Rescue

Today

This morning Paul & I watched the kittens playing. They're pretty evenly matched and their play-fighting becomes less innocuous as they get bigger. Albinoni even hissed at Agnes today as she must have caught a tender spot.

Paul consoled Albinoni. We talked about a fairly silly detective drama we'd seen the night before which centered round a woman who rescued cats and had about thirty. Paul quoted from the drama "People who have cats should get a life". "Although," he added "I do think that three's the absolute upper limit." "I do like to have a couple of cats trundling around," I agreed. "But not thirty!" said my spouse. "What, like Mrs Entwhistle?"

In My Day

When we first moved into Belmont in 1971, I still owned Ariadne, the tabby who'd been with me right through college. We weren't supposed to have pets but we smuggled her in and, as the flat had access to the fire escape, she could get in and out. Ariadne had been suffering from an alopecia as a side-effect of neutering; she was receiving treatment but it's true to say that she did look a little scruffy.

One evening she didn't turn up. When she'd been missing for a few days we set about working out how to trace her. We went to the RSPCA but they didn't have her. We could hardly ask other residents as that would be an admission that we illegally had a pet. I can't remember how, but eventually a batty old lady who lived a few streets away told us that Ariadne had been found inside a vacant flat at Belmont and had been taken to a local cat rescue organisation run by a Mrs Entwhistle. We tracked down her number and paid a visit. The house reeked of cat piss and cats stared at us from every corner, I fervently hoped that Ariadne wasn't in such a vile place. At first she denied all knowledge but eventually told us that Ariadne had gone to new owners.

I was stunned and all the way home railed at Paul about it. We went to the RSPCA to ask advice. "Oh, Mrs Entwhistle!" they said in that tone of voice. "She's an absolute thorn in our sides; she simply hampers our work at every step and will not co-operate in any way. However, in law, a cat is not like a dog; it's simply a personal possession, like a watch, so she is guilty of theft in simply taking your cat, not taking proper steps to find the owner and then giving her away."

We called the police. "Oh, Mrs Entwhistle!" they said in that tone of voice "She's a perpetual nuisance; we'll put CID onto it." Which they did. However, they never found Ariadne and eventually Mrs E told us that, actually, Ariadne had been in such poor condition that she's had her destroyed. There seemed no point in further pursuit and no way of determining whether she was telling the truth.

It's true, most do-gooders often do no good at all.

A Life Worth Living

Today

Along with the rest of the nation, I was grieved to hear of the violent end to the life of little Brandon Muir. The news presenter described the ferocity of the attacks on his two -year old body. They also described the life lived by his prostitute heroin-addicted mother and showed scenes from around where she lived. The flats were grubby, dismal, sprayed with graffiti, windows boarded up. And I wondered about the kind of life he would have had, had he not been beaten to death. Another kind of death, I guess.

I felt ashamed that we allow people to live in these places and in such squalor. We have the means to improve things; where is our will?

Unfortunately, Brandon is by no means the first, nor the last little child to suffer in this way.

In My Day

In 1973 we were living in Brighton when the story of Maria Colwell broke. She was taken to the Royal Sussex Hospital in a pram, her little undersized 7-year old body a mass of bruises, her little stomach empty of food.

The hounds of recrimination were let loose. Social Services, not for the first or the last time, took all the brunt of the criticism and sweeping changes were promised.

At that time we were living at Belmont and Lizzie was a baby. The repercussions from the Maria Colwell case reverberated throughout Brighton for a long time, as we were to find out.

I suppose Lizzie was about twenty months old and we had commenced on the task of toilet training. This was not going well. Lizzie didn't really seem to want to understand what it was all about (with hindsight - how we worried as though it's not something all children learn to do eventually). On the evening in question, once Liz had been bathed we left her to trot about without a nappy, potty invitingly placed on the living room floor. Liz wasn't yet very steady on her feet and she suddenly fell in such a way that she landed, bottom down, on the potty. I picked up the screaming child and nearly screamed myself when I saw just how much blood was pouring from her little underneath.

We bundled her up and off to the the Royal Sussex A&E. As usual, they were busy. A tired intern prodded at Lizzie, rather scaring her, and said that she needed to see a paediatrician. As it was now nine at night, they had to call one in.

At about ten pm we were ushered into the presence of the paediatrician. He looked briefly at Lizzie's injury, then began to ask us a lot of personal questions. While he did this he looked all over Lizzie, testing her for fractures, bruises and other signs of abuse. I guess he was also looking for signs of intimidation. Fortunately, Lizzie, the pain forgotten, was at her sociable best, chattering to the consultant and trying to grab his stethoscope. Eventually he said "you're a nice little baby" and indicated that we could go. "And the injury?" we ventured. "Oh that," he said "Just keep it clean, it'll clear up in a day or two." Which it did.

While we understood the need for him to carry out this scrutiny, it's sad that all this still doesn't prevent the real tragedies from happening. Little Brandon, I am so sorry for you, alive or dead.

Arty-farty

Today

V excited because a local restaurant has given me two walls on which to display my framed photos for sale. I really only started taking photos five years ago when Paul gave me a very nice small digital camera. I got into the habit of carrying it with me everywhere and discovered that I have quite an eye for a shot. I began to notice that I had bulging folders on my computer of photos (presently standing at about 11,000) and wondered what use to make of them.

When an acquaintance of ours produced a show of her photos mounted in cheap frames and charged a whole lot of money, I thought I could do better, so I did.

I use Photoshop to manipulate the images and do my own mounting and framing, so that the whole is properly presented.

The proprietor of the restaurant asked me to write a little bit about myself. Thinking that a blurb that ran "Well, Julia quite likes to take a few pictures with her very simple camera" lacked the right artistic gravitas, I've delved into my past and come up with a reference to my art school days.

In My Day

I may have said before that I was considered to be the "arty" one of the family. Well, someone had to fill the vacancy and I was the only one who couldn't keep away from paper and pencil.

Looking back, I do think that I drew quite well, but I also think that I lacked a real sense of design. It was Mamma or Chris who designed our cake layouts and Daddy who put together the Christmas cards. When I applied to St Martins Art College, David designed and made a very natty card viewer for some of my slides of my theatre designs. The college was much more fascinated by this than by my costumes.... And I never learnt to manipulate paint.

At college I learnt to sew and design clothes - a skill I still have, though only occasionally employed these days. But overall, I think my artistic ability has been much inflated within my family. The outside world, being more astute, paid me little attention. An eminent stage designer once came to assess and review our work while I was at Worthing college. He looked at my stage designs for "Rhinoceros", patted me on the head and told me to be sure to tell my children that Mummy had once been to art college. I'm still reeling from that multi-layered insult.

Although I trained to be an art and needlework teacher, I'm glad I didn't follow through as I've no idea how I would have sustained any creative flow long enough to be an inspiration to children.

I must say that, after a lifetime of working using just my brain, I really enjoy the physical act of creating the framework for my pictures. And at least I haven't sunk into the old-lady retirement habit of taking up water-colour painting.

2nd Class

Today

As our financial situation strengthens, we've increased the standard that we apply to celebrations. None more than Valentine's where we now take it in turns to provide the feasting, thus adding a competitive element.

With this in mind Paul booked a weekend at our local posh hotel (The Charlton House) for the valentine weekend. We accepted that there'd be no dancing at looked forward to staying at this elegant hotel and being tourists in our own town.

What we weren't prepared for was the limited menu selection. In the past the CH has offered two menus; one veggie, the other standard and there has been variety, taste and excellent presentation.

The only veggie item on the main course menu was a warm salad of goat's cheese. I happen to dislike goat's cheese so the chef replaced it with some mozzarella. The meal itself was just put on the plate with no particular attention to presentation and style.

The next day I spoke to the duty manager "I really don't want to eat the same thing two days running", I said "can you help?" "Just ask and the chef will do what you want," she said airily.

This seemed too good to be true and it was. That night the waiter said that the menu changes daily and indeed it had with a hot main course containing - goat's cheese! I substituted a rather dull mozzarella salad instead. At least I didn't overeat.

In the morning we expressed our views. "This is hardly the cheapest place in town and the food was not only unimaginative, it was poorly presented. I feel like a second class citizen," I protested. They were very apologetic but I doubt whether anything will be done.

In My Day

Looking back I realise that I never much liked meat unless it was so overcooked or ersatz that it didn't really resemble meat.

By the time I was eighteen I had started to prefer to avoid meat altogether. When I worked as a waitress, the chef at one place was so appalled that I didn't eat meat that he gave me meaty food parcels to take home for the cat!

For quite a few years I hovered betwixt and between, sometimes, I think because I didn't really know how to cook appetising veggie meals. In my first year in Worthing I think I more or less lived on onion omelettes.

Paul gamely accepted whatever I cooked him; during the early vegetarian days that must have been far from easy.

So by the time we were at Rowan Avenue we were eating the full range of foods, meat and fish included. It was Becky who, at the age of four announced that she wasn't eating "dead animals" any more, that galvanised me into discovering the wonderful world of meat-free meals.

I trawl the cuisines of the world for amazing dishes and always pay attention to presentation, believing that we eat with our eyes as well at mouths.

While I fully accept that there are completely healthy people who never allow anything green past their lips, I secretly feel that meat is somehow unclean. What I don't feel is that I'm second class.

The Way Out

Today

The next generation in our family is coming on, thick and fast. Yesterday we met 4-week old Isaac. He's got unusual eyes; they're dark, possibly brown (I was sort of surprised not to see the usual blue) which are very focused. I kept expecting him to give me a proper smile.

His mother was feeling not too well, so we all took our turn to hold him and eventually he fell asleep in my arms for well over an hour. I hope his mum felt recharged.

His name was a subject for discussion before the birth with much playing around with possible names, but I hadn't heard this one suggested before. He still doesn't have a second name - but that's not, after all, mandatory.

"Do you realise", I said to Alice "that the name has a resonance for our family?"

In My Day

Daddy used to describe to us his early life; how, because of his father's drunkenness, he had to scratch a few pennies sweeping horse dung from the streets of London. How his mother scraped to send him to a better school (where he didn't last very long). How he was apprenticed to a book binders as a "glue boy". And, finally, how he spent his spare time at evening classes run, free, by the Society of Friends.

There he avidly learnt all he could: English grammar, Music, French and Pitman's Shorthand, invented by Sir Isaac Pitman.

Using his new skills of English and shorthand he blagged his way into a reporting job which led him to the dizzy heights of being senior reporter at Hansard.

Daddy used to try to teach us shorthand; I think I did learn some and have an idea that Chris became quite good at it. Around the house one sometimes came across spiral-bound notebooks containing pages of squiggles and dots. These were clear to Daddy (although he was sometimes a bit careless over the dots which represented vowels so that he might not be sure whether a word was"if" or "of", "spit" or "spot"), but made me feel illiterate when I looked at them.

I know that Mamma gave Daddy's notebooks, carefully kept, containing the recording of the abdication of Edward viii and the declaration of WW2, to the House of Commons archive.

Later on Daddy also taught shorthand at Pitman's college in Holborn in London. Perhaps understandably, he rather dreaded the introduction of tape recorders and would have been appalled at such things as voice recognition software; he'd have been straight out of a job.

Daddy was a fan of Pitman's shorthand all his life, keeping a bust of Sir Isaac in the house and decrying all other methods as inferior. And why not? Pitman's was his way out of the pit.

Yesterday everyone was admiring Isaac's lovely long fingers and predicting a musical career for him. Who knows? At least he's unlikely to have to claw his way out of the pit.

Knots

Today

Bought a rather nice pair of trousers at Mulberry yesterday. I tried them on this morning, but first had to remove the labels. This wasn't just a simple tag attached with one of those nasty little plastic things; there were three: a label giving the brand, one with size and price and a little envelope containing a spare button. They all had separate cords and were threaded through a little ribbon which appeared to have no other purpose than to be attached to by labels. (It explains why these clothes are so expensive - the full price of these trousers is £245, reduced to £88 - it's very labour-intensive.)

Anxious not to damage these in case I had to return the trousers as too small, I spent some time carefully disentangling the strings till they all came free.

Over the weekend a similar problem with the lovely emerald pendant Paul had given me; the fine chain had several knots in it. I popped on my specs and lit the lamp and fiddled until it was free.

Quite satisfying.

In My Day

I've always liked unravelling knots. I remember Mamma preparing to do knitting. Wool didn't come in ready-wound balls; it came in hanks which had to be turned into balls. I would sit there with one end of each hank around each wrist while Mamma made the ball. You couldn't lose concentration, either; if your wrists went slack, the whole process was halted. In fact, it was the only thing I ever mastered about knitting.

Mamma also had a "sewing box". This contained reels of thread, needles, lengths of embroidery silks, thimbles, darning mushrooms and the like. For reasons unknown it often became impossibly untidy. Perhaps when the lights were out they all had a party. Perhaps there are little gnomes that creep out and tangle everything up.

On dull days when I wanted to avoid having to go out and play in the cold, I'd take up this box and sort it all out. The reels of thread would be wound back up and the ends tucked into the little nick in the side designed for that purpose. Buttons would be sorted (that is, until Daddy put them all into little cough sweet tins labelled "Bunz - smarl" and other jokey titles - I still had some until recently).Then the coloured scraps of wool. Each would be wound using my elbow and space between thumb and finger. Then, saved till the last, the best. Sorting out the embroidery threads. Mamma used (as I still do when there's any embroidery to be done) stranded cotton which consisted of six threads twisted together. You could choose to use any thickness from one to six threads, the norm being three, and they were always in a hopeless muddle. I would start with one and carefully follow through the twists and turns, the unders and overs, until I had the full length. I'd twist it into a figure of eight, using my thumb and first finger. Then on to the next until there they were, all neatly sorted in colour gradations, ready for use.

I really enjoyed doing it - there was the occasional impossible knot which you just had to cut through - an analogy for life, I guess, or at least how I approach it.

I still have Mamma's darning mushrooms and have used them in anger.

Goggle-box

Today

Paul spends a fair bit of his time these days grumbling about the quality of TV, at least freeview TV. And he has a point. Along with deadly reality TV shows in which attention-starved individuals parade their failings in front of the viewing public, we have seemingly endless quiz and game shows, talent contests and soap operas. There are dreadful Japanese and American cartoon shows (and even the Simpsons are getting a little stale by now) and shows giving celebrities (some of whom really ought to be older and wiser) plenty of opportunities of making prats of themselves. There seems to be little new drama and much of the day is given over to repeats of old dramas, especially crime and police. Although I admit to a weakness for "The X Factor", Strictly Come Dancing" and "CSI".

And it may look like we have 999 channels to choose from but actually most programmes are duplicated about 20 times.

So we have a beautiful LCD, digital, HD-ready TV and all we really watch is the News and The Bill. "I've a good mind to stop paying for a licence," said Paul "There's nothing worth watching."

And they say that British TV is the best in the World which doesn't say much for the rest.

In My Day

It is, of course, possible to live life without a TV at all. Our friends the Lovells brought up their 6 children without TV and their eldest boy was officially "Britain's Brightest" after he got 12 a* grades in his GCSE's a few years back. The newspapers made a fair bit out of the fact that there was no TV in the house.

I was brought up without TV. We had a radio and I wasted a good deal of my time listening to such intellectually stimulating shows as "Ray's a Laugh" "Round the Horne" and "The Clitheroe Kid". And later I listened to Radio Caroline.

I did occasionally get to see a TV; our upstairs neighbours, the Evanses had one and sometimes I was invited up to watch "Andy Pandy" "Bill & Ben" and "Muffin the Mule". Puts the Tellytubbies to shame, really. And I think we watched the coronation on television.

I can't now remember whether Mamma and Daddy had any objection to telly or whether it was simply not regarded as a priority. It did, however, mean that we spent a lot of our time reading or pursuing hobbies, which is arguably better at developing the mind. Long evenings were enlivened with various games: Consequences, Hangman, Just a Minute (well, our version of it), definitions, as well as the more ordinary board games.

I recall one Sunday evening when we were all at home, sitting by the fire reading. The room was deadly quiet. Suddenly Daddy put down his book and told us to put down ours, He then asked us each to give a resume of what we'd been reading to the rest of the family. It was undoubtedly good for our brains to do this, but he could equally well have played the same game over our favourite TV shows. So I don't think I can lay claim to a superior intellect by virtue of not having TV.

Paul and I didn't really get a permanent TV, other than of a very scrappy variety, until about 1989. Although I remember Beatrice hiring one in time for the 1978 Olympics and us all much enjoying TISWAS on Saturday mornings, the chief feature of which seemed to be the chucking of buckets of water over caged-up students.

What I find disturbing is that Paul, who was brought up with TV, has a photographic memory for all the early advertising jingles and is prone to start singing them if I don't put a stop to it.

Tummy

Today

Woke up feeling a little bit queasy this morning. We'd been to visit friends the evening before, all of whom over the past couple of weeks, have had a version of a rather enduring tummy bug. Just hope I haven't caught it.

I'm not very often subject to bouts of tummy problems and since we don't have small children or much contact with them, we aren't usually affected by circulating infections.

However, I drank some tea and water and ate some toast and feel rather better now.

"There's usually only one explanation when a piece of toast makes you feel better!" I said to Paul.

In My Day

Working full-time as well as bringing up 2 children was quite a struggle. While, in my fantasies I always imagined having 5 daughters, rather like Mrs Bennett, I knew that would put me under absurd pressure.

So I was determined to stick at 2, so had been fitted with a "copper 7" IUD.

In the autumn of 1978, Beatrice was living with us at Rowan Avenue, following her Canadian adventure. Liz was 6 and Becky about 15 months old.

Paul must have been on earlies that Sunday morning; certainly he wasn't in the house when Beatrice brought in my morning tea. "Ooh!" said I, as I sat up "I feel a bit sick." I drank my tea and nibbled on a Rich Tea biscuit. "I feel better now", I said and clapped my hand to my mouth, unwilling to believe the most likely explanation for this phenomenon.

But it was true. A quick jaunt to the doctor made it clear that baby number 3 was on the way. The doctor, in all serious kindness, said that, as the contraception offered by the NHS had failed me, the NHS would also provide an abortion if I so wished. I considered and decided that, although it would be a struggle, I could manage and find the love for number 3.

The midwife told me many cheery tales of beautiful babies born clutching the IUDs in their fists, the queasiness wore off and we told people the news. I told Chris and lamented the fact that I'd just sold a lot of Becky's baby stuff. Soon a £50 Mothercare voucher (£50 was a fair bit) arrived from my sweet and generous brother.

Christmas was approaching and we went to Portsmouth to pay an Xmas visit to friends of ours. As part of the festivities we were invited to join them at the local college bash where barn-dancing was on offer. Great! I did my fair share of dosey-doing and had a good time.

In the morning. I awoke to a puddle of blood. I stayed where I was while Paul sorted out our stuff and got me into the car and whizzed back home as soon as possible.

But it was too late. I called Chris "Thank you so much for the voucher, but there isn't going to be a baby", I told him. "Go spend it on Xmas pressies for the girls", he kindly said. Which I did with Paul, that very same day, buying a little trike for Becky and a dressing gown and duvet for Lizzie, the busy-ness of the shopping taking my mind off the pain.

Some time afterwards, Paul asked me whether I'd like to have a baby anyway. I said no, not having really changed my mind about 2 children and full-time working being enough, and he went and made the final sacrifice.

Every once in a while I wonder about number 3; son, or daughter? and what changes that would have brought to our life.

Right now, however, I'm fairly certain that it's a few short nights and some Cloudy Bay that are responsible for the twirly tummy.

Stockpile

Today

Went shopping at the supermarket today. It was a mixture of the usual essential top-up and getting in food for tonight's dinner with my brother and wife.

"Karen likes her G&Ts," I said to Paul "We're alright for tonic, aren't we?" "Well, I opened one during the week," he said "so I'm not sure". I said that I thought I'd seen some bottles lined up in the utility room, but decided not to interfere.

Later, in the pharmacy aisle I saw Paul clutching a pack of Paracetamol. "You are joking, aren't you?" I said "we've enough packets in the bathroom to sink the proverbial." Again I didn't argue and they were duly bought.

The fact is, I should know by now, that when Paul tells me we're a bit short on something, I'll return home to discover a bulging cupboard of this particular item. We even have a name for it "The glass cleaner syndrome" relating to a time when Paul seemed to find it necessary to top on this item until we had approximately ten bottles of the stuff.

Paul says that his anxiety dates back to the great toilet roll shortage of 1974-5, but I think that's just an excuse.

In My Day

I do like a nice full store cupboard, it's true. When I was a child, nearly all of the shopping was done locally, with Mamma walking up to the shops about a mile away and walking back with three or four laden carrier bags. These bags were made of paper with string handles and I can remember Mamma showing us the weals on her hands from the weight of the bags when she got home. Greengroceries were delivered, I believe. Sometimes we'd go on the bus to Crystal Palace to buy items or to the Surrey Street market in Croydon (I remember the cabbage leaves lying in the gutters).

So it must have been quite hard to set up and maintain a store cupboard. However, we did, with things like flour, cocoa, dried and crystallised fruit, packet soup mix, tinned fruit, salad cream and luncheon meat. I often wonder how it differs from mine, with its sun dried tomatoes, tins of dolmades, olive oils and balsamic vinegars, packets of pasta, several types of rice and a full range of Indian spices.

Somethings are truly not the same today as they were then; the crystallised fruits that Mamma bought were great slices of citrus peel with lumps of faintly orangey sugar stuck to them (which we'd eat if we could get our hands on them). I only ever see ready-chopped peel these days and it looks so unappetisingly mingy that I often avoid it in recipes altogether.

After we got home with the shopping I checked and told Paul that we have enough Paracetamol in the bathroom, not counting what we'd bought today or what might be in other rooms or handbags, to cure 28 headaches or level one hangovers.

Blue Twist

Today

Had a very nice lunch at the City Arms in Wells with the girls, nephew and friend. Having kidded the waitress about the origins of the steel bolts in the dining tables we then updated her on the new Walkers Crisp flavours.

Becky had come fresh from organising the PR event at which these were revealed and arrived with a bin-liner full of packets of the new-flavoured crisps. Apparently, in credit-starved Britain we are all desperate for new crisp sensations. Salt 'n' vinegar, BBQ'd beef and prawn cocktail flavours are just not enough for our sated senses.

No, we need Builder's Breakfast flavour (with or without black pudding, we wanted to know) or Onion Bhaji flavour (fully endorsed by the Indian Restaurant confederation).

While I'm sceptical about the value of Chili 'n' Chocolate, Cajun Squirrel does at least have the merit of originality.

In My day

I've talked before in this blog about whether we have too much in the way of choice and crisps are a case in point. When I was a child I simply remember Smith's Crisps. They came in a white bag with a very nice diamond-shaped design on the front in red and blue.

There were two flavours of crisp; all contained in the one bag. The crisps were plain, unsalted and had the skins still on. Inside the bag was another smaller bag. Well, actually, it was a little screw of blue paper. This contained salt and you could (if you wanted) untwist it and shake exactly as much salt as you wanted over your crisps. I'm told by those in the know, that, no matter how careful you were, it was impossible to get the salt evenly distributed; there always being a residue of oversalted crisps at the bottom.

I preferred mine au naturel and never undid those little screws of paper.

I remember making crisp sandwiches, a nutritious snack of white bread, butter and crisps. Delicious!

Only later was this purity polluted by other brands of crisps and such taste travesties as ready salted (extra salted in pubs so you would drink more beer) cheese and onion, crinkle cut crisps and, the final horror, low-fat crisps. Well, the whole point of a crisp is its golden fried quality and low-fat crisps taste like cardboard.

Anyway, Becky has promised us a blind crisp tasting this evening. Crispy duck and Hoi-sin sauce, anyone?

Here's looking at you

Today

It's no good; I've reached that point where I need spectacles to look for my spectacles. The other day I'd put them down while applying my makeup and was actually driving up the Close before I realised I hadn't got them. And it was quite a job searching for them among my makeup brushes and other debris.

I wear varifocals which are great for almost everything except walking downstairs. Then the focal lengths are the wrong way round so I either walk down peering at my feet like an old lady (which I guess I am) or I take them off, which necessitates another search for them.

I'm not a candidate for varifocal contact lenses (apparently one lens is close and one distance) because my two eyes are so different.

Paul surprised an old friend of ours the other day by telling him that I barely see out of the left eye. I suppose I have to be glad that it isn't obvious.

In My Day

I have what is known as a "lazy eye". I'm not certain that I like this morally-laden way of describing it as though it could see better if only it just stopped lazing around, sipping margaritas. It affects my left eye only. Mamma always thought that it was as a result of my having an infection in my eyelashes on that side when I was very little, although various ophthalmic experts have disagreed with this.

What it means is that my brain simply doesn't respond to signals from the eye, which is quite OK in itself.

When I was little the first solution suggested by the NHS was that I wear an eye patch over the good eye and a very smart pair of pink wire-framed glasses (I've an idea they eventually became considered quite cool by certain people during the sartorially challenged '70s). The plan was that this therapy would force the only available eye to get off its backside and do some work.

Perhaps this might have worked if I hadn't pulled the eyepatch off whenever no-one was looking and succeeded in "accidentally" breaking those oh-so-cool glasses at an early stage. Somehow Mamma, who was fairly laissez-faire in some matters, never took me back to be prescribed more. (What would be the point? I'd only lose them again.)

What was curable, suggested the medics, was my squint. It was actually only a slight cast to the left, but we were all agreed that it detracted from my undeniable beauty. The cause, we were told, was a tightening of the muscle to the left of the eye. Cut that and give it a chance to grow back straight and all would be well.

So, when I was ten, I was booked into King's College Hospital in Camberwell for the operation. I remember being on a normal surgical ward and being rather a mascot among the other, adult patients. I remember coming round after the op and being very sick, bringing up some orange juice. Mamma came to visit and brought me a new and cute nightie which had a pattern of alarm clocks on it. My eye felt very sore and I was taught how to make and given the responsibility for administering a saline solution.

The eye soon recovered, as did the squint,and those that love me even today know when I'm feeling tired or stressed as my eye wanders off portside.

At one time Beatrice and I performed a folk-song together _ "The Drummer and the One-eyed Cook". Strange that it was Beatrice who played the cook!

Anyway, I hate wearing specs and not even the classiest fashion mags in the world will ever convince me that glasses look stylish.

Fa la la la la, Fa la la la

Today

It's not really surprising that I'm feeling croaky. I've just returned from my annual weekend at Halsway Manor in the Quantocks. Each year, The Laetare Singers, a group of about 60 like-minded singers, get together with a conductor for a weekend of singing and socialising.

This weekend our conductors David and Libby took us from the lush passion of the Cardosa Requiem through Parry's Songs of Farewell to arrangements of African singing.

As if that wasn't enough, each evening after supper we gathered in the lounge bar with its beautiful fire and sang together informally. sacred motets, songs, anthems and, of course, madrigals.

A lot of the time we were rather Can Belto but occasionally we managed to tap into the breathtaking beauty of the works, despite, or maybe because of having a book in one hand and glass of wine in the other.

In My Day

The first proper madrigal I ever sang was "April is in my Mistress' Face". Beatrice and I can still sing our parts without music. Earlier blogs will show how amazed I was to discover madrigals when I first went to grammar school. From the 5th form onwards I was a member of the madrigal group and really enjoyed our singing.

When I told David that I was singing madrigals he press-ganged me (fairly willing I was) into joining a group with the catchy title of The Byrdian Society. This was a tiny madrigal group that he and his friend Gregory had created in an attempt to raise funds for the local preservation society. In fact, it was so small that I was the third member. We found a second soprano and alto and were all set.

We sang a wide range of madrigals and as the only voice on my part for most of the time it was an initiation into sight reading of the most drastic kind. I don't think our marketing was very good and we often performed to audiences of fewer than ten. A high spot was a Christmas concert given at 4 Beulah. We sang medieval carols and Mamma served mulled wine, mince pies and turkey sandwiches. And we had a full house of about twenty five.

Gregory also was choirmaster at a small Catholic church in West Norwood. The church itself looked like a warehouse and the congregation was mostly Italian and Irish immigrants. But every week they had a full polyphonic mass. We once gave a concert to a skeleton audience in which I sang Allegri's Miserere, complete with top C's.

Thanks to my school and Gregory, I am able to sight-read complex polyphonic works without a scrap of more than the most basic musical knowledge.

But I do think it's a hot drink and early night tonight.

Blast Off

Today

More on our New Year adventures in Amalfi. The trip wasn't just confined to wine-tastings, of course. There was also much feasting and enjoyment of the beautiful coast which the Italians, even with their tendency to overdevelop their assets, can't spoil.

We were let into the secrets of Limoncello production, saw a bookbinding demonstration and went by boat to Positano where we none of us got further than the sea front restaurants. We ate all kinds of meals from the fantastic to the mundane and enjoyed an appallingly badly organised concert at the Duomo. We wondered at the frequent but apparently random firing of guns or cannons in Amalfi.

Of course, New Year's Eve was the high spot. We celebrated this at our hotel, the Luna Convento, a former convent perched on the cliffs to the West of Amalfi.

We put on our glad rags and joined the rest for a fair-to-middling dinner. There was plenty of good wine, however, champagne, and good company.

As midnight sounded we gathered on the terrace as the fireworks started. Not confined to Amalfi; the hillsides spluttered, glowed and exploded with all types of fireworks. The ground rocked. Fireworks careered heavenwards out of the sea (how did they do that?) and the harbour wall was a constant flurry of rockets and displays of all types. And there were bangs emanating from everywhere.

I'm a complete sucker for this kind of thing and go "ooh" and "aah" with no embarrassment at all.

In My Day

When we were children, we always celebrated Guy Fawkes night. Our huge untamed Victorian garden was just perfect for this. The fire would be built up over the preceding weeks and a Guy made out of old shirts, trousers and socks and stuffed with newspaper. I don't think that our Guys would ever have earned us many pennies as I don't think this was an area in which our creativity shone.

Daddy always bought plenty of fireworks; selection boxes and extra rockets. Chris seemed to have a preference for bangers and firecrackers which leapt about unpredictably around your feet.

We all had sparklers which we loved to whirl around to write our names in the air.

Idon't think that I was ever allowed to light the fireworks themselves; that seemed to be a boy-thing. I'm sure that reasonable safety was observed, but Daddy certainly didn't make a big thing out of it. Rockets were placed in milk bottles and whirred and hissed around our heads, releasing sparks, coloured stars and spangles. Roman Candles gave us deliciously unexpected pops of colour; I couldn't decide whether I preferred the Golden or silver rain and "traffic lights" were fun with their red, green and amber. Daddy never quite got the knack of Catherine Wheels (whoever thought up that cruel name?), which only occasionally spun round when they should. We sent up a cheer when they succeeded.

The event was utterly satisfying, celebrating Winter and darkness and giving us a splendid stepping stone to Christmas.

We decided to have a few home fireworks at home on Christmas Day last year. Were they really not as good as they used to be, or were my expectations too rooted in childhood fantasy?

Hitch-hiker

Today

As usual, Christmas and New Year have flashed past. Paul and I decided to spend New Year (including, of course, my birthday) with Arblaster & Clarke in Amalfi.

We and about 25 other like-minded people visited Campanian wineries, sampled wines from unfamiliar grapes such as Fiano and Aglianico, and learnt that the vine stock in Campania, alone out of almost all Europe is not susceptible to Phylloxera, which wiped out the rest of our wine stock.

The wineries were quite modern with much stainless steel and computerised temperature control, which contrasted with the craggy mountain scenery. We were taken by coach (driven by the imperturbable Grazziano) from Amalfi to Furore. This was only 20 kilometres but, along the twisty roads, the drive took well over an hour.

The hills stretched above and below us. Every inch, in true Italian fashion, was utilised, with vines, olives, vegetables, tennis courts, hotels and dwellings. We were told that there were also sheep on the hills although I didn't see any, and that many people planted beans and potatoes in the soil beneath their vines, thus maximising the use of each bit of soil and preventing the soil from becoming depleted.

"Only the Italians could name a place Furore, meaning "frenzy", " I said to Paul. "But I remember this road."

In My Day

In 1969 my friend Angela and I decided that the way to spend the Summer was to hitch-hike our way around Europe. The rest of the world's young people were doing it and what could possibly go wrong?

We set off, with backpacks, £40 each, a map of Europe and high hopes. In our studenty and egalitarian innocence we had simply not reckoned with the view that many European males would have of two girls on the road without protection.

As we worked our way through France and Italy we had to fend off all kinds of approaches, from the furtive to the dangerous and outrageous. The man who offered us a lift a little way from Florence on the way to Rome offered to take us the whole way if I'd have sex with him. When I refused he simply threw us both out onto the Autostrada.

So, by the time we were preparing to leave Rome, heading for Naples, we were prickly with suspicion. Outside the Hostel at Rome another student was offering lifts to Naples. We decided to accept, sizing him up as harmless and, anyway, much smaller than us.

We hopped into the car. Our driver didn't speak much English and I had only pidgin Italian. We both had reasonably good French. Angela refused to try anything but English so I got into the front and chatted about this and that in an amicable fashion as we sped along the autostrada.

As we approached Naples there was a division in the road "Napoli" one way, "Bari" the other. Our driver confidently took the Bari exit. Now, Bari is an East Coast port, nowhere near Naples. I asked the driver what the hell he was doing.

He protested "I'm just popping home to pick up a few clothes and see my Mama. Then I'll take you wherever you wish." Was he one of the stealth seducers? I suggested he pull the other one and said I was fed up with stupid men who thought we were for up for anything and couldn't keep their trousers on. I called him every name I could think of in every language I could muster.

Angela, squirmed in the back seat. "DO something, Julia"! she said. I said that a) there was one of him, two of us, b) we were a good deal larger than he, c) we were on the autostrada.

Soon after, the driver turned off up a side roads and twisted and turned up the mountainside till he reached a small hilltop town. He stopped outside a shop, got out of the car and entered, calling out, "Mama!". I began to blush with embarrassment.

But it was true. He took us into the shop and introduced us to his mother, a typical Italian "potato" lady, dressed in black. We were made welcome and taken into a vast dining room that looked like a furniture store (perhaps it was; our marble table was covered in plastic). There a huge meal was prepared and put in front of us. Angela looked at it in horror. "I can't eat all that!" she said. "You eat every mouthful", I hissed, "You don't know the names I've called her son!"

When we had finished and said our thanks and farewells, we got back in the car and were treated to the most amazing drive along the Amalfi coast, all the way to Sorrento. There was less traffic then than there is now and I expect the road was less good, too. I gazed enraptured and appalled at the vertiginous mountain, covered with vineyards, olive and lemon trees. I apologised to our driver, explaining that we had had some rather funny times and he was very gracious.

We stopped at Sorrento and decided that this was as good as it got and never made it to Naples.

Our patient driver, a medical student in Rome, was called Dante and it did seem churlish, as we sat in the harbour overlooking the hazy sea toward Capri, not at least to reward him with a kiss.

Winter Wonderland

Today

It's Christmas day. While Paul gets over his hangover, Becky catches up on sleep and Liz is off feeding her cats, I potter out to greet the day.

It's dry and dull and the temperature is probably just into double figures. On "The Weakest Link" the other day the question was "what is more likely on Christmas Day in England, rain or snow?" The obvious correct answer is rain.

In fact, I'm not at all certain where this white Christmas fantasy came from.

In My Day

We certainly didn't have white Christmases in London when I was a child. Snow in April was more likely than in December. Usually snow fell in January or February. Even the great cold winter of 62/63 started with snow on Boxing Day.

The weather here in the village is colder than in other parts of Somerset, being situated on the top of the hill, but it's much the same.

On Christmas Morning 1993, Paul was on the early shift, which meant he had to leave the house by 6.15 am. The girls got up early and went down to make the tea so that we could all open stockings together in comfort.

Suddenly Becky comes leaping up the stairs. "Look out of the window" she croaked in excitement. Expecting to see heavenly hosts gathered in the pre-dawn sky, I went and opened the curtains. The world was sheathed in thick snow.

Reluctantly, Paul heaved himself out of bed and got ready for the drive to Weston-Super-Mare. He nudged the car along the virgin snow lying across the Mendips. As he carefully drove down Burrington Coombe, he had his reward. There, casually walking across the road, was a whole herd of deer.

The girls and I went for a walk with the dog up to Cranmore Wood. Our neighbours at Yellow Marsh Farm were all playing rounders in the snowy fields, and in the wood itself, roe deer stepped majestically out into the path before us.

I heard a little boy in the Close this morning, enjoying his new bike, telling his dad how glad he was that there's no snow, because otherwise he wouldn't be able to ride it.

Away in a Manger

Today

As another Christmas approaches we've been catching up with family and friends. We popped over to see Chris who told us about the nativity play in which his four-year old grandson had played a starring role as a lamb. He described the little playlet which the teachers had written and was clearly pleased and proud to have been there.

Down at the flat we had our usual drinks party and various relatives and friends arrived. Paul's cousin had also been to see a grandson in the school play. He had an even more starring role as a dog. "Why a dog?" his grandfather asked. Apparently because the other choice, that of being a shepherd, was altogether too much responsibility. One teacher friend arrived fresh from having been the director, producer and crew for such an event. She said how tired she was, having spent the time pushing one child onto the stage, pulling another off at the right moments.


"I just love nativity plays," I said. "I never know whether to laugh or cry."

In My Day

The laughing and crying bit comes, of course, from small children's unselfconsciousness in these situations.

In 1954 I was a pupil at Cypress Road Infants School in South Norwood. For the nativity play that year I was chosen to play the part of the Angel Gabriel. I remember the excitement about the costumes. I had four acolyte angels, so to speak (the heavenly host, I guess) who wore what looked like floaty white nighties, with gold bands crossed over their chests and halos of tinsel.

Mamma and Daddy laboured over my somewhat grander, if more austere costume. I had a long gown made from a sheet with gold at neck, waist and hem. With much ingenuity they made me a halo from gold paper and wire that actually stood away from my head. The final glory was a pair of wonderful wings made from cardboard and crepe paper.

On the big day, my costume was got ready for me. Gown, halo, wings were all laid out. Now for some white socks. With a predictability that all families will understand, Mamma was unable to find any white socks that were even slightly clean. Finally she dug out a pair of grey, knee-length, schoolboy socks (they probably belonged to Chris) and, with a gay (and misplaced) confidence, assumed that they would be unseen under the long gown. Sent me off on the bus to school.

The story concocted for the play involved children at bedtime being told the Christmas story, when lo! the Angel of the Lord (that's me, folks!) appears and takes them to the stable. I was word and action-perfect. I led them off the stage on one side then up the steps at the other side where the scene had changed into the classic nativity scene. As I approached the steps with due majesty, I felt my overlarge socks slipping down. As I ascended the steps, in full view, I simply reached down, yanked up my gown and pulled the offending sock back up again. I proceeded on my way with marvellous indifference.

Laugh or cry indeed.

Call me

Today

Where would we be without our phones? My niece is staying with me for a few days and her phone never leaves her side. The signal here is weak and all her children and, it seems, friends also have our landline number in case they can't call her mobile. There's a feeling that a loss of instant contact would engender some kind of panic.

During breakfast the landline rang twice. First the eldest boy to say he had a cold. Andie told him where to find the 'flu' remedy and then launched into a detailed set of instructions involving the washing and ironing of some clothes.

Later the youngest boy, clearly in a moving car, rang to tell her about a job opportunity and to check a dental appointment. Andie talked to him also about the washing.

Later, while we were out, she received more calls and had a long and lively text conversation with someone whose number she didn't recognise.

In My Day

When Paul and I married in 1971, having a phone was simply too costly and not to have one wasn't then seen as an eccentric decision. There was a phone box which we could use about half a mile away at Seven Dials, wasn't there? What was so urgent that we should pay line rental on the offchance that we'd have to make a call?

Telling the family about our wedding plans had all been conducted in call boxes. Sometimes one even waited outside a call box to receive a call, although that was a chancy business.

Sometime at the end of 1971, Paul was suddenly afflicted with sickness and appalling dizziness. He couldn't stand or even sit up; when he did, he just vomited. This occurred at about one am. After trying to deal with it in a variety of ways, I decided that there was nothing for it; I'd have to call the doctor.

So, at three am, I hastily donned some clothes and walked alone, in Seven Dials, Brighton, to the public call box and called the doctor. I don't think I thought about the dangers (and Brighton was a much less salubrious place in those days than it is now) until I got back.

We finally installed a phone at the expense of Hannington's Funeral Directors, so that Paul could receive out of hours (again usually at three am) calls concerning sudden deaths. This was something we probably would have been happy to live without.

Somehow we got by in those days, but I guess it's just a question of what you become accustomed to expecting.

Potty

Today

Today has been a day of moderate success with regard to pot plants. Paul's orchid is flowering for the second time this year and my poinsettia is putting out a few red leaves. The poinsettia was a gift from a friend of Liz's last year, but, while we were on our wwt, it dried to a crisp. I rescued it and and it's slowly coming back to life. It won't have those huge red leaves like the shop-bought ones, but I feel pleased to have helped a teeny bit of life to recover.

We don't really have many indoor plants; somehow the house and our lifestyle don't seem to encourage them.

Paul gives his orchid tough love, watering it sporadically when he happens to remember. We also have a very hardy succulent which I won in a raffle a few years ago. It sits on the downstairs toilet windowsill and I water it about once every six months, a treatment on which it thrives.

I did notice that Paul had been rather too enthusiastic with watering the basil plant and poinsettia, to the extent that water had dripped onto the floor and they were looking sodden. I explained the error of his ways.

In My Day

When we lived at Rowan Avenue we had a fair number of plants. I was very happy to take cuttings of other people's plants - Spider plants, Tradescantia, Christmas Cactus and Mother of Thousands etc and I owned Peace Lilies, Sansevaria and many more. They, too, were loved sporadically and I could hardly ever bear to throw any out, however spindly they became, preferring to take cuttings and nurture them. Every now and then I had to recognise that I had failed with one and the crisp, brown object would be binned. Somehow I never achieved that lush, hothouse look, so beloved by magazines on interior decor, in our living space.

Something of all this must have rubbed off on Becky, Back in 1981, when she was three years' old she came to me on the Saturday before mother's day with a very long face. She explained to me that her nursery school had worked with the children to decorate little yogurt pots and plant them with Tradescantia and Spider Plants as Mother's Day gifts. Term had broken up a week earlier and the teachers had sent the children home with their plants with an exhortation to take care of and to water them. They were obviously relying on the plants' innate toughness and ability to withstand neglect.

They had, however, reckoned without Becky. After a week Becky looked at her plants and knew something was wrong. She also knew that her father would probably not know what the answer was. She brought to me two little yogurt pots containing the most miserable-looking plants. "I watered them every day!" cried Becky in despair. Indeed she had, and these poor plants were drowning.

I took the plants gently out and, together we found some dry soil and replanted. They actually recovered very well and lasted some time.

A coupled of years' ago, when she went on her big Greek adventure, Beatrice entrusted me with a huge Sansevaria, which was a child of one belonging to Mamma. I confess I put it out in the back garden temporarily, where I forgot it, and it rotted away over the Somerset winter. I'm not sure whether Beatrice ever forgave me.

A Stitch in Time

Today

Procrastination, they say, is the thief of time. Well, I've certainly been procrastinating over finishing the lounge curtains.

I bought the fabric, at a fabulous price, about 5 years ago. The idea was that we needed winter weight curtains to keep in the warmth and out the cold.

About 2 years ago, I measured the windows and cut out the curtains. I started on the biggest ones. At every turn I made a complete pig's ear; joining pieces against the nap, stitching the tabs inside the lining, mismatching the pattern. I put the stuff away and it's been glaring accusingly at me ever since.

About 3 days ago I heaved the lot out again and couldn't understand why I'd made such a bad job. "You'd think I was a complete novice" I railed at my Long-Suffering, railing even more when he suggested I chuck the lot out and start again. I've nearly finished the dining room curtains - they're going to look very nice, I hope.

In My Day

Novice I am not. I made my first pair of curtains when I was about 18 and had moved into a room on the attic floor of 4BH. This room sported a dormer window with a semi-circular top where it was impossible to fit a curtain rail. So I made the curtains curved to match, with stitched-in gathers. They were permanently attached to the frames and drawn aside into tie-backs and were made of lime green rep. I never got around to recovering the floor which was red lino, so I don't think the room looked very stylish.

When we moved into the flat at Belmont in 1971 we had practically nothing. But I did insist on curtains. I bought some voile to make nets and some brown-and-orange fabric to make curtains. These I stitched, using my trusty Necchi, on a rickety card-table which was our only surface at the time. While we were at the flat I also made curtains (blue) for the bedroom and nursery ones for Lizzie.

Paul often reminds me of the curtains we had in the bedroon of our first house in Rowan Avenue; I think because he liked the name: "cherry-berry-bim". By this time we'd risen to the dizzy heights of being able to buy fabric at Habitat, and I made a table-cloth from the same fabric and equipped our lounge windows with a rather nice slub cotton which the gerbils later chewed (I remember doing an almost invisible darn).

Even later I made curtains for others as a way of earning extra cash (where did I find the time?). I remember one ghastly pair of huge brocade curtains which had an enormous pattern repeat of Arcadian nymphs & shepherds. My client had skimped on the fabric and I spent hours laying it out on the floor, shooing away cats and children, trying to line up the Phyllises and Chloes correctly. I'm not sure I ever got it quite right, but the customer seemed pleased. The fabric was so tough, it broke dozens of my machine needles.

Anyway, the point is (and always will be) that I absolutely hate making curtains and don't find it at all rewarding.

And procrastination, in the form of this blog, is busy stealing the time I should be spending in front of the sewing machine.

Annunciation

Today

Tomorrow is Advent Sunday. I've decided that the Dixon Facebook page should give us all roles within an advent calendar.

I heaved out the box of decorations that live at the flat, hoping that Lizzie will get the place looking jolly in good time. There's a rather classy black & silver wreath that will go on the front door.

"One thing I've always wanted to do, but so far failed," I said to Paul, " is have a proper Advent wreath, like Mamma did."

In My Day

Mamma's German background led her to introduce a number of rituals that gave a real sense of the approach of Christmas. She used to buy a wreath in time for advent. This was hung horizontally with four wide red ribbons. Its sole decoration were four candle holders. In Advent Sunday one candle would be lit, on the 2nd sunday two, and so on until Christmas Day.

Long before nasty Disney Advent calendars containing chocolate could be bought at any £1 shop, Mamma used to scour exotic stationers and German emporia to provide us with an Advent Calendar. The designs were classic, and just the opening of another door was reward enough. We were absolutely unique among our friends and classmates in having such a delight.

We also didn't forget that St Nicholas, as well as being Santa Claus, also had a festival of his own. On the night of 5th December, Mamma would first read, translating from the German, the story of St Nicholas, coming down from Heaven on a donkey, via a moonbeam, and bringing joy to the poor little girl who couldn't afford the chocolate ship she'd seen in a window.

Then, before we went to bed, we placed our shoes on our window sills, hoping that St N would descend on his moonbeam and fill them with sweeties. We were careful not to be greedy; when Chris suggested he put out a wellington boot one year, Mamma was full of Strewelpeter-type tales of how such greedy children would merely find a stick!

We would wake up early on 6th December and, before it was light, find the shoes filled with goodies, I particularly remember some little chocolate kittens that I was given one year. I could hardly bear to eat them. I don't know how Mamma managed with David being at boarding school; perhaps she sent something care of the matron.

So the days peeled away, each with a special significance, until the big day.

If the Dixons on Facebook are going to be advent calendar items, perhaps my status should be a calendar girl?

Fogbound

Today

Never mind the forecast, we get our own weather up here on the Mendips. This morning the Mendip Murk was well settled. The tops of the trees were barely visible and everywhere had a damp, dull feeling.

We set off for Wells to do some shopping. As we got to the top of the beacon the murk had become a steady, foggy drizzle. "I thought the forecast said it would be quite nice today, with reasonable temperatures," grumbled my 'other 'alf. "Well, it's not cold," I said, "and I expect that this is just because we're up in the cloud layer. It'll be clear by the time we reach Wells."

Which it was. But not before we'd driven through ghostly mist. Various shapes, trees, the mobile phone mast at the Mendip Golf Club, buildings and other unidentifiable shapes, loomed at us in the mist, looking vaguely menacing, before disappearing.

In My Day

As a child I always found mist rather frightening. There was fog in London which, although dangerous smog at times, seemed nothing special. But fog in the countryside was another matter. You could lose your way and be lost forever.

After our ill-starred voyage to Wales in 1955, (see blog 3/5/05) Daddy decided he would buy three abandoned shepherd's cottages high on the hillside overlooked by Snowdon. I think he had some idea about renovating them, although this came to naught. He wanted to take another look at his purchase, so went off with me & David in Douglas later that year. The cottages really were derelict and Daddy bought some camp-beds and basic paraphernalia and we camped right there in the cottages. Quite apart from all the other horrors associated with camping, there was also the daily terror of the mountain mist. It crept down the mountain on wet mornings and up the mountain on fine ones. I was simply terrified and really feared some sort of loss of this world every time the mist appeared.

In the Summer of 1966 I put my trust in David's navigational skills and went off with him for a fortnight exploring Exmoor. We had some very lovely weather and walked many miles. The result of David's navigation is a subject for another blog, but what we did have was our fair share of mist.

One day we decided to walk from Coombe Martin to Lynton. This was a long enough walk in itself and the day started with a thick sea mist. We tackled the Hangmen as the mist floated in and out to sea. I was hyperventilating from anxiety each time I saw the headland start to vanish. We made slow progress and David then noticed that the path made a huge swerve inland to avoid a deep coombe - Sherrycombe. With a confidence that I have since learnt to distrust, David decided that we could just go straight down into the coombe and up the other side.

Well, even in those days, OS maps were pretty clear about the terrain and showed that this was covered in scree. We scrambled down the pathless coombe, bringing rocks and shale with us. The mist hovered alarmingly at the mouth of the valley. We had some lunch in the bottom then started to scramble up the other side. More scree, held together with brambles, which made it especially pleasant. David saw that the mist was beginning to draw in again. This was the incentive I needed - quicker than any fell-runner I was up that coombe and heading for the proper path in a very short space of time.

A few days later we had a walk which encompassed the Doone Valley. We'd already seen that the short walk up it from Malmsmead attracted a 6d fee so David said that it was no problem to approach it from behind. I wanted to know how we'd do it when there were no paths and we'd already learnt that the terrain was treacherously boggy. David explained that we'd walk along the dry-stone walls, using his super-detailed OS map. Impossible to get lost!

So, again, in thick morning fog, off we set. To an extent, David was right; we could walk along the walls, except where they were intercepted with drainage channels requiring herculean leaps to cross. I shan't forget that spooky trek, stumbling along half-collapsed walls, leaping (or failing to leap) across the ditches, as ruined cottages and beehives hovered in the fog, half in and half out of my vision. I had by that time read Lorna Doone so it was easy to imagine bands of brigands hiding in the heather.

We eventually arrived at Malmsmead at the sun broke through, feeling smug about having saved 6d and having completed about a quarter of our day's walk in about half of the day.

When I got back to the hostel I found that repeated immersion in peaty moor water had entirely rotted off my socks.

Chuff-Chuff

Today

Yesterday, in accordance with a long-held wish of Paul's. we took the train to Hastings to look at the places Paul remembered from his childhood.

Suffice it to say, we realised that Hastings has not just seen better days - it's probably long ago seen its best. It's a modern comment that our most enjoyable interlude was a pit stop at Kassa - a Persian coffee shop where the smells of cooking were so enticing that we had a snack of dhal, chickpeas, spinach and potatoes with rice with our coffee.

The train journey was fun, though. The train from Brighton still stops twice at Hampden Park and runs along the beach at St Leonards. There was a little boy most excited about the tunnels who pretended that it was night time and he had to go to sleep.

"I used to do that", I said to Paul.

In My Day

Train journeys were of three basic types when I was little. We routinely took the train from West Norwood into Victoria for almost all journeys into central London that couldn't be accomplished by bus. I only learnt later that these trains were what is known as "electrical multiple units". I did know that the trains ran on electric rails. That dangers of the third rail were very clearly spelled out to us. These trains were often half-empty and had a strange smell which you still sometimes find on preserved lines. You couldn't get from one compartment to another without leaving the train and there were special "Ladies only" compartments. Occasionally we went to London Bridge from Crystal Palace high level station. The trains were the same but the stations had strange names with which we played - "Peckham Rye" became "Peck 'em dry", "Nunhead" and I put Daddy's hat over my face, etc.

Then, often enough, we went to the South Coast by train. Commonly we went to Brighton but Eastbourne and Hastings also featured. Depending on what time we got to the station we either got the fast train (only stopping at Haywards Heath) or the slow, which took ages but was quite fun. The fast ones allowed us to feel superior to people standing at the stations we whizzed through - I really understood Reginald Gardiner's assertion that people have been standing on those stations for years and years.

It was incredibly exciting to be the first to "see the sea" and to be so close to it that you felt you could lean out and touch the waves.

The compartments were often decorated with pictures of other destinations - Bude or Bournemouth, which seemed almost foreign. The pictures were very stylised and resembled painting by numbers in the flat pastel shades they used.

Just occasionally there'd be an "Excursion" train. This would be a special train, often steam, heading for the coast. Daddy would buy tickets and we'd pile on with the rest of London and end up at Littlehampton, Whistable or Torquay. I remember little about the destinations but much about the crowded journeys. The trains were "corridor" trains which meant that you could go from one compartment or even one carriage to another. Doing the latter involved a scary trip in which you had to step across rattling plates between very insubstantial walls, looking with horror through gaps at the rails beneath. And they were often funny colours - not the grass green I was used to. One excusrion I remember was the last steam train on British railways.

Now that the trains run on time (and they never seemed to when I was little) it's still a great way to travel. There's very little magic involved, though.

Pat-a-Cake

Today

Some time ago Becky took it into her head to name Dixons on the Dixons Facebook page after fruit. This caused quite a furore as people discussed whether it mattered if you were a gooseberry etc. When Jacob decided that he really didn't want to be a cherimoya (well, would you want to resemble a fruit that looks like a stone? and has anyone ever seen, let alone eaten, one?) I decided to exercise my admin rights and renamed us all as cakes.

Jacob, who has been known to work out, is a rock cake. Ruth, who loves all things Scandinavian was very happy to be a Danish Pastry. And Beatrice thanked me for naming her a melting moment. "I remember them", she said. "I used to make them - they were foolproof".

In My Day

I wouldn't say that we ate a lot of cakes as children. Mamma was a good cook with a distinct range of cakes made regularly. Melting moments were an aberration, the recipe being cut out from the back of a packet of Scott's porage oats. Foolproof indeed - probably best for Beatrice who isn't a natural.

Mamma taught me how to bake a cake. How to cream sugar and marge until they were light and fluffy. How to sift fruit with flour so that it didn't sink to the bottom. I can make a sponge without a recipe and my chocolate fat-free sponge with cream and strawberries is a birthday staple for Paul.

She made fruit cake, chocolate cake, caraway seed cake (I remember those as being so moist & flavoursome), German plum cake, a rum, apple and raisin cake involving yeast and cinnamon stars at Christmas.

She bought some cakes - angel cake (which I thought was rather bland) battenburg and chocolate cup cakes which were cloying.

But generally cakes were rare treats and one that I find I can largely do without.

It was a far cry from the situation in Paul's family where his mother made a cake weekly. Her "bung-in" cake had the sole merit of containing heaps of spices which helped to offset their appalling heaviness.

I remember a family christening where all the cakes were of a uniform mid-brown and very heavy. "Well," said their creator "my cakes are all food".

Whatever cakes are for, it isn't for nutrition.

A Woman's Work

Today

Had a busy day yesterday. The family's all arriving today for Amelia's christening tomorrow so the house had to be put in order.

While we breakfasted I put a load of sheets in the washing machine. We had to shop for food so before we left I put on another load of washing, set up the dishwasher and bunged the necessary ingredients into the bread-maker for a loaf of bread.

Later, Paul made two lots of ice-cream using his new toy; I prepared Indian food. While we relaxed over supper and Scrabble, the dishwasher got on with the washing up.

"What I like about modern living," I said to Paul as we started on the second bottle of Cloudy Bay, "is that so much housework gets done while you're doing something else."

In My Day

It's easy to understand how hard it was to keep clean and organised when these helps weren't there. The folksong "Dashing Away with the Smoothing Iron" describes how just getting the washing done took all week.

At home when I was little there was not much automation. Mamma didn't get a washing machine until 1959 and dishwashers were unheard of.

If you were an academic, intelligent woman like Mamma you simply didn't want to spend your entire time chasing specks of dust. In fact Mamma could be a bit scathing about women who tied up their hair, bunged on a overall (like a charlady) and got on with it the minute hubby left the house. (I secretly thought that the overall seemed rather a good way of not getting your clothes dirty.)

We didn't live in a noticeably dirty way but chores were very demanding. Washing up was mostly children's work and I spent hours of my life, it seemed, with my sleeves rolled up and my hands in soapy water (there's even a picture of me doing this in the family album). Washing was done by hand (Mamma actually had a wooden washing board) and clothes were eked out - school shirts had to last two or even three days - to spread the load. Furniture wasn't wipe clean - it all had to be polished using lavender polish from a tin. Silverware (plated) had to be de-tranished from time-to-time, another filthy job.

We had no central heating so, in winter, fires had to be laid, made and maintained daily.

Things like making bread or ice-cream were out of the question as simply too time-consuming; as I said Mamma, while perfectly skilled at these things, didn't fancy herself as a domestic goddess. Food required more preparation - no ready wased salads or pre-scrubbed carrots in those days - and could be a dirty job. It's no wonder that we all learnt these things at our mothers' knees in those days; we were essential as slave labour, so the sooner we knew how to do things the better.

So we have it easy these day. I just wish the kitchen floor would wash itself!

Tempus Fugit

Today

After a night in which the hands on the bathroom clock twirled continuously, carrying us well into the next decade, we decided that it has to be stopped. It's obviously got its programming knickers in a twist and simply can't be trusted. As it cost all of a tenner, chucking it out and buying new seems the sensible thing.

It's curious; clocks don't merely record the passage of time, they seem also to be creating it. I think that's why digital clocks are less popular than analogue - you can't watch time pass.

There are times when the clock hands just don't seem to move; others when you glance up again in what seems like five minutes, and three hours have passed.

The worst occasions for time dragging are night times, when daylight doesn't seem to want to come, and waiting for transport, especially planes, only beaten by the tedium of long-haul flights. No wonder they keep offering you food, drink and duty-free - you have to pass the time somehow. Oh yes, and a trial I no longer have to undergo, children's parties each of which always seemed to represent the longest three hours of my life to date.

In My Day

I think it's true that time seems to pass more slowly when you are a child. It's probably because you've so little experience that each moment is packed full of new things.

Like most children, I anticipated future events like birthdays and Christmas with longing and they never seemed to get any closer. Then, suddenly, with a whoosh! like an approaching express train, they were here and gone, leaving only a faint smell and sense of passing tumult.

Some things certainly seemed to last forever. The nights when I just didn't sleep. I listened to all the noises our great house was capable of making, watched the street-lit shadows on my windows, read all the old Reader's Digests with which the shelves in my room were stacked, and willed the first rays of daylight to appear.

Certain classes at school - Hockey which I hated, and maths. Why wouldn't the hands on the clock move? And why, in art lessons, did they move so fast that I felt I'd only just got into my stride when the bell went?

And there are the long moments. I remember one at school in a French lesson. Somehow I'd got myself into the "A" stream for French, although I was only average elsewhere. We had a hatchet-faced teacher - Miss Salkeld by name - and I was surrounded by the local 11-plus creme de la creme. We were studying tenses. "Hands up those who think that this sentence uses the perfect tense," said Miss S. A forest of hands went up. "And hands up those who think it's the imperfect." One hand went up - mine. There was I, imperfect amongst the perfect. The next five seconds lasted about two hours. Then the teacher spoke. "Julia," said Miss S deliberately "has the distinction..." the time lengthened to about a fortnight. I was not only wrong, but about to be humiliated....."of being the only one who is right." Suddenly time caught up and the rest of the lesson passed in a flash.

What I don't like is the feeling that my life is also passing in a flash.

Frigid

Today

The purchase of an ice-cream maker has, of course, resulted in the purchase of a new freezer. This is an upright freezer to supplement our existing freezer which is just the top 1/3 of our fridge.

We had an existing, small space to fill and spent much time Internet browsing to find the right one.

Eventually, we bought locally - a Hotpoint with automatic frost control, sensible-sized drawers and a 5 year guarantee.

Paul is preparing ice-cream and sorbet as I write.

"Hotpoint make the best fridge/freezers," I said confidently to the sales assistant. And who was she to disagree? Especially as they were also the most expensive in the shop.

In My Day

Daddy always swore that Kelvinator made the best fridges. To be honest, for most of my childhood this was academic as we didn't have a fridge.

Things were kept cool in the coal cellar - this meant mainly milk, cream and butter. Many a time I would forget to clean the base of the milk bottle, thereby depositing a circle of black on the tablecloth.

Cheese was kept in a cheese dish where it would sweat gently. Left overs got used up quickly to stop them going off. Daddy's main anxiety was flies and on more than one occasion he spotted clusters of fly eggs on left-over meat. I've a horrible idea that he sometimes just scraped them off and carried on.

There was a vegetable rack on the back porch which kept stuff cool, I guess. Much of our food was bought daily; the idea of a big weekly shop with stuff decanted into fridge or freezer to use up at will simply didn't exist.

There were also ways of using up some items that had gone off; sour milk went into scones and Mamma also used it to make a soft cream cheese, allowing the whey to drip through a muslin bag hanging from the kitchen ceiling.

There were many ways of preserving food. Fruit from our huge garden was sometimes bottled into big "Kilner" jars and Mamma also made jam and marmalade. This was an inexact science and jam would sometimes be too runny or too stiff. One lot of marmalade simply wouldn't jell, so Mamma cooked the whole mixture again, producing a dark sticky mixture that we name "Toffee Marmalade". It would have put Frank Cooper to shame. The jam was poured into jars, a little circle of greaseproof paper put directly onto the jam, then a paper cover help on with rubber bands. The jars stood on a high shelf and were taken down as needed; and mildew you just scraped off - the jam underneath would be OK.

In 1959 I went to Germany with Mamma. When we got back we discovered that Daddy had knocked an alcove into the kitchen, taking a bite out of our hexagonal hall (wouldn't be allowed today), thus making way for a washing machine and, of course, a Kelvinator fridge. The days of sour milk were over.

"Isn't it strange." I said to Paul "that it's hotpoint that make the best freezers?"

Svengali

Today

Very nice evening playing Scrabble with my BB. Evenly matched tonight, too.

Paul had put on some rather avant garde jazz, but it became so distracting that he changed it for a CD of Burt Bacharach hits. Some lovely songs and some truly dreadful. As we finished the games - "Don't Make me Over" sung by Dionne Warwick came on.

"Such an interesting topic", says I "And so true of many relationships. Of course, Daddy showed me why this is so wrong and fails anyway."

In My Day

When the big Victorian pile, next to and identical to ours came up for sale at a knock-down price with 10 years on the lease and sitting tenants, Daddy jumped at the chance to make a few bucks and bought it. I'm not sure that he made any money - the property required a deal of maintenance and he was inclined to be too generous to tenants, reducing their rent when they had babies etc.

I think I was about 12 and walking back home from the local shop when a pleasant man fell into step beside me. He chatted in a friendly way until we reached no 6 when he peeled off and went inside.

I had no idea who he was and spoke to Daddy about him. "Oh", said Daddy "That's Mr Glennie". I knew Mrs Glennie as a permanently pregnant tenant but didn't know anything about the husband. Daddy explained that Mr Glennie was a small-time thief, in and out of prison for petty theft, otherwise quite harmless. Each time he came out, Mrs Glennie conceived again. I'm sure Daddy never made any money out of her - he was far too sorry for her.

But he explained her mistake. "She believed that her love for him would change him. Which it didn't, of course," He explained to me. "we are who we are and only we can change ourselves, we must accept the people we take into our lives as they are." He really saw Mrs Glennie's tragedy and heartbreak and was always there to lend a hand.

So I think at best "making someone over" gives you a result that you didn't expect and at worst leaves you disappointed and lonely. Svengalis who succeed, whether fictionally, as in "Trilby" or in reality as with Lolo Ferrari, ultimately come to loathe their creations and may even destroy them.

And loving people for their own special qualities is so much more fun.