Today
The value of properties in our area seems to follow mysterious rules which we are finding hard to grasp. A near derelict bungalow a couple of miles away is priced at £70K more than an immaculate bungalow in another village, merely, it would seem because the second bungalow has less land and is on a busy road. It's also clear that some places are priced the way they are because the owner has to realise a certain amount to clear debts or be able to buy a new place, with scant attention to reality.
In My Day
The difference in property prices from one place to another was starkly obvious to us back in 1980. The house at Rowan Avenue was so tiny and all we could afford. We couldn't see any way of climbing the property ladder given the crazy house prices in the south-east.
The best place to live, from the point of view of cost, (according to the Sunday supplements)was in Humberside; Scunthorpe to be exact. Simple! We gathered details of properties in and around the area and set off to view, taking Lizzie with us.
Aside from the fact that we had to spend one night in the car when we discovered that some friends with whom we hoped to stay had moved, we had a very interesting time.
We looked at properties being redeveloped from derelict cottages in New Holland which were already showing damp, despite the newness of the conversion. We looked at several houses in Scunthorpe, from the impossible to the scrubbed up and new.
One house we liked very much was a Victorian house in the village of Winterton, about twenty miles from Scunthorpe. It was a very good size, rather shabby and well within our budget. Winterton has a rather old-fashioned high street with signs of elegance and departed grandeur. The house had a delightful walled garden and our fantasies began to run riot. We left, full of plans and hope.
It was early February and we ignored the dreariness of the landscape, flat and featureless. We ignored the grey, murky damp weather. We ignored the clear evidence that the whole area was on the downward slide. The new Humber bridge had taken away New Holland's only reason for existence and there was dereliction, enlivened with distant views of cooling towers, visible on every side. We didn't know a soul and would have had to create an entire new social structure for ourselves and the girls. And did we want them growing up with Hull accents?
The real reason for the cheapness of property was staring at us in our faces and eventually we had to look fully back at it. Jobs. Where there's no work the property ladder goes in one direction only - down. The ambulance service didn't operate a transfer system and when Paul popped into Scunthorpe Ambulance Station they told him that they were up to full strength. Any hope I had of a transfer would depend on Paul working there.
So it was back to Sunny Eastbourne (it really is sunny and the brightness of the skies told their own story) and the much slower ascent up the stairway.
At least we don't have to worry about mortgages or jobs now and can please ourselves. Although I have vetoed the bungalow with the gorgeous acre of garden on the premise that Paul is unlikely ever to mow the grass or wield a pair of secateurs.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Baby Bag
Today
Lizzie's friend Ruth was getting in a tizzy today. Her baby is due in three weeks and she was uncertain about the wisdom of a trek into Birmingham with no mobile phone. Suppose she went into labour in a public place? And she hadn't even packed her hospital bag.....
In My Day
Knowing when to expect the birth of your baby was an even less exact science back in the '70s than it is now. There were no scans and doctors relied on the date of your last period, your size and a bit of prodding around.
When I was carrying Lizzie, all these factors were in conflict. As I am one of those women whose cycle was very variable indeed, the expected birth date was at best a guess. I quickly became very large, but the usual signs (baby's first kick etc) were rather later than normal. Pauls' mum took to phoning every day or so to ask whether I'd felt any movement which wasn't very reassuring.
When the due date approached I, too packed a little bag. I trotted along to the hospital each week for a check-up. "If I call from the clinic," I told Paul "just pick it up and come in with it." Each week I'd unpack the daily essentials from the bag.
Lizzie's head engaged at the right time but after that.... nothing. I began to wonder whether my pregnancy would ever end. When I was three weeks overdue they ran a test to see whether the placenta was still up to the job. This unsophisticated test involved my carrying a sort of demijohn with me everywhere I went for a day and putting every drop of wee I did into it! Not very dignified, especially as we'd agreed to meet my parents for a day out in Horsham.
Placenta just fine. "I think we'll wait for nature", said my genial obstetrician, after he'd taken an X-ray to make sure that there weren't two Lizzies.
So the bag remained in the corner of the room, looking more and more forlorn, for six weeks after Liz was due, while nature had a bit of a think about it. Which is when she eventually, with the help of a bit of a pull from the obstetrician, decided to make her appearance.
Maybe this experience explains why Lizzie is very, very rarely late these days.
Lizzie's friend Ruth was getting in a tizzy today. Her baby is due in three weeks and she was uncertain about the wisdom of a trek into Birmingham with no mobile phone. Suppose she went into labour in a public place? And she hadn't even packed her hospital bag.....
In My Day
Knowing when to expect the birth of your baby was an even less exact science back in the '70s than it is now. There were no scans and doctors relied on the date of your last period, your size and a bit of prodding around.
When I was carrying Lizzie, all these factors were in conflict. As I am one of those women whose cycle was very variable indeed, the expected birth date was at best a guess. I quickly became very large, but the usual signs (baby's first kick etc) were rather later than normal. Pauls' mum took to phoning every day or so to ask whether I'd felt any movement which wasn't very reassuring.
When the due date approached I, too packed a little bag. I trotted along to the hospital each week for a check-up. "If I call from the clinic," I told Paul "just pick it up and come in with it." Each week I'd unpack the daily essentials from the bag.
Lizzie's head engaged at the right time but after that.... nothing. I began to wonder whether my pregnancy would ever end. When I was three weeks overdue they ran a test to see whether the placenta was still up to the job. This unsophisticated test involved my carrying a sort of demijohn with me everywhere I went for a day and putting every drop of wee I did into it! Not very dignified, especially as we'd agreed to meet my parents for a day out in Horsham.
Placenta just fine. "I think we'll wait for nature", said my genial obstetrician, after he'd taken an X-ray to make sure that there weren't two Lizzies.
So the bag remained in the corner of the room, looking more and more forlorn, for six weeks after Liz was due, while nature had a bit of a think about it. Which is when she eventually, with the help of a bit of a pull from the obstetrician, decided to make her appearance.
Maybe this experience explains why Lizzie is very, very rarely late these days.
Thursday, September 01, 2011
Party On
Today
We had a delightful time on Sunday, off to Glyndebourne to see "the Turn of the Screw". A pity we had to miss the family & friends coming to the flat to celebrate Becky's birthday. Still, as Becky had bought the tickets as a Fortieth anniversary present, there was no contest really.
We chatted to some other opera-goers about this. "Ah", they said knowingly "She just wanted you out of the way while she parties." We laughed. "Certainly the value attached to getting parents out of the way goes up as the children get older", I joked. "But I'm not complaining!"
In My Day
As I was growing up I heard many horror stories of young peoples' parties getting out of hand (the stories got into the newspapers which shows what a new phenomenon they were back in the '60s) but never seemed to have any friends who'd actually trashed their parents' house.
Eventually, of course, we had to consider the issue of the girls having parties in their teens. Maybe it was because we lived so far in the country that roving young 'uns were unlikely to turn up or because the size of the family meant that most parties mainly consisted of cousins, but we rarely had problems. Lizzie never seemed to mind much if we were around anyway.
Becky, who loved her independence, preferred to strike a bargain. One Christmas (about 1993, I think) she asked if she could have a party while we were out at the annual Flare Xmas do. We had planned to stay overnight in Bath. "OK", we said "We're doing some Christmas shopping and expect to be back about four. So you've time to get it in order. Get this wrong and it's the last time." A little anxiously we set off for our own frolics (consisting, I seem to remember of a crazed murder mystery event). The following day, having done a fair bit of shopping we phonedBecky to warn her that we were on our way.
The house was gleaming - just one little wine stain which Becky was busily cleaning up. She'd certainly kept her side of the bargain and earned a few more points in her progress towards independence.
When, a few years later we trusted her alone in the house for ten days during Glastonbury Festival week, and found the house equally immaculate on our return, friends laughed at our gullibility. "What about all those wild parties she had while you away?" one scoffed. "Well", I said "if she did have parties, she can clearly handle it as everything was tickety-boo."
And even though chocolate from a chocolate fountain hit the ceiling during Cousmass 2005, causing Becky to have a complete sense of humour bypass, it was all cleaned up by the time we returned and we only knew about because the girls told us.
As we knew some people whose apparently docile daughter invited a trashing set of local youths to the house during parental absences, not once but twice (I think CDs melted into the carpet featured), we feel rather proud to have such a reliable daughter.
And I was sorry to miss seeing the little ones and Richard's family on Sunday.
We had a delightful time on Sunday, off to Glyndebourne to see "the Turn of the Screw". A pity we had to miss the family & friends coming to the flat to celebrate Becky's birthday. Still, as Becky had bought the tickets as a Fortieth anniversary present, there was no contest really.
We chatted to some other opera-goers about this. "Ah", they said knowingly "She just wanted you out of the way while she parties." We laughed. "Certainly the value attached to getting parents out of the way goes up as the children get older", I joked. "But I'm not complaining!"
In My Day
As I was growing up I heard many horror stories of young peoples' parties getting out of hand (the stories got into the newspapers which shows what a new phenomenon they were back in the '60s) but never seemed to have any friends who'd actually trashed their parents' house.
Eventually, of course, we had to consider the issue of the girls having parties in their teens. Maybe it was because we lived so far in the country that roving young 'uns were unlikely to turn up or because the size of the family meant that most parties mainly consisted of cousins, but we rarely had problems. Lizzie never seemed to mind much if we were around anyway.
Becky, who loved her independence, preferred to strike a bargain. One Christmas (about 1993, I think) she asked if she could have a party while we were out at the annual Flare Xmas do. We had planned to stay overnight in Bath. "OK", we said "We're doing some Christmas shopping and expect to be back about four. So you've time to get it in order. Get this wrong and it's the last time." A little anxiously we set off for our own frolics (consisting, I seem to remember of a crazed murder mystery event). The following day, having done a fair bit of shopping we phonedBecky to warn her that we were on our way.
The house was gleaming - just one little wine stain which Becky was busily cleaning up. She'd certainly kept her side of the bargain and earned a few more points in her progress towards independence.
When, a few years later we trusted her alone in the house for ten days during Glastonbury Festival week, and found the house equally immaculate on our return, friends laughed at our gullibility. "What about all those wild parties she had while you away?" one scoffed. "Well", I said "if she did have parties, she can clearly handle it as everything was tickety-boo."
And even though chocolate from a chocolate fountain hit the ceiling during Cousmass 2005, causing Becky to have a complete sense of humour bypass, it was all cleaned up by the time we returned and we only knew about because the girls told us.
As we knew some people whose apparently docile daughter invited a trashing set of local youths to the house during parental absences, not once but twice (I think CDs melted into the carpet featured), we feel rather proud to have such a reliable daughter.
And I was sorry to miss seeing the little ones and Richard's family on Sunday.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Flying Solo
Today
Summer wouldn't be complete without my regular visit to Holland House at Cropthorne. This year the Laetare Singers gathered again, under the able baton of Ralph Woodward. One of the aspects I enjoy is the opportunity to sing a solo or two.
Now, I'm no professional and otherwise rarely have the chance. And it doesn't seem to matter that the "performance" is actually a little run through with an audience of about six camp-followers; I still feel as nervous as though I was about to perform in the Albert Hall.
This time I sang the solo in Ravel's ravishing "Trois Beaux Oiseaux" and hope I sounded OK
In My Day
Apart from the chances offered me by Gregory Atkin when I was a teenager I never developed a solo singing career. In 1988 I joined Cantilena Choir and discovered two things. Firstly, a longish "dry" period in which I'd done little or no singing, had left me struggling to reach top notes that had once been easy. Secondly, our Music Director occasionally asked me to do minor solos, something I found pretty scary.
To help rectify these things, I decided to have some singing lessons, something I'd never done before. After some trial and error I found the perfect teacher for me. Viola Nagel, a charming Canadian singer, lived in Glastonbury and we already knew each other, having sung together a couple of times in a local occasional chamber group. She sympathetically helped to bring out my natural qualities and I discovered that those top c's were still there! With her help, I attained my Associated Board grade six & seven and performed at local festivals.
I didn't pursue any possibility of local solo opportunities; simply using what she's taught me to improve my day-to-day singing and any little solos I'm asked to do. Even now, if I have anything more than the shortest piece to sing I will often contact Viola for a lesson to help with the best delivery.
None of this, I'm afraid, takes away the anxiety before and during performance which may explain why I've never aspired to become a second Emma Kirkby! And I hope I'll know when the advancing years finally wreak their havoc with my voice and have the grace to stop.
Summer wouldn't be complete without my regular visit to Holland House at Cropthorne. This year the Laetare Singers gathered again, under the able baton of Ralph Woodward. One of the aspects I enjoy is the opportunity to sing a solo or two.
Now, I'm no professional and otherwise rarely have the chance. And it doesn't seem to matter that the "performance" is actually a little run through with an audience of about six camp-followers; I still feel as nervous as though I was about to perform in the Albert Hall.
This time I sang the solo in Ravel's ravishing "Trois Beaux Oiseaux" and hope I sounded OK
In My Day
Apart from the chances offered me by Gregory Atkin when I was a teenager I never developed a solo singing career. In 1988 I joined Cantilena Choir and discovered two things. Firstly, a longish "dry" period in which I'd done little or no singing, had left me struggling to reach top notes that had once been easy. Secondly, our Music Director occasionally asked me to do minor solos, something I found pretty scary.
To help rectify these things, I decided to have some singing lessons, something I'd never done before. After some trial and error I found the perfect teacher for me. Viola Nagel, a charming Canadian singer, lived in Glastonbury and we already knew each other, having sung together a couple of times in a local occasional chamber group. She sympathetically helped to bring out my natural qualities and I discovered that those top c's were still there! With her help, I attained my Associated Board grade six & seven and performed at local festivals.
I didn't pursue any possibility of local solo opportunities; simply using what she's taught me to improve my day-to-day singing and any little solos I'm asked to do. Even now, if I have anything more than the shortest piece to sing I will often contact Viola for a lesson to help with the best delivery.
None of this, I'm afraid, takes away the anxiety before and during performance which may explain why I've never aspired to become a second Emma Kirkby! And I hope I'll know when the advancing years finally wreak their havoc with my voice and have the grace to stop.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Home, Sweet Home
Today
House-hunting seems to be all the rage right now. Becky & Richard seem at last to have found a suitable flat to live in. Paul & I have decided that, much as we love the flat, we are tired of being so cramped at home. So the flat has to go to pay for a bigger house where the Bentley can come in out of the rain, Paul can house his model railway and I can have a permanent workshop. We've spent hours browsing property websites and fantasising about our next home.
In My Day
Paul's dad was of the opinion that having a mortgage was a "millstone around your neck" and actually turned down the offer of a private mortgage to buy at a ridiculously low price the 17th house he was already living in, thus depriving Mum of an asset that would be worth about £1.5 million today.
I, however resented every month's rent, knowing that that money would never come back to me, and when we had an opportunity, in 1975, to buy a house in Eastbourne, I jumped at the chance. Even though the monthly mortgage repayments were £106, compared to rent of £45 I knew it was the right thing to do.
This was a new build house on a brand-new estate. The Levetts had already bought one and we were able to secure the other side of the semi. We had to rely on the pictures in the brochures as the actual house was only foundations and a few half-finished walls. Eastbourne Borough Council, anxious to attract younger people to the town, were offering 95% mortgages, based on total joint income. As this was back in the days when lenders normally either discounted the wife's income or included only part (you were going to have lots of babies and give up work, you see!), this was an offer not to be refused.
Daddy coughed up the deposit of £400 which we paid back by standing order over the next five years and the house was ours!
It wasn't yet a home, being supplied with only the most basic of fitting, but during the next seven years we made it into one and a good place in which to start our family. And when we were ready to move to something better, the price we got for the house outstripped the remaining balance on the mortgage by such an extent that we already had a very good deposit.
For so much of our lives we have juggled within such a narrow margin that it will be fun to have so much more scope. But I think that I'm going to miss little no7 which has been a real home to us for twenty-five years.
House-hunting seems to be all the rage right now. Becky & Richard seem at last to have found a suitable flat to live in. Paul & I have decided that, much as we love the flat, we are tired of being so cramped at home. So the flat has to go to pay for a bigger house where the Bentley can come in out of the rain, Paul can house his model railway and I can have a permanent workshop. We've spent hours browsing property websites and fantasising about our next home.
In My Day
Paul's dad was of the opinion that having a mortgage was a "millstone around your neck" and actually turned down the offer of a private mortgage to buy at a ridiculously low price the 17th house he was already living in, thus depriving Mum of an asset that would be worth about £1.5 million today.
I, however resented every month's rent, knowing that that money would never come back to me, and when we had an opportunity, in 1975, to buy a house in Eastbourne, I jumped at the chance. Even though the monthly mortgage repayments were £106, compared to rent of £45 I knew it was the right thing to do.
This was a new build house on a brand-new estate. The Levetts had already bought one and we were able to secure the other side of the semi. We had to rely on the pictures in the brochures as the actual house was only foundations and a few half-finished walls. Eastbourne Borough Council, anxious to attract younger people to the town, were offering 95% mortgages, based on total joint income. As this was back in the days when lenders normally either discounted the wife's income or included only part (you were going to have lots of babies and give up work, you see!), this was an offer not to be refused.
Daddy coughed up the deposit of £400 which we paid back by standing order over the next five years and the house was ours!
It wasn't yet a home, being supplied with only the most basic of fitting, but during the next seven years we made it into one and a good place in which to start our family. And when we were ready to move to something better, the price we got for the house outstripped the remaining balance on the mortgage by such an extent that we already had a very good deposit.
For so much of our lives we have juggled within such a narrow margin that it will be fun to have so much more scope. But I think that I'm going to miss little no7 which has been a real home to us for twenty-five years.
Tuesday, August 02, 2011
Skinny Minnie
Today
I recently read a jubilant status update from my niece who at last, with the help of surgery, some determination and a following wind, has lost over ten stone to make her weight at last "normal".
There's no doubt that one of the ills of an affluent society is overweight. It's a rare person who is able to say "I never think about it". The obesity epidemic is visibly with us. Programmes such as "Supersize v. Superskinny enliven our evening's TV watching. Celebrities punish their bodies to stay superskinny.
We seem to have lost the knack of knowing how to regulate our eating to match our energy output and many of us are unable to judge whether we are too large or too small.
In My Day
In 1972 I worked for the Inland Revenue at Barrington House in Worthing. This was a large building housing a range of Revenue departments. I don't know how I got chatting to a lady called Hazel. I used to see her on the station platform and wonder with slight envy at her extreme skinniness.
We used to meet up in the canteen for lunch and sometimes popped out to do shopping together. I quickly discovered the inner world of the anorexic. Hazel talked about nothing but food. Her first remark upon sitting down would be, "I can't think what to have for supper tonight." Her lunch would consist of a single sausage and a spoonful of peas. She would spend her lunch skinning both food items (and skinning a processed pea is highly skilled labour, believe me) and poking the remaining mess around her plate for half an hour. I generally feasted more rapidly on soup or fruit as I was trying to lose my post-pregnancy fat.
She described with joy her discovery that she could make an adequate supper out of a jar or two of Heinz baby food. She also described her life, her revulsion at having to engage in sex with her large and jovial (ex) husband and her fury when he had left her for another woman. She told me that she had decided to stop eating to punish him, but it seemed to me that she was punishing mainly herself and her nine-year old daughter.
This daughter was a strapping lass, clearly taking after Dad. Hazel shared a one-bedroomed flat with this child who presumably was given her share of baby food to eat. As Hazel's condition became worse, she told me how her daughter would get up in the night to make hot-water bottles to ease the persistent cramp. She used to say to her daughter "I wonder if I'll wake up in the morning?" I did protest at that; clearly mother-daughter roles were reversed and I felt for this game little girl. But I had no skills or experience that could be of any help to Hazel and, as my own daily life became more complicated, the relationship dwindled to nothing.
I wonder whether Hazel is still alive and whether she got the help she was crying out for. What I do know is that knowing those who carry ten or more stone too much or those whose body and soul are linked by a slender thread has helped me to put my two stone "excess" into perspective. Not that I'll give up the fight!
I recently read a jubilant status update from my niece who at last, with the help of surgery, some determination and a following wind, has lost over ten stone to make her weight at last "normal".
There's no doubt that one of the ills of an affluent society is overweight. It's a rare person who is able to say "I never think about it". The obesity epidemic is visibly with us. Programmes such as "Supersize v. Superskinny enliven our evening's TV watching. Celebrities punish their bodies to stay superskinny.
We seem to have lost the knack of knowing how to regulate our eating to match our energy output and many of us are unable to judge whether we are too large or too small.
In My Day
In 1972 I worked for the Inland Revenue at Barrington House in Worthing. This was a large building housing a range of Revenue departments. I don't know how I got chatting to a lady called Hazel. I used to see her on the station platform and wonder with slight envy at her extreme skinniness.
We used to meet up in the canteen for lunch and sometimes popped out to do shopping together. I quickly discovered the inner world of the anorexic. Hazel talked about nothing but food. Her first remark upon sitting down would be, "I can't think what to have for supper tonight." Her lunch would consist of a single sausage and a spoonful of peas. She would spend her lunch skinning both food items (and skinning a processed pea is highly skilled labour, believe me) and poking the remaining mess around her plate for half an hour. I generally feasted more rapidly on soup or fruit as I was trying to lose my post-pregnancy fat.
She described with joy her discovery that she could make an adequate supper out of a jar or two of Heinz baby food. She also described her life, her revulsion at having to engage in sex with her large and jovial (ex) husband and her fury when he had left her for another woman. She told me that she had decided to stop eating to punish him, but it seemed to me that she was punishing mainly herself and her nine-year old daughter.
This daughter was a strapping lass, clearly taking after Dad. Hazel shared a one-bedroomed flat with this child who presumably was given her share of baby food to eat. As Hazel's condition became worse, she told me how her daughter would get up in the night to make hot-water bottles to ease the persistent cramp. She used to say to her daughter "I wonder if I'll wake up in the morning?" I did protest at that; clearly mother-daughter roles were reversed and I felt for this game little girl. But I had no skills or experience that could be of any help to Hazel and, as my own daily life became more complicated, the relationship dwindled to nothing.
I wonder whether Hazel is still alive and whether she got the help she was crying out for. What I do know is that knowing those who carry ten or more stone too much or those whose body and soul are linked by a slender thread has helped me to put my two stone "excess" into perspective. Not that I'll give up the fight!
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Wardrobe Mistress
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.
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.
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?
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