Where did you get that hat?

Today

It's not often I write two blogs in one day - but this suggested itself. On Facebook, two references to hats. One was a new picture of brother David in a baseball cap that he describes as a "veritable trophy". Hmmmm. The other was a question from a friend as to whether to buy a new "fascinator", presumably for an upcoming wedding.

I don't know which I'm less likely to wear; the fascinator probably, as baseball caps do at least keep off the sun. From which you may gather that I am not a fan of hats.

In My Day

There was a time when not to wear a hat out of doors was simply unthinkable. Looking at photos even from as late as the 1940's you see men wearing trilbies and caps, women wearing hats or headscarves.

Daddy used to wear a trilby when he went out; there are many pictures of him in the album wearing such an object. I am not sure of its purpose, other than to state that he was conforming. I don't think he saw it as a style statement as stylish dressing wasn't Daddy's forte. Maybe it kept his bald patch warm and dry.

Mamma wore hats only on posh occasions and, to be frank, they rarely suited her. I have an abiding memory of a lilac gauze-covered "coolie" hat that she wore a fair bit, mainly to Townswomens' Guild conventions. She kept her hats on the top of the wardrobe. I had the prescience to know that hats and I are not destined to be happy companions and I didn't try on her hats; played with her jewellery box, tried on her high heels, yes, hats, no.

My first memory of wearing a hat was when I started at Grammar school. The uniform required a velour hat in winter, straw boater in summer; later we wore berets. It didn't really matter, I hated them all and looked grim in them. If I could have invented an allergy or religious reason to be let off wearing them, I would have done. There is a picture of me wearing a knitted bobble hat at the Proms, but I think I only donned it for the photo as a gesture of solidarity as we had knitted them ourselves.

Hats mess up my already rather fragile hair, blow off in the wind and I only wear them if my head is threatening to freeze or the sun is threatening to burn my shoulders or turn my hair a neon orange.

I think my attitude to fascinators is affected by seeing a very drunk Irish woman at a very posh wedding in Wicklow a few years back, abusing the staff in colourful and slurred language while a ridiculous black feather contraption waggled about on her head.

I went to a wedding the other week and there were all manner of hats and fascinators dancing about on people heads. Not on mine, though, and that's a promise I've made to all who invite me to weddings (including in the unlikely event of my being mother of the Bride).

Maketh Man

Today

A big discussion on Facebook recently about mannerly behaviour. Comments on FB can travel a long way and it surprises me that people don't monitor their remarks or seem to be aware that FB is read by children, older people, even their parents. And my most mannerly nephew John was expressing despair over people's unpleasant behaviour that leads to all sorts of unkindness and even cruelty.

It's impossible to change the world, but you can influence your bit of it by refusing to resort to vulgar language or behaviour and by treating others with respect and attention. Of course, there are cultural differences, but a little thought quickly sorts that out.

And some people just fit into the category of "nature's gentlemen and ladies"; without learning a complex set of rules, they have a natural courtesy that comes from within.

In My Day

Daddy was certainly one of nature's gentlemen. He had natural ebullience, originality, charm and generosity that overcame any objections that could be made on the basis of his poverty-stricken background. His mother had tried very hard to give him the kind of good manners that come from the heart and these he passed onto us. For example, not to watch what others ate, counting anxiously every mouthful in case they had more, and he always gave people a courteous hearing.

Mamma's background was more straightforwardly upper middle-class, although with a German twist. She never fully mastered the labyrinthine details of English posh manners, but her inability to tell a lie and complete lack of snobbery stood in their place very well. I never once heard her make a barbed remark or act vindictively.

Of course there were tricky moments. On one occasion Paul's mother had invited my parents to a meal at Ravenhurst. She pushed the boat out with snow-white napery, silver candlesticks, the lot. Unfortunately, as she wasn't the world's best cook, the meal itself was just short of disaster, with limp vegetables and soggy pastry. I guess she realised this, but instead of shutting up she said effusively to Mamma, "I'm sorry it's so plebeian." She was clearly looking for reassurances that all was well. Mamma, who, remember, never lied, said "Well you are plebeian, why try to be anything else?" There was a frosty silence and quick change of subject. How well I understood both viewpoints.

Tricia, who had also had an early struggle, found it hard to differentiate between the form and substance. There's a famous family story which she told us many times. One of her boyfriends was a major with a double-barrelled name. She told the tale of going out to dinner with this man. The Maitre D came over to check that all was well and the major asked for his name. "Mr Smith", was the reply. "Well," snorted our double-barrelled hero, "I hardly thought you were Mrs!" This story was intended to show up the Maitre D's low oirigins in that he didn't know that the norm at that time was simply to bark out your surname. One day, I'd had enough. "Well, " I said, "I think that was very rude." "Oh, quite," said Tricia "The man simply had no idea." "No, I mean your friend Major what's his name. The man was simply doing his job and he was humiliated in front of you for a very minor faux pas." Tricia, to do her justice, paused, considered, conceded and, best of all, never told the story again.

These days we have lost many of the forms of manners, so we will just have to rely on the manners that come from the heart.

Sing your heart out

Today

I'm getting ready for my annual visit to Cropthorne. What could be better than a few days in a beautiful spot, among friends, singing some of the World's most ravishing music?

Paul usually comes along for the ride, and spends his time relaxing in the gardens or visiting the local preserved railway.

I've been appointed the official archive-keeper (how interesting it is, to realise how accurately people observe you!) and have spent the last few days bringing the records up to date.

In My Day

I realise that I've been going to Cropthorne for 17 years. Now this isn't a publicly advertised event, something that appears in your junk mail or even on the more specialised ads connected with musical or choir groups. It's strictly invitation only. So I'd never heard of the Laetare Singers. It was at a rehearsal of a madrigal group to which I belonged that my friend Neill slipped me a piece of paper which was the invitation to join this event. He said nothing more about it and I assumed that it was open to all. I applied to go. It was only for four days and surely Paul could cope without me.

A couple of days later I received a call from a lady called Barbara Johnson. She sounded a bit schoolmistressy and began to question me about my credentials for joining the group. Did I sight-read? Was I in a choir already? I thought she was going to ask me about my social background and genealogy. Clearly you had to be someone special to join this lot. I began to despair of being good enough. Eventually I said desperately, "I'm a friend of Neill's." "Ah, well," said Barbara, as if I'd said "open sesame", "That's fine - we look forward to meeting you."

On the day in question I set off alone and found the spot without too much difficulty. Cropthorne is a lovely Worcestershire village near Pershore and Holland House, a Jacobean house, sits on the banks of the Avon in restful gardens.

There were about thirty people there, most of them over sixty in age and I felt very much the youngest. I only knew Neill and his wife. Barbara turned out to be an elderly lady with the appearance and demeanour of Queen Victoria and she ruled over the cultural, social and moral aspects of the event with smiling inflexibility. We were led by a conductor called Peter Johnson and I learnt many things and was given an opportunity to show that I could still hit a top "C".

There was also an evening where the group put on a more home-grown, light-hearted entertainment and my penchant for dressing up and acting foolishly was quickly identified and harnessed for a Cropthorne version of Macbeth.

Since that time, strangers have become friends and I have now become one of the over-sixties. "Laetare" means "rejoice" and that's exactly what I intend to do.

Deed Poll

Today

Very pleased that the Bed Workshop has agreed to pay for the cost of the repair to our French bed. "I'd like the cheque payable to Alice Barrett, please," I said.

As a result of the somewhat absurd money-laundering precautions, all my bank accounts have to be in my legal, rather than used name. Even though my account does indicate my "known as" name, I often encounter jobsworth cashiers in my bank who refuse to accept cheques made out in my used name, even when they know me by sight.

When I protest, their helpful advice is to go and change my name by deed poll. This I refuse to do merely for the convenience of the bank's regulations.

In My Day

It came as a sort of unshocking surprise to Paul when his mother informed him that the surname he'd been called by all his life wasn't actually legally his; Dad being his stepfather, not his natural father.

She gave him his birth certificate and left him to his own thoughts on the subject.

For a while, it didn't really matter. He continued to be known by the same name, officialdom being rather more relaxed in those days, and he didn't own a passport.

When he wanted to get married, however, it was altogether different. He had no desire to marry using the legal name to which he felt no connection. We discussed perhaps adopting mine but that didn't seem quite right. So Paul went to a local solicitor and changed his name to the one he'd always used anyway. Simple!

We still have that scrap of paper, proving not only that he did the deed, but also where he felt his filial loyalties lay. And that's as important as the name itself.

A Question of Talent

Today

Coming back from the gym today, I listened with great pleasure to a performance of the overture to "The Bartered Bride". What a joyous piece it is. I was reminded of an equally joyous WNO production many years ago, which opened with a harvest scene filled with golden light, looking liked a Millet painting. I thought about how the set designer would have researched to find the right ambience and collaborated with the lighting designer to produce that autumnal warmth.

In My Day

I don't know what it was that made me decide that I should pursue a career in theatre design. Perhaps doing a couple of school plays to some acclaim inspired me. Or maybe I just thought it sounded cool.

I was offered a place to do a City & Guilds at the West Sussex College of Design in Worthing (not a very cool place, I know). I joined a fairly motley group who had a variety of skills, from the strictly practical, woodworking category to the solidly artistic.

I turned out to be a fairly competent carpenter and could knock up "flats" for stage sets quite easily. I even learned how to make mortise and tenon joints, although I've now forgotten the knack.

I wasn't bad at making costumes and produced fairly convincing corsets. And once I produced a model of the interior of Chichester Cathedral for a performance of "everyman".

But I wasn't particularly talented. My designs were mediocre and my drawing only so-so. I used to gaze, enchanted, at the stylish and original designs produced by my classmates. What had I been thinking? It was in this spirit that I applied to train to teach art in secondary schools, an only slightly less deranged decision than the one to study theatre design.

After our final exams we were all given work placements. Mine was an assistant in the ladies' ballet wardrobe at Covent Garden. My main duties, it seemed, were to replace the feathers on Margot Fonteyn's Swan Lake costume, daily, and to hold pins while ballerinas were fitted into their costumes. I found the atmosphere stifling, both physically and socially and was very glad when my placement was over. I never thought of asking for an extended stay or a placement elsewhere (I might have been given the men's ballet wardrobe) and was simply relieved to be shot of it.

I don't know whether any of my colleagues from Worthing ever entered the world of theatre but have a sinking feeling that even those who did remained bottom of the heap.

My experiences have certainly caused me to question the ability of eighteen-year-olds to make realistic judgements as to their futures, and made me glad that I had the sense to cut and run.

Frocks

Today

I went to a wedding yesterday. Paul had offered the Bentley to the Bride's mother, so we drove over to the Bride's tiny house as the rain clouds gathered. In the house there were the Bride, seven bridesmaids, a pageboy, a makeup artist and the parents of the bride. Four of the bridesmaids were fully-grown women of considerable stature and the bride was no midget, either. As we squeezed in the front door the coat rack crashed to the floor, taking some plaster with it.

The Bride, wearing nothing but a white bustier, tracksuit bottoms and her veil, greeted us loudly. Given the chaos, the obvious thing to do was to get stuck in; sorting out the little ones' tiaras, stitching up bits of the Bride's dress, shoe-horning the chief bridesmaid into her dress and drinking champagne.

Eventually we all set off, in the right order, with only a little of the Bride's voluminous train catching some mud on the hem.

In My Day

My sister Beatrice was married, at the age of eighteen, at All Saints' Church, Upper Norwood. This was a very do-it-yourself affair and I had been given the responsibility for making the Bride and bridesmaids' outfits. Like yesterday's bride, Beatrice was not petite, and I came up with a Russian theme for the affair (well, I was at theatre design college at the time). I made Beatrice a full-length, ivory wild silk dress, with a high collar and many-many silk-covered buttons down the front and along the deep cuffs of the sleeves. The bridesmaids wore peasant style outfits with hand-embroidered blouses, waistcoats and skirts.

These affairs are never without their cliff-hanger moments; I was running out of time on the skirt embroidery so Mamma completed one - I can always tell which because she slightly overdid the tension.

My flatmate Sue, trained in theatrical millinery, agreed to make the headdresses. I sent her the fabric and money for the additional bits and pieces. The wedding approached; no sign of the headdresses. I couldn't get hold of Sue on the phone. The night before, I hastily stitched some snoods which I thought would do. I abandoned all hope of finishing my own dress and whizzed up to Crystal Palace to buy one.

At one in the morning Mamma stitched flowers onto the muff which Beatrice was having instead of a bouquet.

The morning of the wedding arrived, along with the postman, who bore a large box containing the headdresses. Three wonderful Russian-styles creation were revealed and pinned onto the Bride and maids and my snoods were put aside.

The final cliffhanger moment was also to do with dresses. Beatrice arrived at the church before the choir (consisting of me, brother David and friends Frances and Gregory) had fully assembled, because Frances was also trying to finish a hastily cobbled-together dress and had ended up fixing the hem with Sellotape. She and David dashed in, about a quarter of an hour late, while Beatrice sat in the church porch, waiting patiently until we could sing her in.

While I can see the attraction of one's wedding arrangements operating like a well-oiled machine, it's often the more home-spun elements that bring back the memories most vividly.

Flood II

Today

Once again, we discovered that torrential rain had overpowered the gutters at no9, chucking water at the small bedroom windows and sending water running down the rear corridor. Fortunately, Frank and Maureen had popped in and stemmed the tide using my towels. Frank made some further adjustments to the door's own drainage system to try to make the water run away, rather than inside.

That's the 2nd time in a month - just one of the hazards of owning an old property, one might think.

In My Day

Certainly, older properties were, even at the time of building, less protected from the elements and wear and tear does take its share.

I don't remember large scale floods at 4bh; the effects of the elements were far more subtle, just as damaging and a lot more sinister.

I guess we had colder winters then; certainly there was often a cold snap and Daddy would start to worry about our water supply which was provided by lead pipes between the floors. Now lead is a relatively soft metal which doesn't expand and contract very well. For reasons that I don't understand, our pipes were never lagged. Water would freeze in the pipes, expanding and causing a split somewhere in the weakest point of the system. The trouble was, you couldn't tell whether or where this might have happened until the water thawed, when water would then leak through the ceiling.

This might be given away by a brown patch on the ceiling or a wet patch on the floor. Often you could hear the "drip" "drip" but not see it and some detective work was needed to find its location. Buckets were requisitioned to catch the water. Dealing with the leak involved taking up floorboards and applying a blowtorch to the affected part until the lead melted and rejoined.

The whole process was quite spooky, we feared this insidious internal destruction of our house deep within its structure. I was always anxious in case the ceiling came down or we were engulfed in water.

We used to call this phenomenon simply "The Drip" and it caused as much fear as any Stephen King film, especially to Beatrice who was absolutely terrified and probably would have preferred the weather to be freezing all year round, rather than endure "The Drip", dip-dripping.

At least at the flat our purchase of an extravagantly high-quality carpet has been justified as it's simply shrugged off the dirt.

Flood

Today

It comes to something when your sister prompts you to write the next blog instalment.

Another of those Internet "getting to know you" quizzes "20 things I'll never forget", which, as usual, I was quick to complete. Beatrice's comment on mine was "more on the fishtank in the till incident, please"

Here goes

In My Day

Was it 1998? We were in Kilcrohane, just Paul, me and the girls. Visits to Eileen's were de rigeur where we usually wound up the day. One of her regulars had paid a visit to Skibereen fair where they'd won a fish. You know, one of those wretched creatures in a plastic bag circling hopelessly with a vacant expression.

With a grand gesture they gave the fish to Eileen, who now had to locate a fishtank and somewhere to put it. She found a tank from somewhere and squeezed it into the tiny space above the till below the wine bottles. This was before the smoking ban which might be why the fish itself didn't last more than 48 hours, or maybe it didn't like the noise or the journey back from Skibereen. The expired fish was removed but somehow Eileen didn't quite get around to removing the tank.

Saturday night was, as usual, crowded and noisy at Eileen's. Vigorous discussions, jokes, flirting and snatches of song. Somehow, no-one noticed that it was way past closing time, as we all partied. Eileen just kept on pouring the Guinnesses and taking the money, faster and faster.

All these rapid movements were her undoing; with a sweeping gesture she knocked the fishtank into the open till. Water got into works and the till started spewing out paper receipts without stopping. As these curled onto the floor, the punters demanded more drinks and laughed even louder, Eileen tried to get onto her support helpline. It was about half-past twelve at night, so the helpdesk was probably on skeleton staff. Eileen couldn't hear what they told her, couldn't hear herself speak and the till kept on churning. Using her vast store of expletives, Eileen told her customers to shut up. Which instruction they completely ignored, shouting jibes and encouragement.

I don't know how the evening finished; I expect the till ran out of paper. Eileen decided that she could take money for drinks without a till, business being business. I think she turned the till upside down to shake out the water and hoped for the best.

We left the pub at about one am, stumbling the few yards back to Fawnmore, leaving the revellers who kept things going till about three.

Just another normal day in Kilcrohane, then.

Fares, please

Today

We decided to enter Brighton via the London Road today. This was a mistake as the traffic was practically stationary from the A27. The driving we saw was appalling. Eventually we could no longer stand seeing the people in the car in front of us chucking their rubbish out into the road. "I know an alternative route", said Paul, dashing off up Carden Avenue. I questioned his choice of route. "I know Brighton", said Paul "this will get us to where we're going". And he was right.

As we drove along Ditchling Road, I said "You used to drive buses along here. Does it feel like another lifetime to you?" "It certainly does", replied my spouse.

In My Day

After a brief and unsuccessful sojourn with the police force, Paul was looking around for another job. We were just married; I was at college and we were living off my overdraft. Brighton, Hove and District Buses were recruiting at the time and Paul applied. "Well..." they said "we don't normally take people under 23 years of age but come and have a test drive." They were impressed enough to offer him the job and, at 21, Paul became the youngest member of the company ever to hold a PSV licence.

The buses were double-manned with conductor and Paul was immediately allocated a punishing schedule of routes. I remember how dull it was, waiting for him to come home after a shift. Sometimes I was so bored I'd travel round on the bus with him - but that was pretty boring too.

On more than one occasion a bus would break down and he would be stuck in some back of beyond place like Whitehawk or Moulescombe, waiting for the breakdown truck to get him back to the depot. We had no phone so I simply had to wait until he turned up and told me lurid tales.

Some of the buses still had crash gearboxes and it was quite a challenge manhandling these beasts up and down the hills of Brighton. Paul told me of one hair-raising experience coming down Beaconsfield Villas towards the London Road when the brakes on the bus failed. As Paul struggled with the gears and handbrake the bus sailed past several stops where passengers simply stared as the bus whizzed by. Inside the bus there was a standing load and passengers again just had to watch as they missed their stop. With a cliffhanger finish worthy of "Speed" Paul pulled up the bus just before it reached the London Road. A few years back, Paul came across a picture of the very same bus and was amused to discover that it's now a motor home in Switzerland.

And all this for £14.00 a week. When a better-paid job came up at the local funeral parlour Paul gave up the joys and terrors of being on the buses and entered the strange world of the undertaker.

Paul still has a love affair with buses, though, and I've learnt quite a lot, perforce, about them too.

TGIF

Today

On Facebook yesterday a chorus of welcome for Friday, in which I joined. It's curious, really; now that I've been retired for three years, you'd think that the days would simply roll into each other and that we'd ignore the Friday factor. Not so; we still treat Friday night as special. We are less likely to watch telly (unless it's BGT) or work, I'm more likely to cook up a special meal, listen to smoochy music, drink more wine or invite friends over. In fact our (also retired) neighbours came over last night and we put the world to rights over several bottles of wine and real ale until midnight. I'm sure on other nights that we all go to bed earlier and drink less.

And it's different from Saturdays which are for the Big Night Out and more serious socialising.

In My Day

I first heard the expression "TGIF" when I worked in the Inland Revenue's enforcement office. It was used with (eventually boring) regularity by an older officer - an Irishman by the name of Joe Beckett.

When I was a child Friday night meant having Daddy at home. Daddy's job with Hansard entailed late nights the rest of the week; with him returning home at ten pm or later. On Fridays he'd arrive home at about six O'clock. The whole dynamic of the evening was different. Often he would have brought some fish with him - mackerel or herring, which he might cook himself - rolling the fish in porridge oats before frying. I really disliked the fish but that smell could only occur on a Friday. It was also the only time, apart from the occasional Saturday when Daddy would make us a fried breakfast, that Daddy cooked.

There was no school on Saturday, either, so we could stay up a bit later and there might be games or at least very lively conversation and discussions. Friday was so unlike other evenings which were altogether quieter and involved chores and homework.

This attitude to Friday (as distinct from Saturday) spilled over into many areas of life. At the Proms, for example, the avant-garde was saved for the beginning of the week, the big pieces for Saturday. Fridays would offer a night of jolly good, rousing celebratory music, culminating in the traditional Beethoven's Ninth on the penultimate night.

So I think that Friday is now hard-wired, so to speak, into the nation's psyche, and no amount of being retired or working at weekends will change it.

Cold Turkey

Today

While spooning out the saute potatoes onto Paul's dinner plate last night I accidentally nudged my own and watched in horror as the plate slid off the worktop, somersaulted and landed, dinner-side down on the floor. Now, I do keep my kitchen floor clean, but not so that one would actually eat one's dinner off it, and anyway, cheese omelette responds badly to being dashed to the ground. Also there were chips of crockery everywhere.

I felt a bit irritable about this, understandably. Paul shared his dinner with me and later we made up for it with a glass or two of Pimms taken beside the chimenea in the twilit garden.

I complained on Facebook and Beatrice said "Do you remember the strange incident of the turkey on the floor?" Indeed I do.

In My Day

When we lived at Montfort Close we had room enough in an extension to seat a fair number of dinner guests. Once Christmas (1984, I think) we invited the following number of guests to share it: The Levetts (who only had two young 'uns in those days), Beverley's Parents, Mum, Claire and Beatrice and her then spouse Nick. Fourteen in all.

I boldly offered guests their starter of choice (I think Beatrice demanded, and got, caviar) and Beverley and I set to and made a traditional Xmas lunch. Beverley had lent her pressure cooker so that the veg could be cooked speedily.

After the starters and with wine having started to flow freely in the next room, we went off to serve up the main course. I had recently acquired a very expensive, top-of-the-range gas cooker which guaranteed that the oven shelves would support 25lbs on their anti-tilt cantilever system. The turkey weighed about 23lbs, but perhaps I should have taken into account the weight of the tin. Whatever; as I pulled out the oven shelf, it did indeed tilt. The tin went one way the turkey the other. I reached up and caught the turkey in my arms (I always was good at throwing and catching).

This act covered me in very hot fat and the turkey slid to the floor as I yelped and rapidly discarded my clothing. Paul rescued the turkey and gave it a quick rinse under the tap. I dashed upstairs to change. The ignored pressure cooker hissed away. I hastily invented some gravy, Beverley removed the now hopelessly overcooked veg, while guests in the next room loudly sang "Why are we waiting".

Eventually we made our triumphant procession into the dining room and allowed guests to think that the delay was due to my vanity which had necessitated me changing my clothes. We didn't mention the heap of clothes on the floor of the kitchen, congealing under turkey fat or the slight blistering burn on one of my boobs. And the rest of the meal went very well.

However, I was sorry that one of my very nice grey faux crocodile high heels never recovered from its soaking and had to be chucked.

Hog's Back

Today

I am not a person who enjoys living in the past. You might think that the existence of this blog rather contradicts this statement. But this blog is intended to shine a light on how I have lived my life; I don't spend my days trying to recreate it.

However, last weekend, recreate the past is just what we did. Paul and I participated in the London to Brighton Classic Car Run, driving his Humber Imperial. We meet lots of people, all enjoying this little dipping of the toe into the 30's or 50's and many passers-by say things like "they don't make them like that any more!" (Which may be a good thing.) The run always starts from a location in Surrey - this year from Brooklands near Weybridge.

We drove up the evening before and decided to eschew the M25 and cut across country via Farnham. We took the A31 across the Hog's Back, skirted Guildford to pick up the A3.

"I used to cycle these roads", I said to Paul "But the A3 wasn't this terrifying 3-lane dual carriageway in those days. I wouldn't do it now."

In My Day

I was given a bike when I was about 12. Not being naturally sporty, I took a little time to learn and can remember the moment when I managed to "do it by mineself". The boys and, later on, Beatrice had bikes . We frequently took ourselves off cycling the North Downs and I can't remember Mamma or Daddy expressing any anxiety; probably they charged the boys with keeping an eye, but I was blissfully unaware of this.

We were all capable map-readers and I quickly learnt how to recognise road numbers and names. Roads south took us through Croydon, almost inevitably. East - through Addiscombe to cycle into Kent and that long curving road (not really changed today) into Sevenoaks.

West, maybe through Waddon with its chocolatey Paynes Poppets factory. South along the Purley Way. A favourite route took the A25 via Leatherhead (where David went to school) and along the A3 and the A31 Hog's Back Road. The Hog's Back is one of those amazing roads which travel along the edge of the North Downs - the slopes north to London and the escarpment down to Godalming and the Devil's Punchbowl to the south.

Of course there were lorries on the road in those days, but far fewer and certainly not the huge continental artics seen today. The roads, even the A31 dual carriageway, were far less busy and didn't seem at all terrifying. So the rides were enjoyable challenges; struggle up the hilly bits, ride through the "jelly-leg" that would set in after about 10 miles or so and enjoy stopping at a beauty spot somewhere or other. And the A3 was just an ordinary road; 20 years later, which was the next time I drove along it, I was astonished by this high-powered arterial road, driving straight into London.

It was quite normal for us to cycle twenty five or thirty miles, arriving home, dusty and tired, with an enormous appetite.

It does seem ironic, with our current anxiety and using up our energy resources and encouragement to get our our bikes, that the roads are so much less easy on the cyclist than they used to be.

Great Western

Today

The weather was perfect yesterday. So, of course, the best way to spend it involved a total of five hours' driving and another couple of hours in a hall filled with smelly people hoping for a bargain and equally hopeful stall holders.

Yup! we were at a toy and model fair which was held at Sandown Park Exhibition Centre in Esher. Paul, of course, loves these affairs, and often finds that other commitments prevent him from going. And he doesn't like going without me.

So there we were, looking at rows and rows of (to me) indistinguishable model cars, and every variety of model railway loco, rolling stock and other bits and pieces.

Every now and then, tucked away among the Hornby Dublo (very 2nd hand) items there would be little booklets - a lot of them were old catalogues, but there were others on the history of GWR or some such thing. They were all tatty little cheaply printed paperbacks, dating back about 60 years. I rummaged about, looking for some very special books, but no luck.

In My Day

The little booklets for which I was searching, were published by the Western Region (or was it GWR?) and contained stories from the west country. I think that there were four of them and that the covers were printed in the famous banana split colours of the Western Region. When I was a child, I devoured everything that could be read, including these.

These little books were full of legends, folk and fairy tales from the West country. They told of Cornish Piskies who'd steal your babies if you didn't leave milk out at night, of Sundays revellers being turned to stone in the middle of their blasphemously played hurling match (just what was hurling?). I read of mermaids tempting Cornish fishermen, about the Rollright stones whom no-one has ever been able to count, who go down to the river to drink at night time. St Neot was the miniature Cornish saint, or so it seemed to me, never heard of in London and I read of St Michael casting down the Devil from St Michael's Mount. Then there were lurid tales of smugglers and wreckers and hidden caves in cliffs.

The books, which I read repeatedly during those long nights when sleep eluded me, led me into a world populated by superstitious Celts and made me feel that the "West Country" was indeed a foreign place.

I've no idea what happened to those books and would dearly love to find a set. I wonder if I could find some on eBay?

Golden Dome

Today

We've made the decision to spend this New Year in Wiesbaden. We'd toyed with going back to Madeira or Burgh Island, but, when I was playing around finding out how I could use my airmiles, I said to Paul "there's always Frankfurt." "Ah," he said "You know how much I've been wanting to go to Germany." So the deed was done.

"It's just round the corner from Wiesbaden", I said "so we could go and visit my cousins. And Wiesbaden is a really lovely town."

In My Day

In redemption of a long held promise, Mamma took me to Wiesbaden as a reward for passing my 11+. She herself had not returned to Germany since first coming to England so I guess it was as big an adventure for her as for me. Her doctor sister was now living in Wiesbaden with her husband and three daughters, one of whom, like me, was named Julia after our grandmother.

We travelled via boat to Ostende and then train to Wiesbaden. We stayed at Aunt Maria's apartment on the Schiersteiner Strasse. The summer of 1959 was a hot one and I remember spending much time out of doors in this elegant spa town. There were beautiful gardens in which red squirrels played, churches that looked like Disney fantasies and a building with golden domes that gleamed in the sun.

We visited the spa swimming pool where we frolicked in the foaming and spurting hot spa water and took a boat trip along the Rhine, marvelling at the fantastic castles and seeing the Lorelei rock with its siren connotations.

I remember tasting the wonderful German pastries and ice-creams (these were often forced upon us by the need to find a toilet; it's surprising how often you need to go, when there's a dish of mixed icecream ornamented with little parasols awaiting you). Culture wasn't neglected either; we went to hear the Vienna Boys' Choir, a peculiarly Teutonic treat, where I had my first taste of Pepsi-cola.

Mamma, Maria and Uncle Jochen are long since dead but it will be fun to see my cousins again. And I bet New Year celebrations are really beautiful in Wiesbaden. I wonder if we'll have snow?

RIP

Today

Eventually we did the only sensible thing and had Lizzie's lawn re-turfed by a professional. Looks lovely too, and Liz actually mowed it about three weeks ago.

She planned to do it again two weeks later and was horrified to see just how fast grass grows. In fact I did it for her a few days earlier (just as well as it rained on the weekend she had set aside).

As I got to the bottom damp bit I saw a little creature slither off in the grass. I asked Paul "Are grass snakes brown?" "Yes", he replied. I spoke to Lizzie about it and she said "Oh, I know - I saw it last week and took a picture." I talked to a know-it-all type of chap down at the local cookshop and was quizzed on whether it had yellow spots behind the eyes (essential for a grass snake) - "I don't know, I was trying to get it out of the way of the mower blades by lifting it on a stick." "Of course, if it's dark brown it could be an adder," he went on with relish "they do exist on the Mendips."

I researched via good ole' Wiki and decided that the slim, silky cafe latte coloured creature I'd seen was actually a slow-worm which is neither a worm nor a snake, but a legless lizard which is good at ridding the garden of slugs but defenceless against cats.

Did the grass again today and spotted several of them slithering around where the grass was longest and dampest.

In My Day

I'm a real townie and have not only never seen a snake in the wild, but am profoundly ignorant on the subject as well. The garden at 4BH was large and overgrown so grass snakes and slow-worms were a possibility, but I never saw any.

When we went for walks led by Mamma my brothers were very fond of discussing whether we'd see adders up on the sandy country around Godalming or on the Weald. They were full of stories about how to deal with a snake-bite (slice the wound and suck, apparently) and probably enjoyed terrifying their little, gullible sister. I made sure to stamp on the ground to scare them away whenever we were in heathland on hot days. We probably all made so much noise that any self-respecting snake could hear us coming for miles.

When we lived at Rowan Avenue, Frannie found a slow worm which she kept in her pocket and tried to feed on grass until her ophidiophobic mother made her throw it away very far from the house.

I regret to report that one of the slow-worms in Lizzie's garden was too slow to avoid the mower, meeting his end via the whirling blades. I am so sorry, slow-worm and will be more careful in future.

Material World

Today

I'm in the middle of a sewing bonanza at the moment. I have three cupboards bulging with fabrics, all of them begging to be made into clothes, cushion covers and handbags.

I have everything from suiting lengths (real bargains, especially as I now never wear suits), cute organza remnants ornamented with hearts or little puppies to a truly fabulous silk and gold thread sari length that cost a fabulous amount.

That's right, you've got it, I'm a fabric junkie; I can't walk past a remnants bin with any kind of self control. I popped into C&H fabrics in Brighton the other day with the intention of buying a few essential haberdashery items and returned with a length of quilted silver and black fabric (will it make place mats for F2/9?) and some very jolly stretch fabric foil printed with red spiders' webs. This last I'm attempting to use to cover some bolsters for Lizzie, but the stuff keeps fighting back.

In My Day

As someone whose school reports for sewing at best said "fair", I wonder how I developed my passion for sewing. Perhaps the change came when I saw how to make items one might actually want. At primary school and the first terms at Grammar school we mainly made embroidered gingham aprons. They always were deeply unstylish, embroidery on a garment that was likely to be splattered with grease and flour seemed quite unnecessary and maybe, in my deeper mental recesses, I objected to my introduction to sewing being to make a garment that reinforced woman's role as a servant. (The boys didn't do any such thing; in fact they didn't even learn to sew.)

When I was about seventeen I became involved with designing and making costumes for the school play - my piece de resistance being costumes for AMSND. Fashions at that time were mainly little shift dresses that took about three yards of fabric. I soon worked out how to make these for myself. I began to savour the delights of rummaging through fabrics at Alders in Croydon or, delight of delights, John Lewis in Oxford Street. I once made a coat dress out of turquoise sailcloth with orange lining and a fake kipper tie made out of orange, another time a shirt dress out of pure Wild West check. I sewed Beatrice's wedding and bridesmaids dresses and made clothes for my mother.

When the girls were little and I worked in Lewes I used to pop into the warehouse owned by Clothkits and buy bales of slightly flawed kits for £1. These made heaps of clothes and bags for all the children in the family.

The trouble is, my incentive to actually do any sewing has somewhat fallen off in recent years but my love affair with fabric hasn't. I've now several great-nieces who will be needing pretty clothes, tho'. Hmmm, must see what there is in the sales.....

Thermostat

Today

Why is it that the minute you decide that it's time to turn off the heating for the summer the temperature plummets by about ten degrees? After a couple of weeks during which Paul complained about how hot the bedroom was getting when the heating turned itself on in the mornings, I decided it was time and turned the switch.

So today, with a high of about eight degrees manifesting itself, I'm freezing. The boiler will have to be turned on again tonight. At least with a modern gas combi-boiler it's relatively easy; I don't have to coax a coal boiler into creaking action.

In My Day

Mamma and Daddy had objections to central heating, the reasons for which I never entirely fathomed. As a child my experience of it was confined to school where we had ancient radiators that reluctantly became lukewarm after days of concentrated effort from a hidden boiler. Despite the layers of clothing into which I was bundled, I was often cold and we would all find excuses to cram around the radiators which did anything, it seemed, other than actually radiate heat. The heat, such as it was, probably gathered in the hign ceilings. They were huge cast-iron affairs covered with layers of peeling and lumpy paint in places and rusty in others. Given their efficiency, they were rather all talk and no do.

The heating was always turned on on October 1st, regardless of whether we were experiencing an Indian Summer or not, and off on May 1st, even if it was snowing. The boilers were probably coal or coke-fired and required a lengthy period of stoking up and cooling down, and switching on and off was not to be taken lightly. They must have cost a fortune to run for so little effect. I expect it was quite warm in the boiler room, but I could never find any excuses to venture so far.

Unpredictable heating continued to be a feature of my life for many years; in the more affluent establishments, convector heaters might be wheeled in to help; in others where strict economy was the rule, you simply dressed to cope. Even at Flare we were for many years the helpless victims of an elderly system which was reliable only in that it would always break down when there was snow on the ground and often failed to bring a single office up to the required legal minimum of sixteen degrees. How excited we were when we at last were able to fork out the cash to replace it with a modern system!

In fact, I am beginning see to the point of Mamma and Daddy's objections; with coal fires you could at least predict the hot and cold spots, even if you had to cope with dirt, smoke blowing back, and chimney fires.

Button to chin

Today

This morning I decided that the winter clothes must be put away. I went into the porch to collect Paul's winter coats for dry cleaning. "Do you realise", I said to Paul "That you've about 20 winter outer garments of one kind or another?" "Impossible!" He replied. "Well, when you take into account the six woollen overcoats, four leather coats/jackets, two waxed coats, a moleskin jacket, and an assortment of lined anorak type coats, I don't think I'm far off."

The coat racks both in the porch at home and at the flat groan with Paul's attempts to fend off the cold and my much more modest selection is relegated to a tiny corner.

In My Day

How was I protected from the cold when I was a little girl? You can sometimes see pictures from the '50s showing little girls in fitted woollen coats with cute little velvet collars - well I certainly didn't have one! I really remember how I was dressed on cold morning before going to school. Pile it on, seemed to the guiding principle.

Two pairs of knickers, a vest, a Liberty Bodice to which stockings were attached by suspenders, a blouse, gymslip, cardigan, blazer and gabardine mac. I could hardly move, yet there was a completely unprotected gap between the top of the stockings and my knickers. Otherwise I was warm enough, I guess.

When Paul & I were first married, my coat was made out of an old army blanket (a tailoring project at college) and Paul didn't have a coat at all. Apart from an Afghan coat of mine, which smelt resolutely and enduringly of goat, neither of us could afford a coat for years. We wore anoraks and cheap quilted jackets; once we even wore matching bright green logo-printed jackets that came free with some motoring promotion or other - which was a stylish look.

When she was very small Lizzy had a coat that had once been James's and later a coat bought in the sales. These resurfaced throughout the family, eventually returning to Becky. For quite a long time her only winter coverings were a couple of Aran zip up jackets made by Mamma.

Eventually I made her a coat in blue wool with cream lining and a piece of cream fake fur around the hood. My sister in law and I went halves on a piece of wool/alpaca; I bought a pattern and made a coat which I wore until it literally dropped into pieces. After that I got by with jumpers and anoraks for ten years. (Joan never got her coat made and I made her a parka from the fabric about twenty years later).

The truth is, coats were simply too expensive, particularly for Paul. Even fifteen years ago they could cost easily £200. It wasn't until I worked for Flare and received bonuses that these luxury garments could be bought. I bought Paul a proper coat about thirteen years ago - cashmere and wool - for Christmas. This he still has and wears with pride.

Given that really cold weather is rare these days, I think that Paul need never buy another overcoat. Not that that's likely to stop him, of course.

Viewpoint

Today

Yesterday was Daddy's birthday. He would have been 116 years old. I raised my cup of tea to him and remembered fondly. There was a legend within the family that, on Daddy's 100th birthday, we would all gather at his favourite place to celebrate. His favourite place was Caterham Viewpoint.

In My Day

We regularly made the trip to Caterham. It was an easy bus journey, broken at South Croydon with a walk up Tupwood Lane to the top. Tupwood Lane started in typical suburban Surrey manner with spacious houses and elegant drives, but gradually it became more rural with bluebell woods.

Nothing ever quite prepared one for the dramatic opening that was the viewpoint. At the edge of the North Downs, the steep scarp dropped away and one could gaze out towards the South Downs and imagine the sea just out of sight.

here was plenty of time to ramble through the adjacent woods and to play on the open space. Somehow it never seemed very busy, as though just we and a few discerning others had discovered it.

Later, when we had bikes, the boys and I would cycle there for no reason, it seemed, other than to cycle back.

After Daddy's death we planted a tree at the viewpoint with a plaque set into the ground beneath. When the first tree disappeared we replanted.

After Mamma's death Caterham somehow dropped out of our viewpoint. On Daddy's 100th only Beatrice, Lizzie and I were there to toast the now treeless plaque with champagne, although David had gone there the previous weekend.

And last year, the gathering of us and Beatrice's family found that even the plaque had gone, leaving a somewhat obscure concrete plinth still stubbornly adhering to the chalk.

Whatever happens at Caterham it's our viewpoint of Daddy as a force for good in our lives that really matters and endures.

Sunshine & Showers

Today

Raining hard in Brighton today after a beautiful weekend. Looking at the forecast I see that the weather this week is day on/day off with regard to rain and sun.

"I remember my holiday in Devon & Cornwall with Ann Bryant", I said to Paul "That's exactly what we had."

In My Day

When I was in my teens the best way to have an affordable holiday was to join the Youth Hostels Association. It was very cheap and offered accommodation throughout Europe where you were likely to be pretty safe, if not always comfortable. In England at that time there were fairly strict rules about getting to the hostels under your own steam and driving or hitch-hiking was much frowned upon. I wasn't a sporty girl but I did like my holidays to be active.

In 1965 I and my friend Ann Bryant decided that a cycling holiday around Devon and Cornwall would be just the thing. We booked accommodation in advance, staying at each coastal hostel between Plymouth and Exeter, heading westwards. We caught the train from Paddington to Plymouth where our adventures began.

Our bikes weren't especially top of the range; my bike had no gears and Ann's was a little Moulton. Given the hilly nature of the terrain, you can see that we spent a fair bit of time walking.

The hostels were extremely varied from elegant houses to tumbledown cottages that appeared to get their water from the well. Some of them offered breakfasts (a very few even offered supper) and we took advantage of this when we could. But often we found ourselves heating up beans over ancient stoves that ought to have been condemned and wrestling with recalcitrant toasters.

Our decision to stay at each hostel meant a very varied programme of distances to travel. Ideally, in an ideal summer, this should have given us some easy days during which we could potter about, take a scenic detour or catch up on our tans.

Unfortunately, the weather opted for a day on-day off approach to sunshine and showers. There were days when we seemed to make no headway against the Atlantic gales, peddling frantically and apparently staying still.

When you had fifty miles to go, this was rather discouraging. On one occasion - between Newquay and Padstow, the going was so rough and our headway was so slow that we gave in and caught a train which creaked its was across the moors taking probably longer that we would have done by bike, but at least we were dry. Between Tintagel (a rickety stony hostel clinging to the cliff edge and Boscastle was only six miles and we were looking forward to a day scrambling over rocks and exploring the coastline. Instead, force ten gales kept us indoors where we were probably the record holders for spending time at the Boscastle witch museum.

We did have some lovely days too - discovering the Minack Theatre by accident and watching a rehearsal for King Lear as the sun set over the sea, and cycling in sparkling weather from Minehead to Exeter along the beautiful Exe valley.

It was on this holiday that Ann shocked the locals by wearing very short shorts and causing one ancient to call out as we went by:"Yoo'm better pull yoom skirrt down; yooom paaants is showin!" as he cackled with laughter.

What the holiday taught me was to be self reliant and that the weather is not all that makes a holiday. And I remember just about every detail after over forty years.

Cap and gown

Today

My sister graduated today with a BA in Eng lit and phil from the Open University. It's taken her seven years of hard work, concentration and commitment to get there and I'm just so proud of her.

There was a lovely ceremony at the Dome and we were reminded that the OU stands not just for social inclusion but also social justice. The honorary doctorate was awarded to Dame Stephanie Shirley whose life story was an example of triumph over adversity.

"You're the second Dixon of our generation to get a degree," I told her. Later there was a discussion about the benefits a degree can bring and Lizzie pointed out that Chris and I achieved a great deal and we neither have degrees. "It doesn't mean that you're totally handicapped if you don't have one," I said "And having a degree is an achievement in itself. After all, I'm finding studying for an NVQ hard enough!"

In My Day

Daddy couldn't have achieved what he did without the education he received from the Society of Friends. Thereafter, everything he did was as the result of his own initiative and hard graft. He found it hard to see what additional benefits a degree could bring. So, while he was an enthusiastic supporter of a good grammar school education, he felt that anything past the age of sixteen (at a pinch eighteen) was really time wasted that could be better spent at the school of life and hard knocks.

When you look at his life and how much he really did achieve it can be hard to argue with his viewpoint. As neither Chris nor I have a degree and yet have achieved a fair amount in commercial terms, the modern emphasis on higher education seems still more questionable. Especially as he and I are also not particularly backward in the area of intellectual and cultural knowledge and understanding. But I also think that Daddy's quite aggressive stance against higher education was not helpful. A university education would hardly have hampered us and might have opened a few doors sooner. I did spend four years at art school where I failed to gain a degree and the skills I learnt (such as corset making and how to construct a model out of balsa wood) have been very little use to me.

I can only find it in my heart to feel so proud of those members of my family who have worked against difficulties to achieve so much and I know that we all, whatever our education, learn much of what we need from life's lessons and hard knocks.

New Look

Today

Yesterday Paul heaved out his old camcorder - the one with tapes - and hooked it up to the telly to play old videos. With horror I watched the videos of me in Ireland 2002. Not only was I very large, I didn't seem to be taking any trouble. I wore awful jumpers and my hair, as often as not, looked as though I hadn't used a brush on it for a fortnight. My face looked raddled and old and fat. My view of things wasn't helped by the (intentional) emphasis on just how much and how often I was filling my face.

Now, I have generally regarded myself as one who does take trouble, so this video was a shock to my perception of myself.

I was talking to someone at last week's christening whose special area of study is how the digital age changes perception and changes memory. "Do you think", I asked "that photography radically changed how our memories are shaped?" "Most certainly." replied my companion.

In My Day

Mamma, as I have said many times, was German. She became fully naturalised after the end of the war and always regarded England as her home. She had little patience for immigrant Germans who wanted to join ex-pat groups of one kind or another. This wasn't so surprising; England had accepted her without comment at a time when her people were being slaughtered by Hitler.

One of the first things she did was to perfect her English. She spoke language idiomatically and fluently and many people told her that they wouldn't have guessed that she was German. She kept a diary, written in English, and said that she dreamt in English. Although she always had a little trouble with "th" and "s" in conjuction - according to her we lived in "souse east" London and Elizabeth always came out "Elizabez".

She died in 1981, before the advent of camcorders, so I was delighted when I happened upon an audio tape recorded by Paul on the event of Mamma's 63rd birthday. I listened with great amusement to four-year old Lizzie's appalling Sussex accent and to the general chit-chat. "Who", I said to Paul, "is that German woman whose voice I keep hearing?" "Why, Mamma", He said. "Did she always have that very strong accent?" I asked. "Certainly."

I was very shocked; my entire perception of my mother, not just in childhood, but in my life to that point was being overturned. And now, how do I remember Mamma's voice speaking to me? The truth is, I just don't know any more.

It's not just what we see, but what we hear, that changes our memories and I fear that, unless we totally cut ourselves off, there's nothing we can do about it.

Hairdo

Today

Fashions do go in circles, they say. At the weekend, Becky was sporting a little Aliceband in her hair. "Well, my boyfriend says he likes me in an Aliceband", she explained, somewhat defensively. No reason; Alicebands are pretty trendy at the moment, after all.

"I used to wear an Aliceband, generally made out of ribbon", I said.

In My Day

The trouble with the circular nature of fashion is that it can be hard to forget the connotations of the first time you experienced it. In fact Alicebands are really connected in my mind with childhood hair management, rather than fashion, so I tend to see it as an intrinsically childlike style.

I had long hair until I was about thirteen. For day to day wear, I had two plaits. Mamma always put a side parting at the front, which resulted in the parting doing a little wiggle to get to the centre at the back and in slightly uneven plaits. The plaits were tied up with ribbons. Mamma always bought nylon ribbon in bright colours. The ribbon was first wrapped twice around the end of the plait and then knotted and tied into a bow. The knot and bow did all the work; no elastic bands or anything.

On special occasions, my hair was released from its bonds and tied up with a ribbon in Aliceband style. Mamma generally put a big bow at the top and secured the whole thing with a plentiful supply of hairgrips. I remember reciting some poetry at a Townswomen's guild event when I was not quite five years old. The poem started "I love to wear my party frock that Auntie bought in town...". Mamma made me a pink taffeta frock with blue scalloped ribbons and tied my hair up in a large satin ribbon to match. I felt so beautiful wearing it.

Later, plaits gave way to pony tails, either flowing loose or plaited with a ribbon top and bottom. At one time I used little clips ornamented with butterflies top and bottom. This so amused the third year girls at Grammar school that they used to chase me around the playground yelling "Flutter by, butterfly!" This was more intimidating than it might at first seem and is probably why I nagged to have my hair cut.

My ribbons did at one time offer some drama, providing a somewhat strange snack for a goat at London Zoo, as he pulled at my bright red ribbon. We watched in horror as the whole lot went down his throat.

So, while I do like to be on-trend, I also think that Alicebands won't feature in my wardrobe this Spring.

Tumbledown

Today

Once again, silly "getting to know you" questionnaires have been circulating on the Internet. I can't resist them and tackle them with enthusiasm. Becky commented on my answer to "What are you most afraid of?", which was: "Apart from dying? Stairs." "Aw", said Becky, "that made me want to give you a hug. Is it true?"

"Oh yes," I said. And it is. When the girls were small and had to be carried downstairs, I regularly had visions of falling down with them in my arms. I often used to say to Paul, "That's one less time I have to do this."

I negotiate stairs with caution and often wonder if I'll meet my end falling downstairs.

In My Day

Our huge Victorian house had a rather grand staircase from the first to the ground floor. There was a slight curve starting from the top and another curve at the bottom as they turned to the lower passageway. There were beautiful cast iron banisters, depicting angel heads, and the whole was overlooked by a stained glass window that cast pools of jewel-like colour onto the hall whenever the sun shone.

It may be one of those memories that gain flesh by being recounted many times, but one day, when I was about three years old, I fell down this flight of stairs. Mamma heard the crash and came running. She knew that she wouldn't reach me before I smashed into the wall before the final turn. She called out to me to grab the banisters. Somehow, I had the presence of mind to do this and my fall towards concussion was halted as I swung to a standstill.

Later, Beatrice, aged about two, fell down the stairs to the basement. These, too, had a curve at the bottom and she crashed into the wall and broke a collar bone. This I remember most clearly, being a witness, and don't know whether it contributed to her epilepsy.

Maybe the memory of these events drives my adult anxiety and visions, but what I don't understand is why I've never seriously considered living in a bungalow.

Thumper

Today

Just recovered from a corker of a migraine which took out pretty well all of yesterday. It may be that the very moderate amount of alcohol I consumed the night before, having not drunk any for three weeks, was the triggering factor. Who knows? I do know that the pain and vomiting destroyed my day and I had no choice but to ride it out.

In My Day

Mamma used to talk about migraines when I was a child, but I don't think I really knew what she was talking about. I probably thought (as so many people still do) that they were just bad headaches.

I started having migraines when I was about seventeen. They were always associated with the first day of my period, although I didn't get one every month. I quickly discovered that regular pain-killers were of no use (partly because I would vomit them up within ten minutes). I never thought of consulting a doctor and just used to ride them out as I did yesterday.

I did once consult one of David's girlfriends who was training to be a doctor. She advised that I drink some sweet tea and I found that, if I did this after the vomiting phase was over, I felt better sooner.

The worst migraine was the last for many years. This was the last period before I conceived Lizzy. We were at the flat at Belmont and had invited a friend over for supper. I spent the day in bed, staggering from bed to bathroom. Paul was also in some discomfort. having just had a steroid injection for some condition. Why we didn't just contact the friend and say we couldn't see him I don't know - probably it was before we got our phone and we were neither of us in a fit state to walk down the road to the phone box. The time of arrival of said friend drew nearer and I forced myself to get up and dressed. My head hurt so much that I couldn't bring myself to brush my hair, so I just left it in its rumpled state. I've no idea how we got through the evening but Neil, who wasn't a sensitive chap at the best of times. didn't seem to notice anything.


There used to be doctors who dismissed just about every surgery visit from young women with a "Don't worry, it'll clear up when you start having babies". Which was all very well. Except in this case it was really true. I didn't have another migraine until I approached the menopause, twenty-five years later, so had to assume that hormone fluctuations were the trigger.

Now that I don't have any hormones any more, I'll have to look for another reason. The good news is that, having effectively eaten nothing for a day and a half, I've lost 5lbs...

In Stitches

Today

Much as I love being down at the flat, occasionally time hangs a little heavy. We don't want to spend all our time visiting relatives and, although eating out is lovely, it's also expensive and fattening. So there are dull or rainy days and long evenings to fill.

The flat is our 2nd home, rather than just a holiday venue and we want to be able to do at least some of the things we do at home. To that end Paul brought down a selection of bits and pieces and has been happily creating models for his railway, sitting at one of the trestles in the veranda.

"I could get myself another sewing machine and use the other trestle and make handbags etc", I said. After some Internet browsing, looking at machines that cost £200 and are inferior to mine, I had a brainwave. My machine only weighs about 7k - I can simply bring it down each time we visit for more than a week or! Simple!

In My Day

Like many others of my generation, I learnt to use a sewing machine on my mother's electrified Singer sewing machine. It was gloriously ornate in black with gold scrolls, gloriously slow, and given to temper tantrums involving tension.

I was given my first very own machine as a 21st birthday gift. It was a creme de la creme machine - an elegant Necchi. Daddy was immensely pleased that the shopkeeper threw in the carrying case for nothing in return for cash, although I can't imagine how I would have coped without the case. The whole thing cost £70.

For its time the machine was unusually light to carry and very versatile. Each term I travelled from London to Worthing by train carrying my case, my sewing machine and wooden sewing box (in later years I also carried a basket containing my cat Ariadne), for use on my costume design and needlework training.

That sewing machine went everywhere with me. I remember a customer at Stefan's Bridge Club in London, who'd fallen on hard times, whose entire wardrobe I altered to suit modern styles (and, it must be said, her altered shape) using the Necchi. She paid me very good money indeed.

I made elaborate costumes, curtains, wedding dresses, clothes for myself, countless outfits for the girls, gifts for all the family, even, after some pressure, a hideous choir outfit for Beatrice. The machine paid for itself again and again.

How I kept it going I don't know, Necchi having long since gone out of business. Eventually, about seven years ago I thought it was about time for a new machine, so I bought a new Elna and gave the Necchi to Becky who never got it working. Still, thirty-five years' hard use isn't bad.

I still think of that Necchi with nostalgia, though it must be said that I really like the automatic buttonhole feature on my new one!

Soundtrack

Today

Wherever you go, these days, there is recorded music as a backdrop to our lives. In cafes, bars, shops and shopping malls. I have my Walkman plugged into my ears as I walk the treadmill and read a trashy mag, we listen to it in the car and while we're making the tea.

Sometimes it does intrude; I've become bolder about asking for music in pubs to be turned down, and I heard of one orchestral player who was horrified to hear the Bach B Minor Mass as background music in a restaurant. When the club next door started up with its hip-hop, the waiter's response was to turn the Bach up to full volume!

"The trouble is," I said to Paul "we often don't really listen to our music. Why don't we take it in turns to devise a proper programme of music and really listen, not talk?" "Good idea," said my spouse.

So, on Friday, arranged around a very nice meal, I played V William's "The Lark Ascending", Elgar's Cello Concerto and V William's "A Sea Symphony". I even found a website which provided programme notes so downloaded some and made a little programme. V enjoyable - and I found that I listened much more closely, especially to the symphony. And it kind of made Friday evening special

In My Day

In 1941 bombs destroyed The Queen's Hall in London. This was a major concert venue and a fund, under the auspices of Sir Henry Wood, was set up to rebuild. He died in 1944 but the funds still continued.

My parents contribution was to create the Henry Wood Gramophone Circle. Gramophone societies were quite common at that time. Not everyone had their own record-player and it was costly to amass a collection of discs.

The Circle met at 4 Beulah every third Sunday. Mamma and Daddy were very proud that they had the space to do this; many others had to meet in church halls and the like which gave a colder air to the proceedings. At 4 BH members were able to sit in armchairs and enjoy a family atmosphere. Normally, I suppose, about fifteen-twenty members would gather; sometimes we had bumper nights of about thirty or more which was quite a strain on the seating.

Initially, of course, the records were 78rpm which gave you four minutes of listening per disc. The record deck had two turntables and the records were double sided in alternate numbering 1,3 2,4 etc. This meant that you could go fairly smoothly from disc one to two, with time to get number three ready. This way, the Beethoven symphony you were listening to wasn't too lumpy.

Later, Daddy transferred to long play. I remember the cabinet of discs - hundreds, it seemed - carefully catalogued.

The programmes weren't just slung together, either. They were carefully themed, mostly along symphony concert lines. There were exceptions. Daddy would play "Scheherazade" and read aloud from Lane's translation of "The Arabian Nights" carefully slotting his words to the meaning and fluctuations of the music.

As we got older we were occasionally allowed to devise our own programmes and present them to the circle.

The circle was affiliated to a larger group and the members formed the large part of Mamma and Daddy's social circle for many years. We had patrons: Margaret Ritchie whom I remember as having a sweet round face and delightful voice singing "My Heart Ever Faithful" and Peter Katin, pianist who several times visited with his wife and little boy Nicholas. Apparently Beatrice met him a few years ago and he had no recollection of these events.

The Circle kept going for over twenty years and was eventually disbanded when it finally became obvious that The Queens' Hall would never be rebuilt. The money my parents had so carefully gathered went towards a Sir Henry Wood memorial.

Programme preparation is quite tricky, as we've discovered, so I don't really blame Paul for switching from all four Bach orchestral suites to Santana.

One for the Pot

Today

The days are getting longer and brighter and it's very easy to see just how much dust has collected. So, as part of another of my cleaning sprees, I washed every one of my 120 teapots.

I know how this collection started; with a gift of the famous motor car teapot given to Paul by a grateful patient. Our friends, as a joke, followed it up with a Charles & Di teapot and the collection was born. I don't know at what point it came to be considered as mine.

There are some basic rules: the teapot has to have a quirky or amusing design, be a real teapot and the handle, spout and lid should be an integral part of the design. Having said that, I never turned away the little pots (encouragingly marked "do not use hot water") given me by my many nephews and nieces.

For the first time since this blog was born Paul has made a suggestion as to editorial content. Not to squash this budding talent I include it. We were in Tesco today looking for tea. No, I don't mean PG tips or camomile tea, I mean tea. Tea that is spooned into a pot, subjected to boiling water and strained into a cup. Paul, whose passion for and ability to make good tea far outstrips mine, commented how hard it is today to find a good range of loose teas. I heard a while ago that this item has now been removed from the standard shopping basket that is used in calculating price fluctuations.

The point is, I may have about 120 crazy teapots but we also use a proper pot every day. It's a good round blue and white china pot with a natty little nylon infuser sitting under the lid. And every single cup of tea we have at home uses this pot.

In My Day

I do think that everyone used teapots when I was a child. Tea was spooned in from caddies "one per cup and one for the pot", boiling water added and the resulting potion drunk throughout the land. The commonest type of pot was a "Brown Betty" - these are still made today.

Daddy, of course, had his own ideas. He believed that tea was good but tannin bad (full of antioxidants, actually, Daddy). Putting leaves into the pot, pouring on the water and then leaving it for the time it takes to drink several cups, results in steadily strengthening tea and an increase in tannin. He also believe that warming the pot with water had a weakening effect on the brewing process. So Daddy used to put the tea into a jug, pour in the boiling water, let it stand, then strain it into the pot. The tea in the pot would stay uniformly at the desired strength, only gradually getting cooler.

I believe my brother David still uses this system, together with a nifty little wall-mounted tea dispenser.

I find it amazing that people today firstly use teabags, secondly pour on off-the-boil or reboiled water, and thirdly don't use a teapot.

Some historians believe that the industrial revolution could only have started in England when it was (before sewage) because we all drank strong tea which involved boiling water (killed the germs) tannin (a natural antibiotic) and which didn't make you drunk. With the art of tea-making fast dying out it's no wonder the country's done for.

Without a Word of a Lie

Today

This morning Paul asked me where I'd put my water glass. "Did you bring it down?" he asked. "I might have done or it might be in the study," I said "actually, I don't remember what I did and that's the honest truth." "As distinct from the dishonest truth," I added.

Paul and I had a discussion about how the language contains many expressions that presuppose that lying is a common element in our speech "without a word of a lie", "I gotta to be honest" "to tell the truth" "that's the honest truth" etc.

In My Day

When do we learn to lie? At what age do we discover the possibility and what drives the extent to which we lie? Is it when we lose the completeness of trust; catching our parents or siblings out in a lie?

Daddy took a strong view about lying (it's understandable; if your children always tell the truth it makes your life much simpler), reserving corporal punishment for this transgression.

I think that I was generally a truthful child, but between the ages of about eight and ten I got into the habit of lying to avoid trouble. I think I only lied because of a sense that what I had done was so naughty that retribution must surely follow.

The problem was, being only a child and not naturally devious, I wasn't very good at it. Successful lying involves sustaining the lie for ever and the expert concealment of evidence.

It was no good my telling Mamma that Beatrice had stolen and eaten her Toblerone (initially a reasonable supposition as Beatrice had a much sweeter tooth than I) when the remains of the packet was sticking out of my pocket. And whom did I blame for eating the entire soft inside of a loaf of bread, leaving just the outside crust?

And retribution surely followed the discovery of the lie. With some ceremony I would be laid face downwards on Daddy's knee, my head dangling uncomfortably close to his lymphatically swollen feet. He would yank up my skirt and plant about half a dozen wallops with the flat of his hand on the fleshiest part of my buttocks. Once done I was free to go and the matter would not be mentioned again.

Daddy used to talk openly about his attitude to corporal punishment; use it rarely, give a good and proper warning, use only the palm of your hand (this puts a natural brake on actually doing any damage) and smack only the fleshiest and most resilient parts of the body.

I remember not the stinging of the smack (he was true to his word and never did anything that actually caused lasting pain or injury) but the utter humiliation and unpleasantness of being so treated.

One day I put him to the test. I accidentally broke a window playing ball. When the matter came to light I decided to make a clean breast of it. I was not smacked; only ticked off and learnt that Daddy, at any rate, could be trusted. Mamma never smacked me; her forays into this art being limited to catching the boys a clip in passing when they were being unbearably cheeky.

I think that what I learnt was that it's nearly always best to be truthful, and if you're going to lie, plan it well and never be caught out.

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.