Today
Just back from a jolly few days on the Isle of Wight. We stayed in a fairly ordinary but adequate cottage near Brighstone. One comment in the visitors' book referred to the "problem" with woodlice & earwigs. I saw one of each.
In My Day
In the summer of 1977 at Rowan Avenue we were plagued with woodlice. In the kitchen in the mornings we would see maybe fifty or sixty of these creatures. We swept them up, whereupon they curled up and rolled across the floor like so many ball bearings. The cats showed no interest at all in getting rid of them.
We couldn't track down any source, such as rotten wood, in the house that might be the cause. I didn't find them at all worrying as such; there were just so many of them.
That was until shortly after I brought Becky home from hospital. I'd noticed a small dark-red mark on her abdomen that I assumed was a strawberry mark but I wanted the midwife just to confirm this.
The midwife came on her rounds and I asked her to have a quick look. Becky used to sleep in a carry-cot that was mounted on a tubular steel stand, so well off the floor. I unpopped her Babygro and there, nestled on her vest, was a woodlouse. How had it got there? I flipped the creature away and was apologising to the midwife for the next half-hour as though it had been my slovenly maternal care that had brought this about. I have no idea what the midwife thought, but at least she didn't call Social Services. And, after that, it was woodlouse wars.
All of which means that a single woodlouse seen crawling across the toilet floor of a cottage in a very rural location seems anything but a "problem"!
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Malice Aforethought
Today
This morning I was dipping into one of my "No 1 Ladies' Detective Agency" books in which Mma Ramotswe is trying to help a client redress an old wrong. She seeks out the person to whom the wrong was done and explains the situation.
When this person looks angry Mma Ramotswe says "He is very sorry for what he did wrong; have you never done anything wrong for which you would like to apologise?"
The answer, of course, is "yes" as it is for most of us.
In My Day
I like to think of myself as without malice and with a large capacity to forgive; generally, I think that this is actually true. But it has not been developed without some difficulty and pain along the way.
When I was at primary school I bore the brunt of much teasing and bullying. I came from a strange family, didn't talk Saarf Lunnon, wasn't very pretty and was far too keen on being educated. I failed entirely to learn such protective mechanisms as keeping quiet or becoming either a bully or a clown myself. And I certainly never spoke to a teacher or my parents.
Which might explain the retributive action I took one day against the most active group of these bullying children. Finding a quiet few minutes I sat down and wrote hate-mail letters to each of them. I popped these letters into their respective desks and waited. I can't now remember what I threatened but it was enough to cause uproar. The class teacher became involved and we were all quizzed. I not only lied coolly but was even very indignant and joined in the search for the (never apprehended) culprit. When a note was shown to me with discussions about identifying the handwriting I was appalled to notice that I had so far failed to disguise mine, that a characteristically carelessly written "M" was clear for all to see who had eyes.
Fortunately for me, nobody made the connection and I escaped, scott-free. I don't know what I would have done had somebody else been punished for my crime. And I can't imagine the effect on my life and school career had I confessed or been found out. I certainly never committed such an act again and have felt ashamed ever since.
In fact, I think that this is the first time that I've admitted to this. I don't think that lasting harm was done and I apologise for the distress caused. But I do think that until now, there was just a tiny black corner in my heart that is now lightened.
This morning I was dipping into one of my "No 1 Ladies' Detective Agency" books in which Mma Ramotswe is trying to help a client redress an old wrong. She seeks out the person to whom the wrong was done and explains the situation.
When this person looks angry Mma Ramotswe says "He is very sorry for what he did wrong; have you never done anything wrong for which you would like to apologise?"
The answer, of course, is "yes" as it is for most of us.
In My Day
I like to think of myself as without malice and with a large capacity to forgive; generally, I think that this is actually true. But it has not been developed without some difficulty and pain along the way.
When I was at primary school I bore the brunt of much teasing and bullying. I came from a strange family, didn't talk Saarf Lunnon, wasn't very pretty and was far too keen on being educated. I failed entirely to learn such protective mechanisms as keeping quiet or becoming either a bully or a clown myself. And I certainly never spoke to a teacher or my parents.
Which might explain the retributive action I took one day against the most active group of these bullying children. Finding a quiet few minutes I sat down and wrote hate-mail letters to each of them. I popped these letters into their respective desks and waited. I can't now remember what I threatened but it was enough to cause uproar. The class teacher became involved and we were all quizzed. I not only lied coolly but was even very indignant and joined in the search for the (never apprehended) culprit. When a note was shown to me with discussions about identifying the handwriting I was appalled to notice that I had so far failed to disguise mine, that a characteristically carelessly written "M" was clear for all to see who had eyes.
Fortunately for me, nobody made the connection and I escaped, scott-free. I don't know what I would have done had somebody else been punished for my crime. And I can't imagine the effect on my life and school career had I confessed or been found out. I certainly never committed such an act again and have felt ashamed ever since.
In fact, I think that this is the first time that I've admitted to this. I don't think that lasting harm was done and I apologise for the distress caused. But I do think that until now, there was just a tiny black corner in my heart that is now lightened.
Wednesday, September 08, 2010
Hirsute
Today
Beards seem to have been prominent over the last few days. My German cousin's husband, who sported a full beard at new year, just had a little drooping moustache when we saw him last week. He looked better for it, I thought, and told him so. "Oh," he replied "it's cooler this way; the beard'll be back in the winter."
Then, just a couple of days ago, I bumped into Roy, the musical director of the English Concert Singers. I had never seen him anything else than clean-shaven, so it was quite a surprise to see him sporting a venerable goatee-type grey beard. "Is this your Thomas Beecham look?" I joked. Actually, it looked very nice and well-groomed. Just not sure whether it will match his hair.
In My Day
Daddy, who in later years wore a moustache, disapproved of beards. At best they were a sign of suspect "artiness"; at worst a sign of complete disregard for respectable society and washing. How he reconciled this with his father-in-law's neat beard or the beards belonging to a whole range of his heroes, such as Sir Isaac Pitman, Sir Henry Wood and said Sir Thomas Beecham, I never fathomed.
Paul made several attempts to grow beards, often giving up at the stubble stage because he felt that it made him less attractive to the opposite sex. Eventually, in about 1982, he went the whole hog and grew a proper beard. It was very black and seemed to cover his whole face. I found it rather hard to make out his features or facial expressions and, after an emotional outburst, we agreed on a compromise. The beard stayed, but he shaved the area around the eyes and cheeks and just below the mouth so that I could identify him on a dark night.
He's basically hung onto this facial hair with only a couple of periods of time out, once when the sneezing of hay-fever became too much.
The other time followed his retirement in 1998. Several people had indicated that they thought he looked ready for retirement, when he was actually only forty-eight. "Do I look old?" he asked anxiously. "Well," I hazarded cautiously "your beard is very grey..." He rushed to the bathroom and shaved the lot off, an act which he instantly regretted.
Within two years he'd grown it back with the addition of some "Just for Men" and swears he'll never shave it off again.
I just hope that, with the advancing years, I will never have to decide whether or not to keep my beard.
Beards seem to have been prominent over the last few days. My German cousin's husband, who sported a full beard at new year, just had a little drooping moustache when we saw him last week. He looked better for it, I thought, and told him so. "Oh," he replied "it's cooler this way; the beard'll be back in the winter."
Then, just a couple of days ago, I bumped into Roy, the musical director of the English Concert Singers. I had never seen him anything else than clean-shaven, so it was quite a surprise to see him sporting a venerable goatee-type grey beard. "Is this your Thomas Beecham look?" I joked. Actually, it looked very nice and well-groomed. Just not sure whether it will match his hair.
In My Day
Daddy, who in later years wore a moustache, disapproved of beards. At best they were a sign of suspect "artiness"; at worst a sign of complete disregard for respectable society and washing. How he reconciled this with his father-in-law's neat beard or the beards belonging to a whole range of his heroes, such as Sir Isaac Pitman, Sir Henry Wood and said Sir Thomas Beecham, I never fathomed.
Paul made several attempts to grow beards, often giving up at the stubble stage because he felt that it made him less attractive to the opposite sex. Eventually, in about 1982, he went the whole hog and grew a proper beard. It was very black and seemed to cover his whole face. I found it rather hard to make out his features or facial expressions and, after an emotional outburst, we agreed on a compromise. The beard stayed, but he shaved the area around the eyes and cheeks and just below the mouth so that I could identify him on a dark night.
He's basically hung onto this facial hair with only a couple of periods of time out, once when the sneezing of hay-fever became too much.
The other time followed his retirement in 1998. Several people had indicated that they thought he looked ready for retirement, when he was actually only forty-eight. "Do I look old?" he asked anxiously. "Well," I hazarded cautiously "your beard is very grey..." He rushed to the bathroom and shaved the lot off, an act which he instantly regretted.
Within two years he'd grown it back with the addition of some "Just for Men" and swears he'll never shave it off again.
I just hope that, with the advancing years, I will never have to decide whether or not to keep my beard.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Overloaded
Today
Having at last bought a much-needed headboard for the Chinoiserie room at the flat, we then had a lengthy discussion as how we could transport it to Brighton.
"Well", I said "the E-class has roof bars so, provided we tie it down properly, there shouldn't be a problem."
In My Day
When we were first married we had, as readers of this blog will know, a succession of tired old cars. We were also pretty broke and obtaining furniture was a hit-and-miss, hand-me-down affair.
Paul's parents once passed down to us a mattress that could be used on Becky's bed. On a certain foggy night we went up to collect this object. Paul strapped it to the roof of the Zephyr. No roof bars so he tied it to a makeshift roofrack with odd bits of string. We set off. Driving along Lottbridge Drove in Eastbourne Paul became very irritated by the driver of a Mini behind us. First the driver flashed his lights at us repeatedly. Paul cursed, "I can't go any faster!" Then the Mini drew alongside us. "Well, if you're going to overtake, get on with it!" growled Paul. The Mini stayed alongside.
Paul lowered the window, preparatory to issuing expletives. The Mini driver lowered his window "Hey, mate!" he yelled "You've lost your bed!" In the foggy darkness we hadn't noticed the mattress slide off the car into the ditch. Sheepishly, Paul thanked the Mini driver and turned round to collect the item which was fortunately wrapped in plastic and wasn't too damp.
As if this taught us nothing, we later bought a wardrobe from MFI in Southampton. This bargain item was in the "casualty" section, having already been constructed, and missing door knobs. We heaved this onto the top of the Marina, attached it with ropes threaded through the windows and set off.
It was a Saturday morning in busy Shirley High Street. As we approached the traffic lights they turned red. The car stopped. Unfortunately, the wardrobe didn't and slid forward, to hang precariously over the windscreen. Gingerly, Paul edged forward over the crossing, pulled the car up and tied the wardrobe more securely. We think the policeman standing on the pavement "looked the other way".
Let's hope we get it right this time; I should hate to think of our headboard languishing at the side of the A303.
Having at last bought a much-needed headboard for the Chinoiserie room at the flat, we then had a lengthy discussion as how we could transport it to Brighton.
"Well", I said "the E-class has roof bars so, provided we tie it down properly, there shouldn't be a problem."
In My Day
When we were first married we had, as readers of this blog will know, a succession of tired old cars. We were also pretty broke and obtaining furniture was a hit-and-miss, hand-me-down affair.
Paul's parents once passed down to us a mattress that could be used on Becky's bed. On a certain foggy night we went up to collect this object. Paul strapped it to the roof of the Zephyr. No roof bars so he tied it to a makeshift roofrack with odd bits of string. We set off. Driving along Lottbridge Drove in Eastbourne Paul became very irritated by the driver of a Mini behind us. First the driver flashed his lights at us repeatedly. Paul cursed, "I can't go any faster!" Then the Mini drew alongside us. "Well, if you're going to overtake, get on with it!" growled Paul. The Mini stayed alongside.
Paul lowered the window, preparatory to issuing expletives. The Mini driver lowered his window "Hey, mate!" he yelled "You've lost your bed!" In the foggy darkness we hadn't noticed the mattress slide off the car into the ditch. Sheepishly, Paul thanked the Mini driver and turned round to collect the item which was fortunately wrapped in plastic and wasn't too damp.
As if this taught us nothing, we later bought a wardrobe from MFI in Southampton. This bargain item was in the "casualty" section, having already been constructed, and missing door knobs. We heaved this onto the top of the Marina, attached it with ropes threaded through the windows and set off.
It was a Saturday morning in busy Shirley High Street. As we approached the traffic lights they turned red. The car stopped. Unfortunately, the wardrobe didn't and slid forward, to hang precariously over the windscreen. Gingerly, Paul edged forward over the crossing, pulled the car up and tied the wardrobe more securely. We think the policeman standing on the pavement "looked the other way".
Let's hope we get it right this time; I should hate to think of our headboard languishing at the side of the A303.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Rose Bowl
Today
On Saturday we went to Paul's cousin's retirement party. There were several relations there whom I hadn't seen since 1975.
We talked about Roger's deceased mother, Norah; her vivaciousness, tendency to call out at 11.00 am in a plummy voice "Bar's open!" and her impact on our lives.
"Do you know", I said to Roger's Aunt Joan "I haven't seen you since "Miss Saltdean" in 1975".
In My Day
Roger's mother, lived in Telscombe. She had her daughter Debbbie living with her as well as her grand-daughter who was about Lizzie's age, so we often visited and were quite close for a time.
Norah had a spell as Mayor of Saltdean. One day she called us and begged us to attend a civic dance being held at Butlins, Saltdean. It was very out of season and I think she was afraid no-one would go. We flossied ourselves up and went along.
Debbie and Auntie Joan were there as well so there were some familiar faces. Norah told us that she had been asked to be on the adjudicating panel at an event that evening "Miss Saltdean 1975" and would we girls be willing to add to the numbers. I say "girls" but Joan couldn't have been far short of fifty.
We sportingly registered our names and got on with having a good time. Eventually the contest started. As this was in February and far more genteel than Miss World, we weren't expected to parade around in cossies or anything like that. Instead we joined a line-up of women and walked around the dance floor. A DJ interviewed us and I have no idea what he asked me or what I said.
Eventually, the winners were called, "In third place - Mrs Joan Barnett!" Auntie Joan stepped forward. "In second, Miss Debbie Barnett!". Debbie joined her aunt. Norah was beginning to look embarrassed. Would the rest of the council think that it was a set up?
"In first place, Julia Barrett!" announced the DJ. I joined the others, was draped in a sash and awarded a rather pretty rose bowl. Norah was by now hiding under the table. "I didn't vote for any of you!" she protested. "Well, Norah", I reassured her, "When you look at the competition, it's not really surprising that we won!"
This early success certainly didn't lead me into the Beauty Queen world and I now couldn't say what happened to the rose bowl.
On Saturday we went to Paul's cousin's retirement party. There were several relations there whom I hadn't seen since 1975.
We talked about Roger's deceased mother, Norah; her vivaciousness, tendency to call out at 11.00 am in a plummy voice "Bar's open!" and her impact on our lives.
"Do you know", I said to Roger's Aunt Joan "I haven't seen you since "Miss Saltdean" in 1975".
In My Day
Roger's mother, lived in Telscombe. She had her daughter Debbbie living with her as well as her grand-daughter who was about Lizzie's age, so we often visited and were quite close for a time.
Norah had a spell as Mayor of Saltdean. One day she called us and begged us to attend a civic dance being held at Butlins, Saltdean. It was very out of season and I think she was afraid no-one would go. We flossied ourselves up and went along.
Debbie and Auntie Joan were there as well so there were some familiar faces. Norah told us that she had been asked to be on the adjudicating panel at an event that evening "Miss Saltdean 1975" and would we girls be willing to add to the numbers. I say "girls" but Joan couldn't have been far short of fifty.
We sportingly registered our names and got on with having a good time. Eventually the contest started. As this was in February and far more genteel than Miss World, we weren't expected to parade around in cossies or anything like that. Instead we joined a line-up of women and walked around the dance floor. A DJ interviewed us and I have no idea what he asked me or what I said.
Eventually, the winners were called, "In third place - Mrs Joan Barnett!" Auntie Joan stepped forward. "In second, Miss Debbie Barnett!". Debbie joined her aunt. Norah was beginning to look embarrassed. Would the rest of the council think that it was a set up?
"In first place, Julia Barrett!" announced the DJ. I joined the others, was draped in a sash and awarded a rather pretty rose bowl. Norah was by now hiding under the table. "I didn't vote for any of you!" she protested. "Well, Norah", I reassured her, "When you look at the competition, it's not really surprising that we won!"
This early success certainly didn't lead me into the Beauty Queen world and I now couldn't say what happened to the rose bowl.
Monday, August 09, 2010
Information Highway
Today
More on the power of the Internet and its capacity to inform.
I received one of those "round robin" emails today spouting on about today's over-cautious-ness with pregnant women and unborn babies, saying that we oldies survived drinking and smoking mothers and we're OK, aren't we? A little research came up with the infant mortality rates for 1930, 1950 and 2009 and showed that the rate today is 5% of what it was in 1930. So I emailed back my comments to this effect.
It does seem that the Internet provides as much mis-information as information and an awful lot is completely unverified and un-moderated. And some is downright scurrilous.
In My Day
Relying, as we did, on books, did we receive higher-quality information than nowadays? This is a very hard question to answer. Once you'd found something in, say, Chambers Encyclopedia, you tended to trust it. Verfiying the information was such a laborious task and the encyclopedia, you believed, was written to a high academic standard.
Often this was true and I've had very few occasions when I've had to say "that was complete rubbish". On the other hand, authority was much less subjected to questioning and there were very many prejudices aired in these books.
The medical dictionary, for example, said that menstruating women shouldn't bathe or wash their hair. This is tantamount to crying "unclean!" and only one stop short of saying that we shouldn't appear in public. I found that I could do both with impunity and, incidentally, felt so much better for clean hair and a bathed body.
My dictionary told me that masturbation was "self-abuse" which didn't make me any the wiser and world maps usually coloured British colonies in triumphant red as though that was all that mattered.
The encyclopedia confidently divided the world's people into three types (Caucasian, Mongoloid and Negro), which we now know is damagingly too broad-brush, and arrogantly ignored a number of obvious anomalies.
Perhaps that's the true difference between then and now; information was handed down literally, from God-like and British authorities to grateful and unquestioning recipients. Today, we can see how all the world thinks in the click of a mouse.
Not that that has stopped prejudice and bigotry from spreading just as fast.
More on the power of the Internet and its capacity to inform.
I received one of those "round robin" emails today spouting on about today's over-cautious-ness with pregnant women and unborn babies, saying that we oldies survived drinking and smoking mothers and we're OK, aren't we? A little research came up with the infant mortality rates for 1930, 1950 and 2009 and showed that the rate today is 5% of what it was in 1930. So I emailed back my comments to this effect.
It does seem that the Internet provides as much mis-information as information and an awful lot is completely unverified and un-moderated. And some is downright scurrilous.
In My Day
Relying, as we did, on books, did we receive higher-quality information than nowadays? This is a very hard question to answer. Once you'd found something in, say, Chambers Encyclopedia, you tended to trust it. Verfiying the information was such a laborious task and the encyclopedia, you believed, was written to a high academic standard.
Often this was true and I've had very few occasions when I've had to say "that was complete rubbish". On the other hand, authority was much less subjected to questioning and there were very many prejudices aired in these books.
The medical dictionary, for example, said that menstruating women shouldn't bathe or wash their hair. This is tantamount to crying "unclean!" and only one stop short of saying that we shouldn't appear in public. I found that I could do both with impunity and, incidentally, felt so much better for clean hair and a bathed body.
My dictionary told me that masturbation was "self-abuse" which didn't make me any the wiser and world maps usually coloured British colonies in triumphant red as though that was all that mattered.
The encyclopedia confidently divided the world's people into three types (Caucasian, Mongoloid and Negro), which we now know is damagingly too broad-brush, and arrogantly ignored a number of obvious anomalies.
Perhaps that's the true difference between then and now; information was handed down literally, from God-like and British authorities to grateful and unquestioning recipients. Today, we can see how all the world thinks in the click of a mouse.
Not that that has stopped prejudice and bigotry from spreading just as fast.
Wednesday, August 04, 2010
Stating the obvious
Today
One of the problems with having the flat is managing the food store cupboard. While it's easy to decide what to do with perishables it's the "dry goods" that are more difficult to gauge. Just how long should we keep bags of nuts or crisps? We put everything into airtight containers but sometimes that's just not enough.
Fancying a few oat cakes with my cheese at lunchtime today, I pulled out an unopened pack. A rancid odour assailed my nostrils. The "use by" date on the base was December 2009 and it seemed clear that the fat used to make them had gone off. Into the bin with them!
In My Day
I think that "sell by" dates were introduced in the UK about thirty years ago. Before that we had to rely on judgement, old wives tales and the bleedin' obvious.
Judgement generally meant going by the look of something and how long we'd had it. Meat and fish had to be eaten quickly - they kept longer once cooked, from whence came the "joint on Sunday, cold on Monday, pie on Tuesday" kind of housekeeping. Bread went mouldy after a couple of days.
Old wives tales covered seafood being eaten immediately, regardless of whether it looked or smelled OK (they had a point there, those old wives), thunder "turning" the milk or cream and not eating rhubarb or pork in a month with (or was it without) an "R" in it. (no summer months contain an "R")
But mostly, it's bleedin' obvious. If the milk has gone lumpy and smells funny, don't drink it! If the lettuce has gone sort of slimy and the cheese is covered in green mould then it's probably best to leave it alone. Meat with a strange rainbow sheen to it is likely to give you the runs and fish that should be white but looks kind of grey has probably passed the point where you should put it in your face.
So, while I think that the sell-by (now expanded to include "display by" and "use by") concept does afford some protection, it's really a way of letting food manufacturers off the hook as they often are vastly over-cautious with their dating. and nothing beats judgement and the bleedin' obvious.
I found some oatcakes in the cupboard with an even earlier date but they smelled just fine and I've had a couple with cheese and coleslaw.
One of the problems with having the flat is managing the food store cupboard. While it's easy to decide what to do with perishables it's the "dry goods" that are more difficult to gauge. Just how long should we keep bags of nuts or crisps? We put everything into airtight containers but sometimes that's just not enough.
Fancying a few oat cakes with my cheese at lunchtime today, I pulled out an unopened pack. A rancid odour assailed my nostrils. The "use by" date on the base was December 2009 and it seemed clear that the fat used to make them had gone off. Into the bin with them!
In My Day
I think that "sell by" dates were introduced in the UK about thirty years ago. Before that we had to rely on judgement, old wives tales and the bleedin' obvious.
Judgement generally meant going by the look of something and how long we'd had it. Meat and fish had to be eaten quickly - they kept longer once cooked, from whence came the "joint on Sunday, cold on Monday, pie on Tuesday" kind of housekeeping. Bread went mouldy after a couple of days.
Old wives tales covered seafood being eaten immediately, regardless of whether it looked or smelled OK (they had a point there, those old wives), thunder "turning" the milk or cream and not eating rhubarb or pork in a month with (or was it without) an "R" in it. (no summer months contain an "R")
But mostly, it's bleedin' obvious. If the milk has gone lumpy and smells funny, don't drink it! If the lettuce has gone sort of slimy and the cheese is covered in green mould then it's probably best to leave it alone. Meat with a strange rainbow sheen to it is likely to give you the runs and fish that should be white but looks kind of grey has probably passed the point where you should put it in your face.
So, while I think that the sell-by (now expanded to include "display by" and "use by") concept does afford some protection, it's really a way of letting food manufacturers off the hook as they often are vastly over-cautious with their dating. and nothing beats judgement and the bleedin' obvious.
I found some oatcakes in the cupboard with an even earlier date but they smelled just fine and I've had a couple with cheese and coleslaw.
Monday, August 02, 2010
When mother papered the parlour
Today
I can't believe I let Becky talk me into doing some of her decorating. I'd agreed to go up to help her with a massive tidy up and clear out of her flat. As if clearing her garden of weeds, helping her clean and clear her cellar, and sorting CDs, DVDs, books and clothes wasn't enough, I found myself painting some shelves that looked perfectly OK to me.
In My Day
I really hate decorating. I don't know why it's assumed that, as soon as we reach independence, we're all capable of wielding a paint brush, trowel and pasting brush in a way that will do even a halfway decent job.
As a child, I had, of course, watched Daddy doing decorating. The only thing I learnt from him was the importance of cleaning brushes properly.
I think I tried decorating in my teenage attic bedroom at 4BH, but my first proper foray was when I lived in Tarring with Sue Hole. Our otherwise lovely ground floor flat was looking dingy and we persuaded our landlady that we could do the needful. We went to a shop which mixed the paint for you. Eau-de-nil for the living room walls with eggshell grey woodwork, shocking pink in my room with white gloss and I can't remember what Sue wanted. At least we didn't paint the ceilings purple, walls orange and doors pink as many of our hippie colleagues did.
The colour, when mixed didn't look at all right so we went back to the shop where it was proved to us that it exactly matched the colour card. "I'll put some more green in it, if you like", said the shopkeeper, doing so. We decided to live with the resulting vivid peppermint green. I've no idea what the landlady thought of our idiosyncratic colour scheme, which I assume she discovered after we'd left. What I do know is that the quality of our work (especially mine) was of the lowest standard, with unevenly painted walls and curtains of dripping gloss.
Later on, Paul & I decorated the flat at Belmont. There I actually hung wallpaper and am amazed that it clung to the walls at all. At Rowan Avenue we decorated the lounge walls in dark brown gloss and one wall of our bedroom in mirror tiles. We again managed to put wallpaper up at Montfort Close and have decorated at Mead Close. Paul, while being very good at putting shelving and doing electrics and light fittings, has a technique even worse than mine and is a great deal messier, believing that you can clean up all the drips later.
In order to save our marriage, we now get someone in every five years or so to put on another coat of magnolia.
At Becky's I dug my heels in and refused to paint the perfectly nice pine bookcase in the lower hall.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Fount of all Knowledge
Today
I still couldn't get that blasted ball right so in the end I typed into my Google search bar "how many pentagons to make a ball". Immediately I was directed to a craft website which told me that I need twelve and gave instructions for putting it together. Simples!
"We certainly used to be able to find things out before the Internet," I wrote to Beatrice "but it was more laborious and we probably often gave up."
In My day
When I was a child, finding things out generally involved looking in books. You asked your parents, of course, and your vastly more knowledgeable older brothers. Books of reference were found in libraries, both public and at school. I once received a dictionary after writing a prize-winning essay for the local paper and I was very pleased to get it. It not only had the usual A-Z of words; it had world maps, flags and other generally interesting facts.
We also had shelves of reference books at home. A Chambers dictionary, French, German and Latin dictionaries and a twelve volume encyclopedia. We had a medical dictionary that I would read for fun because it described so many weird illnesses, sometimes with gruesome photographs. I sympathised with that character in "Three Men in a Boat" who decided, after reading the medical dictionary, that he had every illness except housemaid's knee. We had a music dictionary and, another favourite a two-volume book entitled "People of all Nations" which depicted unashamedly colonial photographs of indigenous peoples from all over the world. Daddy had collected this in weekly instalments, then had the lot bound. My fascinated eyes would look at a picture of a woman from, say, Papua, new Guinea, dressed only in a tattered skirt and grinning toothlessly at the camera, and captioned "This dusky beauty....". I still have this publication.
I don't think we worried much about the ever changing nature of knowledge; that we are constantly finding out more and understanding both past and present in different ways.
This was nowhere more evident than in the one book which outshone all others in its compactness and range of information. Its only drawback was that it was in German. One of the few books that Mamma had brought with her was the "Knauer" - at least that's how I think it was spelt, I only ever heard Mamma say the word. If we just couldn't find out what we wanted to know Mamma would get out this extraordinarily packed book. The typeface was tiny and the paper was thin so as to accommodate more facts; there were illustrations and photographs and maps. There seemed to be nothing that the Knauer didn't know and it was with something of a thrill that I would watch while Mamma said "Let's see what the Knauer says", and then go unerringly to the right spot.
Do you know I just typed "Knauer" and "Knauer Encyclopedia" into Google and came up with nothing. Maybe that's poetic justice.
I still couldn't get that blasted ball right so in the end I typed into my Google search bar "how many pentagons to make a ball". Immediately I was directed to a craft website which told me that I need twelve and gave instructions for putting it together. Simples!
"We certainly used to be able to find things out before the Internet," I wrote to Beatrice "but it was more laborious and we probably often gave up."
In My day
When I was a child, finding things out generally involved looking in books. You asked your parents, of course, and your vastly more knowledgeable older brothers. Books of reference were found in libraries, both public and at school. I once received a dictionary after writing a prize-winning essay for the local paper and I was very pleased to get it. It not only had the usual A-Z of words; it had world maps, flags and other generally interesting facts.
We also had shelves of reference books at home. A Chambers dictionary, French, German and Latin dictionaries and a twelve volume encyclopedia. We had a medical dictionary that I would read for fun because it described so many weird illnesses, sometimes with gruesome photographs. I sympathised with that character in "Three Men in a Boat" who decided, after reading the medical dictionary, that he had every illness except housemaid's knee. We had a music dictionary and, another favourite a two-volume book entitled "People of all Nations" which depicted unashamedly colonial photographs of indigenous peoples from all over the world. Daddy had collected this in weekly instalments, then had the lot bound. My fascinated eyes would look at a picture of a woman from, say, Papua, new Guinea, dressed only in a tattered skirt and grinning toothlessly at the camera, and captioned "This dusky beauty....". I still have this publication.
I don't think we worried much about the ever changing nature of knowledge; that we are constantly finding out more and understanding both past and present in different ways.
This was nowhere more evident than in the one book which outshone all others in its compactness and range of information. Its only drawback was that it was in German. One of the few books that Mamma had brought with her was the "Knauer" - at least that's how I think it was spelt, I only ever heard Mamma say the word. If we just couldn't find out what we wanted to know Mamma would get out this extraordinarily packed book. The typeface was tiny and the paper was thin so as to accommodate more facts; there were illustrations and photographs and maps. There seemed to be nothing that the Knauer didn't know and it was with something of a thrill that I would watch while Mamma said "Let's see what the Knauer says", and then go unerringly to the right spot.
Do you know I just typed "Knauer" and "Knauer Encyclopedia" into Google and came up with nothing. Maybe that's poetic justice.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Summing up
Today
My nephew became father to his second baby yesterday so I started stitching a gift for little Max. I used to make a soft embroidered ball for the young 'uns years ago and sat down to try to remember how it was made. It uses pentagons so that the sides eventually bend round.
First of all, make the pentagon. Well, if I draw a circle with a given diameter, apply 2PiXR. then divide the result by by five, I should get the circumference divided into five equal sections. I tried about ten times before I could make it work. By cheating a little bit I got a pattern that looked about right. The next job was to decide how many pieces I needed. That is like clinking glasses, I thought: 4+3+2+1, except that it seems that I need seven, not eight pieces.
Struggling with this has taken me about three hours and I'm still not sure that I understand the maths.
In My Day
The thing is, I never did understand maths. From the beginning, my eyes would glaze over when the subject cropped up. I could do my times tables (that was a simple matter of rote learning, after all; nothing to do with understanding) and add up and multiply. Long division defeated me.
When I went to grammar school it was even worse. Geometry was visual enough to be manageable but algebra made no sense at all. It was years later that someone explained to me the point of it all. Trigonometry was only fun because we got to go outside and measure the height of trees in the playground. And I think I missed the class in which we were taught what a logarithm is, let alone how and when to use those crazy books of tables.
Neither Mamma or Daddy seemed at all bothered by this lack in me. Daddy once wrote on a school maths report "Her Daddy can't even add up!" which sort of endorsed my failure. There was a quite unfounded idea that as I was good at the arts I must somehow suffer from a corresponding inability to reason logically. I do now think that this is utter bunkum and that, with the right kind of support and, maybe, teachers who were less theoretical in their approach I might have passed muster. As it is, my knowledge stopped at about third year level.
And we do use all kinds of maths every day. In the supermarket this week, trying to work out whether it was cheaper to buy baked beans in a four-pack or separately, I asked my friend's fifteen year old to divide £2.06 by 4. He got his i-pod out to calculate it, despite my light-hearted chiding! At least I could do that one in my head and went straight for the four-pack, so perhaps I'm not so hopeless after all.
My nephew became father to his second baby yesterday so I started stitching a gift for little Max. I used to make a soft embroidered ball for the young 'uns years ago and sat down to try to remember how it was made. It uses pentagons so that the sides eventually bend round.
First of all, make the pentagon. Well, if I draw a circle with a given diameter, apply 2PiXR. then divide the result by by five, I should get the circumference divided into five equal sections. I tried about ten times before I could make it work. By cheating a little bit I got a pattern that looked about right. The next job was to decide how many pieces I needed. That is like clinking glasses, I thought: 4+3+2+1, except that it seems that I need seven, not eight pieces.
Struggling with this has taken me about three hours and I'm still not sure that I understand the maths.
In My Day
The thing is, I never did understand maths. From the beginning, my eyes would glaze over when the subject cropped up. I could do my times tables (that was a simple matter of rote learning, after all; nothing to do with understanding) and add up and multiply. Long division defeated me.
When I went to grammar school it was even worse. Geometry was visual enough to be manageable but algebra made no sense at all. It was years later that someone explained to me the point of it all. Trigonometry was only fun because we got to go outside and measure the height of trees in the playground. And I think I missed the class in which we were taught what a logarithm is, let alone how and when to use those crazy books of tables.
Neither Mamma or Daddy seemed at all bothered by this lack in me. Daddy once wrote on a school maths report "Her Daddy can't even add up!" which sort of endorsed my failure. There was a quite unfounded idea that as I was good at the arts I must somehow suffer from a corresponding inability to reason logically. I do now think that this is utter bunkum and that, with the right kind of support and, maybe, teachers who were less theoretical in their approach I might have passed muster. As it is, my knowledge stopped at about third year level.
And we do use all kinds of maths every day. In the supermarket this week, trying to work out whether it was cheaper to buy baked beans in a four-pack or separately, I asked my friend's fifteen year old to divide £2.06 by 4. He got his i-pod out to calculate it, despite my light-hearted chiding! At least I could do that one in my head and went straight for the four-pack, so perhaps I'm not so hopeless after all.
Tuesday, July 06, 2010
Wait a minute, Mr Postman
Today
I felt rather jolly to be invited to the birthday party of a friend's daughter. She'll be two and I've promised to be very helpful. I've made a little dress to take her and I hope she'll like it.
Being at that party (more an accident of geography than anything else) means that I will miss that of one of my great nieces who is three on the same day. I made her a pressie too and posted it yesterday. I've made sure that she is the addressee, because when you're little, there's nothing quite so exciting as receiving some post addressed to you rather than your parents. I posted it early to make sure that it would arrive in time.
In My Day
Becky just loved her Sindy Dolls when she was little. They came in a great variety of styles - some had pink hair or sparkly outfits. One, I remember, had styleable hair that you could pull from the crown to make it longer. Becky was rather inclined to take scissors to her Sindys' hair which, since hairstyling was never her thing, led to some odd results. You could buy endless outfits for her and a range of lifestyle accessories. Becky's bedroom was almost entirely taken up by the Sindy house.
1986, when we lived in Southampton, was at the height of this craze. As Becky's ninth birthday approached we searched for new and exciting additions to the collection that wouldn't reduce our floor space much further. The day before her birthday we were in Woolworth's and saw just the thing: Sindy hospital. This consisted of a miniature hospital bed with all the accoutrements; stethoscope, earphones, temperature chart, an X-ray screen which lit up and a number of stick-on transfers to complete the illusion.
We smuggled this object home and opened it up so that we could put the pieces together. Alas! There were a number of smaller pieces missing; no transfers, for one thing plus a couple of other omissions. We phoned Woolworth's. They were very helpful, but we'd bought the last one in stock. They could order another one, they said. Would take about a week. "But her birthday's tomorrow!" I wailed. Woolworth gave us contact details for the manufacturers.
It was by now about four pm. I rang Pedigree toys and explained my predicament. They could certainly send replacement parts free of charge, but couldn't guarantee that they would arrive by the next day. It was the best I could do so I agreed and got on with the job of wrapping gifts and making cake which wasn't so easy with crossed fingers.
The next morning, in traditional fashion, we laid the breakfast table with flowers, cards and presents. Becky was led in to see the candle-lit cake. After she'd blown out the candles she started to open her gifts, including the (unknown to her yet) incomplete Sindy hospital. She was never one to rush the card and gift opening process. Just as she finished and I was preparing to explain about the missing Sindy parts, the doorbell rang. There stood the beautiful, lovely postman. "Parcel for Miss Rebecca Barrett" he announced. There it was, arriving in the nick of time. Not just the missing parts but a full set, giving her an extra bed, X-ray screen and much more. The potential for tears turned into extra joy and the hospital gave her pleasure for years to come.
At least she wasn't into Barbie which might have necessitated a call to the US and unavoidable disappointment. Now, I just have to hope that my great-niece actually likes the gift brought by the postman!
.
I felt rather jolly to be invited to the birthday party of a friend's daughter. She'll be two and I've promised to be very helpful. I've made a little dress to take her and I hope she'll like it.
Being at that party (more an accident of geography than anything else) means that I will miss that of one of my great nieces who is three on the same day. I made her a pressie too and posted it yesterday. I've made sure that she is the addressee, because when you're little, there's nothing quite so exciting as receiving some post addressed to you rather than your parents. I posted it early to make sure that it would arrive in time.
In My Day
Becky just loved her Sindy Dolls when she was little. They came in a great variety of styles - some had pink hair or sparkly outfits. One, I remember, had styleable hair that you could pull from the crown to make it longer. Becky was rather inclined to take scissors to her Sindys' hair which, since hairstyling was never her thing, led to some odd results. You could buy endless outfits for her and a range of lifestyle accessories. Becky's bedroom was almost entirely taken up by the Sindy house.
1986, when we lived in Southampton, was at the height of this craze. As Becky's ninth birthday approached we searched for new and exciting additions to the collection that wouldn't reduce our floor space much further. The day before her birthday we were in Woolworth's and saw just the thing: Sindy hospital. This consisted of a miniature hospital bed with all the accoutrements; stethoscope, earphones, temperature chart, an X-ray screen which lit up and a number of stick-on transfers to complete the illusion.
We smuggled this object home and opened it up so that we could put the pieces together. Alas! There were a number of smaller pieces missing; no transfers, for one thing plus a couple of other omissions. We phoned Woolworth's. They were very helpful, but we'd bought the last one in stock. They could order another one, they said. Would take about a week. "But her birthday's tomorrow!" I wailed. Woolworth gave us contact details for the manufacturers.
It was by now about four pm. I rang Pedigree toys and explained my predicament. They could certainly send replacement parts free of charge, but couldn't guarantee that they would arrive by the next day. It was the best I could do so I agreed and got on with the job of wrapping gifts and making cake which wasn't so easy with crossed fingers.
The next morning, in traditional fashion, we laid the breakfast table with flowers, cards and presents. Becky was led in to see the candle-lit cake. After she'd blown out the candles she started to open her gifts, including the (unknown to her yet) incomplete Sindy hospital. She was never one to rush the card and gift opening process. Just as she finished and I was preparing to explain about the missing Sindy parts, the doorbell rang. There stood the beautiful, lovely postman. "Parcel for Miss Rebecca Barrett" he announced. There it was, arriving in the nick of time. Not just the missing parts but a full set, giving her an extra bed, X-ray screen and much more. The potential for tears turned into extra joy and the hospital gave her pleasure for years to come.
At least she wasn't into Barbie which might have necessitated a call to the US and unavoidable disappointment. Now, I just have to hope that my great-niece actually likes the gift brought by the postman!
.
Sunday, July 04, 2010
Watch the Birdie
Today
This summer we spend at least part of every day sitting, rapt, looking for signs of our latest household member. A wren has taken up residence in a wall planter right beside the French doors that lead from the dining room. Earlier we feared that the nest had been abandoned; but no, several times a day one or the other of the wrens will fly off. They have a maximum security route back. First, the safety of the interior of the viburnum, then a cautious flight to the tip of the branch nearest to the wall planter. Sometimes they call to each other, making a noise so loud you wonder how such a tiny pair of lungs could produce it.
If all is clear, the bird then flies onto a candle sconce on the wall. Finally, into the nest via a hole in the side. We haven't seen or heard any fledglings yet.
Paul has made it clear to Abby that his continued love depends upon her not nabbing one of these wrens; I hope she's been paying attention.
In My Day
It's funny how we apply different values to the creatures with whom we share our lives; insects, except bees, are way at the bottom, birds, particularly pretty ones, are at the top.
When I was a child, our enormous garden was home to myriad birds. Most of them we didn't notice but, every now and then, one would attract our attention. For a number of years, jays would nest in the big sycamore at 4 Beulah. We would hear their raucous call and see the flash of blue and white as it darted about the garden. Blackbirds entertained us with their musical calls; sometimes Daddy swore they were singing a bit of Beethoven or Rimsky-Korsakov.
The garden was home to owls, mostly tawny, I think, and their calls added to the eeriness of night-time.
And, only once, I remember some wrens. This ill-judging pair had built their nest in the low crook of our yew tree, no more than 3 feet from the ground. The nest was highly visible, and as the babies fledged, all my cat Ariadne had to do was reach up and flip them out of the nest. I tried so hard to stop her, but realised that I was doomed to failure.
At least with a nest half-way up a windowless wall, our Somerset wrens have a much better chance of raising their babies.
This summer we spend at least part of every day sitting, rapt, looking for signs of our latest household member. A wren has taken up residence in a wall planter right beside the French doors that lead from the dining room. Earlier we feared that the nest had been abandoned; but no, several times a day one or the other of the wrens will fly off. They have a maximum security route back. First, the safety of the interior of the viburnum, then a cautious flight to the tip of the branch nearest to the wall planter. Sometimes they call to each other, making a noise so loud you wonder how such a tiny pair of lungs could produce it.
If all is clear, the bird then flies onto a candle sconce on the wall. Finally, into the nest via a hole in the side. We haven't seen or heard any fledglings yet.
Paul has made it clear to Abby that his continued love depends upon her not nabbing one of these wrens; I hope she's been paying attention.
In My Day
It's funny how we apply different values to the creatures with whom we share our lives; insects, except bees, are way at the bottom, birds, particularly pretty ones, are at the top.
When I was a child, our enormous garden was home to myriad birds. Most of them we didn't notice but, every now and then, one would attract our attention. For a number of years, jays would nest in the big sycamore at 4 Beulah. We would hear their raucous call and see the flash of blue and white as it darted about the garden. Blackbirds entertained us with their musical calls; sometimes Daddy swore they were singing a bit of Beethoven or Rimsky-Korsakov.
The garden was home to owls, mostly tawny, I think, and their calls added to the eeriness of night-time.
And, only once, I remember some wrens. This ill-judging pair had built their nest in the low crook of our yew tree, no more than 3 feet from the ground. The nest was highly visible, and as the babies fledged, all my cat Ariadne had to do was reach up and flip them out of the nest. I tried so hard to stop her, but realised that I was doomed to failure.
At least with a nest half-way up a windowless wall, our Somerset wrens have a much better chance of raising their babies.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Tasty Morsel
Today
An exchange on Facebook today with David about artichokes. He mentioned that he'd just eaten the first one of the season and it was really tough. I commented that there's so little on an artichoke I'm surprised we bother. David said that soon they'll be delicious.
Agreed, but still not a hearty meal.
In My Day
It's 2003, the year of "Diet Trials", so I'm pretty skinny. Becky had managed to book us into London's Ivy restaurant for her and Beatrice's birthday celebrations. (She later said that she was sure she'd seen Helena Bonham-Carter there, but that's another story.)
We glammed up and went off the the restaurant. Birthday time so we start with champagne. The menu was a mixture of schoolboy basics like steak and kidney pie, fancy modern dishes and meals designed to keep size zero stars happy.
I ordered a nice tomato and onion salad for starters. We also ordered more champagne. For my main course I chose a globe artichoke with a light port wine dip. Artichokes look impressively huge. This one was no exception. I started to peel off the leaves, dip and eat the fleshy bits. Delicious! We ordered some rose Sancerre.
Half an hour went by and I was still pulling off leaves. As I eventually unearthed the "choke" the others ordered another bottle of Sancerre. Because it took so long to eat this object my brain was fooled into thinking that I was having a proper meal, not about 60 calories' worth of main course.
Only later did it catch up with this idea and the fact that I'd had my fair share of celebratory wine. The rest, as they say, is history, except not really part of my history as I forgot everything after that (including the Helena Bonham-Carter moment). But I'm sure I kept everyone amused. And The Ivy must be used to teetering customers trying to get into taxis.
If theses artichokes are from your garden, David, I'd really like to taste one - but I'll team it with some potatoes or something.
An exchange on Facebook today with David about artichokes. He mentioned that he'd just eaten the first one of the season and it was really tough. I commented that there's so little on an artichoke I'm surprised we bother. David said that soon they'll be delicious.
Agreed, but still not a hearty meal.
In My Day
It's 2003, the year of "Diet Trials", so I'm pretty skinny. Becky had managed to book us into London's Ivy restaurant for her and Beatrice's birthday celebrations. (She later said that she was sure she'd seen Helena Bonham-Carter there, but that's another story.)
We glammed up and went off the the restaurant. Birthday time so we start with champagne. The menu was a mixture of schoolboy basics like steak and kidney pie, fancy modern dishes and meals designed to keep size zero stars happy.
I ordered a nice tomato and onion salad for starters. We also ordered more champagne. For my main course I chose a globe artichoke with a light port wine dip. Artichokes look impressively huge. This one was no exception. I started to peel off the leaves, dip and eat the fleshy bits. Delicious! We ordered some rose Sancerre.
Half an hour went by and I was still pulling off leaves. As I eventually unearthed the "choke" the others ordered another bottle of Sancerre. Because it took so long to eat this object my brain was fooled into thinking that I was having a proper meal, not about 60 calories' worth of main course.
Only later did it catch up with this idea and the fact that I'd had my fair share of celebratory wine. The rest, as they say, is history, except not really part of my history as I forgot everything after that (including the Helena Bonham-Carter moment). But I'm sure I kept everyone amused. And The Ivy must be used to teetering customers trying to get into taxis.
If theses artichokes are from your garden, David, I'd really like to taste one - but I'll team it with some potatoes or something.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Snail Mail
Today
The past was threatening to overwhelm the present, in that I had several large and totally unorganised boxes of cards, letters and other memorabilia going back to 1964 cluttering up the study.
So I've spent the last three days trying to get them all into some sort of order before the lot is popped into the loft.
There are greetings cards, Christmas cards, some with nice little notes, thank yous, invitations, baby arrival notes, pieces of work, certificates and school reports belonging to the girls. And letters.
In My Day
Once upon a time we actually used to write letters. Postcards from holiday, letters of congratulations, commiseration or just to say "hello".
Tricia, it seems, used to write to Paul regularly, on all sorts of topics. Her letters rarely give the full date so the year has to be surmised from content. We have the minutiae of her life; catching the bus, cleaning her flat, caring for her great-grand-daughter. She apologises about being tiresome or grumbling and sends meticulous thanks, remembering that the girls would share a room so that there was somewhere for her to sleep or that I had driven a long journey to collect her.
I have a letter written by Daddy after his stroke, struggling to get down a few shaky lines. "What you didn't see" wrote Mamma "is the sheet on which he practised writing 'Dear Julia'". And when I broke my ankle in 1977, he just had to write, but couldn't get the whole phrase down before his co-ordination gave way. I have a letter from Mamma from the Westminster hospital where her lungs were being drained to give her, literally, breathing space before succumbing to lung-cancer.
I wrote postcards from various locations on my great European hitch-hiking tour, mainly, I think, to reassure the folks that I was still alive. And people have sent me postcards from all over the world, although the who & when are pretty random.
There is much correspondence between me & Beatrice; I wonder if she's kept my letters? If she has, the parts can be put together, jigsaw-style. Once we had computers, I wrote many letters on the word-processor. It's true that such letters lack the personality of handwriting, but on the other hand, it enabled me to keep a copy. So many letters to the girls, enclosing cheques and the letter to Becky enclosing the infamous refried beans recipe!
There are those that think that letter-writing had the effect of undermining social interaction because distance is a pre-requisite. But letters also give you time to reflect and order your thoughts and are a lasting reminder of the care that someone else pays to you.
I very much like the lively exchanges that take place of Facebook and MSN, but they are utterly ephemeral and will never be there in the future to revisit and cause one a smile or tear.
In fact, I think I'm going to get my pen out today.
The past was threatening to overwhelm the present, in that I had several large and totally unorganised boxes of cards, letters and other memorabilia going back to 1964 cluttering up the study.
So I've spent the last three days trying to get them all into some sort of order before the lot is popped into the loft.
There are greetings cards, Christmas cards, some with nice little notes, thank yous, invitations, baby arrival notes, pieces of work, certificates and school reports belonging to the girls. And letters.
In My Day
Once upon a time we actually used to write letters. Postcards from holiday, letters of congratulations, commiseration or just to say "hello".
Tricia, it seems, used to write to Paul regularly, on all sorts of topics. Her letters rarely give the full date so the year has to be surmised from content. We have the minutiae of her life; catching the bus, cleaning her flat, caring for her great-grand-daughter. She apologises about being tiresome or grumbling and sends meticulous thanks, remembering that the girls would share a room so that there was somewhere for her to sleep or that I had driven a long journey to collect her.
I have a letter written by Daddy after his stroke, struggling to get down a few shaky lines. "What you didn't see" wrote Mamma "is the sheet on which he practised writing 'Dear Julia'". And when I broke my ankle in 1977, he just had to write, but couldn't get the whole phrase down before his co-ordination gave way. I have a letter from Mamma from the Westminster hospital where her lungs were being drained to give her, literally, breathing space before succumbing to lung-cancer.
I wrote postcards from various locations on my great European hitch-hiking tour, mainly, I think, to reassure the folks that I was still alive. And people have sent me postcards from all over the world, although the who & when are pretty random.
There is much correspondence between me & Beatrice; I wonder if she's kept my letters? If she has, the parts can be put together, jigsaw-style. Once we had computers, I wrote many letters on the word-processor. It's true that such letters lack the personality of handwriting, but on the other hand, it enabled me to keep a copy. So many letters to the girls, enclosing cheques and the letter to Becky enclosing the infamous refried beans recipe!
There are those that think that letter-writing had the effect of undermining social interaction because distance is a pre-requisite. But letters also give you time to reflect and order your thoughts and are a lasting reminder of the care that someone else pays to you.
I very much like the lively exchanges that take place of Facebook and MSN, but they are utterly ephemeral and will never be there in the future to revisit and cause one a smile or tear.
In fact, I think I'm going to get my pen out today.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Ashes
Today
Yesterday was Paul's 60th birthday and a day for which he'd been saving a special treat for twenty years. A bottle of Eldridge Pope Hardy's Ale. According to the brewery it can be kept of 25 years.
I wasn't there when the moment occurred. "How was the beer?" I asked Paul. "Flat as a pancake and smelling of old men's socks," he replied.
Not good then.
In My Day
Beatrice was married, at the age of 18. Mamma made her a traditional rich fruit cake in two layers, one for the wedding and one for the first christening. She made the hardest sort of royal icing, designed to last for ever and sealed both cakes. I can't remember what the cake eaten at the wedding tasted like. The other cake was carefully wrapped and put away in a box in one of Mamma's cupboards.
The christening never came round and, after about eight bad years of marriage, Beatrice's decree absolute came through.
The best way to celebrate, we decided, was to eat the christening cake as a divorce cake. Mamma took the cake out of its wrappings, covered it with fresh icing and sent it to us .
With great ceremony this cake was lifted out of its box and cut. We each took a bite. It tasted dreadful; all that lovely fruit had turned into a dry substance that tasted like ash. A fitting metaphor for the marriage, maybe, but no cause for celebration.
This story reminds us that deferred pleasure doesn't always live up to expectations and can turn to ash in our mouths.
At least Paul had a more recently purchased bottle of Hardy's to enjoy,
Yesterday was Paul's 60th birthday and a day for which he'd been saving a special treat for twenty years. A bottle of Eldridge Pope Hardy's Ale. According to the brewery it can be kept of 25 years.
I wasn't there when the moment occurred. "How was the beer?" I asked Paul. "Flat as a pancake and smelling of old men's socks," he replied.
Not good then.
In My Day
Beatrice was married, at the age of 18. Mamma made her a traditional rich fruit cake in two layers, one for the wedding and one for the first christening. She made the hardest sort of royal icing, designed to last for ever and sealed both cakes. I can't remember what the cake eaten at the wedding tasted like. The other cake was carefully wrapped and put away in a box in one of Mamma's cupboards.
The christening never came round and, after about eight bad years of marriage, Beatrice's decree absolute came through.
The best way to celebrate, we decided, was to eat the christening cake as a divorce cake. Mamma took the cake out of its wrappings, covered it with fresh icing and sent it to us .
With great ceremony this cake was lifted out of its box and cut. We each took a bite. It tasted dreadful; all that lovely fruit had turned into a dry substance that tasted like ash. A fitting metaphor for the marriage, maybe, but no cause for celebration.
This story reminds us that deferred pleasure doesn't always live up to expectations and can turn to ash in our mouths.
At least Paul had a more recently purchased bottle of Hardy's to enjoy,
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Bed in Summer
Today
After a jolly week in which we celebrated at several parties, including Paul's 60th, I just about ran out of steam yesterday. I settled down last night to watch CSI and realised that I'd reached an end.
So, after a bath, during which I dozed off twice, I was in bed and snuggling down by 9.00. Outside the sun was still shining, the birds were singing and the normal noises of the evening went on.
Despite that, I fell asleep and, with only a couple of wakeful periods, surfaced at about 8.00 this morning.
In My Day
When I was small bedtime was fairly sacrosanct. In Summertime this meant trotting off to bed by about 7.00 when the day still seemed to be in full swing. Older members of the family were still moving about; outside buses and cars roared up and down the road. I don't remember protesting much about this; it seemed simply to be the natural order of things.
My bedroom curtains weren't particularly light-excluding and I found that I could read my books quite well in the half-light. This I would do until the words were faintly visible and started to jump about in front of my eyes as the dusk deepened.
At the other end of the night, I would often be awake at 5.00 as the first sunshine seeped between the gap in the curtains. I sometime used to get up and go into the garden to play at skipping or playing ball, before the rest of the household awoke.
Of course, in winter, the opposite happened. I'd be rudely jerked out of sleep while it was still dark and dressed in layer upon layer of clothing to keep out the cold. The sleep stuck to my eyes, I shivered in the cold bedroom and was most reluctant to wash.
Learning about people of earlier time, before there was artificial lighting, I realised that we've lost the diurnal rhythms which should govern our sleep. If you can't see a thing, there's no point in staying up; if the light is too bright, there's no point in trying to sleep. This point seems entirely lost on parents.
There's a poem from Robert Louis Stephenson's "Child's Garden of Verses" which I read as a child and entirely understood. "Bed in Summer". "In winter I get up by night/ and dress by yellow candlelight/ In summer quite the other way/ I have to go to bed by day". Quite.
Although I do still feel a little bit tired this morning.
After a jolly week in which we celebrated at several parties, including Paul's 60th, I just about ran out of steam yesterday. I settled down last night to watch CSI and realised that I'd reached an end.
So, after a bath, during which I dozed off twice, I was in bed and snuggling down by 9.00. Outside the sun was still shining, the birds were singing and the normal noises of the evening went on.
Despite that, I fell asleep and, with only a couple of wakeful periods, surfaced at about 8.00 this morning.
In My Day
When I was small bedtime was fairly sacrosanct. In Summertime this meant trotting off to bed by about 7.00 when the day still seemed to be in full swing. Older members of the family were still moving about; outside buses and cars roared up and down the road. I don't remember protesting much about this; it seemed simply to be the natural order of things.
My bedroom curtains weren't particularly light-excluding and I found that I could read my books quite well in the half-light. This I would do until the words were faintly visible and started to jump about in front of my eyes as the dusk deepened.
At the other end of the night, I would often be awake at 5.00 as the first sunshine seeped between the gap in the curtains. I sometime used to get up and go into the garden to play at skipping or playing ball, before the rest of the household awoke.
Of course, in winter, the opposite happened. I'd be rudely jerked out of sleep while it was still dark and dressed in layer upon layer of clothing to keep out the cold. The sleep stuck to my eyes, I shivered in the cold bedroom and was most reluctant to wash.
Learning about people of earlier time, before there was artificial lighting, I realised that we've lost the diurnal rhythms which should govern our sleep. If you can't see a thing, there's no point in staying up; if the light is too bright, there's no point in trying to sleep. This point seems entirely lost on parents.
There's a poem from Robert Louis Stephenson's "Child's Garden of Verses" which I read as a child and entirely understood. "Bed in Summer". "In winter I get up by night/ and dress by yellow candlelight/ In summer quite the other way/ I have to go to bed by day". Quite.
Although I do still feel a little bit tired this morning.
Monday, June 07, 2010
Apple pie order
Today
Back to the flat today via the London-Brighton Classic car run. Becky had been to the flat the previous week and I'd asked her to make our bed up for us.
With some instruction from me "cotton beneath and linen above" she did - "I don't know if it's right, Madre", she said "I'll never make a chambermaid."
"So long as you haven't made an apple pie bed," joked Paul. Becky and Richard looked puzzled. "The trouble is," I said "is that this generation's been brought up with duvets rather than sheets and blankets".
In My Day
We were brought up with sheets and blankets - top, bottom, two blankets and an "eiderdown". This last conformed to a standard design of paisley patterned quilted covering with frilled edges and was quite weighty.
Apple-pie beds were a normal part of having an older brother. You trot off to bed, looking forward to snuggling down with your Hans Christian Andersen book. You fail to notice that the bed looks suspiciously well-made or that the blankets seem very well-tucked in. You climb into bed, slide your feet down and come up short against the doubled-back sheet. Sometimes you accidentally tear the sheet in the struggle.
Knowing that your mother will just ignore your protests and possibly be annoyed with you for having damaged the sheet, you groan, get up and remake the bed. By which time you're wide-awake.
Your only recourse is to try to visit the same kind of horror on your younger sister, but you'll probably get caught in the act, and anyway Beatrice has by now become suspicious and will turn back the covers to check. So in the end you don't bother.
Just think what fun the younger generation have been missing.
Back to the flat today via the London-Brighton Classic car run. Becky had been to the flat the previous week and I'd asked her to make our bed up for us.
With some instruction from me "cotton beneath and linen above" she did - "I don't know if it's right, Madre", she said "I'll never make a chambermaid."
"So long as you haven't made an apple pie bed," joked Paul. Becky and Richard looked puzzled. "The trouble is," I said "is that this generation's been brought up with duvets rather than sheets and blankets".
In My Day
We were brought up with sheets and blankets - top, bottom, two blankets and an "eiderdown". This last conformed to a standard design of paisley patterned quilted covering with frilled edges and was quite weighty.
Apple-pie beds were a normal part of having an older brother. You trot off to bed, looking forward to snuggling down with your Hans Christian Andersen book. You fail to notice that the bed looks suspiciously well-made or that the blankets seem very well-tucked in. You climb into bed, slide your feet down and come up short against the doubled-back sheet. Sometimes you accidentally tear the sheet in the struggle.
Knowing that your mother will just ignore your protests and possibly be annoyed with you for having damaged the sheet, you groan, get up and remake the bed. By which time you're wide-awake.
Your only recourse is to try to visit the same kind of horror on your younger sister, but you'll probably get caught in the act, and anyway Beatrice has by now become suspicious and will turn back the covers to check. So in the end you don't bother.
Just think what fun the younger generation have been missing.
Tuesday, June 01, 2010
Practise, practise
Today
Paul & I idled away some time watching "Voyager" last night. Neelix is leaving to become a Starfleet ambassador and Mr Tuvok gives him the traditional Vulcan farewell "Live Long & Prosper".
"I rather like that," I said to Paul "It's a very graceful thing to say. We should adopt it" "Ah!" he replied "but can you do the gesture?" "Of course!" I said, demonstrating.
In My Day
It's astonishing just how much time we spend, as children, practising a whole range of actions for no real reason. If you have older brothers, as I did, you have some catching up to do, but I expect most children are the same.
I used to practise turning round and round as fast as I could to see at which point falling over became inevitable. I practised hopping, standing on one leg, and whistling. (I am now unable to whistle, having originally learnt how at about six years of age). I'm not talking about the things that you have to learn, like reading & writing, nor about those things that come naturally such as walking & talking, but completely unnecessary things just to prove you can. How many times you can repeat some foolish rhyme on a single intake of breath. Rubbing your stomach and patting your head simultaneously. Juggling two or more tennis balls. Trying to imitate the silly smile that Daddy used to do (I can still do that too, much to Paul's annoyance).
And practising all sorts of things with your fingers "Church and Steeple" which I practised and practised until my fingers were nimble. And I used to practise splaying my fingers. Just why it's very easy to splay them out unevenly (and it doesn't seem to matter whether it's the little or index that's splayed), while splaying them two-by-two is so hard and takes so much practice and concentration I really don't know.
And I don't know why I worked so hard to achieve it, but I did and can still do it.
Although it does make my elderly joints ache a bit!
Paul & I idled away some time watching "Voyager" last night. Neelix is leaving to become a Starfleet ambassador and Mr Tuvok gives him the traditional Vulcan farewell "Live Long & Prosper".
"I rather like that," I said to Paul "It's a very graceful thing to say. We should adopt it" "Ah!" he replied "but can you do the gesture?" "Of course!" I said, demonstrating.
It's astonishing just how much time we spend, as children, practising a whole range of actions for no real reason. If you have older brothers, as I did, you have some catching up to do, but I expect most children are the same.
I used to practise turning round and round as fast as I could to see at which point falling over became inevitable. I practised hopping, standing on one leg, and whistling. (I am now unable to whistle, having originally learnt how at about six years of age). I'm not talking about the things that you have to learn, like reading & writing, nor about those things that come naturally such as walking & talking, but completely unnecessary things just to prove you can. How many times you can repeat some foolish rhyme on a single intake of breath. Rubbing your stomach and patting your head simultaneously. Juggling two or more tennis balls. Trying to imitate the silly smile that Daddy used to do (I can still do that too, much to Paul's annoyance).
And practising all sorts of things with your fingers "Church and Steeple" which I practised and practised until my fingers were nimble. And I used to practise splaying my fingers. Just why it's very easy to splay them out unevenly (and it doesn't seem to matter whether it's the little or index that's splayed), while splaying them two-by-two is so hard and takes so much practice and concentration I really don't know.
And I don't know why I worked so hard to achieve it, but I did and can still do it.
Although it does make my elderly joints ache a bit!
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Fruits of the earth
Today
A gorgeous picture of my great-nephew Isaac on Facebook today holding an upside-down spoon (why do all children do that?) and filling his face with apfelmus.
He was obviously enjoying the taste! I commented: "I remember apfelmus, I used to make that with Mamma!"
In My Day
Apfelmus was a seasonal treat when I was a child. First, apples had to be garnered. This happened in a number of ways. Sometimes we would go up to Grandma Richardson's house just up the road. Mamma had been a domestic servant to the Richardsons before the war and we kept up a friendly relationship until she died. We'd use huge apple-pickers - great jaws on sticks to pull down the branches and take the apples. There were wind-falls as well. In this way, Grandma R had her crop harvested and we got to take home lots of apples ourselves.
Sometimes the apples came from our garden; but that was before half of the land (the bit containing our raggedy orchard) was compulsorily purchased for housing). We used much the same method to collect our apples. In later years, Bramleys were simply bought from the greengrocer.
First, the apples had to be cored and cut up. Often the insides would reveal maggots or other nasties. I became adept at spotting those apples whose tell-tale little holes and marks gave this away. Cores and stems were discarded but we left the skins on.
Next they were cooked. Mamma used little or no water, allowing the apples to stew in their juices. Bramleys soften up pretty fast and when they were done, batches were put into a large, rather insanitary wooden framed sieve over a large mixing bowl. Using a wooden spoon, the pulp was forced through the mesh. We watched as the puree gradually transferred into the bowl; its colour anything from white through pink to green.
When the last fragment of apple had been pushed through, Mamma would add sugar to the right taste (tart but not too tart) and then add raisins. and left the whole thing until the raisins had plumped up and the mixture cooled.
This was then eaten in big bowlfuls, just as it was. A bowlful probably contained the pulp of about 6 apples and was very filling. I remember loving the contrast of the very sweet raisins with the tartness of the pulp. We always called it by its German name "apfelmus" to the extent that I thought that that was what everyone called it, not realising just what an unusual treat we were having in post-war Britain.
Lizzie used to have a spoon called a "Tommy Tippee" that didn't twist over when she picked it up, thus ensuring a full helping of apfelmus every time. I wonder if they still make them?
A gorgeous picture of my great-nephew Isaac on Facebook today holding an upside-down spoon (why do all children do that?) and filling his face with apfelmus.
He was obviously enjoying the taste! I commented: "I remember apfelmus, I used to make that with Mamma!"
In My Day
Apfelmus was a seasonal treat when I was a child. First, apples had to be garnered. This happened in a number of ways. Sometimes we would go up to Grandma Richardson's house just up the road. Mamma had been a domestic servant to the Richardsons before the war and we kept up a friendly relationship until she died. We'd use huge apple-pickers - great jaws on sticks to pull down the branches and take the apples. There were wind-falls as well. In this way, Grandma R had her crop harvested and we got to take home lots of apples ourselves.
Sometimes the apples came from our garden; but that was before half of the land (the bit containing our raggedy orchard) was compulsorily purchased for housing). We used much the same method to collect our apples. In later years, Bramleys were simply bought from the greengrocer.
First, the apples had to be cored and cut up. Often the insides would reveal maggots or other nasties. I became adept at spotting those apples whose tell-tale little holes and marks gave this away. Cores and stems were discarded but we left the skins on.
Next they were cooked. Mamma used little or no water, allowing the apples to stew in their juices. Bramleys soften up pretty fast and when they were done, batches were put into a large, rather insanitary wooden framed sieve over a large mixing bowl. Using a wooden spoon, the pulp was forced through the mesh. We watched as the puree gradually transferred into the bowl; its colour anything from white through pink to green.
When the last fragment of apple had been pushed through, Mamma would add sugar to the right taste (tart but not too tart) and then add raisins. and left the whole thing until the raisins had plumped up and the mixture cooled.
This was then eaten in big bowlfuls, just as it was. A bowlful probably contained the pulp of about 6 apples and was very filling. I remember loving the contrast of the very sweet raisins with the tartness of the pulp. We always called it by its German name "apfelmus" to the extent that I thought that that was what everyone called it, not realising just what an unusual treat we were having in post-war Britain.
Lizzie used to have a spoon called a "Tommy Tippee" that didn't twist over when she picked it up, thus ensuring a full helping of apfelmus every time. I wonder if they still make them?
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Pinkie
Today
My nephew reported on Facebook today that his two-year had been to casualty, having caught her finger in a hinge with an injury requiring stitches.
He was very proud of the way she's coping and I'm sure his pride is justified. I just have some thoughts whether our pride in our children's stoicism (especially at age two) could cause them to suppress their real feelings. Poor little scrap, I hope she mends soon.
In My Day
Becky was two years old and sitting in the middle of our cramped sitting room floor playing "Christmas". This game entailed her placing one of her favourite toys on a big blanket spread on her lap and wrapping it up. I walked through with a tray of coffee mugs for some visitors and trod right on her little finger that was concealed under the blanket.
I managed not to drop the tray and picked up the crying child. Her little finger nail had pulled right out of the base and the finger was turning blue.
Off to casualty where they took a look and said that they would try to replace the nail. To do this involved giving Becky a "ring-block" of 4 injections at the base of the finger to numb it after which they would try to slide in the nail and repair the finger. "If you wouldn't mind waiting outside, Mrs Barrett", they said and took my baby into the curtained booth in the middle of casualty. There was silence from within the booth.
About half an hour later the nurse and doctor emerged with Becky and bandaged finger. "She was so good," they told me "not a peep!" I looked at Becky - she was only two, after all, not an age at which children are renowned for their ability to keep a check on her emotions. Her face was strange, trance-like, as though she'd entirely absented herself from the situation. I asked her if she was alright. "Did it hurt?" "Yes" "Did you want to cry?" "Yes" "Well, you can cry now if you want" "But it doesn't hurt any more"
Thinking about how she coped without me in that strange place made me want to cry and I hugged her all the way home.
I had to have a "ring-block" a couple of years later when I was having a whitlow removed. It hurt like hell.
My nephew reported on Facebook today that his two-year had been to casualty, having caught her finger in a hinge with an injury requiring stitches.
He was very proud of the way she's coping and I'm sure his pride is justified. I just have some thoughts whether our pride in our children's stoicism (especially at age two) could cause them to suppress their real feelings. Poor little scrap, I hope she mends soon.
In My Day
Becky was two years old and sitting in the middle of our cramped sitting room floor playing "Christmas". This game entailed her placing one of her favourite toys on a big blanket spread on her lap and wrapping it up. I walked through with a tray of coffee mugs for some visitors and trod right on her little finger that was concealed under the blanket.
I managed not to drop the tray and picked up the crying child. Her little finger nail had pulled right out of the base and the finger was turning blue.
Off to casualty where they took a look and said that they would try to replace the nail. To do this involved giving Becky a "ring-block" of 4 injections at the base of the finger to numb it after which they would try to slide in the nail and repair the finger. "If you wouldn't mind waiting outside, Mrs Barrett", they said and took my baby into the curtained booth in the middle of casualty. There was silence from within the booth.
About half an hour later the nurse and doctor emerged with Becky and bandaged finger. "She was so good," they told me "not a peep!" I looked at Becky - she was only two, after all, not an age at which children are renowned for their ability to keep a check on her emotions. Her face was strange, trance-like, as though she'd entirely absented herself from the situation. I asked her if she was alright. "Did it hurt?" "Yes" "Did you want to cry?" "Yes" "Well, you can cry now if you want" "But it doesn't hurt any more"
Thinking about how she coped without me in that strange place made me want to cry and I hugged her all the way home.
I had to have a "ring-block" a couple of years later when I was having a whitlow removed. It hurt like hell.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Patter
Today
Yesterday we met my sister-in-law in Tesco, busy buying baby necessities for her daughter. My niece is fast approaching the time when her second baby will be born. Pregnancy hasn't been an easy experience for her, but that doesn't seem to dim her joy.
In fact, this is a fecund season for the family, with three more babies due this year. My only regret is that the dilution down the generations and geographic distance mean that I don't see as much of my great-nieces and nephews as I'd like. I try not to forget them, however, and make cards and little gifts to send them.
All the grandparents are very much involved with the day-to-day lives of these babies; much more so than when I had my children.
In My Day
Daddy actually had 21 grandchildren if you count the child from Keir's first marriage and those born after he died; if you exclude those he still had fourteen. The age range covers thirty-three years, a whole generation in itself. Daddy was immensely proud of them. When David and Chris both had two children and I still had one he told me to buck up or I'd lose my place in the race. "It's not a competition, Daddy," I said "I'll do this when I'm good and ready."
What I'm not so sure about is how close he felt to these grandchildren. He was very happy to sit surrounded by small people when we went to Dorking to celebrate birthdays, like a familial Buddha, but I don't remember him playing with or talking to them much. Mamma was more likely to get intimately involved, knitting jumpers for the children, cooking with them and telling stories. Certainly Lizzie always felt close to her Grandma and, I think, still misses her.
On the other hand I do remember how Daddy interacted with three month-old Becky when I was caring for him in Dorking while Mamma was in hospital. He talked to her, stimulating her to her first forays into verbal communication and holding her tightly on his lap while I tried to manoeuvre his wheelchair around the hospital corridors, attracting many "oohs" & "aahs!" from passing folk.
Paul and I were discussing quantum theory this morning and the possibility of multiverses. "In another one I might be surrounded by ten grandchildren," he said. "And, who knows, you might hate it!" I replied. I don't think so.
Yesterday we met my sister-in-law in Tesco, busy buying baby necessities for her daughter. My niece is fast approaching the time when her second baby will be born. Pregnancy hasn't been an easy experience for her, but that doesn't seem to dim her joy.
In fact, this is a fecund season for the family, with three more babies due this year. My only regret is that the dilution down the generations and geographic distance mean that I don't see as much of my great-nieces and nephews as I'd like. I try not to forget them, however, and make cards and little gifts to send them.
All the grandparents are very much involved with the day-to-day lives of these babies; much more so than when I had my children.
In My Day
Daddy actually had 21 grandchildren if you count the child from Keir's first marriage and those born after he died; if you exclude those he still had fourteen. The age range covers thirty-three years, a whole generation in itself. Daddy was immensely proud of them. When David and Chris both had two children and I still had one he told me to buck up or I'd lose my place in the race. "It's not a competition, Daddy," I said "I'll do this when I'm good and ready."
What I'm not so sure about is how close he felt to these grandchildren. He was very happy to sit surrounded by small people when we went to Dorking to celebrate birthdays, like a familial Buddha, but I don't remember him playing with or talking to them much. Mamma was more likely to get intimately involved, knitting jumpers for the children, cooking with them and telling stories. Certainly Lizzie always felt close to her Grandma and, I think, still misses her.
On the other hand I do remember how Daddy interacted with three month-old Becky when I was caring for him in Dorking while Mamma was in hospital. He talked to her, stimulating her to her first forays into verbal communication and holding her tightly on his lap while I tried to manoeuvre his wheelchair around the hospital corridors, attracting many "oohs" & "aahs!" from passing folk.
Paul and I were discussing quantum theory this morning and the possibility of multiverses. "In another one I might be surrounded by ten grandchildren," he said. "And, who knows, you might hate it!" I replied. I don't think so.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Mulling it over
Today
Being rather hesitant about hacking straight into my beautiful piece of sari silk, I decided to do a mock up of the jacket I'm making in plain fabric first. I persuaded Paul to check my measurements (my back neck-waist measurement is a whole three inches shorter than the average for my size!) before cutting out the paper pattern.
"Do you know", I said to Paul "when I was learning cutting we used to make a basic "body"out of calico which we then used as the template for all patterns. It was called a "mull"".
In My Day
I didn't start out knowing how to do all this. Back in the '60's I used to measure myself then cut out the fabric to the shape I wanted. I became very observant of how clothes were constructed, but had no idea about allowances and easing and other technical terms. Somehow the clothes I put together hung together - perhaps because dress shapes then were just straight shift and I never attempted jackets or anything clever.
When I went to the West Sussex College of Art to learn theatre design, I began to learn more about how to turn an idea into a beautifully fitting work of art. For this we went to the fashion department, where a very precise and helpful woman taught me the right way to take measurements, how to allow for the movement of the body and how to respect and use the grain and weave of the cloth. "Dressmaking" she told us "is all about how to make a flat piece of fabric fit the curved shape of the body."
I learnt that, for a hem to hang straight, it must be cut curved, and how to allow for the slope of the shoulders at the back so that the garment didn't rise up. I was fascinated - this is what I'd been missing all those years ago, when I'd just made it up as I went along,
When that part of the training was considered over for the more generalised theatre design students, I went back and begged to be taught some tailoring. So the teacher patiently showed me how to steam, stretch and shape heavy wool and canvas interfacings to give the perfect jacket or coat. I made a coat, too, using an old army blanket that came from God knows where, which I wore for some years. I learnt how to make a bound buttonholes (I was not so good at worked ones and have been grateful for the automation that my sewing machine gave me).
I never entered the world of theatre design but have lost count of the number of garments I have made since, for myself, children, family, friends and others, sometimes for payment, sometimes for love. My greatest reward is to see people actually wearing the clothes I've made them.
I've just remembered the name of that teacher; it was Mrs Mull!
What I have now is a hankering for a proper adjustable dressmakers' dummy. Anyone got one hanging about?
Being rather hesitant about hacking straight into my beautiful piece of sari silk, I decided to do a mock up of the jacket I'm making in plain fabric first. I persuaded Paul to check my measurements (my back neck-waist measurement is a whole three inches shorter than the average for my size!) before cutting out the paper pattern.
"Do you know", I said to Paul "when I was learning cutting we used to make a basic "body"out of calico which we then used as the template for all patterns. It was called a "mull"".
In My Day
I didn't start out knowing how to do all this. Back in the '60's I used to measure myself then cut out the fabric to the shape I wanted. I became very observant of how clothes were constructed, but had no idea about allowances and easing and other technical terms. Somehow the clothes I put together hung together - perhaps because dress shapes then were just straight shift and I never attempted jackets or anything clever.
When I went to the West Sussex College of Art to learn theatre design, I began to learn more about how to turn an idea into a beautifully fitting work of art. For this we went to the fashion department, where a very precise and helpful woman taught me the right way to take measurements, how to allow for the movement of the body and how to respect and use the grain and weave of the cloth. "Dressmaking" she told us "is all about how to make a flat piece of fabric fit the curved shape of the body."
I learnt that, for a hem to hang straight, it must be cut curved, and how to allow for the slope of the shoulders at the back so that the garment didn't rise up. I was fascinated - this is what I'd been missing all those years ago, when I'd just made it up as I went along,
When that part of the training was considered over for the more generalised theatre design students, I went back and begged to be taught some tailoring. So the teacher patiently showed me how to steam, stretch and shape heavy wool and canvas interfacings to give the perfect jacket or coat. I made a coat, too, using an old army blanket that came from God knows where, which I wore for some years. I learnt how to make a bound buttonholes (I was not so good at worked ones and have been grateful for the automation that my sewing machine gave me).
I never entered the world of theatre design but have lost count of the number of garments I have made since, for myself, children, family, friends and others, sometimes for payment, sometimes for love. My greatest reward is to see people actually wearing the clothes I've made them.
I've just remembered the name of that teacher; it was Mrs Mull!
What I have now is a hankering for a proper adjustable dressmakers' dummy. Anyone got one hanging about?
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Stitch up
Today
I had a happy hour today, pottering round "Rose Crafts" in Midsomer Norton. It's a proper old-fashioned fabric shop - what I use to call a "draper" It has a shop window full of artistically draped bolts of cloth.
Inside are two floors crammed with fabrics, dress patterns, buttons, cords, lace, tassels and notions. Notions are all the other bits - snap fasteners, eyelets, bias binding, tapes etc. There's also plenty of stuff if you knit or embroider.
Of course, the shop, also carries lines of self-adhesive twiddly bits to satisfy the current fashion for sticking said bits onto cards and calling them hand-made greetings cards.... If they didn't, they'd be out of business.
The point of this is that I had to travel to Norton for this. There's nothing in Bath, Wells or Frome. "Where have all the drapers gone?" I asked Paul. "Once upon a time every tiny town had a shop carrying this sort of stuff."
In My Day
As a child I was taught needlework. I can't say I enjoyed it much at the time; only later seeing the relevance to real life and discovering the creative joy of turning flat fabric into garments that flattered the body.
But I don't think I ever questioned that it was an important skill. A sewing machine was a normal piece of household equipment, equivalent to an iron, kettle or cooker. When I designed the costumes for "A Midsummer Night's Dream" at Selhurst and knew I wouldn't have time to stitch them all myself, it didn't seem unreasonable to cut the costumes out and send them home for mothers to do the making up. Generally, one could assume that they had the skills.
Mamma made clothes for me and Beatrice when we were small, as well as costumes for us all for many occasions. She also knitted jumpers and suchlike, although I'm not sure that her knitting skills were great; something to do with the tension, I believe.
The advent of cheap clothes is killing the skill of practical dressmaking just as surely as convenience foods are killing basic cookery skills (not to be confused with the sort of stuff you see on TV - I mean of the boiling an egg variety). I can see why it happens, but, come the revolution, where will we all be if we can't stitch on a button?
About forty years ago, when she lived at South Norwood, Beatrice gave me a needle book. This I still use and have just topped it up with fresh supplies, including two new bodkins.
I had a happy hour today, pottering round "Rose Crafts" in Midsomer Norton. It's a proper old-fashioned fabric shop - what I use to call a "draper" It has a shop window full of artistically draped bolts of cloth.
Inside are two floors crammed with fabrics, dress patterns, buttons, cords, lace, tassels and notions. Notions are all the other bits - snap fasteners, eyelets, bias binding, tapes etc. There's also plenty of stuff if you knit or embroider.
Of course, the shop, also carries lines of self-adhesive twiddly bits to satisfy the current fashion for sticking said bits onto cards and calling them hand-made greetings cards.... If they didn't, they'd be out of business.
The point of this is that I had to travel to Norton for this. There's nothing in Bath, Wells or Frome. "Where have all the drapers gone?" I asked Paul. "Once upon a time every tiny town had a shop carrying this sort of stuff."
In My Day
As a child I was taught needlework. I can't say I enjoyed it much at the time; only later seeing the relevance to real life and discovering the creative joy of turning flat fabric into garments that flattered the body.
But I don't think I ever questioned that it was an important skill. A sewing machine was a normal piece of household equipment, equivalent to an iron, kettle or cooker. When I designed the costumes for "A Midsummer Night's Dream" at Selhurst and knew I wouldn't have time to stitch them all myself, it didn't seem unreasonable to cut the costumes out and send them home for mothers to do the making up. Generally, one could assume that they had the skills.
Mamma made clothes for me and Beatrice when we were small, as well as costumes for us all for many occasions. She also knitted jumpers and suchlike, although I'm not sure that her knitting skills were great; something to do with the tension, I believe.
The advent of cheap clothes is killing the skill of practical dressmaking just as surely as convenience foods are killing basic cookery skills (not to be confused with the sort of stuff you see on TV - I mean of the boiling an egg variety). I can see why it happens, but, come the revolution, where will we all be if we can't stitch on a button?
About forty years ago, when she lived at South Norwood, Beatrice gave me a needle book. This I still use and have just topped it up with fresh supplies, including two new bodkins. Since Beatrice is completely challenged in this department I can only assume that the giving of such gifts ensures my continuing availability to make and repair for her for the foreseeeable future.
Sunday, May 09, 2010
Necessity
Today
Necessity, they say is the mother of invention. That depends on what you regard as necessary, of course.
I was trying to finish the dungarees I'm stitching for my little great-nephew who's two in a couple of weeks. Just doing the front waistband and realised, after a tricky bit of manoeuvring, that the bobbin had run out and I'd been working away achieving absolutely nothing.
"Humph!" I grumbled "you'd think by this time they'd have invented a method of warning you that it's about to run out...."
In My Day
Daddy was constantly having ideas for inventions. It seemed that he dreamt them and he'd then excitedly tell us of his latest plan. Mostly that's as far as they got, if you don't count his invention for helping him to breathe at night with a cold, which consisted of two little tubes of cardboard stuck into each nostril.... Even so, it was probably a patentable idea.
Often he'd awake after such a dream only to find those brilliant thoughts just slipping away from him. So he kept a little notebook beside the bed so that he could jot down the details of what was to bring him lasting fame and fortune before he forgot. All of his jottings, without exception, when read over a morning cuppa were complete gibberish, like automatic writing in an unknown tongue.
Hearing us describe the throwing of streamers at the last night of the Proms, he dreamt about making a streamer gun. Now there was an idea. Only he never developed it and so we are not now the heirs to the party popper king fortune, somebody else is!
Interesting to think that there was clearly more necessity giving birth to that invention than to the idea of a bobbin warning system.
Necessity, they say is the mother of invention. That depends on what you regard as necessary, of course.
I was trying to finish the dungarees I'm stitching for my little great-nephew who's two in a couple of weeks. Just doing the front waistband and realised, after a tricky bit of manoeuvring, that the bobbin had run out and I'd been working away achieving absolutely nothing.
"Humph!" I grumbled "you'd think by this time they'd have invented a method of warning you that it's about to run out...."
In My Day
Daddy was constantly having ideas for inventions. It seemed that he dreamt them and he'd then excitedly tell us of his latest plan. Mostly that's as far as they got, if you don't count his invention for helping him to breathe at night with a cold, which consisted of two little tubes of cardboard stuck into each nostril.... Even so, it was probably a patentable idea.
Often he'd awake after such a dream only to find those brilliant thoughts just slipping away from him. So he kept a little notebook beside the bed so that he could jot down the details of what was to bring him lasting fame and fortune before he forgot. All of his jottings, without exception, when read over a morning cuppa were complete gibberish, like automatic writing in an unknown tongue.
Hearing us describe the throwing of streamers at the last night of the Proms, he dreamt about making a streamer gun. Now there was an idea. Only he never developed it and so we are not now the heirs to the party popper king fortune, somebody else is!
Interesting to think that there was clearly more necessity giving birth to that invention than to the idea of a bobbin warning system.
Wednesday, May 05, 2010
Night Light
Today
I've just returned from a weekend in Barcelona. Our city-centre hotel bedroom had a complicated set of window coverings. On the outside, traditional slatted wooden shutters. Then sliding glass doors onto the tiny balcony. Next, another sliding glass door which was mirrored on the inside. Finally some gauze curtains which appeared to have little function, even decorative.
There were three effects of this arrangement, all based on exclusion: air, sound and light. The inner door meant that you had no idea what time of day or night it was. Waking up, I had no natural clues as to what time it could possibly be. I must say, I found this disconcerting.
In My Day
Being brought up in London meant the continual presence of street lights at night time. The lights of London cast an orange glow, so much so that I was sometimes surprised when visiting other cities to see white or even greenish lights.
Our bedrooms had curtains, of course, but they did a sketchy job of excluding these lights. Add to that the fact that our rooms were in the basement so we were looking up and you have a lurid effect. (Actually, thinking about this, I realise that the boys, whose bedrooms overlooked the garden, probably had a quite different experience.)
Even now, I'm not sure of the extent to which I found the lights frightening or reassuring, the latter on balance, I guess as total darkness would have been completely impossible to deal with. On dark stormy nights the trees in the front garden would wave about menacingly; their monstrous shapes exaggerated by the hellish orange lights. Primed for terror by too much reading of fairy stories and seeing "Snow-White", I wondered if those huge waving arms could grab and crush me. Did they conceal giants or wicked witches? Maybe tigers or lions.
The nights could seem interminable; but at least the daylight would eventually squeeze out the night horrors and I could watch for the sun or grey dawn, knowing that I had a reprieve. I don't think I talked much about this, being only too happy that it was daytime; certainly there was no suggestion of nightlights or leaving lights on.
I must say, since the Council replaced our streetlight, which has so far failed to come on, that Paul and I have found our nights somewhat improved!
I've just returned from a weekend in Barcelona. Our city-centre hotel bedroom had a complicated set of window coverings. On the outside, traditional slatted wooden shutters. Then sliding glass doors onto the tiny balcony. Next, another sliding glass door which was mirrored on the inside. Finally some gauze curtains which appeared to have little function, even decorative.
There were three effects of this arrangement, all based on exclusion: air, sound and light. The inner door meant that you had no idea what time of day or night it was. Waking up, I had no natural clues as to what time it could possibly be. I must say, I found this disconcerting.
In My Day
Being brought up in London meant the continual presence of street lights at night time. The lights of London cast an orange glow, so much so that I was sometimes surprised when visiting other cities to see white or even greenish lights.
Our bedrooms had curtains, of course, but they did a sketchy job of excluding these lights. Add to that the fact that our rooms were in the basement so we were looking up and you have a lurid effect. (Actually, thinking about this, I realise that the boys, whose bedrooms overlooked the garden, probably had a quite different experience.)
Even now, I'm not sure of the extent to which I found the lights frightening or reassuring, the latter on balance, I guess as total darkness would have been completely impossible to deal with. On dark stormy nights the trees in the front garden would wave about menacingly; their monstrous shapes exaggerated by the hellish orange lights. Primed for terror by too much reading of fairy stories and seeing "Snow-White", I wondered if those huge waving arms could grab and crush me. Did they conceal giants or wicked witches? Maybe tigers or lions.
The nights could seem interminable; but at least the daylight would eventually squeeze out the night horrors and I could watch for the sun or grey dawn, knowing that I had a reprieve. I don't think I talked much about this, being only too happy that it was daytime; certainly there was no suggestion of nightlights or leaving lights on.
I must say, since the Council replaced our streetlight, which has so far failed to come on, that Paul and I have found our nights somewhat improved!
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Deadly Dandelion
Today
The sun's been shining for a week; time to add instant colour to the garden and hold back the weeds. I'd just yanked out my first weed (a large dandelion) when Paul announced tea. Feeling peckish I made myself a snack. I debated on washing my hands but as I'd only touched a single plant I didn't bother. "I doubt I'll poison myself" I reasoned.
In My Day
Things are so much more frightening when you're a child. There were many tales about the dangers of poisonous plants designed to put terror into your heart, Quite apart from Deadly Nightshade (the name gave you the shivers) there was the glorious Laburnum (why did people plant them in gardens where there were children? At least Deadly Nightshade was wild and couldn't help itself) and a host of attractive and lethal berries come autumn. I just about dared to pick and eat blackberries.
I remember one spring, entranced by the beauty of the Hawthorn, picking some sprays to perfume 4BH. When I told another child she looked horrified and trotted out some pre-druidical cant about "May" blossom in the house bringing bad luck. Sick with fear in case the house had collapsed or unimaginable disaster had hit my family I could hardly wait to get home from school and throw out every last fragment of the dangerous plant as Mamma looked on in bemusement.
Dandelions grew in every crevice in post-war London and we all held in fear the thick milky liquid that came out of the stems. One touch of it on your lips and you'd die in agonies, apparently. I believed it all and scrubbed away before I'd go near food.
Actually, it appears that all parts of the Dandelion are edible and that the sap has many beneficial properties. And my garden's looking beautiful while I'm feeling fine.
The sun's been shining for a week; time to add instant colour to the garden and hold back the weeds. I'd just yanked out my first weed (a large dandelion) when Paul announced tea. Feeling peckish I made myself a snack. I debated on washing my hands but as I'd only touched a single plant I didn't bother. "I doubt I'll poison myself" I reasoned.
In My Day
Things are so much more frightening when you're a child. There were many tales about the dangers of poisonous plants designed to put terror into your heart, Quite apart from Deadly Nightshade (the name gave you the shivers) there was the glorious Laburnum (why did people plant them in gardens where there were children? At least Deadly Nightshade was wild and couldn't help itself) and a host of attractive and lethal berries come autumn. I just about dared to pick and eat blackberries.
I remember one spring, entranced by the beauty of the Hawthorn, picking some sprays to perfume 4BH. When I told another child she looked horrified and trotted out some pre-druidical cant about "May" blossom in the house bringing bad luck. Sick with fear in case the house had collapsed or unimaginable disaster had hit my family I could hardly wait to get home from school and throw out every last fragment of the dangerous plant as Mamma looked on in bemusement.
Dandelions grew in every crevice in post-war London and we all held in fear the thick milky liquid that came out of the stems. One touch of it on your lips and you'd die in agonies, apparently. I believed it all and scrubbed away before I'd go near food.
Actually, it appears that all parts of the Dandelion are edible and that the sap has many beneficial properties. And my garden's looking beautiful while I'm feeling fine.
Friday, April 16, 2010
There's a Place for Us
Today
There's a widely held fallacy which is that cats are more connected to places than people. As Agnes & Albinoni (Liz will call him "Albers" and I suppose I can't object as he belongs to her now) are comfortably settled in now, being more attached to each other and their feeding bowls than anything else.
And Abby successfully travelled with us to Brighton, taking only a couple of hours to find some favoured places (Under the chaise long where she imagines she's hidden but doesn't realise her tail's sticking out, and by the sitting room radiator). Having us there to cuddle her is clearly what matters most and a total absence of other cats.
In My Day
I've had a few travelling cats. Ariadne travelled home with me nearly every weekend, came on holiday to Blue Anchor bay and home with her kitten Algernon at the end of one summer term. She came with me to Eastbourne where she so upset the resident tortoiseshell cat that I had to ask Mamma to look after her at 4BH. She lived with me at the Gatehouse, Wilmington, happily hunting in the meadows, at Cromwell Road, Hove and Belmont. She never seemed to require settling in; if she could smell my scent and hear my voice she was fine.
Annalise and Ajax used to travel in the car, attached only by harnesses and leads. We took them with us, much like one takes a dog; they were happy anywhere. It was only when they were at the gatehouse without us that they ran off, never to be seen again.
I rather like to feel that it's me that makes the difference, unless it's just a full feeding bowl!
There's a widely held fallacy which is that cats are more connected to places than people. As Agnes & Albinoni (Liz will call him "Albers" and I suppose I can't object as he belongs to her now) are comfortably settled in now, being more attached to each other and their feeding bowls than anything else.
And Abby successfully travelled with us to Brighton, taking only a couple of hours to find some favoured places (Under the chaise long where she imagines she's hidden but doesn't realise her tail's sticking out, and by the sitting room radiator). Having us there to cuddle her is clearly what matters most and a total absence of other cats.
In My Day
I've had a few travelling cats. Ariadne travelled home with me nearly every weekend, came on holiday to Blue Anchor bay and home with her kitten Algernon at the end of one summer term. She came with me to Eastbourne where she so upset the resident tortoiseshell cat that I had to ask Mamma to look after her at 4BH. She lived with me at the Gatehouse, Wilmington, happily hunting in the meadows, at Cromwell Road, Hove and Belmont. She never seemed to require settling in; if she could smell my scent and hear my voice she was fine.
Annalise and Ajax used to travel in the car, attached only by harnesses and leads. We took them with us, much like one takes a dog; they were happy anywhere. It was only when they were at the gatehouse without us that they ran off, never to be seen again.
I rather like to feel that it's me that makes the difference, unless it's just a full feeding bowl!
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Cat Brain
Today
After much agonising we decided that the kitties had to go. We love them dearly, despite their naughtiness, but Abby just couldn't get used to them.
Lizzie, bless her, has added them to her cat menagerie and it's turning out OK. Agnes has surprised us all with her insouciant way of exploring her new environment, the way in which she intimidated Klaus in his own front room and the fact that she has worked out how to unlock the catflap!
There have been many discussions about the intelligence of cats; unmeasurable, it seems. My experience suggests an enormous variability in the style of their intelligence. Some know just how to please their owners; others how to maximise their standing in the neighbourhood. Some can see themselves in mirrors; others can recognise images on TV or sounds on the radio. All my cats have learnt their names (or approximations - Albinoni looks up if you call him "Al Capone") but Liz doesn't think that Klaus or Stevesie really know their names. I think it's down to a sort of feline cost-benefit analysis.
In My Day
In terms of intelligence that humans can appreciate, I guess that Agamemnon was the tops. He was the only cat I ever had who had worked out the relationship between the door handle and the door opening. He once got the fridge door open and ate his entire next three days' food in one go. He used to hurl himself against the hatch door at Rowan Avenue until the flimsy magnet catch gave way and we were forced to put a bolt on it.
Once at Mead Close he learnt to hang onto the door handle trying with all his strength to open the door. He succeeded once or twice too; if he had been a little weightier he'd have opened it regularly, thus obliging us to fit more bolts. The door handle was covered in scratches where he'd hung unto it trying to depress it.
It seems that, if your animals are clever, we forgive them any naughtiness that transpires.
There's an old story about a cat, pig and dog who'd been trained to expect food after a particular door set into a large wall was opened. The wall was removed and it took the pig and the dog very little time to work out that they could now get to the food whenever they wanted. The cat, however, continued to sit beside the door in the middle of nowhere until it was opened.
Just a stupid cat, I guess, and clearly no equal to my Agamemnon or Agnes.
After much agonising we decided that the kitties had to go. We love them dearly, despite their naughtiness, but Abby just couldn't get used to them.
Lizzie, bless her, has added them to her cat menagerie and it's turning out OK. Agnes has surprised us all with her insouciant way of exploring her new environment, the way in which she intimidated Klaus in his own front room and the fact that she has worked out how to unlock the catflap!
There have been many discussions about the intelligence of cats; unmeasurable, it seems. My experience suggests an enormous variability in the style of their intelligence. Some know just how to please their owners; others how to maximise their standing in the neighbourhood. Some can see themselves in mirrors; others can recognise images on TV or sounds on the radio. All my cats have learnt their names (or approximations - Albinoni looks up if you call him "Al Capone") but Liz doesn't think that Klaus or Stevesie really know their names. I think it's down to a sort of feline cost-benefit analysis.
In My Day
In terms of intelligence that humans can appreciate, I guess that Agamemnon was the tops. He was the only cat I ever had who had worked out the relationship between the door handle and the door opening. He once got the fridge door open and ate his entire next three days' food in one go. He used to hurl himself against the hatch door at Rowan Avenue until the flimsy magnet catch gave way and we were forced to put a bolt on it.
Once at Mead Close he learnt to hang onto the door handle trying with all his strength to open the door. He succeeded once or twice too; if he had been a little weightier he'd have opened it regularly, thus obliging us to fit more bolts. The door handle was covered in scratches where he'd hung unto it trying to depress it.
It seems that, if your animals are clever, we forgive them any naughtiness that transpires.
There's an old story about a cat, pig and dog who'd been trained to expect food after a particular door set into a large wall was opened. The wall was removed and it took the pig and the dog very little time to work out that they could now get to the food whenever they wanted. The cat, however, continued to sit beside the door in the middle of nowhere until it was opened.
Just a stupid cat, I guess, and clearly no equal to my Agamemnon or Agnes.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Poor Kitty
Today
So sorry for my great niece whose little cat was killed yesterday, I assume in an accident. She's doubly upset because the cat was left lying where she was killed and she's angry at the implication of callousness. Of course, it may be that the perpetrator wasn't even aware of what had happened; cats can move very quickly. But either way, it's very distressing for her.
In My Day
Agamemnon was perhaps the most handsome cat I've ever owned. He was very aware of his regal good looks but this didn't stop him from being very affectionate; he just loved to sit on my lap!
The time was about half-past midnight, the date 5 May 1993. I was awoken by a horrible yowling under my window. "Oh, Agamemnon!" I thought "go and make this noise somewhere else!" I was quite accustomed to his territorial noisy gestures, designed to warn other cats off. I opened the window and there he was, crouching on the front lawn. I told him to stop his noise.
As soon as he saw me he started to come toward the house. Only he couldn't. He used his front legs to pull himself forward but was clearly severely hurt. I ran downstairs and picked him up. I couldn't see any blood but his back legs had simply stopped working. How he had dragged himself all the way home I've no idea.
In the morning, I had an appointment with Daddy's memorial but Paul agreed to take the cat to the vet. Later that afternoon I called Paul who told me that the vet had said that Agamemnon had suffered damage to his spine, probably from a glancing blow from a car. He'd been given a steroid injection but the vet wasn't too hopeful.
Home I dashed to take my beloved cat on my lap. I'm not sure that he knew who I was. His lips were curled backwards and soon he was having fits. I just held him tight, unable to do anything but watch as he died in great distress. I suppose this didn't take very long but it seemed long to me. Although he was eighteen years old, he had till then been in excellent health and I felt upset at having him snatched away from me.
I can only hope that the driver of the car that eventually dispatched him had not been aware of this happening and am glad that at least Agamemnon came home to die. Natasha, I know just how much you will miss little Bella.
So sorry for my great niece whose little cat was killed yesterday, I assume in an accident. She's doubly upset because the cat was left lying where she was killed and she's angry at the implication of callousness. Of course, it may be that the perpetrator wasn't even aware of what had happened; cats can move very quickly. But either way, it's very distressing for her.
In My Day
Agamemnon was perhaps the most handsome cat I've ever owned. He was very aware of his regal good looks but this didn't stop him from being very affectionate; he just loved to sit on my lap!
The time was about half-past midnight, the date 5 May 1993. I was awoken by a horrible yowling under my window. "Oh, Agamemnon!" I thought "go and make this noise somewhere else!" I was quite accustomed to his territorial noisy gestures, designed to warn other cats off. I opened the window and there he was, crouching on the front lawn. I told him to stop his noise.
As soon as he saw me he started to come toward the house. Only he couldn't. He used his front legs to pull himself forward but was clearly severely hurt. I ran downstairs and picked him up. I couldn't see any blood but his back legs had simply stopped working. How he had dragged himself all the way home I've no idea.
In the morning, I had an appointment with Daddy's memorial but Paul agreed to take the cat to the vet. Later that afternoon I called Paul who told me that the vet had said that Agamemnon had suffered damage to his spine, probably from a glancing blow from a car. He'd been given a steroid injection but the vet wasn't too hopeful.
Home I dashed to take my beloved cat on my lap. I'm not sure that he knew who I was. His lips were curled backwards and soon he was having fits. I just held him tight, unable to do anything but watch as he died in great distress. I suppose this didn't take very long but it seemed long to me. Although he was eighteen years old, he had till then been in excellent health and I felt upset at having him snatched away from me.
I can only hope that the driver of the car that eventually dispatched him had not been aware of this happening and am glad that at least Agamemnon came home to die. Natasha, I know just how much you will miss little Bella.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Caretaker
Today
I'm always a little suspicious of "friend" requests from people I don't know. But when Sabine Bartosch not only asked to be my friend but also sent me an email reminding me that she'd been a student guest in my house back in 1981 I just had to accept. "I remember you!" I replied " you were so mannerly and went to the Catholic Church each Sunday so beautifully dressed."
In My Day
Having foreign students to share your house in summer was a standard part of life in Eastbourne. It was how you managed to afford a holiday or to furnish another room. Our houses were pretty small and we'd cram the children into the box room to give the best guest room to the students.
The experience ranged from the truly dreadful to the rewarding. Our first visitor was a German called Peter. After we'd got used to the German inability to add "please" to a remark we enjoyed his company. Next was Elmach, a genial young man with huge muscles, who ate just about all his rent in food; we just couldn't fill him. He was very embarrassed by the arrival of a compatriot, aged about 50, named Mrs Blank. This woman marched into out home, demanded tea, grumbled about the existence of cats in the house and stripped the sheets to check they were clean, Hang on, I thought they were our guests, not the hotel inspector! In the end we complained to the language school and they agreed that she had really come along for a cheap holiday and relieved us of her presence. At least it ensured the perfect mannerliness of Elmach from then on!
But, mostly, we had Austrian girls. So beautifully brought up. The first, Barbara, was a lively girl who was constantly falling in love with other (usually Italian) students she met in town. I've no idea how her parents coped with her. There was the red-haired Regina, the girl who wouldn't eat and the girl, whose sister was staying just up the road, who was the only person in the world afraid of Caspian the dog. Sabine I remember as a quiet oasis in our hectic lives. She remembers us as caring and kind, so we both benefited.
At least we never had to suffer the dreadful experience of our best friends, whose Spanish student simply looked the wrong way when crossing a road and was killed.
There are so many ways to discover and remember old friends and I'm always touched and delighted. Sabine, I hope your life has been rewarding; with four children it's certainly been busy! Perhaps we can find a way to meet again.
I'm always a little suspicious of "friend" requests from people I don't know. But when Sabine Bartosch not only asked to be my friend but also sent me an email reminding me that she'd been a student guest in my house back in 1981 I just had to accept. "I remember you!" I replied " you were so mannerly and went to the Catholic Church each Sunday so beautifully dressed."
In My Day
Having foreign students to share your house in summer was a standard part of life in Eastbourne. It was how you managed to afford a holiday or to furnish another room. Our houses were pretty small and we'd cram the children into the box room to give the best guest room to the students.
The experience ranged from the truly dreadful to the rewarding. Our first visitor was a German called Peter. After we'd got used to the German inability to add "please" to a remark we enjoyed his company. Next was Elmach, a genial young man with huge muscles, who ate just about all his rent in food; we just couldn't fill him. He was very embarrassed by the arrival of a compatriot, aged about 50, named Mrs Blank. This woman marched into out home, demanded tea, grumbled about the existence of cats in the house and stripped the sheets to check they were clean, Hang on, I thought they were our guests, not the hotel inspector! In the end we complained to the language school and they agreed that she had really come along for a cheap holiday and relieved us of her presence. At least it ensured the perfect mannerliness of Elmach from then on!
But, mostly, we had Austrian girls. So beautifully brought up. The first, Barbara, was a lively girl who was constantly falling in love with other (usually Italian) students she met in town. I've no idea how her parents coped with her. There was the red-haired Regina, the girl who wouldn't eat and the girl, whose sister was staying just up the road, who was the only person in the world afraid of Caspian the dog. Sabine I remember as a quiet oasis in our hectic lives. She remembers us as caring and kind, so we both benefited.
At least we never had to suffer the dreadful experience of our best friends, whose Spanish student simply looked the wrong way when crossing a road and was killed.
There are so many ways to discover and remember old friends and I'm always touched and delighted. Sabine, I hope your life has been rewarding; with four children it's certainly been busy! Perhaps we can find a way to meet again.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Toothmug
Today
Paul's having some difficulty with his meals at the moment. As part of his ongoing dental work (see Feb 17th 2010 entry http://in-my-day.blogspot.com/2010/02/positive-ageing.html), all the redundant teeth have been removed so that he has to eat his dinners with, effectively, just his incisors.
His dentist gave him the choice of implants or dentures. Thankfully, he chose the former. It would be a bit strange being married to a man who puts his teeth in a glass at night.
In My Day
Removable teeth can present many hazards. When Paul first joined the ambulance service in 1976 he was taught early on to remove the dentures of unconscious elderly patients. The ambulanceman responsible for his on the road training time and time again reminded him "teeth"!
On one occasion he was attending to a semi-conscious patient. He attempted to remove the teeth but the patient put up a surprising amount of resistance."Paul tried to persuade her "Come on, love, I've got to take them out; it's for your own safety." He continued to struggle while the patient clamped her mouth down on his hand.
Suddenly Paul noticed that his colleague was doubled up with laughter. "It's not funny", said Paul "can't you help me?" "I don't think so" replied Brian "I don't think those are dentures; I think they are her real teeth!" In great embarrassment Paul took his hand out of the patient's mouth.
And then there was the case of Fiona who, one night, removed all the dentures at the old folks' home where she worked and put the whole lot into a single large washing up bowl of disinfectant....I think some residents never got their own teeth back and there were some chomping away on two lots of uppers or lowers for some weeks.
Brian drove home the point by presenting Paul with a huge set of teeth made out of Eastbourne rock.
So, once Paul can actually chew his food, at least there won't be a toothmug by the bedside.
Paul's having some difficulty with his meals at the moment. As part of his ongoing dental work (see Feb 17th 2010 entry http://in-my-day.blogspot.com/2010/02/positive-ageing.html), all the redundant teeth have been removed so that he has to eat his dinners with, effectively, just his incisors.
His dentist gave him the choice of implants or dentures. Thankfully, he chose the former. It would be a bit strange being married to a man who puts his teeth in a glass at night.
In My Day
Removable teeth can present many hazards. When Paul first joined the ambulance service in 1976 he was taught early on to remove the dentures of unconscious elderly patients. The ambulanceman responsible for his on the road training time and time again reminded him "teeth"!
On one occasion he was attending to a semi-conscious patient. He attempted to remove the teeth but the patient put up a surprising amount of resistance."Paul tried to persuade her "Come on, love, I've got to take them out; it's for your own safety." He continued to struggle while the patient clamped her mouth down on his hand.
Suddenly Paul noticed that his colleague was doubled up with laughter. "It's not funny", said Paul "can't you help me?" "I don't think so" replied Brian "I don't think those are dentures; I think they are her real teeth!" In great embarrassment Paul took his hand out of the patient's mouth.
And then there was the case of Fiona who, one night, removed all the dentures at the old folks' home where she worked and put the whole lot into a single large washing up bowl of disinfectant....I think some residents never got their own teeth back and there were some chomping away on two lots of uppers or lowers for some weeks.
Brian drove home the point by presenting Paul with a huge set of teeth made out of Eastbourne rock.
So, once Paul can actually chew his food, at least there won't be a toothmug by the bedside.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Decor
Today
Although the flat in Brighton is Regency in origin, Paul & I (more especially Paul) have rather a hankering for the Art Deco. We do have Art Deco style uplighters in t
he hall but that's about it. Or was until yesterday. Paul has been longing for an Art Deco "Lady Lamp" for ages, but all that we looked at were naff or the wrong colour or shape. Yesterday we wandered into the Snoopers' Paradise in Kensington Gardens, ostensibly so that I could try to find some nice handbag clasps and there she was: 7ft tall, white porcelain, holding aloft the torch! At half-price, bargainaceous as well. "Shall we go and have a cup of tea and think about it?" I asked Paul. "There's nothing to think about", he said.
he hall but that's about it. Or was until yesterday. Paul has been longing for an Art Deco "Lady Lamp" for ages, but all that we looked at were naff or the wrong colour or shape. Yesterday we wandered into the Snoopers' Paradise in Kensington Gardens, ostensibly so that I could try to find some nice handbag clasps and there she was: 7ft tall, white porcelain, holding aloft the torch! At half-price, bargainaceous as well. "Shall we go and have a cup of tea and think about it?" I asked Paul. "There's nothing to think about", he said.And so Aphrodite came into our lives, a "lady lamp" with a difference.
In My Day
Fashions in home decor come and go much like everything else and when I was a child anything from the '20s or '30s would just have been seen as hopelessly dowdy and old-fashioned, although I believe we had a steel-framed couch inspired by the Bauhaus. In fact, none of our furniture was at all stylish and had mostly been acquired with economy and child-resistance in mind.
In the early days of our marriage, Paul introduced me to his Auntie Norah. She had recently inherited a house, fully furnished, from an elderly relative. The house was perched on Telscome Tye and was absolutely crammed with art deco. There was any number of lady-lamps, little wall-planters shaped like picture hats and completely meaningless plaster wall plaques of ladies with attenuated necks gazing into the distance,
There were mirrors whose perimeters were gently stepped in traditional Art Deco fashion and coloured a light salmon pink and cupboards with equally sloping shoulders and little fan-like decorations on their fronts. Paul and I thought it was all hideous and were surprised that Norah gave it house room.
Of course it would all be worth a fortune today and I can't track the moment when our tastes changed.
But Aphrodite looks absolutely wonderful and I'm totally in love. I hope that those who come after us will take good care of her.
Monday, March 08, 2010
Rough Justice
Today
A big fuss today because of the news that John Venables, one of the killers of James Bulger, may have to stand trial for another crime. The hounds of vengeance are baying for blood. Given that he was ten years old at the time and has served the sentence laid down for him, I agree totally with the judge that his anonymity is crucial because there are those out there who would take the law into their own hands.
In My Day
This is really Becky's story but it sheds a light on cases such as these. When Becky lived in Wimbledon she was in the shopping centre one day. She heard a child's voice saying "Mummy?" Looking around she saw a child of about two, clearly lost. Other shoppers were ignoring the child and there was no sign of the mother or a responsible adult.
Becky approached the child and asked if he was lost. She then took him into a shop and asked if they could contact security and put out a page to locate the mother.
This was duly done and the mother turned up. Without a word of thanks to Becky the mother went off with her child.
A few minutes later, Becky saw the mother, deep in conversation with a friend, paying no attention as the child wandered off again. This time she didn't intervene.
When she told me the story I gasped "But that's James Bulger all over again!" It's my belief that if just one person had paid attention to this unattended two year old, he might still be alive and his killers may be living normal lives.
I am so sorry for his death, but every adult in that shopping centre that day, and his mother must take some responsibility for the fact that he was able to wander alone to meet his killers.
A big fuss today because of the news that John Venables, one of the killers of James Bulger, may have to stand trial for another crime. The hounds of vengeance are baying for blood. Given that he was ten years old at the time and has served the sentence laid down for him, I agree totally with the judge that his anonymity is crucial because there are those out there who would take the law into their own hands.
In My Day
This is really Becky's story but it sheds a light on cases such as these. When Becky lived in Wimbledon she was in the shopping centre one day. She heard a child's voice saying "Mummy?" Looking around she saw a child of about two, clearly lost. Other shoppers were ignoring the child and there was no sign of the mother or a responsible adult.
Becky approached the child and asked if he was lost. She then took him into a shop and asked if they could contact security and put out a page to locate the mother.
This was duly done and the mother turned up. Without a word of thanks to Becky the mother went off with her child.
A few minutes later, Becky saw the mother, deep in conversation with a friend, paying no attention as the child wandered off again. This time she didn't intervene.
When she told me the story I gasped "But that's James Bulger all over again!" It's my belief that if just one person had paid attention to this unattended two year old, he might still be alive and his killers may be living normal lives.
I am so sorry for his death, but every adult in that shopping centre that day, and his mother must take some responsibility for the fact that he was able to wander alone to meet his killers.
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