today. "Ariadne!" she suddenly said while in the middle of doing something else. Ariadne gave birth to a litter of five kittens; we named them all from A-E.
Unfortunately they were not a healthy lot and all but one died before they were two weeks old. The remaining one happened to be named Algernon. Algernon was given to my sister and he lived to be fourteen years old.
Annalise, a delightful tabby-and-white with very good manners was named after the pretty four year-old daughter of a friend. Said friend also had kittens to get rid of so we acquired Ajax, a mackerel tabby named for his cocky masculine manner.
We had Alphonse very briefly just to find a him new home and Annabelle was a frightened mature tortoiseshell from the Cats' Protection, who couldn't deal with Annalise's playfulness.
Annalise and Ajax were lost while staying at a friend's house and we then got Amelia (see April 22 2008 entry).
Agamemnon came next - he was half Abyssinian and we searched for names beginning with A. Paul rebelled at the suggestion that he might have to call "ashur-banipal" out of the back door so we settled for the more acceptable but still Middle-Eastern alternative.
Amadeus was named for his musical mew - he was a very smart black-and-white - like the Felix Cat Food cat - and died early of a blood clot in his spine.
His half-sister came to us with no name and it was Lizzie who proclaimed that she be called Arietty. She died in 2005 and was quite the cutest cat I've ever owned.
Which leaves the current inheritor of the enviable A-list, Abby. I hope she copes with the newcomers.
I guess the number of available A-names will outlast us and any cats we may have.
I can't believe it! Paul has committed us to the ownership of two new kittens! I feel sure that if the bootee had been on the other paw, so to speak, he'd have vetoed it on the grounds of the new level of responsibility etc etc. Not that I mind; I can't easily resist cats and would feel a bit bereft without one or two trundling around.
"Albinoni and Agnes", he proclaimed, incidentally also clarifying the fact that one will be male and one female.
In My Day
The naming of Barrett cats with initial letter "A" is one of those traditions that grew slowly to the point of being now considered by us to be mandatory.
My first cat (see Aug 02,2006 entry) was named by my flatmate with much the same sort of flourish that Paul gave today. "Ariadne!" she suddenly said while in the middle of doing something else. Ariadne gave birth to a litter of five kittens; we named them all from A-E.
Unfortunately they were not a healthy lot and all but one died before they were two weeks old. The remaining one happened to be named Algernon. Algernon was given to my sister and he lived to be fourteen years old.
Annalise, a delightful tabby-and-white with very good manners was named after the pretty four year-old daughter of a friend. Said friend also had kittens to get rid of so we acquired Ajax, a mackerel tabby named for his cocky masculine manner.
We had Alphonse very briefly just to find a him new home and Annabelle was a frightened mature tortoiseshell from the Cats' Protection, who couldn't deal with Annalise's playfulness.
Annalise and Ajax were lost while staying at a friend's house and we then got Amelia (see April 22 2008 entry).
Agamemnon came next - he was half Abyssinian and we searched for names beginning with A. Paul rebelled at the suggestion that he might have to call "ashur-banipal" out of the back door so we settled for the more acceptable but still Middle-Eastern alternative.
Amadeus was named for his musical mew - he was a very smart black-and-white - like the Felix Cat Food cat - and died early of a blood clot in his spine.
His half-sister came to us with no name and it was Lizzie who proclaimed that she be called Arietty. She died in 2005 and was quite the cutest cat I've ever owned.
Which leaves the current inheritor of the enviable A-list, Abby. I hope she copes with the newcomers.
I guess the number of available A-names will outlast us and any cats we may have.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Know-it-all
Today
Paul has an abundance of books which give you meanings of obscure words or scientific facts. This morning he was reading me titbits from a book that guarantees to turn you into a know-it-all within 365 days.
"Who wrote 'For Whom the Bell Tolls'?" he asked me. I thought it was a trick and said John Donne before agreeing that Ernest Hemingway had indeed written a book with this title and that it was from this book that the expression "did the earth move for you?" came from.
And so on with questions about James Joyce, the Spartans etc etc. "How do you know all this stuff"? he said. "You must have had a golden education." "I don't think so," I said "I just used to pay attention."
In My Day
Certainly we were not shielded from facts as children; there were 100s of books, any of which we were free to read, and conversation was not dumbed down. My older brothers were always happy to show off their superior knowledge to their little sister. And this sister, is must be said, was open-beaked for it.
In 1957, I started back late to school following the summer holidays (holiday at Burgh Island - see June 17 2007 entry) and joined my class with no knowledge of or introduction to my new class teacher.
For the first time I had a male form teacher; his name was Mr Baxter. In every way he was an inspirational teacher who never belittled or talked down to the children. Each day, starting at the beginning of the alphabet, he gave us a general knowledge question as homework. It was optional - but that made finding out all the more challenging.
"What is an aardvark?" was the first one I took home. I had no idea (this was before the days of ubiquitous wildlife programmes on TV). So we heaved out the Chamber's encyclopedia to discover that it's an anteater. I then went on to find out more about these creatures and their strange woodlouse type curling up properties.
Each day there was a new question, right through to "Z". They covered a whole range of topics and it was a rare day when I couldn't answer one.
Daddy told me to tell the teacher that an aardvark is someone who "varks 'ard", which I think I did. But I don't think he was impressed and I kept Daddy's jokes to myself after that.
Paul has an abundance of books which give you meanings of obscure words or scientific facts. This morning he was reading me titbits from a book that guarantees to turn you into a know-it-all within 365 days.
"Who wrote 'For Whom the Bell Tolls'?" he asked me. I thought it was a trick and said John Donne before agreeing that Ernest Hemingway had indeed written a book with this title and that it was from this book that the expression "did the earth move for you?" came from.
And so on with questions about James Joyce, the Spartans etc etc. "How do you know all this stuff"? he said. "You must have had a golden education." "I don't think so," I said "I just used to pay attention."
In My Day
Certainly we were not shielded from facts as children; there were 100s of books, any of which we were free to read, and conversation was not dumbed down. My older brothers were always happy to show off their superior knowledge to their little sister. And this sister, is must be said, was open-beaked for it.
In 1957, I started back late to school following the summer holidays (holiday at Burgh Island - see June 17 2007 entry) and joined my class with no knowledge of or introduction to my new class teacher.
For the first time I had a male form teacher; his name was Mr Baxter. In every way he was an inspirational teacher who never belittled or talked down to the children. Each day, starting at the beginning of the alphabet, he gave us a general knowledge question as homework. It was optional - but that made finding out all the more challenging.
"What is an aardvark?" was the first one I took home. I had no idea (this was before the days of ubiquitous wildlife programmes on TV). So we heaved out the Chamber's encyclopedia to discover that it's an anteater. I then went on to find out more about these creatures and their strange woodlouse type curling up properties.
Each day there was a new question, right through to "Z". They covered a whole range of topics and it was a rare day when I couldn't answer one.
Daddy told me to tell the teacher that an aardvark is someone who "varks 'ard", which I think I did. But I don't think he was impressed and I kept Daddy's jokes to myself after that.
Monday, June 09, 2008
Garcon
Today
Yesterday was the London-Brighton Classic Car Run. In accordance with recently created tradition, Paul and I drove up to London the day before, planning to stay over so we were fresh the following day.
The start was at Mercedes-Benz World at Brooklands so we booked into a swanky-sounding De Vere Hotel at Gors
e Hill, near Woking. The hotel looked pretty swanky too; Becky joined us and we were all set for a good time.
Went into the very nice dining room to be served a dinner by completely untrained waiting staff. They didn't know what was on the menu, didn't offer us a taste of or pour the wine, removed dishes when some were still eating - in fact committed practically all the faux pas that a waitress can make. In the end the restaurant manager came scuttling over to rescue them and us - "So sorry", she said "it's their first day." "I know they need training - but I bet we don't get a discount" I hissed to Paul.
In My Day
Back in 1970 I was in serious need of a summer job. Mamma and Daddy had by this time vacated 4 Beulah and I was camping at my brother's. I don't now remember how I found out about relief waitressing but one day I went into central London and booked as a temporary relief waitress with the Brook St Bureau.
They told me to supply a uniform consisting of black skirt, white blouse and white apron. The first 2 I had, the third I hastily ran up on the sewing machine and hoped I didn't look like a character from 'ello 'ello.
Experience I completely lacked; all I could offer was intelligence and good legs.
My first assignment was to a very busy snack bar on Fleet Street. Journalists and other media people dashed in, barked orders and wanted them quick. I tried to remember who was having what and have no idea how I got through the day.
The second one was to an Italian restaurant situated near to both Smithfield Market and St Bart's Hospital, so had a varied clientelle. I turned up and was shown the ropes by an elderly waitress who'd obviously been there since before the Flood. "We keep our own tips," she told me. This experience was altogether more gently-paced. Doctors and butchery businessmen came in for leisurely wine-fuelled lunches. I quickly undertood what was required and, it must be said, found that my youth, chirpy manner (and good legs) brought me very good tips. So much so that the elderly waitress complained to the boss and said she thought that tips should be shared. "Yes", said the boss "Aren't they always?" She then had to admit that she'd changed the rules when I started - clearly she thought that her experience would favour her - and the boss told her to lie on the bed she'd made. I quite enjoyed my stay at this place and sometimes did weddings on Sundays when 100's of drunken Italians would roar out "O Sole Mio" or "Ave Maria" and try to pinch my behind.
My final stint was at a gastro pub which was quite swanky and where my complete inability to do silver service was somewhat looked down upon. The chef, amazed at my being veggie, would give me food parcels of meat to take home for my cat.
I don't think it was the fact that the waitresses on Saturday were new that bothered me, it was that they made it so obvious.
Yesterday was the London-Brighton Classic Car Run. In accordance with recently created tradition, Paul and I drove up to London the day before, planning to stay over so we were fresh the following day.
The start was at Mercedes-Benz World at Brooklands so we booked into a swanky-sounding De Vere Hotel at Gors
e Hill, near Woking. The hotel looked pretty swanky too; Becky joined us and we were all set for a good time.Went into the very nice dining room to be served a dinner by completely untrained waiting staff. They didn't know what was on the menu, didn't offer us a taste of or pour the wine, removed dishes when some were still eating - in fact committed practically all the faux pas that a waitress can make. In the end the restaurant manager came scuttling over to rescue them and us - "So sorry", she said "it's their first day." "I know they need training - but I bet we don't get a discount" I hissed to Paul.
In My Day
Back in 1970 I was in serious need of a summer job. Mamma and Daddy had by this time vacated 4 Beulah and I was camping at my brother's. I don't now remember how I found out about relief waitressing but one day I went into central London and booked as a temporary relief waitress with the Brook St Bureau.
They told me to supply a uniform consisting of black skirt, white blouse and white apron. The first 2 I had, the third I hastily ran up on the sewing machine and hoped I didn't look like a character from 'ello 'ello.
Experience I completely lacked; all I could offer was intelligence and good legs.
My first assignment was to a very busy snack bar on Fleet Street. Journalists and other media people dashed in, barked orders and wanted them quick. I tried to remember who was having what and have no idea how I got through the day.
The second one was to an Italian restaurant situated near to both Smithfield Market and St Bart's Hospital, so had a varied clientelle. I turned up and was shown the ropes by an elderly waitress who'd obviously been there since before the Flood. "We keep our own tips," she told me. This experience was altogether more gently-paced. Doctors and butchery businessmen came in for leisurely wine-fuelled lunches. I quickly undertood what was required and, it must be said, found that my youth, chirpy manner (and good legs) brought me very good tips. So much so that the elderly waitress complained to the boss and said she thought that tips should be shared. "Yes", said the boss "Aren't they always?" She then had to admit that she'd changed the rules when I started - clearly she thought that her experience would favour her - and the boss told her to lie on the bed she'd made. I quite enjoyed my stay at this place and sometimes did weddings on Sundays when 100's of drunken Italians would roar out "O Sole Mio" or "Ave Maria" and try to pinch my behind.
My final stint was at a gastro pub which was quite swanky and where my complete inability to do silver service was somewhat looked down upon. The chef, amazed at my being veggie, would give me food parcels of meat to take home for my cat.
I don't think it was the fact that the waitresses on Saturday were new that bothered me, it was that they made it so obvious.
Friday, June 06, 2008
A Good Hand
Today
My sister is recovering from having some seizures at the weekend. They came without any of the usual warning signs and without any of the usual triggers.
Fortunately for her, her step-daughter had popped over and found her "making no sense", and hustled her to hospital so she was in the right place when the worst happened.
Regretfully, it's back on full-time medication and going without the car for a year. Perhaps she'll go green and use a bike.
My sister has struggled with this condition since her early teens. It's rather intermittent; sometimes 7 or 8 years go by without an incident. She's always hoped that the condition would wear itself out over the years. That doesn't seem to be the case.
Discussing this with my brother and he said "She wasn't dealt a good hand, was she?"
In My Day
It took us a while to make the link between a severe fall she'd had at the age of about 2 (at the time the worst consequence seemed to be a broken collar bone) and the later occasions when she just didn't seem to be making sense. Requests to do one thing would result in a quite different action being carried out and she said some seriously odd things. To the teachers, too. Was she just being cheeky?
Gradually, Mamma realised that something was not well and took to keeping her at home on those odd days. Even when she was discovered, in her night clothes, having "fallen over" in a neighbour's garden we didn't make the connection.
I was aged about 15 and in the room alone with her when the first unmistakable incident occurred. She suddenly fell over (I had the presence of mind to shove the trolley out of the way so she wouldn't cut her head open) and rolled about in a most strange way. I yelled for help; the doctor was called and, after a battery of tests, the truth was revealed.
Along with Mamma I became expert at spotting the warning signs and have been known to frogmarch my sister to bed as she protested she was fine. Over the years there's no doubt that it has hampered her opportunities and the myriad drugs that have been tried have given her a range of side-effects. No wonder she hoped it would all go away.
Anyway, as my brother, whose bridge playing skills are of an international standard should know, it's not the cards you're dealt, it's how you play them that counts.
My sister is recovering from having some seizures at the weekend. They came without any of the usual warning signs and without any of the usual triggers.
Fortunately for her, her step-daughter had popped over and found her "making no sense", and hustled her to hospital so she was in the right place when the worst happened.
Regretfully, it's back on full-time medication and going without the car for a year. Perhaps she'll go green and use a bike.
My sister has struggled with this condition since her early teens. It's rather intermittent; sometimes 7 or 8 years go by without an incident. She's always hoped that the condition would wear itself out over the years. That doesn't seem to be the case.
Discussing this with my brother and he said "She wasn't dealt a good hand, was she?"
In My Day
It took us a while to make the link between a severe fall she'd had at the age of about 2 (at the time the worst consequence seemed to be a broken collar bone) and the later occasions when she just didn't seem to be making sense. Requests to do one thing would result in a quite different action being carried out and she said some seriously odd things. To the teachers, too. Was she just being cheeky?
Gradually, Mamma realised that something was not well and took to keeping her at home on those odd days. Even when she was discovered, in her night clothes, having "fallen over" in a neighbour's garden we didn't make the connection.
I was aged about 15 and in the room alone with her when the first unmistakable incident occurred. She suddenly fell over (I had the presence of mind to shove the trolley out of the way so she wouldn't cut her head open) and rolled about in a most strange way. I yelled for help; the doctor was called and, after a battery of tests, the truth was revealed.
Along with Mamma I became expert at spotting the warning signs and have been known to frogmarch my sister to bed as she protested she was fine. Over the years there's no doubt that it has hampered her opportunities and the myriad drugs that have been tried have given her a range of side-effects. No wonder she hoped it would all go away.
Anyway, as my brother, whose bridge playing skills are of an international standard should know, it's not the cards you're dealt, it's how you play them that counts.
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
How Clean is your House?
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.
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.
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.
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