Today
I spent a day in Bath yesterday. The new Southgate shopping centre is pretty awful; faked-looking, rather oppressive and with no street-life. And it's causing the regular shops in the main streets to close down.
I talked over this regrettable change to Bath with the friends with whom I lunched. "The other regrettable change", I said "is that there's a Radley shop bang in the centre of town. What's a girl to do?" I only have about ten Radley bags plus two hand-luggage sized suitcases, so there's plenty of scope.
In My Day
I don't know what drives some of us to be happy with one bag and two pairs of trousers while others feel that they always need to squeeze another item into their wardrobe.
Daddy could never see the need for more than one set of clothes (plus maybe some to do the gardening or decorating in). Mamma would arrange for him to be measured for a new suit but he would never wear it until the old one got to the point of making him look like a dangerous tramp. Shirts could be eked out by using detachable collars which were changed daily.
In many ways Daddy was a generous and open-handed father and husband. He proudly used to say that he didn't give Mamma "housekeeping" money, he gave her his purse. But when it came to buying new clothes, Mamma had to resort to stratagems and wiles, or just plain nagging.
Sometimes Mamma would plead on my behalf for new clothes; I found this embarrassing and a bit humiliating. I, too, used to have to make one outfit do for many occasions when other girls seemed to have so much choice. I learnt that they had clean socks and knickers daily (I was wise enough to say nowt when this subject came up) and a range of pretty clothes to choose from.
I suppose it was inevitable that the first thing I bought with my paper round money was a pair of shoes over which I'd been lusting for some time. By the time I was sixteen I'd learnt how to make skirts and dresses for myself and how to scour shops for remnants. It meant that I was mistress of my own wardrobe and have never since felt the need to beg permission or apologise for the acquisition of as many clothes, shoes and bags as I want.
So, if Daddy's intention was to teach me a stern lesson about the frivolity of such fripperies as Radley bags, I'm afraid it failed to hit home. Radley has a lovely new colour this season "Virtual Pink". Yum.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Saturday, July 09, 2011
Sound of Music
Today
"I've got a crazy idea", said Beatrice to me this morning. Nothing new, then. She went on to expound it which is that the family gets together to put on a performance of Handel's Acis & Galatea. I don't think it had got much beyond the idea stage and I suggested that she flesh out a few details before making a proposition to the rest of the family.
In My Day
I think Beatrice's interest in this work comes from a deep sense of unfinished business. Back in 1985 she and I joined a singing group called The Eastbourne Opera and Oratorio Workshop. We met on Saturday mornings in a dingy church or church hall in Upperton Road in Eastbourne. There a small and motley group of singers gathered to work their way through a range of pieces. When we joined, the work in progress was Acis & Galatea.
The talents of the singers were very varied indeed; there being some who could barely read music and others who had musical but no other skills.
Our tenor had a voice of tremulous beauty; he was a middle-aged bachelor, with all the hall-marks of the type. Badly, not to say raggedly dressed in ancient and smelly clothes, with no communication skills and permanently bad hair and teeth, he was accompanied to rehearsals by a dragon-faced mother who sat at the back of the hall until we'd finished. The thought of his playing Acis to anyone's Galatea was pretty nauseating, but close your eyes and your heart melted with the sound of his voice.
As is common with almost all singing groups, we had more women than men and they were pretty well all younger, better-looking and better at singing than almost all the men so our sound was rather lumpy at times. The soloists for this work were already chosen and the group slogged through the choruses, occasionally making real music. Our tutor clearly had a passion for the piece and managed to get a spark of drama out of us from time to time.
I never discovered whether there was any intention of actually giving a finished performance of the work; certainly concert dates weren't mentioned and there was no choreography of any kind suggested. I left Eastbourne before the charms of Acis & Galatea had been exhausted so can't tell how it all ended.
Beatrice, having persuaded me to Sing "As When the Dove" at her wedding, obviously wants more, much more! And who knows, she just might pull it off.
"I've got a crazy idea", said Beatrice to me this morning. Nothing new, then. She went on to expound it which is that the family gets together to put on a performance of Handel's Acis & Galatea. I don't think it had got much beyond the idea stage and I suggested that she flesh out a few details before making a proposition to the rest of the family.
In My Day
I think Beatrice's interest in this work comes from a deep sense of unfinished business. Back in 1985 she and I joined a singing group called The Eastbourne Opera and Oratorio Workshop. We met on Saturday mornings in a dingy church or church hall in Upperton Road in Eastbourne. There a small and motley group of singers gathered to work their way through a range of pieces. When we joined, the work in progress was Acis & Galatea.
The talents of the singers were very varied indeed; there being some who could barely read music and others who had musical but no other skills.
Our tenor had a voice of tremulous beauty; he was a middle-aged bachelor, with all the hall-marks of the type. Badly, not to say raggedly dressed in ancient and smelly clothes, with no communication skills and permanently bad hair and teeth, he was accompanied to rehearsals by a dragon-faced mother who sat at the back of the hall until we'd finished. The thought of his playing Acis to anyone's Galatea was pretty nauseating, but close your eyes and your heart melted with the sound of his voice.
As is common with almost all singing groups, we had more women than men and they were pretty well all younger, better-looking and better at singing than almost all the men so our sound was rather lumpy at times. The soloists for this work were already chosen and the group slogged through the choruses, occasionally making real music. Our tutor clearly had a passion for the piece and managed to get a spark of drama out of us from time to time.
I never discovered whether there was any intention of actually giving a finished performance of the work; certainly concert dates weren't mentioned and there was no choreography of any kind suggested. I left Eastbourne before the charms of Acis & Galatea had been exhausted so can't tell how it all ended.
Beatrice, having persuaded me to Sing "As When the Dove" at her wedding, obviously wants more, much more! And who knows, she just might pull it off.
Wednesday, July 06, 2011
Risky
Today
This morning, on our walk up the lane, our discussion was triggered by the phone-hacking scandal, currently in progress. This led us to the legitimacy of investigative journalism. I mentioned the range of "facts" uncovered by such journalism in the Madelaine McCann disappearance.
I commented on the layout of the holiday resort where the McCanns were staying and the surprisingly large distance between the restaurant and the apartment where the girls were sleeping. "It's easy for us to judge," said Paul "but we took many risks when the girls were small and are only vindicated by the fact that they are still here and very much grown up."
In My Day
We chose the house in Rowan Avenue, back in 1975, partly because our best friends were buying the other side of the semi, so to speak. The house, while not jerry-built, had fairly thin walls and it was easy to hear noises from the other side of the wall.
In those days we were far too poor to afford baby-sitters on a regular basis but wanted to spend time with our friends. "Well", I reasoned "If we can hear noises, we can hear baby-noises. And next door is only thirty seconds away." So we often popped next door where rowdy games of Nap and endless cups of instant coffee made up the bulk of our entertainments.
We took it in turns to pop next door about every twenty minutes to half hour to check on the girls and make sure they were OK.
On one occasion, during the period that Beatrice was living with us, it was Beatrice's turn to "pop" next door. Off she went. Ten minutes, twenty minutes went by; no Beatrice. Just as I began to wonder what might be the matter, she returned, looking frazzled. She explained why this was so.
"I checked Lizzie and she was fast asleep and fine", she said. "Then I went into Becky's room. The bedding was on the floor but no sign of Becky." In a panic Beatrice had gone from room to room. No Becky. Windows and doors were secured and there was no sign of any problems. Becky was a well-known escapologist and Beatrice started to fear the worst. How could she come back and face me with the news that Becky had disappeared and might have been abducted or might be wandering off in the dark towards the main road?
Slowly she went back to the room and absently gathered up the tumbled bed clothes. And there was Becky, still fast asleep, half under the bed. She had clearly fallen out of bed, still sleeping, taking the bedclothes with her.
Laughing and crying, Beatrice told us what had happened. We laughed too and didn't really face up to the implications of our actions.
Little Maddie, whatever happened to you, never mind if anyone was a little careless, I can't imagine what you must have or may be suffering and I wish you well.
This morning, on our walk up the lane, our discussion was triggered by the phone-hacking scandal, currently in progress. This led us to the legitimacy of investigative journalism. I mentioned the range of "facts" uncovered by such journalism in the Madelaine McCann disappearance.
I commented on the layout of the holiday resort where the McCanns were staying and the surprisingly large distance between the restaurant and the apartment where the girls were sleeping. "It's easy for us to judge," said Paul "but we took many risks when the girls were small and are only vindicated by the fact that they are still here and very much grown up."
In My Day
We chose the house in Rowan Avenue, back in 1975, partly because our best friends were buying the other side of the semi, so to speak. The house, while not jerry-built, had fairly thin walls and it was easy to hear noises from the other side of the wall.
In those days we were far too poor to afford baby-sitters on a regular basis but wanted to spend time with our friends. "Well", I reasoned "If we can hear noises, we can hear baby-noises. And next door is only thirty seconds away." So we often popped next door where rowdy games of Nap and endless cups of instant coffee made up the bulk of our entertainments.
We took it in turns to pop next door about every twenty minutes to half hour to check on the girls and make sure they were OK.
On one occasion, during the period that Beatrice was living with us, it was Beatrice's turn to "pop" next door. Off she went. Ten minutes, twenty minutes went by; no Beatrice. Just as I began to wonder what might be the matter, she returned, looking frazzled. She explained why this was so.
"I checked Lizzie and she was fast asleep and fine", she said. "Then I went into Becky's room. The bedding was on the floor but no sign of Becky." In a panic Beatrice had gone from room to room. No Becky. Windows and doors were secured and there was no sign of any problems. Becky was a well-known escapologist and Beatrice started to fear the worst. How could she come back and face me with the news that Becky had disappeared and might have been abducted or might be wandering off in the dark towards the main road?
Slowly she went back to the room and absently gathered up the tumbled bed clothes. And there was Becky, still fast asleep, half under the bed. She had clearly fallen out of bed, still sleeping, taking the bedclothes with her.
Laughing and crying, Beatrice told us what had happened. We laughed too and didn't really face up to the implications of our actions.
Little Maddie, whatever happened to you, never mind if anyone was a little careless, I can't imagine what you must have or may be suffering and I wish you well.
Saturday, July 02, 2011
Idyllic
Today
I've always thought that the tale behind how Wagner's Siegfried Idyll was written is very romantic. Last night we listened to this rapturous little piece, courtesy of Lizzie, who'd given Paul a CD of Wagner orchestral items for his birthday.
"Doesn't this just release a flood of memories?" asked Paul. Indeed.
In My Day
When we were first married and living in the flat at Belmont in Brighton we somehow cobbled together a usable Hi-fi from various bits and pieces - an amplifier from me, a deck from who knows where and some speakers housed in old fashioned cabinets.
And didn't we love our music! We played whatever we could, on sometimes old and scratchy vinyl discs.
When Lizzie was a baby, she went through a phase, very common among newborns, of being rather fretful during early evening. Maybe it was a just a result of the change from her day at the childminder's to home and my tiredness and inability to cope that triggered this off. We quickly discovered that music soothed her troubled, if not exactly savage, breast, especially the Siegfried Idyll. It was no hardship to play this again and again as her crying tailed off and she settled into peaceful slumber.
It enabled us to get on with whatever chores were needed. I remember when we decorated the living room; we bought a creamy coloured paint named "County Cream" and its smell filled the room as strongly as did the sounds of Wagner, so that the two became somehow linked.
In some ways those days seem like another world, when we worried and scrabbled around to cope from day to day, with barely any idea of what we were doing. In others ways it's just the beginning of the thread that brings us to today.
And surely our story is every bit as romantic as Richard and Cosima Wagner's.
I've always thought that the tale behind how Wagner's Siegfried Idyll was written is very romantic. Last night we listened to this rapturous little piece, courtesy of Lizzie, who'd given Paul a CD of Wagner orchestral items for his birthday.
"Doesn't this just release a flood of memories?" asked Paul. Indeed.
In My Day
When we were first married and living in the flat at Belmont in Brighton we somehow cobbled together a usable Hi-fi from various bits and pieces - an amplifier from me, a deck from who knows where and some speakers housed in old fashioned cabinets.
And didn't we love our music! We played whatever we could, on sometimes old and scratchy vinyl discs.
When Lizzie was a baby, she went through a phase, very common among newborns, of being rather fretful during early evening. Maybe it was a just a result of the change from her day at the childminder's to home and my tiredness and inability to cope that triggered this off. We quickly discovered that music soothed her troubled, if not exactly savage, breast, especially the Siegfried Idyll. It was no hardship to play this again and again as her crying tailed off and she settled into peaceful slumber.
It enabled us to get on with whatever chores were needed. I remember when we decorated the living room; we bought a creamy coloured paint named "County Cream" and its smell filled the room as strongly as did the sounds of Wagner, so that the two became somehow linked.
In some ways those days seem like another world, when we worried and scrabbled around to cope from day to day, with barely any idea of what we were doing. In others ways it's just the beginning of the thread that brings us to today.
And surely our story is every bit as romantic as Richard and Cosima Wagner's.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Ring of Change
Today
My sister-in-law Joan and I were admiring a new ring which adorned the hand of our niece yesterday. It was a pretty gold-coloured band formed of flowers. "I've not really been a 'ring' person up to now," said Ruth "but these were very pretty so I'd thought I'd try." Joan wondered how much they'd get in the way of washing up etc. "They're dress rings," said I "not ones to wear all the time", adding that I personally only wear "official" rings, so to speak.
In My Day
As I have described before, Paul and I were penniless when we celebrated our rapidly arranged wedding in 1971. We went into a jewellers in Brighton to buy a wedding ring. After much agonising we chose a plain band, about 5mm wide. This cost the princely sum of £6.00 and we pushed the boat out by buying a white gold ring at £6.50. Paul was unable to afford it so I forked out for my own wedding ring.
I think it was 1999; we were in the shopping Mall at Cribb's Causeway. As we passed a jewellers, Paul suddenly stopped and said "It's about time I bought you a proper wedding ring, Mrs Barrett." I was so surprised I actually felt a bit of a flutter like a Victorian maiden and was tempted to reply "Oh, Sir, this is so sudden!"
We didn't rush things but went into several jewellers in Bath before choosing a gold double band. it was now pretty close to our wedding anniversary so Paul decided to wait until then before placing the ring on my finger.
It so happened that the anniversary coincided with the bi-annual "Fete Champetre" at Stourhead. The theme was "La Belle Epoch" and Paul, Lizzie and I dressed in white tie, tails and top hats with opera cloaks. I had arranged for a picnic for Flare staff and many of them also came along, some suitable dressed. When they became aware of the fact that it was our anniversary and were told the story of the ring, they wouldn't let Paul get away with just giving me the ring. Oh, no! They insisted that he get down on one knee and place on my hand. Which he did, amid much cheering and clinking of glasses.
People asked me what I was going to do with the white gold ring. "That's the one I was married with!" I said "It stays right on my finger!"
Which is why I have worn two wedding rings ever since.
My sister-in-law Joan and I were admiring a new ring which adorned the hand of our niece yesterday. It was a pretty gold-coloured band formed of flowers. "I've not really been a 'ring' person up to now," said Ruth "but these were very pretty so I'd thought I'd try." Joan wondered how much they'd get in the way of washing up etc. "They're dress rings," said I "not ones to wear all the time", adding that I personally only wear "official" rings, so to speak.
In My Day
As I have described before, Paul and I were penniless when we celebrated our rapidly arranged wedding in 1971. We went into a jewellers in Brighton to buy a wedding ring. After much agonising we chose a plain band, about 5mm wide. This cost the princely sum of £6.00 and we pushed the boat out by buying a white gold ring at £6.50. Paul was unable to afford it so I forked out for my own wedding ring.
I think it was 1999; we were in the shopping Mall at Cribb's Causeway. As we passed a jewellers, Paul suddenly stopped and said "It's about time I bought you a proper wedding ring, Mrs Barrett." I was so surprised I actually felt a bit of a flutter like a Victorian maiden and was tempted to reply "Oh, Sir, this is so sudden!"
We didn't rush things but went into several jewellers in Bath before choosing a gold double band. it was now pretty close to our wedding anniversary so Paul decided to wait until then before placing the ring on my finger.
It so happened that the anniversary coincided with the bi-annual "Fete Champetre" at Stourhead. The theme was "La Belle Epoch" and Paul, Lizzie and I dressed in white tie, tails and top hats with opera cloaks. I had arranged for a picnic for Flare staff and many of them also came along, some suitable dressed. When they became aware of the fact that it was our anniversary and were told the story of the ring, they wouldn't let Paul get away with just giving me the ring. Oh, no! They insisted that he get down on one knee and place on my hand. Which he did, amid much cheering and clinking of glasses.
People asked me what I was going to do with the white gold ring. "That's the one I was married with!" I said "It stays right on my finger!"
Which is why I have worn two wedding rings ever since.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
House Guest
Today
We've just waved goodbye to Paul's recently rediscovered old friend Graham who stayed with us for a few days. He has a huge voice and personality and his six foot five inch frame was continually encountering hazards in our little house. He quoted Petronius to us, basically along the lines of four days being the maximum length of stay before you're knifing each other!
I don't know about that, and I much enjoyed his visit. The house does seem larger and quieter without him, though.
In My Day
The house at Rowan Avenue was a very modest sized three bedroomed semi. The third bedroom barely accommodated a bed, let alone any storage furniture. We used to say that our house had elastic walls.
In 1977 my half-sister Carol arrived from Canada, more or less unannounced. She brought with her her husband and three youngest children. I think originally the plan had been to stay with her mother who was at that time living in Hove. But the unspeakably dirty way in which she lived made that impossible.
She talked it over with Daddy. "I don't know what we're to do," she said "The children are adamant that they won't stay another night at their Grandmother's place and I can't blame them. But we can't really afford a hotel..." "Oh!" I said "Come and stay with us!" Paul didn't so much as blink and backed up my invitation.
Firstly, we had to work out how to get us all back from Dorking. We were driving a Vauxhall Ventura, which was just an ordinary saloon car. Carol and family had no transport, having been relying on public transport and taxis. Somehow we all piled in. Paul drove, I, heavily pregnant with Becky, sat in the front with Lizzie wedged in the passenger footwell between my knees. Carol, Nick and three teenage children somehow stuffed themselves into the back seat and off we set. Even the policeman who spoke to us at the scene of an accident turned a blind eye to this feat of packing and we got to Eastbourne safely.
Now, how to make our elastic house hold these guests? Four year-old Lizzie was moved to a zed-bed in our bedroom. Jan & Suzee were accommodated in the second bedroom and Peter had the tiny room (he was the only member of that family even approaching tiny). Carol & Nick valiantly slept on the airbed which we put onto the living room floor. And the cats were firmly locked into the kitchen. The house was open-plan so Carol & Nick had no kind of privacy but they clearly thought that their digs with us were preferable to the more spacious but smelly accommodation in Hove.
They stayed for over a week, during which time we took them out and about in Sussex and up to Penkridge to see Keir and family (they did hire a car for that). I think they really only left to stay with Chris in London because of the imminence of the birth of Becky which happened a few days later.
And the knives weren't drawn, not even once.
Actually, the only thing I don't like about guests is the need for me to don a dressing gown when visiting the bathroom.
We've just waved goodbye to Paul's recently rediscovered old friend Graham who stayed with us for a few days. He has a huge voice and personality and his six foot five inch frame was continually encountering hazards in our little house. He quoted Petronius to us, basically along the lines of four days being the maximum length of stay before you're knifing each other!
I don't know about that, and I much enjoyed his visit. The house does seem larger and quieter without him, though.
In My Day
The house at Rowan Avenue was a very modest sized three bedroomed semi. The third bedroom barely accommodated a bed, let alone any storage furniture. We used to say that our house had elastic walls.
In 1977 my half-sister Carol arrived from Canada, more or less unannounced. She brought with her her husband and three youngest children. I think originally the plan had been to stay with her mother who was at that time living in Hove. But the unspeakably dirty way in which she lived made that impossible.
She talked it over with Daddy. "I don't know what we're to do," she said "The children are adamant that they won't stay another night at their Grandmother's place and I can't blame them. But we can't really afford a hotel..." "Oh!" I said "Come and stay with us!" Paul didn't so much as blink and backed up my invitation.
Firstly, we had to work out how to get us all back from Dorking. We were driving a Vauxhall Ventura, which was just an ordinary saloon car. Carol and family had no transport, having been relying on public transport and taxis. Somehow we all piled in. Paul drove, I, heavily pregnant with Becky, sat in the front with Lizzie wedged in the passenger footwell between my knees. Carol, Nick and three teenage children somehow stuffed themselves into the back seat and off we set. Even the policeman who spoke to us at the scene of an accident turned a blind eye to this feat of packing and we got to Eastbourne safely.
Now, how to make our elastic house hold these guests? Four year-old Lizzie was moved to a zed-bed in our bedroom. Jan & Suzee were accommodated in the second bedroom and Peter had the tiny room (he was the only member of that family even approaching tiny). Carol & Nick valiantly slept on the airbed which we put onto the living room floor. And the cats were firmly locked into the kitchen. The house was open-plan so Carol & Nick had no kind of privacy but they clearly thought that their digs with us were preferable to the more spacious but smelly accommodation in Hove.
They stayed for over a week, during which time we took them out and about in Sussex and up to Penkridge to see Keir and family (they did hire a car for that). I think they really only left to stay with Chris in London because of the imminence of the birth of Becky which happened a few days later.
And the knives weren't drawn, not even once.
Actually, the only thing I don't like about guests is the need for me to don a dressing gown when visiting the bathroom.
Thursday, June 09, 2011
Beyond Recognition
Today
I really like to sew. Turning a length of fabric into something that not only covers but graces the human body, or creating something useful and beautiful out of an unpromising remnant is one of life's pleasures.
Having such a skill does sometimes lead people into thinking that I approach the job of carrying out repairs with the same degree of enthusiasm. "It's just a zip", they say, or "Could you just pop in a new lining?"
The trouble is, repairing such items on a ready-made garment can be very time-consuming as you have first to figure out just how much unpicking you have to do to arrive at the point where the zip or whatever can be fitted. And it never quite seems to match up to the original.
In My Day
Back in 1984 I decided that I had to eke out the family income. So, on top of a full-time job, looking after my niece Claire, foreign students and the girls, I advertised myself as seamstress. I did make some beautiful frocks of which I was proud but I also found myself being asked to do repairs and alterations. One problem with this sort of work is that the job can take nearly as long as making a garment from scratch, but no-one wants to pay as much.
I was approached one day by a bachelor schoolmaster. Would I reline two Harris Tweed jackets for him? The linings were now so embarrassingly in holes that he didn't dare take the jacket off in front of his pupils. I didn't really know what was involved so I agreed to do them for a fiver each + cost of materials.
The garments were delivered. First I had to unpick the old lining to use them as a pattern. A good Harris Tweed jacket (and these had been good about twenty-five years previously) has gussetted pockets set into the lining and little tape or chain hanging loops. The jackets had frayed cuffs and bulges in the elbows where the lining had long ago torn.
They had also probably never seen a dry cleaners. As I pressed the pieces of old lining a miasma of old sweat arose to my appalled nostrils. The tweed was now very misshapen so I also had to press it to try to restore something of its original shape. I carefully turned back and repaired the cuffs. Then I made the linings, gussetted pockets and all.
When I came to fit them into the jackets I found that the pristine new linings, not having stretched and sagged over the years, made the jackets feel a lot more snug than they had recently. I had difficulty getting the client to accept this and he grudgingly paid his money.
The job had taken me about forty hours and I had to throw away my disgustingly stinking ironing board cover. The fee barely covered buying a new one...
Then there was the time my sister-in-law Marilu asked me to replace a zip in a pair of jeans that she hadn't worn for five years. I had to figure out how to use her mother's sewing machine, carry out the job in her front room and she never forgave me for the fact that she'd put on so much weight over the five years that she could no longer do them up.....
Never mind, putting in two replacement zips and repairing straps on two dresses is a labour of love for my Becky. I just hope she's properly grateful!
I really like to sew. Turning a length of fabric into something that not only covers but graces the human body, or creating something useful and beautiful out of an unpromising remnant is one of life's pleasures.
Having such a skill does sometimes lead people into thinking that I approach the job of carrying out repairs with the same degree of enthusiasm. "It's just a zip", they say, or "Could you just pop in a new lining?"
The trouble is, repairing such items on a ready-made garment can be very time-consuming as you have first to figure out just how much unpicking you have to do to arrive at the point where the zip or whatever can be fitted. And it never quite seems to match up to the original.
In My Day
Back in 1984 I decided that I had to eke out the family income. So, on top of a full-time job, looking after my niece Claire, foreign students and the girls, I advertised myself as seamstress. I did make some beautiful frocks of which I was proud but I also found myself being asked to do repairs and alterations. One problem with this sort of work is that the job can take nearly as long as making a garment from scratch, but no-one wants to pay as much.
I was approached one day by a bachelor schoolmaster. Would I reline two Harris Tweed jackets for him? The linings were now so embarrassingly in holes that he didn't dare take the jacket off in front of his pupils. I didn't really know what was involved so I agreed to do them for a fiver each + cost of materials.
The garments were delivered. First I had to unpick the old lining to use them as a pattern. A good Harris Tweed jacket (and these had been good about twenty-five years previously) has gussetted pockets set into the lining and little tape or chain hanging loops. The jackets had frayed cuffs and bulges in the elbows where the lining had long ago torn.
They had also probably never seen a dry cleaners. As I pressed the pieces of old lining a miasma of old sweat arose to my appalled nostrils. The tweed was now very misshapen so I also had to press it to try to restore something of its original shape. I carefully turned back and repaired the cuffs. Then I made the linings, gussetted pockets and all.
When I came to fit them into the jackets I found that the pristine new linings, not having stretched and sagged over the years, made the jackets feel a lot more snug than they had recently. I had difficulty getting the client to accept this and he grudgingly paid his money.
The job had taken me about forty hours and I had to throw away my disgustingly stinking ironing board cover. The fee barely covered buying a new one...
Then there was the time my sister-in-law Marilu asked me to replace a zip in a pair of jeans that she hadn't worn for five years. I had to figure out how to use her mother's sewing machine, carry out the job in her front room and she never forgave me for the fact that she'd put on so much weight over the five years that she could no longer do them up.....
Never mind, putting in two replacement zips and repairing straps on two dresses is a labour of love for my Becky. I just hope she's properly grateful!
Sunday, June 05, 2011
Outside the Box
Today
The Bentley completed another London-Brighton run in stately and impeccable fashion. The run took us from Brooklands Motor Museum, through lovely, beautifully coiffed and manicured Surrey, down to Brighton.
I follow the turn by turn printed instructions carefully but I was not alone in mistaking a very tight right turn for another (correct) tight right turn about 100 yards further on. I rather wondered at the signpost which indicated "Box Hill" and a dead end. But it wasn't until we'd nearly reached said dead-end that we turned back.
"Never mind", I said, "Box Hill is beautiful anyway." "Of course," I added "It played quite a part in my childhood and youth."
In My Day
The North Downs have for many years been a playground for South Londoners and we were no exception. A bus ride took us to South Croydon where we could catch the much more mysterious green buses that took us to Dorking, Leatherhead, Godalming and so on. From a suitable starting point there would then be a walk to a beauty spot. This was quite often Box Hill.
One side rose gently and gracefully to the top and then, wham! there was the scarp slope careering down to the North Weald before the South Downs rose at the edge of our vision. The steep slope was often irresistible and even timid I would sometimes take courage and roll some of the way down the grassy slope.
I used to go to Box Hill with my grammar school on field trips where the geography lessons about how chalk hills form and about dip slopes and escarpments would take on a vivid reality. We had on the spot botany lessons and the teachers would turn an indulgent eye away from any surreptitious hill-rolling.
Later, my boyfriend Bob Kenna, who had a little Austin A30, would drive up to Box Hill after an evening spent at the cinema or dance-hall. There were plenty of quiet places to park and I'm sure we weren't the only ones to choose the hill as a lovers' trysting place.
Then there was the time that David broke his ankle in the dark on Box Hill - but that's his story to tell....
I love visiting these delightful spots and will admit to a fair degree of nostalgia for those carefree moments of childhood.
The Bentley completed another London-Brighton run in stately and impeccable fashion. The run took us from Brooklands Motor Museum, through lovely, beautifully coiffed and manicured Surrey, down to Brighton.
I follow the turn by turn printed instructions carefully but I was not alone in mistaking a very tight right turn for another (correct) tight right turn about 100 yards further on. I rather wondered at the signpost which indicated "Box Hill" and a dead end. But it wasn't until we'd nearly reached said dead-end that we turned back.
"Never mind", I said, "Box Hill is beautiful anyway." "Of course," I added "It played quite a part in my childhood and youth."
In My Day
One side rose gently and gracefully to the top and then, wham! there was the scarp slope careering down to the North Weald before the South Downs rose at the edge of our vision. The steep slope was often irresistible and even timid I would sometimes take courage and roll some of the way down the grassy slope.
I used to go to Box Hill with my grammar school on field trips where the geography lessons about how chalk hills form and about dip slopes and escarpments would take on a vivid reality. We had on the spot botany lessons and the teachers would turn an indulgent eye away from any surreptitious hill-rolling.
Later, my boyfriend Bob Kenna, who had a little Austin A30, would drive up to Box Hill after an evening spent at the cinema or dance-hall. There were plenty of quiet places to park and I'm sure we weren't the only ones to choose the hill as a lovers' trysting place.
Then there was the time that David broke his ankle in the dark on Box Hill - but that's his story to tell....
I love visiting these delightful spots and will admit to a fair degree of nostalgia for those carefree moments of childhood.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
New Me
Today
With a mixture of resignation and hope, I've returned to Weight Watchers. I'm not as big as when "Diet Trials" started, but I'm nearly 2st overweight and WW does do what it says on the tin, so to speak.
I'm not in the league of people whose lives are endangered by their weight and I have to admit that my motivation is largely vanity. Secretly, I hope that, this time, the weight loss will transform me into a real drop-dead beautiful woman.
In My Day
Our valuation of ourselves is very much shaped in our childhood and I became accustomed to the knowledge that my sister Beatrice was the "pretty one". My parents sometimes called me "handsome" which no girl wants to hear.
I looked and could see it was true; Beatrice had hair like a golden waterfall, a rosebud mouth and large and lustrous eyes. She was chubbier than I, something about which I believe I was occasionally merciless.
So the only way in which I could be beautiful was in my imaginings and they were constant. I was always slim, not to say thin, of course. I had a pale and luminous skin and vivid red corkscrew curling hair. I was usually a fairy princess and I loved to dress up in old velvet and satin curtains and wear a crown to make the point. Importantly, I didn't have to do or say anything for men to drop at my feet, mesmerised by the red hair and fascinating profile.
When I could, I also tried to make up for my lack of personal beauty by wearing the best clothes I could, persuading my nothing-much hair into flattering styles and trying not to get too fat. My quest for beauty was made harder, I thought, by my early development of sizeable breasts. I don't think Mamma helped by remarking admiringly on those clothes which minimised their apparent size.
In my teens I wasn't interested enough in boys to do any of the usual girly flirting and simply didn't recognise the fact that I did, actually, attract some admiring glances.
Paul, on first meeting me, constantly told me that I was pretty and was surprised that only Beatrice had been singled out for this description in childhood. But I can't shake off the feeling that I'm rather plain and need all the help, short of surgery, that I can get.
With a mixture of resignation and hope, I've returned to Weight Watchers. I'm not as big as when "Diet Trials" started, but I'm nearly 2st overweight and WW does do what it says on the tin, so to speak.
I'm not in the league of people whose lives are endangered by their weight and I have to admit that my motivation is largely vanity. Secretly, I hope that, this time, the weight loss will transform me into a real drop-dead beautiful woman.
In My Day
Our valuation of ourselves is very much shaped in our childhood and I became accustomed to the knowledge that my sister Beatrice was the "pretty one". My parents sometimes called me "handsome" which no girl wants to hear.
I looked and could see it was true; Beatrice had hair like a golden waterfall, a rosebud mouth and large and lustrous eyes. She was chubbier than I, something about which I believe I was occasionally merciless.
So the only way in which I could be beautiful was in my imaginings and they were constant. I was always slim, not to say thin, of course. I had a pale and luminous skin and vivid red corkscrew curling hair. I was usually a fairy princess and I loved to dress up in old velvet and satin curtains and wear a crown to make the point. Importantly, I didn't have to do or say anything for men to drop at my feet, mesmerised by the red hair and fascinating profile.
When I could, I also tried to make up for my lack of personal beauty by wearing the best clothes I could, persuading my nothing-much hair into flattering styles and trying not to get too fat. My quest for beauty was made harder, I thought, by my early development of sizeable breasts. I don't think Mamma helped by remarking admiringly on those clothes which minimised their apparent size.
In my teens I wasn't interested enough in boys to do any of the usual girly flirting and simply didn't recognise the fact that I did, actually, attract some admiring glances.
Paul, on first meeting me, constantly told me that I was pretty and was surprised that only Beatrice had been singled out for this description in childhood. But I can't shake off the feeling that I'm rather plain and need all the help, short of surgery, that I can get.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
It's not Cricket
Today
My brother David maintains a Facebook photo album "Strange & Beautiful Creatures" in which he puts pictures that range from the amazing to the repulsive.
This morning he showed a bright green cricket perching on his finger. Very lovely.
In My Day
In 1994 or thereabouts we spent a holiday in Guernsey. One beautiful sunny day we took the ferry to the island of Herm and had a lovely time walking about gazing at the impossibly blue seas and sky. Eventually lunch beckoned and we joined other day trippers at the island's only pub for an al fresco lunch.
We noticed an enormous vivid green cricket perched on our sunshade and we and a number of other diners admired it. Disturbed by the bustle the creature hopped away and for a few minutes we lost sight of it. Then, to our horror and amusement, we saw that it had settled on the very large bottom of a female fellow-day tripper. She was completely unaware as we gazed in fascination, wondering whether she would squash the creature as she settled back or whether it would continue its progress up her body.
In the end Paul couldn't bear it any longer and said to me "I've got to rescue it!" "Fine," said I "but the remark "Did you know there's a cricket on your bum?" followed by placing your hands on said bum could sound like a very bad chat-up line and she seems to have a very large male companion in tow!"
This didn't deter Paul who somehow managed the introduction without either receiving a black eye or causing the woman to move suddenly and destroy the cricket. Gently he cupped his hands around the gloriously green creature and let it hop onto the nearby foliage.
One of David's Facebook friends expressed horror that David could bear to allow the cricket to perch on his hand and I must say that I've always been an admirer of Paul's ability to pick up creepy-crawlies of all kinds, usually with the aim of saving their lives. It's not something I'm very good at.
My brother David maintains a Facebook photo album "Strange & Beautiful Creatures" in which he puts pictures that range from the amazing to the repulsive.
This morning he showed a bright green cricket perching on his finger. Very lovely.
In My Day
In 1994 or thereabouts we spent a holiday in Guernsey. One beautiful sunny day we took the ferry to the island of Herm and had a lovely time walking about gazing at the impossibly blue seas and sky. Eventually lunch beckoned and we joined other day trippers at the island's only pub for an al fresco lunch.
We noticed an enormous vivid green cricket perched on our sunshade and we and a number of other diners admired it. Disturbed by the bustle the creature hopped away and for a few minutes we lost sight of it. Then, to our horror and amusement, we saw that it had settled on the very large bottom of a female fellow-day tripper. She was completely unaware as we gazed in fascination, wondering whether she would squash the creature as she settled back or whether it would continue its progress up her body.
In the end Paul couldn't bear it any longer and said to me "I've got to rescue it!" "Fine," said I "but the remark "Did you know there's a cricket on your bum?" followed by placing your hands on said bum could sound like a very bad chat-up line and she seems to have a very large male companion in tow!"
This didn't deter Paul who somehow managed the introduction without either receiving a black eye or causing the woman to move suddenly and destroy the cricket. Gently he cupped his hands around the gloriously green creature and let it hop onto the nearby foliage.
One of David's Facebook friends expressed horror that David could bear to allow the cricket to perch on his hand and I must say that I've always been an admirer of Paul's ability to pick up creepy-crawlies of all kinds, usually with the aim of saving their lives. It's not something I'm very good at.
Tuesday, May 03, 2011
Ps & Qs
Today
Now that Richard is about to become a family member, I've taken to calling him "My Boy" or sometimes, in recognition of his penchant for Spanish, "Mi Chico". Yesterday morning I asked how to say "would you like some more coffee?" in Spanish. He told me. Becky explained, "Literally it means "do you want to take more coffee"".
"Does Spanish have a polite form of "want"? I asked. "as in "would like", "vorrei" or "voudrais" in other European languages?" "Not really," said Richard "I find that I have to be more sort of gruff when I'm in Spain".
This reminded me of a little story which I then told them.
In My Day
It must have been in about 1975. We were living at Rowan Avenue in Eastbourne and David & Joan had come to visit with Matthew, aged two and a half and Isabella, aged one. Because we had three small children in the house I fixed a safety gate half-way along the landing.
This action separated the guest room from the bathroom. At about three in the morning I was awakened by a loud wail from Matthew. I got up, as did Joan, to find him standing at the gate saying loudly "I would like to go to the loo, I would like to go to the loo!" We sorted Matthew out and went back to bed.
In the morning, when the incident was discussed over breakfast, Joan was immensely proud that her two-year old, in a moment of crisis in a strange house, had remembered his manners by saying "I would like", rather than "I want"! This was seen as more of an achievement than the fact that he hadn't wet himself or the bed. She talked about this with a combination of amusement and pride for some time to come.
I, however, can't now remember how to offer someone another cup of coffee in Spanish, whether rudely or not.
Now that Richard is about to become a family member, I've taken to calling him "My Boy" or sometimes, in recognition of his penchant for Spanish, "Mi Chico". Yesterday morning I asked how to say "would you like some more coffee?" in Spanish. He told me. Becky explained, "Literally it means "do you want to take more coffee"".
"Does Spanish have a polite form of "want"? I asked. "as in "would like", "vorrei" or "voudrais" in other European languages?" "Not really," said Richard "I find that I have to be more sort of gruff when I'm in Spain".
This reminded me of a little story which I then told them.
In My Day
It must have been in about 1975. We were living at Rowan Avenue in Eastbourne and David & Joan had come to visit with Matthew, aged two and a half and Isabella, aged one. Because we had three small children in the house I fixed a safety gate half-way along the landing.
This action separated the guest room from the bathroom. At about three in the morning I was awakened by a loud wail from Matthew. I got up, as did Joan, to find him standing at the gate saying loudly "I would like to go to the loo, I would like to go to the loo!" We sorted Matthew out and went back to bed.
In the morning, when the incident was discussed over breakfast, Joan was immensely proud that her two-year old, in a moment of crisis in a strange house, had remembered his manners by saying "I would like", rather than "I want"! This was seen as more of an achievement than the fact that he hadn't wet himself or the bed. She talked about this with a combination of amusement and pride for some time to come.
I, however, can't now remember how to offer someone another cup of coffee in Spanish, whether rudely or not.
Sunday, May 01, 2011
In Your Dreams
Today
Last night I dreamt about Mamma. I dreamt that she was in a nursing home in Bexhill. She looked so well and beautiful that I couldn't work out why she was in a nursing home at all.
I also couldn't understand why nobody had told me she was there. I railed at my brother David for not telling me. When he protested that he had, I replied that that was impossible; otherwise I'd have been writing to and visiting her all the time.
I have a variant on this dream from time to time.
In My Day
Mamma did actually spend a little time in a nursing home and, curiously, it was I that arranged it. In late 1980 or very early 1981 she had been having treatment for the hole in the lining of her lungs. Litre after litre of fluid had been drained, but as long as the lining was damaged the fluid kept on appearing. So she received treatment to patch it up.
Eventually the hospital was ready to discharge her and it didn't seem quite right that Mamma should just go home alone to the bungalow at Dorking while she convalesced. I don't know why it was decided that she come to Eastbourne, rather than to the more spacious homes occupied by my brothers in London. Maybe it was her choice.
But equally, I couldn't accommodate someone who needed the kind of care that Mamma did in my tiny house. So I trailed around Eastbourne trying to find an establishment that suited my otherwise independent mother's needs. Eventually I found a place that didn't smell of wee and seemed to offer sufficient privacy and respect and Mamma went in, somewhat dubiously.
I told my doctor what I'd arranged and one day he popped in to see her. Perhaps he expected a doddery old dear, on her last legs. What he found was a feisty, intelligent woman who now had nothing to do and no reason to get better. "I don't belong here", said my mother. "I agree!" replied Dr Grant. Surrounded by decaying old people, knowing no-one but me, Mamma was in the completely wrong element.
So, we took her back to Dorking and settled her in as well as we could. As it happened she wasn't going to get better anyway, and the lung cancer took her away from us in November 1981.
I miss you very much, Mamma; and feel happy that you looked so beautiful in my dream.
Last night I dreamt about Mamma. I dreamt that she was in a nursing home in Bexhill. She looked so well and beautiful that I couldn't work out why she was in a nursing home at all.
I also couldn't understand why nobody had told me she was there. I railed at my brother David for not telling me. When he protested that he had, I replied that that was impossible; otherwise I'd have been writing to and visiting her all the time.
I have a variant on this dream from time to time.
In My Day
Mamma did actually spend a little time in a nursing home and, curiously, it was I that arranged it. In late 1980 or very early 1981 she had been having treatment for the hole in the lining of her lungs. Litre after litre of fluid had been drained, but as long as the lining was damaged the fluid kept on appearing. So she received treatment to patch it up.
Eventually the hospital was ready to discharge her and it didn't seem quite right that Mamma should just go home alone to the bungalow at Dorking while she convalesced. I don't know why it was decided that she come to Eastbourne, rather than to the more spacious homes occupied by my brothers in London. Maybe it was her choice.
But equally, I couldn't accommodate someone who needed the kind of care that Mamma did in my tiny house. So I trailed around Eastbourne trying to find an establishment that suited my otherwise independent mother's needs. Eventually I found a place that didn't smell of wee and seemed to offer sufficient privacy and respect and Mamma went in, somewhat dubiously.
I told my doctor what I'd arranged and one day he popped in to see her. Perhaps he expected a doddery old dear, on her last legs. What he found was a feisty, intelligent woman who now had nothing to do and no reason to get better. "I don't belong here", said my mother. "I agree!" replied Dr Grant. Surrounded by decaying old people, knowing no-one but me, Mamma was in the completely wrong element.
So, we took her back to Dorking and settled her in as well as we could. As it happened she wasn't going to get better anyway, and the lung cancer took her away from us in November 1981.
I miss you very much, Mamma; and feel happy that you looked so beautiful in my dream.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Tight Circle
Today
Fashion, they say, goes in circles. (This is the second time I've started a blog in this way.) I was talking to Paul about the current fashion for leggings and remembered the last time they were fashionable which was back in about 1992.
"The thing is," I said "The fashion isn't identical. The item is worn in quite a different way from the way we wore it in 1992."
"Not so much a single circle as overlapping circles," suggested Paul. Quite
In My Day
I, as has been said before, am not immune to the lure of fashion. Back in the early 90's leggings were indeed fashionable. Every shop stocked them and it was possible to buy a vast range of colours and even some with psychedelic swirls and patterns. I dived into this style with relish. I have long legs and could, I felt, flatter this particular one. One wore them with baggy jumpers or loose shirts finished with pumps or trainers. They were always a seriously casual look; not one for the office.
The leggings were generally made of knitted cotton, like t-shirt material. If I was lucky, I could find a pair that reached to my ankles. They rarely stayed at the ankle; the fabric tending to bag at the knees and ride up above the ankle when one sat down. So the look you left the house with didn't last very long.
Perhaps it was this design flaw that led to the '90s leggings look being rapidly relegated to the "clothes to slop around in" department. And that is death to a fashion trend.
This time around the leggings cling pleasingly, staying where they're put, and are more often worn under pretty dresses and with high heels. Although, when you see the look being worn by two-year olds (with Ugg-style boots instead of high heels), you know it's shortly to be relegated to the "wouldn't be seen dead in" department. Which is death to a fashion trend. Pity, I've just bought a rather nice pair in metallic bronze.
Fashion, they say, goes in circles. (This is the second time I've started a blog in this way.) I was talking to Paul about the current fashion for leggings and remembered the last time they were fashionable which was back in about 1992.
"The thing is," I said "The fashion isn't identical. The item is worn in quite a different way from the way we wore it in 1992."
"Not so much a single circle as overlapping circles," suggested Paul. Quite
In My Day
I, as has been said before, am not immune to the lure of fashion. Back in the early 90's leggings were indeed fashionable. Every shop stocked them and it was possible to buy a vast range of colours and even some with psychedelic swirls and patterns. I dived into this style with relish. I have long legs and could, I felt, flatter this particular one. One wore them with baggy jumpers or loose shirts finished with pumps or trainers. They were always a seriously casual look; not one for the office.
The leggings were generally made of knitted cotton, like t-shirt material. If I was lucky, I could find a pair that reached to my ankles. They rarely stayed at the ankle; the fabric tending to bag at the knees and ride up above the ankle when one sat down. So the look you left the house with didn't last very long.
Perhaps it was this design flaw that led to the '90s leggings look being rapidly relegated to the "clothes to slop around in" department. And that is death to a fashion trend.
This time around the leggings cling pleasingly, staying where they're put, and are more often worn under pretty dresses and with high heels. Although, when you see the look being worn by two-year olds (with Ugg-style boots instead of high heels), you know it's shortly to be relegated to the "wouldn't be seen dead in" department. Which is death to a fashion trend. Pity, I've just bought a rather nice pair in metallic bronze.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Rub-a-dub-dub
Today
We're off to Brighton tomorrow so I made sure that all the clothes were washed, dried and put away. Not too onerous, especially as the sunshine enabled al fresco drying.
We have a running joke in which Paul comments on the magical appearance of clean socks, underwear, shirts etc. He did seriously thank me the other day for ensuring, over forty years, an endless supply of clean clothes and bedding. "All part of the service".
In My Day
Mamma also had the task of ensuring an endless supply of clean clothing for herself, a husband and four children. Apart from sheets and shirt collars, she did it all herself, by hand. Washing involved putting detergents or soap powder into a large bowl and rubbing and pummelling the items. We had a washboard which consisted of wooden slats on a frame. Really dirty stuff was rubbed fiercely up and down this object.
Then the soapy items were wrung out by hand and rinsed in what appeared to be endless draughts of cold water. When you had either a: decided that you'd rinsed out all the soap or b: got bored with trying, you gave them another wring and then put them through the mangle to get out the maximum amounts of water. The washing was either hung out on the line or, when it was too wet and cold, on indoor airers or draped over the fireguard. Mamma swore by gypsy pegs which she bought from an itinerant hardware vendor.
I was often involved in all these tasks. My hands went from too hot and slimy with soap to red and freezing from the cold water. I often had insufficient strength to turn the mangle. If I'd failed to rinse an item properly this would often result in slight burn marks when I ironed so I had no hiding place.
It was hard labour and I'm surprised we didn't all develop huge muscles. We were certainly very careful indeed about thoughtlessly slinging clothes into the dirty laundry.
These items found their way into our cupboards or the vastly overloaded ironing basket which was beyond the ingenuity of humankind to empty.
Eventually Mamma acquired a washing machine which had a mangle fixed to the top and which managed to tie shirt sleeves into impossible knots and, several years later, a spin dryer which used to dance across the floor in its attempts to get the water out of our laundry. A few years ago I was on a self-catering holiday with some friends and suggested one day that we get some laundry done while we went out. They were indignant. "We didn't come on holiday to do washing!" they exclaimed. "But, ladies", I said "It's a machine. We don't have to do anything." They were not convinced; in their minds, I think, they still saw themselves standing over a galvanised sink with a washboard and mangle.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
All in Good Time
Today
Paul took me only a little by surprise this morning when he announced that he needed to allow half an hour to get to his dentist's appointment. "But it's a ten-minute drive!" I said, before remembering that he is anxious about being late and would rather hang about for twenty minutes than be a minute late.
By the time we are adult, it seems, we have an attitude to time-keeping that is more or less fixed. There are those whose anxiety prompts then not just to get the early bus but the one before that, in case. Then there are those who saunter up, half or an hour late, not apparently having noticed the passage of time nor how irritated you are. Of course, some people have timekeeping down to a fine art.
Generally, I'm fairly good with time, although marriage to Paul has meant that I sometimes find myself arriving earlier than I'd wish. When it's to catch a plane, this just blends in to the overall tedium of airport lounges; when it's to a dinner party, it can be embarrassing to catch the hosts still vacuuming!
In My Day
As a child you are simply hustled along by parents who have their own idea of timekeeping and you don't really know how they arrive at the necessary judgement. My parents had four children to hustle, so they probably allowed plenty of time.
Daddy's job at Hansard was ruled by time and he couldn't afford to be late. I do recall one occasion, after a late sitting, when Daddy arrived by the skin of his proverbial to catch the last train, only to find that it had departed early. He had to get a taxi all the way home and was not best pleased. He complained and the railway company, notwithstanding their terms and conditions which probably included the words "we do not guarantee that trains will run on time or at all", paid his taxi fare and offered him a week's holiday in a camping coach in the New Forest as compensation. (I still remember that holiday, taken at Easter and freezing cold.)
So where did I get my attitude to time? I don't know, but I do remember what was probably the first occasion that I was given the responsibility for getting somewhere on time. I was about seven and Daddy and Mamma allowed me to walk to school on my own. I don't know what they could have been thinking.
The walk was mainly along busy South Norwood Hill in South London. I had to negotiate the complexities of the junction with (equally busy) Church Road. Even in the '50s the road was full of buses, cars and lorries. The walk to Cypress Road School was about a mile and a half.
I'm sure that I was sent off in good time to arrive at nine O'clock. I still hadn't arrived by ten. I have a memory of how I dawdled, crossing the road several times; I'm not sure why. I looked into gardens and dreamt of this and that, probably imagining myself as a princess or fairy queen. Perhaps I walked along low walls and then went back and did it again. Eventually, I was caught up with and taken into school. Somebody described how they'd observed my snail's pace and meandering progress.
I don't think that I was trying to avoid going to school; I just had no idea of the passage of time. Maybe that incident was embarrassing enough for me to pay better attention in future.
What I am sure of is, that if this incident had occurred today, Mamma and Daddy would have attracted the attention of social services and I might have spent some time in care. And that would have been a very bad time, never mind the timekeeping.
Paul took me only a little by surprise this morning when he announced that he needed to allow half an hour to get to his dentist's appointment. "But it's a ten-minute drive!" I said, before remembering that he is anxious about being late and would rather hang about for twenty minutes than be a minute late.
By the time we are adult, it seems, we have an attitude to time-keeping that is more or less fixed. There are those whose anxiety prompts then not just to get the early bus but the one before that, in case. Then there are those who saunter up, half or an hour late, not apparently having noticed the passage of time nor how irritated you are. Of course, some people have timekeeping down to a fine art.
Generally, I'm fairly good with time, although marriage to Paul has meant that I sometimes find myself arriving earlier than I'd wish. When it's to catch a plane, this just blends in to the overall tedium of airport lounges; when it's to a dinner party, it can be embarrassing to catch the hosts still vacuuming!
In My Day
As a child you are simply hustled along by parents who have their own idea of timekeeping and you don't really know how they arrive at the necessary judgement. My parents had four children to hustle, so they probably allowed plenty of time.
Daddy's job at Hansard was ruled by time and he couldn't afford to be late. I do recall one occasion, after a late sitting, when Daddy arrived by the skin of his proverbial to catch the last train, only to find that it had departed early. He had to get a taxi all the way home and was not best pleased. He complained and the railway company, notwithstanding their terms and conditions which probably included the words "we do not guarantee that trains will run on time or at all", paid his taxi fare and offered him a week's holiday in a camping coach in the New Forest as compensation. (I still remember that holiday, taken at Easter and freezing cold.)
So where did I get my attitude to time? I don't know, but I do remember what was probably the first occasion that I was given the responsibility for getting somewhere on time. I was about seven and Daddy and Mamma allowed me to walk to school on my own. I don't know what they could have been thinking.
The walk was mainly along busy South Norwood Hill in South London. I had to negotiate the complexities of the junction with (equally busy) Church Road. Even in the '50s the road was full of buses, cars and lorries. The walk to Cypress Road School was about a mile and a half.
I'm sure that I was sent off in good time to arrive at nine O'clock. I still hadn't arrived by ten. I have a memory of how I dawdled, crossing the road several times; I'm not sure why. I looked into gardens and dreamt of this and that, probably imagining myself as a princess or fairy queen. Perhaps I walked along low walls and then went back and did it again. Eventually, I was caught up with and taken into school. Somebody described how they'd observed my snail's pace and meandering progress.
I don't think that I was trying to avoid going to school; I just had no idea of the passage of time. Maybe that incident was embarrassing enough for me to pay better attention in future.
What I am sure of is, that if this incident had occurred today, Mamma and Daddy would have attracted the attention of social services and I might have spent some time in care. And that would have been a very bad time, never mind the timekeeping.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Jungle
Today
Last night I had a dream about lions. The obvious trigger for this is the forthcoming event at which my brother David plans to say farewell to a loved stuffed lion, in a manner yet to be determined.
But the dream contained much that was fearful and involved eland in the back garden and trying to avoid the lion. It seems that many people have similar dreams, so what do they signify?
In My Day
I really only remember childhood dreaming as a fearful experience. I quite regularly dreamt of lions and tigers. While the details of the dreams varied, there were some common features.
Firstly, there was always the anxiety that the beast would get into the house. So it became very important to keep doors and windows shut and locked. If the dream contained tigers which were always much more ferocious than lions, there was an added fear that their strength and ferocity would enable them simply to smash through the windows.
Secondly, the other important issue was to ensure that they didn't see me. Seeing me would spark off their ferocity and put me in danger of attack. So I had to hide (if I was in the open it was very difficult) and try to ensure that I either got or stayed indoors. Sometimes, as in last night's dream, there were sufficient distractions (eland etc) to divert the beast's attention, thus enabling me to get to safety.
From where, exactly, do such dreams emanate? Is it simply that we need a focus on which to act out our anxieties and, to modern western children, lions and tigers are familiar enough in concept but alien enough to be used to embody fear? If we lived in another time or place we might put wild boars or polar bears or the fairies into our dreams as object of fear.
And it's not just so that we can experience fear; it's so that we can outwit the object of terror. In none of my dreams to date has the beast entered the house or actually harmed me. I have always managed to avoid it so that the threat is more potential than actual. Interestingly, I also never dream about lions and tigers in their natural habitat; they always present their danger in an urban or domestic setting. They are out of place, which makes them simultaneously more threatening and at a disadvantage.
I don't suppose that the disposal of Abacus the lion will in any way affect the dreams I have, but I'll be there to say goodbye anyway.
Last night I had a dream about lions. The obvious trigger for this is the forthcoming event at which my brother David plans to say farewell to a loved stuffed lion, in a manner yet to be determined.
But the dream contained much that was fearful and involved eland in the back garden and trying to avoid the lion. It seems that many people have similar dreams, so what do they signify?
In My Day
I really only remember childhood dreaming as a fearful experience. I quite regularly dreamt of lions and tigers. While the details of the dreams varied, there were some common features.
Firstly, there was always the anxiety that the beast would get into the house. So it became very important to keep doors and windows shut and locked. If the dream contained tigers which were always much more ferocious than lions, there was an added fear that their strength and ferocity would enable them simply to smash through the windows.
Secondly, the other important issue was to ensure that they didn't see me. Seeing me would spark off their ferocity and put me in danger of attack. So I had to hide (if I was in the open it was very difficult) and try to ensure that I either got or stayed indoors. Sometimes, as in last night's dream, there were sufficient distractions (eland etc) to divert the beast's attention, thus enabling me to get to safety.
From where, exactly, do such dreams emanate? Is it simply that we need a focus on which to act out our anxieties and, to modern western children, lions and tigers are familiar enough in concept but alien enough to be used to embody fear? If we lived in another time or place we might put wild boars or polar bears or the fairies into our dreams as object of fear.
And it's not just so that we can experience fear; it's so that we can outwit the object of terror. In none of my dreams to date has the beast entered the house or actually harmed me. I have always managed to avoid it so that the threat is more potential than actual. Interestingly, I also never dream about lions and tigers in their natural habitat; they always present their danger in an urban or domestic setting. They are out of place, which makes them simultaneously more threatening and at a disadvantage.
I don't suppose that the disposal of Abacus the lion will in any way affect the dreams I have, but I'll be there to say goodbye anyway.
Saturday, April 09, 2011
Tough Love
Today
Abby is poorly. She hasn't eaten for nearly a week. She spent two days at the vet where they diagnosed a urinary infection, rehydrated her intravenously and brought her temperature down. She's back home but still won't eat and I've had to force some water into her, an act against which she struggled vigorously. I still have to get antibiotics into her and she's not very happy with me.
I'll probably have to resort to wrapping her up in a towel so that she can't fight me when I get the tablets and water in. I suppose the fact the she has some fight is a good sign.
In My Day
In 1993 my little cat Amelia was starting to show signs of her age. She was pretty arthritic and rarely left the house and garden. Her fur, never her strong point, began to look "staring" and dry as though she'd been in a spin dryer. He little white patches began to look yellowish, as she stopped caring for herself, and I took to washing her gently.
When she stared bringing up her food we took her to the vet who said that her kidneys were becoming atrophied (quite common in older female cats), prescribed a special diet and gave her six months to live. Amelia couldn't even manage this diet. She clearly knew she was dying as she decided to go on a walkabout of her favourite haunts. We saw her walking with a stumbling, drunken gait down the neighbour's path. When she came home she climbed into her bed.
She refused all food and I became worried that she would die of starvation and thirst. So I found a 10ml syringe and simply forced a mixture of milk and water into her about every hour. She didn't seem to be in any kind of pain and simply allowed me to poke the syringe into her mouth; putting up no resistance. A day or so later I felt her becoming colder and colder. Eventually, one night when I popped her into her bed I knew how unlikely it was that she would still be alive in the morning.
And I was right; she'd slipped away, apparently peacefully, because she was still in the same position that I'd left her. She was nineteen, which is quite a good age, and. given that one has to die, she managed it with grace and ease.
Abby, I don't think you're at this stage yet, but you really must let me sort you out - it's for your own good and, in this case, I really do know best.
Abby is poorly. She hasn't eaten for nearly a week. She spent two days at the vet where they diagnosed a urinary infection, rehydrated her intravenously and brought her temperature down. She's back home but still won't eat and I've had to force some water into her, an act against which she struggled vigorously. I still have to get antibiotics into her and she's not very happy with me.
I'll probably have to resort to wrapping her up in a towel so that she can't fight me when I get the tablets and water in. I suppose the fact the she has some fight is a good sign.
In My Day
In 1993 my little cat Amelia was starting to show signs of her age. She was pretty arthritic and rarely left the house and garden. Her fur, never her strong point, began to look "staring" and dry as though she'd been in a spin dryer. He little white patches began to look yellowish, as she stopped caring for herself, and I took to washing her gently.
When she stared bringing up her food we took her to the vet who said that her kidneys were becoming atrophied (quite common in older female cats), prescribed a special diet and gave her six months to live. Amelia couldn't even manage this diet. She clearly knew she was dying as she decided to go on a walkabout of her favourite haunts. We saw her walking with a stumbling, drunken gait down the neighbour's path. When she came home she climbed into her bed.
She refused all food and I became worried that she would die of starvation and thirst. So I found a 10ml syringe and simply forced a mixture of milk and water into her about every hour. She didn't seem to be in any kind of pain and simply allowed me to poke the syringe into her mouth; putting up no resistance. A day or so later I felt her becoming colder and colder. Eventually, one night when I popped her into her bed I knew how unlikely it was that she would still be alive in the morning.
And I was right; she'd slipped away, apparently peacefully, because she was still in the same position that I'd left her. She was nineteen, which is quite a good age, and. given that one has to die, she managed it with grace and ease.
Abby, I don't think you're at this stage yet, but you really must let me sort you out - it's for your own good and, in this case, I really do know best.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Engage Brain
Today
I'd be the first to admit that I'm inclined to jump in rather too quickly when people are saying things. You could call it quick thinking or you could call it interrupting. But, either way it must be annoying and it's rude.
This morning, while I was trying out whether Velcro pads were the way to replace the rosette on my shoes, Paul was talking about whether we should go ahead with an item we wanted to order.
Partly because, I guessed at what he was about to say, and partly because I wanted to concentrate on the shoe, I was rather dismissive. Paul, not surprisingly, was a little put out.
Later I said "I'm really sorry; I was just plain rude," and was forgiven.
In My Day
In that part of my life when I thought that to be a needlework teacher would be just the ticket, I did a teaching practice at Ratton School in Eastbourne. The needlework teacher was a small, determined woman who hailed from Manchester. She told me that we'd be doing patchwork and started the class off. She usually remained in attendance during my classes and to have her dumpy brown presence (she seemed generally to be wearing brown) at the back of the class was a little disconcerting.
This was a fairly good school and the girls were by and large, pretty compliant. One of the hardest-working girls was a redhead who also hailed from Manchester. One day she wanted to ask a question. She put up her hand and rose to ask the question. I can't remember the question but I do remember that, without thinking, I replied in a broad stage Mancunian accent. The class froze, the girl tuned bright red and Mrs Unsworth glowered. There seemed nothing for it "I'm so sorry," I said "that was very rude of me." The girl sat down and Mrs Unsworth relaxed. It seemed that I'd redeemed myself.
It does seem as though a: I haven't really improved over the years and b: that it's best to admit it and apologise. At least that way you have the saving graces of honesty and humility.
And using velcro was a shocking idea, by the way.
I'd be the first to admit that I'm inclined to jump in rather too quickly when people are saying things. You could call it quick thinking or you could call it interrupting. But, either way it must be annoying and it's rude.
This morning, while I was trying out whether Velcro pads were the way to replace the rosette on my shoes, Paul was talking about whether we should go ahead with an item we wanted to order.
Partly because, I guessed at what he was about to say, and partly because I wanted to concentrate on the shoe, I was rather dismissive. Paul, not surprisingly, was a little put out.
Later I said "I'm really sorry; I was just plain rude," and was forgiven.
In My Day
In that part of my life when I thought that to be a needlework teacher would be just the ticket, I did a teaching practice at Ratton School in Eastbourne. The needlework teacher was a small, determined woman who hailed from Manchester. She told me that we'd be doing patchwork and started the class off. She usually remained in attendance during my classes and to have her dumpy brown presence (she seemed generally to be wearing brown) at the back of the class was a little disconcerting.
This was a fairly good school and the girls were by and large, pretty compliant. One of the hardest-working girls was a redhead who also hailed from Manchester. One day she wanted to ask a question. She put up her hand and rose to ask the question. I can't remember the question but I do remember that, without thinking, I replied in a broad stage Mancunian accent. The class froze, the girl tuned bright red and Mrs Unsworth glowered. There seemed nothing for it "I'm so sorry," I said "that was very rude of me." The girl sat down and Mrs Unsworth relaxed. It seemed that I'd redeemed myself.
It does seem as though a: I haven't really improved over the years and b: that it's best to admit it and apologise. At least that way you have the saving graces of honesty and humility.
And using velcro was a shocking idea, by the way.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Null and Void
Today
Paul has become enthusiastic about tracking down details of his family. He has spent a fair amount of time on Mum's side, eventually accepting that, contrary to family myth, that a direct link to Edgar Allen Poe was unlikely, but confirming that the family did originate from Co. Tipperary as Nan had always told him.
He then started searching census and other records for details of his father and has indeed tracked down some convincing details. Unfortunately, his father was a bit of a rogue and used 2 slightly differing names. Paul, as I once before blogged, had known from the time he was 18 that Dad wasn't his father and believed that he and his mother were divorced.
In My Day
I think that Paul learnt the full extent of his father's roguery at the same time as I did. It was 1973 and we were holidaying with Tricia, James and Lizzie in a caravan at Blue Anchor Bay near Minehead.
One evening, after the young un's were tucked up, Mum started to talk about her husbands. Paul's father was her second husband, the first having bolted to India to teach tennis to Maharajahs.
She described how she was working as a waitress at the Grand Hotel in Leigh-on-sea and how this dashing, very tall man started to chat her up. (She always said that he was six foot four, which was enormous for the time.) She took a fancy to him and eventually they married. His name was William Watson. She already had Paul's sister, Jenny, and in 1950, when they were living in Hastings, Paul came along.
There followed an unstable period where the marriage was clearly not working. Mum described one occasion at a house in Brighton where Watson allegedly stretched a wire across the stairs in the darkened house so that she would trip and, maybe, be killed. Watson eventually disappeared and Mum began to put her life back together, joining forces with Barry (Dad).
Of course, one thing she wanted to do was divorce Watson, but it became very difficult to track him down. Dad was very shrewd and a few things occurred along the trail that roused his suspicions. Eventually he was successful, not so much in finding Watson as in finding his first wife, to whom he was still married under the name of Watts, and who was, I believe, living in Wales. This poor lady had had no suspicion that her husband was a bigamist, although I'm sure she suspected him of a range of shenanigans.
In this way, Tricia was able to apply successfully to the courts for an annulment and could put the whole sorry episode behind. Its only lasting joy was Paul.
"While I realise that it was easier to dodge the law and commit bigamy in those days", I remarked "It must make life a very complicated affair!"
Paul has become enthusiastic about tracking down details of his family. He has spent a fair amount of time on Mum's side, eventually accepting that, contrary to family myth, that a direct link to Edgar Allen Poe was unlikely, but confirming that the family did originate from Co. Tipperary as Nan had always told him.
He then started searching census and other records for details of his father and has indeed tracked down some convincing details. Unfortunately, his father was a bit of a rogue and used 2 slightly differing names. Paul, as I once before blogged, had known from the time he was 18 that Dad wasn't his father and believed that he and his mother were divorced.
In My Day
I think that Paul learnt the full extent of his father's roguery at the same time as I did. It was 1973 and we were holidaying with Tricia, James and Lizzie in a caravan at Blue Anchor Bay near Minehead.
One evening, after the young un's were tucked up, Mum started to talk about her husbands. Paul's father was her second husband, the first having bolted to India to teach tennis to Maharajahs.
She described how she was working as a waitress at the Grand Hotel in Leigh-on-sea and how this dashing, very tall man started to chat her up. (She always said that he was six foot four, which was enormous for the time.) She took a fancy to him and eventually they married. His name was William Watson. She already had Paul's sister, Jenny, and in 1950, when they were living in Hastings, Paul came along.
There followed an unstable period where the marriage was clearly not working. Mum described one occasion at a house in Brighton where Watson allegedly stretched a wire across the stairs in the darkened house so that she would trip and, maybe, be killed. Watson eventually disappeared and Mum began to put her life back together, joining forces with Barry (Dad).
Of course, one thing she wanted to do was divorce Watson, but it became very difficult to track him down. Dad was very shrewd and a few things occurred along the trail that roused his suspicions. Eventually he was successful, not so much in finding Watson as in finding his first wife, to whom he was still married under the name of Watts, and who was, I believe, living in Wales. This poor lady had had no suspicion that her husband was a bigamist, although I'm sure she suspected him of a range of shenanigans.
In this way, Tricia was able to apply successfully to the courts for an annulment and could put the whole sorry episode behind. Its only lasting joy was Paul.
"While I realise that it was easier to dodge the law and commit bigamy in those days", I remarked "It must make life a very complicated affair!"
Friday, March 11, 2011
Dedicated Follower of Fashion
Today
Over the past few months I have much enjoyed reading my friend Sian's fashion blog, first on the Ophelia Diaries and now on Facebook as Style Brief. She's clearly having so much fun and from a small beginning has now been to Paris and London Fashion Weeks and clinked champagne glasses with the fashion cognoscenti.
I think that Sian has always loved fashion and her enthusiasm and unerring instinct for what's best on the High Street seems to be paying off.
There are those who think that such an interest is trivial, but I must admit to loving fashion myself. I am always childishly pleased when I discover that an idea I've had which I think is unique, is deemed to be "on trend". And I'm very happy when a fashion style I like also seems right for my 63-year-old figure.
I love programmes like Project Runway, although I'm less interested in the diva-like actitivities of some top models and designers. Jean-Paul, your clothes might be cute, but you are not God.
In My Day
This is the story of how I was blind to my opportunity of becoming a leader of fashion. Like I said, I always loved clothes and fashion, probably dating from my adored bunny-embroidered dress that I wore when I was three. In my teens I bought trendy shoes just as soon as I had any money of my own and ran up many a mini-dress on Mamma's sewing machine. These I usually designed and made myself; a very sharp learning curve up which I sometimes struggled. I remember winning a prize in a local competition for one of my dress designs.
After I failed to get a place to do fine art at degree level I turned my thoughts to something more practical - theatre design, maybe, or fashion? Because my foundation course studies had been limited to fine art I wasn't prepared to apply to one of the prestigious London schools, such at the LSF or St Martin's. So, instead, I applied to some home counties colleges for courses at City & Guilds level.
On a fine warm day in July 1967 I presented myself and a portfolio of fashion designs, unsupported by evidence of any skills in cutting or stitching, to the Berkshire College of Art in Maidenhead. The tutors showed me the sewing and cutting rooms and then examined my portfolio
"Well," they said doubtfully "we do offer a City & Guilds and some of our students do manage to get into East End factories as cutters...." This sounded as though sights were set rather low and I saw my dreams of becoming another Mary Quant fade.
"What we could do," offered the head of department "is tailor a one-year course for you. This will groom you so that you can apply to a London fashion school for a degree course next year."
I thanked them and left. When I later was offered a place at West Sussex College of Art to do theatre design, I was dazzled by all sorts of romantic ideas about the theatre and took it, despite my lack of talent.
Only many years later did I realise what those half-hearted sounding people at Maidenhead were trying to tell me. That I had some talent for fashion that could be developed and they were willing to make a place specially for me so that I'd have the chance. I don't know why I didn't see it at the time; I certainly didn't have advisors who could see clearly either.
I don't exactly regret not following through; if I'd had real passion maybe I would have found another way. And my life has certainly been interesting, although I never took up theatre design, despite my City & Guilds.
It would have been rather fun though to have been a leader, rather than follower, of fashion! Sian, go for it! I wish you the best.
Over the past few months I have much enjoyed reading my friend Sian's fashion blog, first on the Ophelia Diaries and now on Facebook as Style Brief. She's clearly having so much fun and from a small beginning has now been to Paris and London Fashion Weeks and clinked champagne glasses with the fashion cognoscenti.
I think that Sian has always loved fashion and her enthusiasm and unerring instinct for what's best on the High Street seems to be paying off.
There are those who think that such an interest is trivial, but I must admit to loving fashion myself. I am always childishly pleased when I discover that an idea I've had which I think is unique, is deemed to be "on trend". And I'm very happy when a fashion style I like also seems right for my 63-year-old figure.
I love programmes like Project Runway, although I'm less interested in the diva-like actitivities of some top models and designers. Jean-Paul, your clothes might be cute, but you are not God.
In My Day
This is the story of how I was blind to my opportunity of becoming a leader of fashion. Like I said, I always loved clothes and fashion, probably dating from my adored bunny-embroidered dress that I wore when I was three. In my teens I bought trendy shoes just as soon as I had any money of my own and ran up many a mini-dress on Mamma's sewing machine. These I usually designed and made myself; a very sharp learning curve up which I sometimes struggled. I remember winning a prize in a local competition for one of my dress designs.
After I failed to get a place to do fine art at degree level I turned my thoughts to something more practical - theatre design, maybe, or fashion? Because my foundation course studies had been limited to fine art I wasn't prepared to apply to one of the prestigious London schools, such at the LSF or St Martin's. So, instead, I applied to some home counties colleges for courses at City & Guilds level.
On a fine warm day in July 1967 I presented myself and a portfolio of fashion designs, unsupported by evidence of any skills in cutting or stitching, to the Berkshire College of Art in Maidenhead. The tutors showed me the sewing and cutting rooms and then examined my portfolio
"Well," they said doubtfully "we do offer a City & Guilds and some of our students do manage to get into East End factories as cutters...." This sounded as though sights were set rather low and I saw my dreams of becoming another Mary Quant fade.
"What we could do," offered the head of department "is tailor a one-year course for you. This will groom you so that you can apply to a London fashion school for a degree course next year."
I thanked them and left. When I later was offered a place at West Sussex College of Art to do theatre design, I was dazzled by all sorts of romantic ideas about the theatre and took it, despite my lack of talent.
Only many years later did I realise what those half-hearted sounding people at Maidenhead were trying to tell me. That I had some talent for fashion that could be developed and they were willing to make a place specially for me so that I'd have the chance. I don't know why I didn't see it at the time; I certainly didn't have advisors who could see clearly either.
I don't exactly regret not following through; if I'd had real passion maybe I would have found another way. And my life has certainly been interesting, although I never took up theatre design, despite my City & Guilds.
It would have been rather fun though to have been a leader, rather than follower, of fashion! Sian, go for it! I wish you the best.
Tuesday, March 01, 2011
Stuff
Today
"Which is worse", asked Beatrice "to still have singles by Gilbert O'Sullivan or by The Seekers?" The consensus seems to be that G O'S is worse.
But what fascinates me is that she and Nell still have these items, forty-odd years on, and have carried them with them from place to place and, for Beatrice, through three marriages. What made her feel that it was worth filling a packing case with them?
In My Day
They say that 3 house moves equal one house fire in terms of what is lost. I certainly have very little of what I started out with when I first left home. I didn't have very much, it's true, and probably had no way of playing records in my student digs. So much would have been left at 4BH. Mamma and Daddy moved to Ribblesdale in Dorking while I was still at college in about 1969. Shoe-horning their own possessions into a two-bedroomed bungalow must have been challenging enough, without continuing to give house-room to my stuff.
So I expect that much would have been chucked out. Maybe I became accustomed to letting my things go and perhaps I'm a "chucker-out" by nature. I find the thought of a loft full of now unused items quite burdensome.
So, what did I think was worth carrying with me through about a dozen changes of home? My sewing machine and fabrics, to be sure. Clothes, of course, although many are chucked out on a routine basis. Until I was married, about the only books that came with me were, for some reason, Mamma's art books; as I write I can see the large format Phaidon Boticelli book that I so loved as a child, and Laine's Arabian Nights - now down to three volumes - will anyone admit to having the fourth? I still have the first piece of "art" embroidery that I did for A-level and will mount and frame it one day. Lizzie has my old diaries.
The truth is that, almost all that I have now I acquired since I moved to Somerset, even diaries and archival material; a few bits of artwork done by the girls remain. And I certainly have no old singles purchased when I was eighteen.
Several of my friends still have their, now grown-up, children's clutter filling up their houses. This may include their old favourite CDs which could surface to ridicule in thirty years' time, who knows?
"Which is worse", asked Beatrice "to still have singles by Gilbert O'Sullivan or by The Seekers?" The consensus seems to be that G O'S is worse.
But what fascinates me is that she and Nell still have these items, forty-odd years on, and have carried them with them from place to place and, for Beatrice, through three marriages. What made her feel that it was worth filling a packing case with them?
In My Day
They say that 3 house moves equal one house fire in terms of what is lost. I certainly have very little of what I started out with when I first left home. I didn't have very much, it's true, and probably had no way of playing records in my student digs. So much would have been left at 4BH. Mamma and Daddy moved to Ribblesdale in Dorking while I was still at college in about 1969. Shoe-horning their own possessions into a two-bedroomed bungalow must have been challenging enough, without continuing to give house-room to my stuff.
So I expect that much would have been chucked out. Maybe I became accustomed to letting my things go and perhaps I'm a "chucker-out" by nature. I find the thought of a loft full of now unused items quite burdensome.
So, what did I think was worth carrying with me through about a dozen changes of home? My sewing machine and fabrics, to be sure. Clothes, of course, although many are chucked out on a routine basis. Until I was married, about the only books that came with me were, for some reason, Mamma's art books; as I write I can see the large format Phaidon Boticelli book that I so loved as a child, and Laine's Arabian Nights - now down to three volumes - will anyone admit to having the fourth? I still have the first piece of "art" embroidery that I did for A-level and will mount and frame it one day. Lizzie has my old diaries.
The truth is that, almost all that I have now I acquired since I moved to Somerset, even diaries and archival material; a few bits of artwork done by the girls remain. And I certainly have no old singles purchased when I was eighteen.
Several of my friends still have their, now grown-up, children's clutter filling up their houses. This may include their old favourite CDs which could surface to ridicule in thirty years' time, who knows?
Monday, February 21, 2011
Spice of Life
Today
I decided to make a curry today. Now, this doesn't just mean a dollop of curry powder and some pre-packed nan bread. It involves cumin seeds popped in hot oil and ginger and garlic paste sizzled with onions. Among other things, it involves fresh coriander.
So I nipped into my local Tesco where I could buy: coriander growing in a pot, a small pack of cut leaves or a huge bunch enough for an Indian takeaway for a week. I opted for the small pack; the growing coriander looked rather weedy and the huge bunch likely to go withered and slimy before I'd used it all.
In My Day
My first proper foray into Indian cooking (apart from early efforts with Curry powder and lentils) was for a proper dinner party at 10 Montfort Close. I think the year was about 1983. The trigger for the event was actually a set of two cocktail glasses plus shaker given to us by our friends the previous Christmas. Eventually we invited six guests which necessitated buying six more cocktails glasses!
I decided that I wanted to cook an Indian meal. My best mate lent me her Madhur Jaffrey authentic Indian cook book. The recipes looked wonderful. The problem was the ingredients. What was "gram"? Could I manage without ghee? Could I substitute ground ginger for fresh? And, where, exactly, was I going to obtain fresh coriander?
To answer these and several other questions I turned to Kennedy's delicatessen in South Street, Eastbourne. This dowdy-looking shop was a treasure-trove of exotic foods. The floor consisted of bare boards and the assistants all seemed to be elderly men in maroon overalls. Kennedy's was the kind of place where they didn't just sell dried apricots. Opening huge paper-lined wooden boxes, they offered you Turkish, Greek, Moroccan or Hunza, with or without an oil or sulphur coating. At a time when most people still bought their olive oil from the chemist, they could offer you several varieties from each major European producer in every permutation from first cold pressing downwards.
Of course we can supply gram, madam; it's just a flour made from chick peas and perfect for making samosas. Ghee came in rather vast quantities and the knowledgeable assistants told me that sunflower or another unscented oil would do fine. They sold me cumin seeds and cardamon pods as well as the essential fresh ginger.
Eventually, emboldened by my success, I asked for fresh coriander. The gentleman went out the back and emerged with an enormous bunch of leaves, dripping from where it had been stored in a vase of water.
My Indian meal was going to be just perfect, which it was, despite the effect of many cocktails drunk before the meal started.
I can't remember when Kennedy's closed down; if they re-opened now, they would make a killing. And somehow, despite the choice, it just isn't as much fun buying these items at Tesco.
Tonight's curry was a success, though.
I decided to make a curry today. Now, this doesn't just mean a dollop of curry powder and some pre-packed nan bread. It involves cumin seeds popped in hot oil and ginger and garlic paste sizzled with onions. Among other things, it involves fresh coriander.
So I nipped into my local Tesco where I could buy: coriander growing in a pot, a small pack of cut leaves or a huge bunch enough for an Indian takeaway for a week. I opted for the small pack; the growing coriander looked rather weedy and the huge bunch likely to go withered and slimy before I'd used it all.
In My Day
My first proper foray into Indian cooking (apart from early efforts with Curry powder and lentils) was for a proper dinner party at 10 Montfort Close. I think the year was about 1983. The trigger for the event was actually a set of two cocktail glasses plus shaker given to us by our friends the previous Christmas. Eventually we invited six guests which necessitated buying six more cocktails glasses!
I decided that I wanted to cook an Indian meal. My best mate lent me her Madhur Jaffrey authentic Indian cook book. The recipes looked wonderful. The problem was the ingredients. What was "gram"? Could I manage without ghee? Could I substitute ground ginger for fresh? And, where, exactly, was I going to obtain fresh coriander?
To answer these and several other questions I turned to Kennedy's delicatessen in South Street, Eastbourne. This dowdy-looking shop was a treasure-trove of exotic foods. The floor consisted of bare boards and the assistants all seemed to be elderly men in maroon overalls. Kennedy's was the kind of place where they didn't just sell dried apricots. Opening huge paper-lined wooden boxes, they offered you Turkish, Greek, Moroccan or Hunza, with or without an oil or sulphur coating. At a time when most people still bought their olive oil from the chemist, they could offer you several varieties from each major European producer in every permutation from first cold pressing downwards.
Of course we can supply gram, madam; it's just a flour made from chick peas and perfect for making samosas. Ghee came in rather vast quantities and the knowledgeable assistants told me that sunflower or another unscented oil would do fine. They sold me cumin seeds and cardamon pods as well as the essential fresh ginger.
Eventually, emboldened by my success, I asked for fresh coriander. The gentleman went out the back and emerged with an enormous bunch of leaves, dripping from where it had been stored in a vase of water.
My Indian meal was going to be just perfect, which it was, despite the effect of many cocktails drunk before the meal started.
I can't remember when Kennedy's closed down; if they re-opened now, they would make a killing. And somehow, despite the choice, it just isn't as much fun buying these items at Tesco.
Tonight's curry was a success, though.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Summing Up
Today
David's Facebook comment this morning was "there are 10 types of people in the world; Those who understand binary and those who don't". Quite.
In My Day
How was it that I, whose maths knowledge is sketchy at best, understood him so quickly? It was in this wise. At school I was resolutely confused by all but plain old arithmetic and even that I preferred very straightforward. As I was clearly otherwise a bright and fairly committed student, the teachers seemed to accept that my maths gene was defective and expected little of me.
When O' levels approached a dilemma arose. To be said to have received a good, rounded grammar school education you had to be proficient across a broad spectrum. And this spectrum included maths. On the other hand, it was obvious that I and a few other girls would spend a lot of effort to achieve a fail mark.
The school found a solution in the form of an American exchange teacher. She could take us for maths so that we were still covering the subject, but didn't have to follow the O' level syllabus.
Reader, those maths lessons were the clearest I have ever received. This teacher, once she understood that we weren't of sub-normal abilities in other ways, introduced principles of Maths that suddenly made some sense. Ah! Algebra! That's why we do it! And she taught us about binary systems, a concept so entirely new in the somewhat staid atmosphere of maths teaching in 1960s grammar school that we felt rather privileged to be learning it!
So, while I still struggle to work out how many pentagons are required to make a globe, I can understand the concept of binary. How rounded this makes my education I can't undertake to say.
David's Facebook comment this morning was "there are 10 types of people in the world; Those who understand binary and those who don't". Quite.
In My Day
How was it that I, whose maths knowledge is sketchy at best, understood him so quickly? It was in this wise. At school I was resolutely confused by all but plain old arithmetic and even that I preferred very straightforward. As I was clearly otherwise a bright and fairly committed student, the teachers seemed to accept that my maths gene was defective and expected little of me.
When O' levels approached a dilemma arose. To be said to have received a good, rounded grammar school education you had to be proficient across a broad spectrum. And this spectrum included maths. On the other hand, it was obvious that I and a few other girls would spend a lot of effort to achieve a fail mark.
The school found a solution in the form of an American exchange teacher. She could take us for maths so that we were still covering the subject, but didn't have to follow the O' level syllabus.
Reader, those maths lessons were the clearest I have ever received. This teacher, once she understood that we weren't of sub-normal abilities in other ways, introduced principles of Maths that suddenly made some sense. Ah! Algebra! That's why we do it! And she taught us about binary systems, a concept so entirely new in the somewhat staid atmosphere of maths teaching in 1960s grammar school that we felt rather privileged to be learning it!
So, while I still struggle to work out how many pentagons are required to make a globe, I can understand the concept of binary. How rounded this makes my education I can't undertake to say.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Up and Running
Today
My nephew has been excitedly recording his 5-month-old daughters progress. One moment she's learnt to roll over; the next she's grasped the concept of walking, although she can't quite do this unaided yet.
Another cousin commented that her child, who is 2 months older, is still puzzling over the rolling over business, never mind crawling or walking! "Lazy" she called him, but what does seem clear is that we are all very different in the way in which we reach these stages without it really mattering in terms of our overall development.
In My Day
Lizzie was late in learning to walk. As a baby she didn't brace her legs against my lap when I was playing with her but preferred to sit down again as soon as possible! She got the idea of crawling pretty early and soon became super-fast and efficient in this skill. So, really, what was the point of walking when you could already get about so fast?
So, although she was chattering using an ever-growing vocabulary from just over a year, her world view was still from floor level.
When she was about 16 months or so, I was browsing a catalogue of hand-made wooden toys. These understated unpainted plywood toys looked interesting and my eye was caught by a push-along trolley. This object was really a deep box on casters with a handle for pushing. The was a sturdy lid so a child could sit on it. To round it all off it had a 2-dimensional horse's head with string mane attached to the front and a string tail at the back. Perfect! I ordered it and in due course we presented it to Liz.
She loved it and grabbed hold of the handle to push it. Unfortunately, it hadn't been designed to be pushed by someone crawling on the floor and it overbalanced, giving her a bit of a clonk. Lizzie examined this desirable object. There was clearly only one thing for it: she'd have to get up and walk. Which she did, without hesitation and as though she'd been walking for months.
Clearly she'd been hiding this skill from us until it became more beneficial to use it! I expect quite a number of children do this and a variation in motivating factors may explain a fair bit of the variation we see.
I don't know what explanation we can give to my finest achievement. My baby book proudly announces that I first sat up unaided in the big pram in March 1949 - when I was 15 months old......
My nephew has been excitedly recording his 5-month-old daughters progress. One moment she's learnt to roll over; the next she's grasped the concept of walking, although she can't quite do this unaided yet.
Another cousin commented that her child, who is 2 months older, is still puzzling over the rolling over business, never mind crawling or walking! "Lazy" she called him, but what does seem clear is that we are all very different in the way in which we reach these stages without it really mattering in terms of our overall development.
In My Day
Lizzie was late in learning to walk. As a baby she didn't brace her legs against my lap when I was playing with her but preferred to sit down again as soon as possible! She got the idea of crawling pretty early and soon became super-fast and efficient in this skill. So, really, what was the point of walking when you could already get about so fast?
So, although she was chattering using an ever-growing vocabulary from just over a year, her world view was still from floor level.
When she was about 16 months or so, I was browsing a catalogue of hand-made wooden toys. These understated unpainted plywood toys looked interesting and my eye was caught by a push-along trolley. This object was really a deep box on casters with a handle for pushing. The was a sturdy lid so a child could sit on it. To round it all off it had a 2-dimensional horse's head with string mane attached to the front and a string tail at the back. Perfect! I ordered it and in due course we presented it to Liz.
She loved it and grabbed hold of the handle to push it. Unfortunately, it hadn't been designed to be pushed by someone crawling on the floor and it overbalanced, giving her a bit of a clonk. Lizzie examined this desirable object. There was clearly only one thing for it: she'd have to get up and walk. Which she did, without hesitation and as though she'd been walking for months.
Clearly she'd been hiding this skill from us until it became more beneficial to use it! I expect quite a number of children do this and a variation in motivating factors may explain a fair bit of the variation we see.
I don't know what explanation we can give to my finest achievement. My baby book proudly announces that I first sat up unaided in the big pram in March 1949 - when I was 15 months old......
Tuesday, February 08, 2011
Cough
Today
My niece's Facebook status today reported that her two-year old has croup. Poor little scrap.
In my day
From the age of about six weeks Becky was plagued with all kinds of upper respiratory tract infections. She had coughs and colds, chest, throat and ear infections. I don't really know the reasons why she was so vulnerable. Maybe it was down to the fact that my repeated breast abscesses meant that I had to abandon breast-feeding at five weeks or that the antibiotics I'd been taking before then affected her. Who can say? I removed her cot from our room because her constant sniffling and wheezing were impossible to sleep through. But I would be relieved in the morning to hear her cough: it meant that she was alive.
But I remember visit after visit to the doctor with my coughing, snotty little baby. Doctors were more cavalier in their attitude to giving antibiotics then and Becky had several courses until I pointed out that a: she didn't seem to be getting any better and b: she always seemed to come out in a rash when taking them. After that we struggled forward with traditional remedies.
Croup was perhaps the most frightening of all the infections. She would become breathless and wheezy and quite unable to sleep. We did bring her bed into our room on those occasions because we were genuinely concerned that she might not survive the night. The standard folk remedy in those days was steam. We would shut the bedroom doors and windows, bring a kettle into the bedroom and plug in. The room filled with steam and the walls dripped with moisture. And it did seem to help; after a while Becky's breathing would become easier and she would relax into sleep.
She continued to be troubled with these problems, exacerbated by contracting German Measles, Chicken Pox and Whooping Cough all at the same time, until she was about four. Through all this, it must be said, she continued to develop normally and was always a pretty cheerful baby. The problems all went away when she was about four. Either her self-imposed change of diet had some effect or she'd established some sort of resistance, but she was never so ill again through all her childhood.
Get well soon, Li'l David, you must be feeling miserable.
My niece's Facebook status today reported that her two-year old has croup. Poor little scrap.
In my day
From the age of about six weeks Becky was plagued with all kinds of upper respiratory tract infections. She had coughs and colds, chest, throat and ear infections. I don't really know the reasons why she was so vulnerable. Maybe it was down to the fact that my repeated breast abscesses meant that I had to abandon breast-feeding at five weeks or that the antibiotics I'd been taking before then affected her. Who can say? I removed her cot from our room because her constant sniffling and wheezing were impossible to sleep through. But I would be relieved in the morning to hear her cough: it meant that she was alive.
But I remember visit after visit to the doctor with my coughing, snotty little baby. Doctors were more cavalier in their attitude to giving antibiotics then and Becky had several courses until I pointed out that a: she didn't seem to be getting any better and b: she always seemed to come out in a rash when taking them. After that we struggled forward with traditional remedies.
Croup was perhaps the most frightening of all the infections. She would become breathless and wheezy and quite unable to sleep. We did bring her bed into our room on those occasions because we were genuinely concerned that she might not survive the night. The standard folk remedy in those days was steam. We would shut the bedroom doors and windows, bring a kettle into the bedroom and plug in. The room filled with steam and the walls dripped with moisture. And it did seem to help; after a while Becky's breathing would become easier and she would relax into sleep.
She continued to be troubled with these problems, exacerbated by contracting German Measles, Chicken Pox and Whooping Cough all at the same time, until she was about four. Through all this, it must be said, she continued to develop normally and was always a pretty cheerful baby. The problems all went away when she was about four. Either her self-imposed change of diet had some effect or she'd established some sort of resistance, but she was never so ill again through all her childhood.
Get well soon, Li'l David, you must be feeling miserable.
Saturday, February 05, 2011
Page Turner
Today
Proving that he does pick up on my heavy-handed hints, Paul bought me an E-reader for Christmas. I've located a few good download sites and have had some fun copying books. One of the good things is that I've been able to locate books that I read in my childhood and haven't been able to find since.
One of my favourites was "Daddy Long-Legs" by Jean Webster. Reading it again has been very informative. It's still a jolly good read, but I can now see clearly how Webster used the book to express her views on the emancipation of women ("The only way I can ever repay you is by turning out a Very Useful Citizen (Are women citizens? I don't suppose they are.") ) and sexual equality. I can also see how angry a person the protagonist, Jerusha Abbot, is. When I was a child I could only see her exuberant warmth.
Discussing books with my sister-in-law recently, she told me that she rarely re-reads books.
In My Day
I suppose I was what used to be described as a "bookworm" when I was a child. I generally had several books on the go and my imagination was fired with images from my fairy stories. Mamma used to read stories at bedtime and sometimes the only way I could get through the night was to read until I dropped off to sleep.
And I re-read my books until I knew them by heart. Hans Christian Andersen, Lewis Carroll, AA Milne, Enid Blyton, E Nesbit, Richmal Crompton, Louisa May Allcot, Arthur Ransome, Rudyard Kipling. The house was full of books and I don't remember there being any restrictions placed on what we could read. I read Dickens at an early age. Daddy used to try to read us "A Christmas Carol" before Christmas, but I don't think he ever managed to finish it, for two reasons. Firstly, he never allowed enough time and secondly, he usually broke down in tears at some point and had to leave off.
We read comics as well, there being little intellectual snobbery in our household. In fact I sometimes had to prise "Bunty" out of Mamma's hands as she grabbed it first. I had "Girl" or "Bunty" annuals at Christmas and read them over and over again, especially "Girl". I belonged to the library and went through a lengthy phase of loving horsey books - "Jill's Gymkhana" and Pony Club books although I didn't ride and was rather inclined to be frightened of horses. There were plenty of stories involving girls in boarding schools which led me at one point to ask if I could go to boarding school, a request that Mamma took seriously.
There were some gaps - "The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe" I didn't read till I was sixteen or so and I never got into books such as "Treasure Island" or "Kidnapped".
If a book had beautiful illustrations I was even happier - my HCA book had illustrations by Heath Robinson (I found an edition of these to give to Lizzie when she was a child) and I remember being entranced by the colours used to show the heavens opening to receive Christian in my copy of "Pilgrim's Progress.
Most of them I have re-read as an adult. Some I can see are poorly written rubbish - my much more discerning daughter Becky refused to read Enid Blyton books on the grounds of their childishly short sentences and two-dimensional characterisation - but others repay adult reading and square the circle of understanding, so to speak. And I still cry at that moment when Heidi runs back into her Grandad's arms.
When I was extolling the virtues (especially its huge capacity) of my E-reader to a friend she said "But you can only read one book at a time!". True, but it'll be a lot lighter in my hand luggage. One thing is clear, however, I won't be able to describe an E-book as a "page turner".
Proving that he does pick up on my heavy-handed hints, Paul bought me an E-reader for Christmas. I've located a few good download sites and have had some fun copying books. One of the good things is that I've been able to locate books that I read in my childhood and haven't been able to find since.
One of my favourites was "Daddy Long-Legs" by Jean Webster. Reading it again has been very informative. It's still a jolly good read, but I can now see clearly how Webster used the book to express her views on the emancipation of women ("The only way I can ever repay you is by turning out a Very Useful Citizen (Are women citizens? I don't suppose they are.") ) and sexual equality. I can also see how angry a person the protagonist, Jerusha Abbot, is. When I was a child I could only see her exuberant warmth.
Discussing books with my sister-in-law recently, she told me that she rarely re-reads books.
In My Day
I suppose I was what used to be described as a "bookworm" when I was a child. I generally had several books on the go and my imagination was fired with images from my fairy stories. Mamma used to read stories at bedtime and sometimes the only way I could get through the night was to read until I dropped off to sleep.
And I re-read my books until I knew them by heart. Hans Christian Andersen, Lewis Carroll, AA Milne, Enid Blyton, E Nesbit, Richmal Crompton, Louisa May Allcot, Arthur Ransome, Rudyard Kipling. The house was full of books and I don't remember there being any restrictions placed on what we could read. I read Dickens at an early age. Daddy used to try to read us "A Christmas Carol" before Christmas, but I don't think he ever managed to finish it, for two reasons. Firstly, he never allowed enough time and secondly, he usually broke down in tears at some point and had to leave off.
We read comics as well, there being little intellectual snobbery in our household. In fact I sometimes had to prise "Bunty" out of Mamma's hands as she grabbed it first. I had "Girl" or "Bunty" annuals at Christmas and read them over and over again, especially "Girl". I belonged to the library and went through a lengthy phase of loving horsey books - "Jill's Gymkhana" and Pony Club books although I didn't ride and was rather inclined to be frightened of horses. There were plenty of stories involving girls in boarding schools which led me at one point to ask if I could go to boarding school, a request that Mamma took seriously.
There were some gaps - "The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe" I didn't read till I was sixteen or so and I never got into books such as "Treasure Island" or "Kidnapped".
If a book had beautiful illustrations I was even happier - my HCA book had illustrations by Heath Robinson (I found an edition of these to give to Lizzie when she was a child) and I remember being entranced by the colours used to show the heavens opening to receive Christian in my copy of "Pilgrim's Progress.
Most of them I have re-read as an adult. Some I can see are poorly written rubbish - my much more discerning daughter Becky refused to read Enid Blyton books on the grounds of their childishly short sentences and two-dimensional characterisation - but others repay adult reading and square the circle of understanding, so to speak. And I still cry at that moment when Heidi runs back into her Grandad's arms.
When I was extolling the virtues (especially its huge capacity) of my E-reader to a friend she said "But you can only read one book at a time!". True, but it'll be a lot lighter in my hand luggage. One thing is clear, however, I won't be able to describe an E-book as a "page turner".
Thursday, February 03, 2011
Making the Most
Today
During my recent stay at the Lorrens Health Hydro with my best mate, I found myself thinking about the whole issue of personal presentation and the connection between health and beauty. My sister recently grumbled that these pampering places are all about beauty. "But beauty and health are closely linked." I replied.
Now that I'm retired, I'm less inclined to style my hair daily, wear jewellery, make-up or high-heels. Of course, my days are more likely to be spent walking the lanes or doing the garden rather than chairing board meetings, but is that really any reason for not making that effort?
And I don't think that the fact that I've been married nearly forty years has anything to do with it either; taking proper care of myself keeps things alive. While I was at Flare Paul sometimes used to grumble that I looked at my sexy best just as I was leaving for work.....
In My Day
When I was a child I never saw Mamma in trousers until these became fashion items, or, indeed, in anything resembling official workwear. She always wore dresses, even for a walk in the country or to do gardening and these would have been supported by the usual corsets and underslip. She wore stockings and courts shoes pretty well constantly.
She very much disapproved of women who spent their days with rollered up hair under scarves, wearing overalls to protect their clothing. I'm not sure that I understood her reasoning - the overall idea seemed quite sensible. The most she did was to pop a little "Dutch" apron over her dress which possibly protected a few inches at the front. I actually think this was a rare example of Mamma being snobbish; she didn't want to be mistaken for the cleaning lady.
This attitude meant that she was at least always ready if the doorbell rang. On the other hand she didn't pay particular attention to skin or hand care. Her hair was tightly rolled into a bun and her concessions to make-up were to wear lipstick and powder (over bare skin) on occasion. She wore necklaces (I remember her sweet little silver necklace in the form of violets which I still have), but no other jewellery.
Men frequently proclaim that they aren't interested seeing in their women bedecked in makeup, sexy clothes etc etc, but I'm not sure that I take much notice of this.
My attitude to this was shaped by a cynical little tale in one of my favourite books "Daddy Long-legs" in which the heroine recounts a tale of a clergyman who vociferously argued for "dress reform" . His wife, to oblige him, adopted this style of clothing. Her husband shortly after bolted with a chorus girl....
So I think I will persevere with the skin and hair care and try to ensure that I wear high heels and makeup at least a couple of times a week - just because I like to.
During my recent stay at the Lorrens Health Hydro with my best mate, I found myself thinking about the whole issue of personal presentation and the connection between health and beauty. My sister recently grumbled that these pampering places are all about beauty. "But beauty and health are closely linked." I replied.
Now that I'm retired, I'm less inclined to style my hair daily, wear jewellery, make-up or high-heels. Of course, my days are more likely to be spent walking the lanes or doing the garden rather than chairing board meetings, but is that really any reason for not making that effort?
And I don't think that the fact that I've been married nearly forty years has anything to do with it either; taking proper care of myself keeps things alive. While I was at Flare Paul sometimes used to grumble that I looked at my sexy best just as I was leaving for work.....
In My Day
When I was a child I never saw Mamma in trousers until these became fashion items, or, indeed, in anything resembling official workwear. She always wore dresses, even for a walk in the country or to do gardening and these would have been supported by the usual corsets and underslip. She wore stockings and courts shoes pretty well constantly.
She very much disapproved of women who spent their days with rollered up hair under scarves, wearing overalls to protect their clothing. I'm not sure that I understood her reasoning - the overall idea seemed quite sensible. The most she did was to pop a little "Dutch" apron over her dress which possibly protected a few inches at the front. I actually think this was a rare example of Mamma being snobbish; she didn't want to be mistaken for the cleaning lady.
This attitude meant that she was at least always ready if the doorbell rang. On the other hand she didn't pay particular attention to skin or hand care. Her hair was tightly rolled into a bun and her concessions to make-up were to wear lipstick and powder (over bare skin) on occasion. She wore necklaces (I remember her sweet little silver necklace in the form of violets which I still have), but no other jewellery.
Men frequently proclaim that they aren't interested seeing in their women bedecked in makeup, sexy clothes etc etc, but I'm not sure that I take much notice of this.
My attitude to this was shaped by a cynical little tale in one of my favourite books "Daddy Long-legs" in which the heroine recounts a tale of a clergyman who vociferously argued for "dress reform" . His wife, to oblige him, adopted this style of clothing. Her husband shortly after bolted with a chorus girl....
So I think I will persevere with the skin and hair care and try to ensure that I wear high heels and makeup at least a couple of times a week - just because I like to.
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