A House is not a Home

Today

After much agonising and searching, we have settled on the house we want to buy. It's called Spencer House and is in Oakhill, a village about two  miles away. It's a very gracious house and offers all the accommodation we need.

However, I can't help feeling anxious; we have lived here at No 7 for over twenty-five years and I find myself worrying about the new location, the unknown night-noises and how long it will be before it becomes our home.

In My Day

I can't say that our first glimpse of 7 Mead Close in 1986 gave us the tingle factor. We had come to Somerset to follow up the opportunity at Flare, and needed somewhere to live. The weather seemed persistently gloomy and the house rather dreary. The carpets were dingy and of an awful design; decorations were scruffy and the whole house was cold with a heating system out of the ark, whose peculiarities required much effort to unravel. It was, however, within our limited budget.

There were barely three bedrooms and Becky was stuffed into a tiny room over the stairs and we had to take the door off to give her some floor space.

It was a long time before we could start to do any work. I was driving all over the country for my job and weekends represented recovery with little time for decoration and remodelling. The isolation of the village meant that we spent much time driving the girls to various places and we had little cash to spare.

Over the years we gradually turned the space into somewhere that was truly ours. As soon we could afford it the old heating system was replaced and we fitted a proper fireplace. The house was extended and we grew to love its calmness and the surroundings of the Close.

Quietly and in its own time no 7 became a home.

I'm sure that we are doing the right thing; it's just that we have to allow ourselves the time to make Spencer House as much truly our home.

Slurp!

Today

On Sunday we had a lovely meal with Beatrice and Neil at Carluccio's in Brighton. Beatrice asked for a spoon to help her on her way with her spaghetti Carbonara. I have to admit to making a snooty remark, quoting my Italian teacher - "spoons are for children". After reminding me about her malfunctioning right shoulder, Beatrice rather sensibly ignored my remark and got on with enjoying her food.

In My Day

Pasta didn't really feature in the store cupboard at all when we were children. There was "macaroni" which was sometimes turned into a rather solid macaroni cheese, but that was all.

I think I first became aware of spaghetti when I saw "Lady and the Tramp" which has a scene in which the two dogs are dining together in a New York restaurant and sharing a plate of spaghetti. The slurp their way inelegantly through this impossible-looking meal. The "aah!" moment occurring when they start at the opposite ends of the same piece of spaghetti, arriving romantically in the middle. (What a silly film!)

So when did I become able to be snooty about how people eat their spaghetti? As part of my great 1969 hitchhiking adventure I and my friend Angela decided to travel by ferry from Brindisi to Greece. The ferry was an overnight crossing, leaving at about eleven pm. As the youth hostel closed during the day we found ourselves at rather a loose end. Brindisi is (or was then) rather a small, second-rate port, the weather was hot and dry and there didn't seem much to do. Desperate to get out of the sun we wandered into a little dry park. This was even worse as local youngsters indulged in the pastime of pinching English girls' bottoms. As I batted away yet another fifteen-year-old, I caught the attention of a young couple with a couple of children and pushchair. They nodded sympathetically and invited us back to their apartment. We accepted gratefully and climbed the stairs into their tiny flat. They spoke no English and I had very little Italian but we got on fine; understanding that baby number four was on the way (how were they all going to fit in?).

And they gave us spaghetti to eat. A heaping plateful simply dressed with oil and cheese. Amid much laughter they taught me how to eat my pasta with just a fork; a skill I have never forgotten. Don't pick up too much at one time, is at the heart of it.

These kind people also gave us a picnic of cheese, salami, bread and olives to eat on the boat. I sent them a card from Crete and have always treasured up that sweet interlude.

But, actually, who cares how you eat your pasta, so long as you don't slurp!

Turning Point

Today

We rarely recognise a turning point in our lives when we are experiencing it. Only hindsight sheds the clear light.

This week saw the forty-first anniversary of Paul and my meeting. One Facebook friend asked how we met - "must have been a very lucky moment" she said.

Well, most of the family knows the story but I suppose I ought to record it.

In My Day

I didn't feel very lucky, sitting on the grimy floor of a friend's flat at a very overcrowded student party. I'd worked to prepare the party and now it seemed that several hundred gatecrashers had turned up, none of whom I knew. The noise was deafening and the place so crowded that any attempt to move from my place would probably prove fatal. I talked in a desultory way to a blonde girl who was more interested in the bloke on the other side.

It was nearly 3.00 am, I wanted to go home and couldn't figure out how I was going to do this.

Suddenly I heard someone say "Has everyone got lifts?" I looked up to see a chap who looked as out of place as I. He was wearing a suit and tie and was peering around uncertainly. However, he'd said the magic word "lift" and I wasn't going to let this chance pass, if chance it was. "Are you offering?" I demanded, wanting to be sure of my facts.

He was, indeed. He told me his name was Paul and, on the way home, also being someone who didn't let a chance pass, asked me if I'd go out with him the following Monday. I agreed, for want of a good reason to say "no" and because it seemed churlish to disappoint my rescuer.

And, no, at the time, I didn't spot this as a turning point in my life.

The Finishing Line

Today

This morning Paul commented on a couple he visited in the village. "When I went in, Lilian was making marmalade and Phil was repairing the rotor arm of a model helicopter. Isn't retirement wonderful?"

We have talked many times about retirement and what it really means. Many of our friends are starting other careers or handling a pretty full babysitting schedule, so they don't seem to be retired at all; they're just not going "out" to work any more.

I hazarded that it's something to do with speed; not having deadlines and timetables to follow or being a slave to the alarm clock.

In My Day

I'm no stranger to deadlines and can work pretty fast when I want to. In fact, I'm inclined to work fast anyway, which isn't always helpful.

I remember the district inspector at Eastbourne Tax Office "Speed and accuracy, Mrs Barrett, speed and accuracy." This was in the days when it was fairly normal for a tax officer to have six hundred pieces of unopened post on their desks and I was renowned for getting through it and often clearing colleagues' work as well.

The trouble was that, while nearly all of it was pretty trivial and cleared by merely ticking a box, there was the occasional knotty case and I was less good at slowing down and taking the necessary time to get it right first time.

Once I joined Flare I discovered the dizzy joys of the Local Authority tendering process. There was no scope for either carelessness or slowness. The deadlines were totally fixed; even postal delays wouldn't wash, let alone excuses such at "the computer ate my draft". You felt very much as though the authority was totally in charge and not as though this was a communication between equals. And you were expected to answer the questions as drafted, even if they were nonsensical.

Sometimes I would add another document which basically said "I've answered your questions, but I don't think that gives you a proper idea of what I'm tendering, so here's another document explaining it better". This put even more pressure on completion; many a time the final copy was churning off the printer while I frantically grabbed the pages requiring signature and the courier waited impatiently outside on double yellows.

 There were other deadlines such as new training courses, exhibitions and end of year figures. They all required a high standard of presentation and polish as well as accuracy.

This meant long days, sleepless nights and the tyranny of the alarm clock and I don't miss it one bit.

I promised myself at the start of the year that I would concentrate on doing everything to a high standard and not as though I had a deadline to meet. The trouble is, 2012 is shaping up as a year when everything has to work to deadlines. So I don't really feel retired, right now, and am just hoping to cross each finishing line on schedule.

The Right Thing

Today

I've been reading Mary Wollstonecraft's "A Vindication of the Rights of Women". Although the language is often convoluted, her arguments are undeniable. I looked up details of her life and found that she was writing her ideas more than two hundred years ago.

And that's pretty depressing when you consider how long it took for women to be allowed to vote, go to university and have their income treated as fully their own.

And we still treat as celebrities and role models women whose main claim to fame is their appearance and their ability to be as vapid as possible. We think it's acceptable for women to have major surgery just to look more attractive to men and younger.

In My Day

I never felt, as I was growing up, that my rights were inferior to that of my brothers and I assumed that I would lead an independent life and follow the career of my choice.

I carried this assumption gaily and naively into adult life, believing that most rational people would accept the equality of all people.

This attitude did, at least, prevent me from carrying about a feminist chip but I also had quite a few wake-up calls, so to speak.

There was the discovery that building societies could quite legally refuse to take all or any of my earning into account when we applied for mortgages. The assumption seemed to be that I would instantly stop earning once I started producing babies, and did not accord us the dignity of allowing us to make our own financial choices, It was only the liberal lending policy of Eastbourne Borough Council, anxious to bring younger people into the town, that allowed us to get off the rental treadmill.

As a working mother I received many a criticism about "farming out" my babies, as though I had somehow abandoned them.

We've had bosses refusing to allow Paul to take a day's leave to care for sick Becky because I should be doing it -"That's the trouble with allowing women to work". People have railed at Paul for "allowing" me to work and others telling me that wearing a suit to work was "aping a man".

The incident that really took my breath away was when I worked at the Tax Office in Lewes. I was pregnant with Becky at the time and was due my annual job review. The district inspector, rather a dry stick, started auspiciously by saying that the review was really a waste of time because I was pregnant. I explained that this was my second pregnancy whilst working for the IR and I had a track record of returning to full-time work. He them moved on  to my promotion prospects which he said were nil, because, having a family, I would not be able to relocate. I began to prickle and said that I wasn't aware that only women had families and why not give me the opportunity. The interview continued in this frosty vein and concluded insultingly with the assumption that I had no outside interests, motherhood having finished off whatever little brain I'd started out with.

(It's interesting that under his leadership not a single woman at Lewes was promoted although many have been since).

I do not apologise for the years I spent working to support me and my family, nor for taking the lead in a number of family matters. My life is and should be my own; shared in marriage as a partner equal  in every way. I have been ever grateful for the wholehearted support that my family has given me and cannot understand why any modern, rational, educated woman would ever for one second, wish to compromise her independence.

Battles have been won, my sisters, but the war is not over!

Espressive

Today

A friend today commented that she has only just, after God knows how many years, realised that her favourite coffee is "espresso", not "expresso". She added that we often read what we expect to see, not what's there.

Quite.

In My Day

As a child I was a greedy reader. I read my books very fast and often ones that were a bit beyond my age. Thus, I read Dickens by the time I was about nine, Laine's Arabian Nights and so on. Often I had to struggle with strange phrases, especially in my beloved Hans Andersen. What, exactly was meant by "snip, snap, snurr, bassleurr" in the Snow Queen? ..... Something very Scandinavian that meant nothing to me and which I couldn't pronounce. 

And all those Persian names in the Arabian nights! I just had to stumble along somehow, I didn't ask my parents (that would have meant admitting to reading those books at three in the morning), so my misunderstandings just went on.

One of my favourite HCA stories was "The Wild Swans" which tells of little Elsie and her struggles against cruelty and prejudice. I read it again and again and cried as she was dragged through the streets in a tumbrel and rescued at the last minute by her brothers.

Only when I read the story out loud to my daughters  about twenty years later did I realise that her name is "Elise".

Ritual Slice

Today

Becky and I are steadily working through what's needed to organise her wedding day later this year. Once this particular machine gets started, there are a number of assumptions made about the rituals surrounding it. People talk about bouquets, veils, bridesmaids, speeches and matching waistcoats as though the marriage couldn't be solemnised without these things.

One thing that we are unsure about is the value of a wedding cake. At many of the recent weddings that I have attended, the cake-cutting has been a sort of non-event, its significance rather lost. People are less fond of fruit cake than they used to be, but other sorts of cake don't keep too well, so that sending a piece to Auntie in Canada isn't an option. And to make a pile of cupcakes seems to be missing the point.

So, right now, wedding cake may be off the agenda.

In My Day

My wedding day has been the subject of this blog before, but planning Becky's has caused me to think about how small our expectations were when we got married. Getting to the register office was challenging enough. We hoped that our very nearest and dearest would be able to make it and were not at all put out by the unexpected addition of Keir and his family. The little feast we'd prepared was just stretched to include them. I think that there were about twenty people at our wedding.

But we did have a cake. This was a complete surprise. Paul's mother had made it, probably using her infamous "bung-in" recipe and his dad had done a magnificent job of icing it.

Since we had given everyone less than two weeks' notice of our impending nuptials, this was indeed an achievement and was accepted as a gift of the most loving kind. Looking at that picture makes me wonder what kind of knife we were using. Certainly not a proper cake knife.

What with the champagne that Chris supplied and the flowers both families brought (sweets peas, all of them - how weird is that?) we managed to fit in a number of rituals into our impromptu wedding.

And the marriage has been none the worse for that.

Socialising

Today

I've just returned from my annual weekend with the Laetare Singers at Halsway Manor in the Quantocks. There are quite a lot of people there - about sixty - so they take some getting to know. I've developed a fairly jolly persona for this sort of occasion, but that doesn't always help me in understanding people.

Nor, if I'm honest, in their getting to know me.

In My Day

People who know me now are very surprised when I say that I have in the past been rather shy. My upbringing, with its emphasis on family, meant that I was unskilled in dealing with random social contacts.

While I enjoyed parties, I also found it very hard to be relaxed, to be "me" and to find out anything about other people. Parties were often it seemed, when looking back, ordeals to be endured where everyone but me knew the rules.

Sometime in my mid-twenties I decided this had to stop. People, after all, might be interesting, if only I had the courage to approach them. We went to a fair number of parties and I simply starting talking to folk; asking them what they did, how they knew the host etc etc. Somewhat to my surprise, I found that people responded and I began to enjoy these transitory social contacts.

A family joke soon arose; that at any given party I could be found with a group of people around me, hanging on my every word. I don't know how true that is, but given my earlier awkwardness, I guess it's more of a compliment than otherwise.

At family events, such as weddings, I now deliberately approach members of the new family to find out more. This has resulted in new friendships, new insights and a greater sense of belonging.

Talking to a friend this weekend about someone with whom I had only recently learnt to connect, I said "It took me a while to get their measure..." After a pause, "and, I suppose for them to get mine".

Quite.

Family Favourites

Today

On Women's Hour today there was a discussion about parents having favourites among their children. There was much said about the effects on both the favoured and the unfavoured and on the duty that parents have to restrain themselves from expressing their preference and learning to love all equally.

Sometimes, from an outsider's point of view, it's easy to think that you can see that a particular child is favoured but all may not be as it seems.

In My Day

Mamma was never one to avoid speaking a truth, however much it might take your breath away. She used to talk about how much Chris, born twenty months after David, used to cry. "It was because I was so wrapped up with David," she would say "He was jealous."

Later this changed. David spent much of his childhood at boarding school and Chris became the golden child. He and Mamma had much in common and Mamma freely admitted that if she had to choose whom to support between Daddy and Chris there was no contest; Chris won every time.

Later, when I was approaching thirty, Mamma once said to me, apropos it seemed, of nothing, "Well, Chris was always my favourite but you've turned out the best." I have puzzled over this ever since, never being quite sure what she meant by "turned out" and why she had to have a favourite.

With my own girls I certainly never have had a favourite; they have each brought their own unique brand of delight. What would be true to say, however, is that Becky was simply easier. I think this was just down to differences in innate personalities. Lizzie was much more inclined to feel and express her emotions in an unfiltered way. She found change unnerving and there were many changes for her to contend with. Becky was more tractable and easier to control.

What has grieved me is to learn that some people saw this as indicating a preference for one daughter over the other and didn't hesitate to tell Lizzie so and to manipulate her emotions in an attempt to drive a wedge between her and her sister. Why they felt they had to do this, I don't know.

It is to Lizzie's credit that they didn't succeed  and that she and Becky are still best friends.

Cup Half Full

Today

I'm in the process of learning the words & tune to "If it wasn't for the 'ouses in between" for my slot in the Laetare Singers offering of foolish moments at Halsway Manor next week. It's a music hall song and I've actually found a recording, made in 1899, by the original singer.

As I learn the words I find myself reflecting on their intrinsic sadness and longing for something better, even though the song is dressed in clown's clothing, so to speak.

These days, in this country we are most of us so far removed from a life where you never see grass or a tree and can only imagine what the countryside might be like.

In My Day

Despite his chairmanship of the Henry Wood Gramophone Circle and tendency to cry when trying to sing a bit of Beethoven, my father loved the old music hall songs. He used to regale us with "His day's work was done" "Whenever I looked at my seaweed", "He stood in a beautiful Mansion", "Boiled beef & carrots" etc etc.

All these songs recorded a gutsy way of dealing with life's inescapable hardships - no proper work, bad food, unfaithful wives, loved ones dying young. I think that for Daddy they reminded him of his hard young days, spent in Clerkenwell in London, avoiding a drunken father, trying to help with tottering finances and learning his alphabet at his mother's knee.

Perhaps they also reminded him of how far he'd come; with an upper-middle class wife, four healthy children and a table laden with nourishing, well-cooked food. He had a big house (even if half of it was sublet), huge Victorian garden and the means to get out to the Surrey countryside or seaside whenever he wished. No houses stood between him and a view of trees and birds.

While I can't remember him ever singing the whole of the "'ouses in between" song to me, he often talked about it with amusement. He saw it solely as "cup half full" song, full of optimism. Maybe by this time he'd become detached enough from his roots not to see the sadness.

I think the last two lines say it all: "If I got a rope and pulley, I could breathe the air more fully...." what a world of hope and sense of suffocation lies therein!

Budgie

Today

Christmas is nearly on us and people are talking about their lunch plans and whether it includes turkey. Not in this house, of course.

In My Day

Paul always gamely eats whatever I cook him and turkey hasn't graced out Christmas table since 1987. One year, I think it might have been about 1995, he said wistfully, "Couldn't I just have a turkey breast or something?"

Well, I didn't think that that sounded very festive, so I went to the supermarket and bought a little "poussin" - a complete baby fowl. To my eyes it looked like a miniature turkey.

Fired with wifely love and devotion, I gathered my courage and prepared this diminutive creature. I put stuffing in its insides, tiny strips of bacon over its breast and surrounded it with tiny potatoes. Perfect! I popped it in the oven, sure that Paul would be delighted.

I triumphantly brought out this culinary delicacy and put it before Paul. Maybe it shouldn't have been a surprise. He stared at his plate. "I can't eat that!" he exclaimed "It looks like somebody's budgie!" "But it looks just the same as a turkey" I protested "only smaller. How can that make a difference?"

But it did and Paul refused to eat it. Which made that last time I tried such an experiment. Nut loaf from now on!

When you look at this handsome beast that struts around the local smallholding, you do wonder how anyone could end its life.

Merry Christmas all!

One in the Eye

Today

A rather horrible story this week about a three-year old who was badly beaten up by a two-year old at her nursery. The extent of her injuries makes one wonder what on earth the nursery assistants were doing.

In My Day

Lizzie used to go to a little nursery school in Eastbourne, named "Fledglings". It was a family-run affair where the children had lots of scope to play in the large garden and cook jam tarts in the kitchen.

One day we went to collect Lizzie and the owner told us that another child had attacked her, inflicting some scratches on her face.

This other child, a boy, was known to have some social problems, including an aversion to being hugged or touched. He was also a very beautiful child with big brown eyes, glossy dark hair and a beautiful sun-kissed skin. Liz found him irresistible and decided that she wanted to kiss him. Before anyone could stop her, she'd flung her arms around him. The inevitable panic-driven response occurred and his nails were out.

The difference between this story and that of Katie-Anne, above, is that the teachers were right there, pulling the children apart before real damage could be done.

Although it may have something to do with Lizzie's extreme caution these days about giving kisses to anyone but family.

Bleak Midwinter

Today

As usual, the cold has affected Stoke St Michael more than the surrounding towns and villages. I walked up to the shop yesterday and managed to avoid the slidey bits. There was ice in the puddles, though, and this morning is dry and frosty.

In My Day

Our personal name for the event I'm about to describe is "The Great Ice". The year was 1995. Mum was spending Christmas with us and the weather was dry and very cold. The effect of this was to chill the ground deeply.

On 30th December we awoke to a gentle rain. "Oh good!" I thought "That means it'll be warmer." What it actually meant was that the gentle drizzle froze on contact with the cold ground and a layer of clear ice formed over everything. Liz and I tried to break up the ice on the front step, first with salt and then with shovels. but we couldn't shift it.

Now, we had a much looked-forward to invitation to spend the afternoon with our friends in Shepton Mallet. Liz shrieked at me "We can't go out! everyone in Shepton has already got broken legs from the ice!" Hmmm. I weighed everything up. Paul was game, we wanted to see our friends and Mum was all dressed up and ready to go. We slithered out to the car which was coated in the same sheet ice as everything else. Quite pretty, really.

Somehow he got up the close and we drove carefully to Shepton. We stumbled up our friends' steep drive, half carrying Tricia, and had a jolly good afternoon. I went out several time to see how the weather was doing. It didn't improve and, when I saw that a light fog was descending I decided it was time to go.

We arrived back at the Close which is quite a steep little road, facing North. As we started down it, I spoke, sotto voce to Paul. "will you be able to stop?" "I don't know; I tried the brakes and nothing happened." "How about using reverse gear?" I muttered. "It may come to that!"

It is a massive tribute to Paul's driving skills that he succeeded in steering the car into the turning bay and reversing successfully up our iced-over narrow driveway. And we all got indoors without broken legs.

We later heard that this weather event had affected most of Southern Britain and that many people did, indeed, suffer broken limbs.

The Met Office warns people not make unnecessary journeys, but of course we all have our own ideas about "unnecessary".

Following the Rules

Today

This morning Paul & I were talking about grandchildren and the question of discipline. Do you follow your own heart or the rules laid down by their own parents?

A bit of both, I guess, is the answer.

In My Day

Our children started out with two full sets and a great-grandparent (altho' Nan was pretty far gone by the time Becky was born). Their grandmothers couldn't have been more temperamentally different and I think this was reflected in how they treated their grandchildren. Tricia was the Gran who told silly jokes, cuddled them and surprised them with her emotional variability. Mamma was altogether a more didactic and measured influence; her enjoyment in their company was obvious.

Their attitude to my mothering also differed. While Tricia criticised me for my relaxed attitude to bedtimes ("My niece's daughter is in bed by 6.00pm - beautifully brought up, beautifully brought up!"). In vain for me to protest that I was barely home from work until 6 and wanted to spend time with my girls; her beliefs were rooted in an age of nannies and children being seen and not heard. On the other hand she respected our rules concerning diet and health concerns.

Mamma, being largely my role model for mothering, had fewer issues with this. But I do think she had a rather "stuff and nonsense" attitude to modern health and diet concerns.

Nowhere was this more obvious than on the subject of chocolate. Early on, we'd noticed a connection between the consumption of even small amounts of chocolate and Lizzie's complexion and behaviour, both becoming heated and patchy at the same time. So we banned the consumption of chocolate. Not so hard, surely? Tricia would scour shops at Easter time to find chocolate-free eggs for Lizzie.

I remember one occasion; I guess it must have been in about 1979. Mamma was staying with us at Rowan Avenue, Becky was two, Liz seven. Paul and I took advantage of her presence to take a day Christmas shopping in London. We had a splendid day and arrived home late in the evening, laden with goodies

Liz was a little fractious and her colour was high, to be sure, but the hour was late and we greeted Mamma and the girls as usual. Mamma and Lizzie proudly said that they'd been cooking together and showed us their efforts, a little plate of pretty pinwheel biscuits. "Do they have chocolate in them, Mamma?" I demanded. "Well, only about three ounces..." said Mamma defensively. "Mamma, just look at her!" I responded. Lizzie's bright red, blotched cheeks and hyperactive behaviour were plain to see. "Well!" Mamma climbed down fairly graciously "I see now, but I wouldn't have believed it."

I think, that, just because we are older and have had children ourselves, we don't have a monopoly in the understanding of childcare. And our children do eventually grow up and there's a chance they might in some areas be wiser than we are.

Cuppa

Today

I suppose you could describe Paul and me as "tea bores". We like to use china pots and proper tea leaves. The pot should be warmed and the freshly drawn water properly boiling. And so on and so forth.

In England tea is offered as a restorative, stimulant, relaxant, social lubricant, accompaniment to disasters, both emotional and physical. What was the first thing you had if your house was bombed in the War? A nice cup of tea. Policemen bearing bad news put the kettle on. It wakes you up in the morning and settles you down at night.

So it's quite clearly more than just a mildly stimulating herbal drink and. quite frankly, Red Bush, chamomile and herbal teas just don't cut the mustard. And offering tea is innocent; it doesn't have the double-entendre of "would you like to come in for a coffee?".

Even so, it also seems that tea's ability to hit the spot is also affected by time of day, mood etc. Today, my lunchtime tea tasted so good that I had another one, which is unusual. And it even tasted nearly as good as the first

In My Day

This is never so true as with the tea you're offered after childbirth. Hospital tea follows none of the rules I laid out above and has probably been made with water boiled for hours in an urn, uses industrial sized teabags, is stewed in a giant metal teapot and poured into a hospital cup (with a totally redundant saucer).

After struggling to produce Lizzie for hours and hours, after they wheeled her off for a well-earned rest and after they'd patched me up, they brought me a cup of tea. It was proper NHS tea in all its glory and didn't it taste like nectar!

Suddenly all the pain and anxiety receded for a few minutes and Paul and I smiled at each other over the rims of our chunky china cups.

When I had Becky, the whole job took less time and was altogether less of a struggle. But the worst part was that, after they'd brought me my tea, I felt so sleepy that I dozed off and didn't awake until it was stone cold. And ever since I've felt a bit deprived as though I was cheated out of a basic human right.

How people cope who don't drink tea is beyond me, since, quite clearly, it's the backbone of Britain and an essential part of ones moral fibre.

Bear-Bear's Party

Today


We had our annual drinks party at the flat yesterday. This is probably the last time we'll do this so there was a bit of nostalgia hanging around. My gorgeous, very tall nephew Jacob was there with his two little ones. Max slept right through, but four-year old Evie (together with her constant companion, Bear-Bear, was the life and soul to the bitter end. Although there were no other children at the party, there were enough familiar faces to keep her comfortable and I believe she had a really good time. We sent her home with a box of crackers (with strict instructions to save them until Xmas day) and a paper-chain making kit.


In My Day


When we were first married we could never see why the fact that we had children should conflict with our desire to go to parties. In the early days it was simply a question of popping the babies into a bed where, like Max, they slept the occasion away. Very soon, we developed a sort of compromise. The girls would be allowed up for a while and indulged with crisps and lemonade. At a given signal, they would then go to bed, usually in our host's spare room. The girls understood very soon that the first indulgence would be taken away if they didn't comply with the second part.


And I think they really rather enjoyed is. While they were still awake enough to make the most of it, they were feted and fussed over by any number of grown ups. Then when bedtime came and they were really anyway getting too tired to have fun, they could snuggle up together and giggle till they fell asleep. Only the being woken at two am on what were sometimes cold nights was less appealing.


And there were unexpected bonuses. On one occasion, it was the day before Lizzie's ninth birthday. As midnight approached and we were sitting beside our host's inglenook fireplace, Lizzie was woken, as she thought, as usual. But this time she was ushered into the living room and saw her birthday in by toasting marsmallows over the fire and being given a gift of a very nice purple and grey striped dress which I believe she wore until it dropped to pieces.

I have never been much of a believer in maintaining a strict division between children's and adult's social occasions and last night Evie conducted herself with charm and decorum. Merry Christmas, Evie!

Breaking the Mould

Today

A mobile bodyshop  business was set up under a little pointy-roofed pavilion in the Close today. As I walked past I breathed in deeply. "Ah! the smell of fibreglass resin!" I cried "That takes me back!"

In My Day

When I applied to do theatre design at the West Sussex College of Design in Worthing I had many romantic notions. However the course offered was far from romantic; training was strictly practical.

We were early on initiated into the secrets of scenery and prop manufacture. This often involved the use of fibreglass resin. There were several stages to the process. First you had to model what you wanted in a temporary material, such as papier mache. This was a challenging and messy job and you found yourself peeling bits of hardened paper off your clothing for weeks afterwards.

Next you made a plaster cast of the object. This gave you the item in inverse, so to speak and could take quite a while to harden.

Finally, when it was quite hard, you opened large packs of glass fibre and pushed it into the mould, following this with liquid resin. This resin had a strong and, well, resinous smell and had the effect of softening the glass fibres which could then be pushed into all the crevices in the mould. Without the glass fibre, the resin would be too brittle. This set reasonably quickly, when it could be removed and the mould used again as often as you liked. This job left myriad tiny cuts all over your hands and completely ruined them. 

Using this technique, the Connaught Theatre in Worthing produced a whole forest of trees for "A Midsummer Night's Dream". I spent hours helping with this; including applying lots of thick greeny-grey paint afterwards. I can't remember whether the result looked any good.

I wonder if they still use these techniques in modern theatres. Actually, I just found this site:
http://www.ehow.com/about_4672663_fiberglass-moldmaking.html .......

Peace

Today

This has been a week of family remembrance. My cousin Miriam posted a picture of her father, my Uncle Ernst, who would have been one hundred years' old yesterday. What a handsome man he was!

And this week also sees the seventh anniversary of Tricia's death and the thirtieth anniversary of Mamma's death. I was thinking that Tricia had a whole twenty-four years more of life than my mother. That's time to see grandchildren grow up, time to have great-grandchildren and be ready to say "goodbye".

In My Day

Mamma first showed signs of the lung cancer that was to carry her away while Daddy was in hospital. She found that the short walk to the hospital made her very breathless. After Daddy's death in 1979, we nagged her to go and get herself checked out.

I remember Beatrice reporting faithfully Mamma's phone call. "She's just has some fluid on the lung; they've drained about three litres, but she's fine." "Three litres!" I shrieked. "no wonder she couldn't breathe! What do, you mean "fine"? And how did the fluid get there?" I researched and the conclusion seemed inescapable; apart from pleurisy, which she clearly didn't have, the most common cause was lung cancer.

It seemed that her forty Craven A per day habit was catching up with her. There was a period of fierce denial, when she swore that the fluid (which came from a tear in the pleural membrane) had absolutely nothing to do with her smoking.

Eventually, the diagnosis had to be faced up to. We were invited to see the oncologist at Guildford hospital. I don't think that Mamma knew we were going so it was somewhat awkward when we bumped into her being wheeled into a lift. She was just delighted to see us and we all invaded the ward later. The consultant told us the worst - he could keep her health steady for a while with chemotherapy, but he couldn't save her and her descent would be rapid. Chris spoke for us all when he asked the consultant to be gentle about giving her the news and not to take away all hope.

After a few months' respite, Mamma was taken in to hospital for the last time in November 1981. Chris's wife phoned to say that they'd been with her for a couple of days, but now had to return to London.

Beatrice and I took some time off work and went to see Mamma and stay with her. Knowing that she would soon die, the hospital had tactfully placed her in a side ward and Beatrice and I greeted her and sat beside her. Beatrice tried (and failed) to do Mamma's crosswords and I had some stitching to do. We persuaded Mamma that we were not there for social chit-chat and that we were there because we loved her and wanted to be by her side.

Her breathing became more and more laboured. The social worker came into see her and asked her if there was anything Mamma wanted. "Nothing, so long as I will soon be in Heaven with my husband", replied Mamma.

Very soon after that Mamma had her wish. In the sudden silence, Beatrice & I said Goodbye to our Mother.

Mamma; I think of you every day and feel very sad that you were taken away from us when there was so much more you would have enjoyed. But I hope also that your wish was granted and that you are now truly at peace.

British to the Core

Today

A friend's Facebook status today said that, as it was tipping down with rain, they were off to the zoo. "After all", she explained "We're British!"

In My Day

Somewhere in the British psyche is the assumption that events go ahead whatever the weather. In the arena in Verona the music stops with one drop of rain.

We were living in Southampton at the time, which makes it 1986, and our friends the Levetts came to visit. One of the local attractions was the Beaulieu Motor Museum. So off we set, complete with picnic. I'm sure we had a lovely time; the men enjoyed the classic car show and talked cars, carburettors and the old days. We girls didn't really object to the display of fine old cars and chatted as old friends do.

Eventually we all felt hungry and went to collect the picnic, groundsheet etc. Beaulieu has some beautiful woods and we found a clearing and spread out the food. This wasn't just an affair of a few sandwiches; I'd undoubtedly made salad, little rice burgers, hard-boiled eggs and provided cheese, bread and so on. So it took a while to lay it all out, complete with serviettes and plates. We ignored the darkening skies.

As the first drops of rain pattered gently on the leaves above we resolutely munched on. It became chilly. The rain began to penetrate the leaves and land on ourselves and the food. What of it? We're British! A little rain doesn't upset us! We cut into the cheese and filled our mugs with wine, pretending this was all just as it should be.

Suddenly Beverley started guffawing with laughter. "What's up?" we asked. "This is crazy, we're nuts!" she laughed. "Anywhere else in world people would have packed up by now. Anyway, I'm soaked!" We saw the funny side, packed up our sodden picnic and went home.

Now, as then, Beverley had shed the crystal light of common sense. "Bonkers Mad!" was her verdict on her daughter's plans for a day out. Quite.

Live Music

Today

In her latest letter Beatrice described a very jolly Friday night at a local wine bar that culminated in live music. "I really like it when that happens", I enthused.

In My Day

I recall one event, back in 1998. We decided that the way to celebrate Mother's Day would be to book a Landmark Trust property in Suffolk. We chose this location because it also meant that Becky, at that time in university in Norwich, could meet us there.

We took the dog who greatly enjoyed his time at this property, which is a mediaeval manor house with no chimney, only louvres to release the smoke (not that we were in this part; we stayed in the new, Elizabethan wing). The only way to get to the house was on foot. We parked the car at the field gate, donned wellies, put our bags into the thoughtfully provided wheelbarrows, and were all set.

On the way we had passed through a pretty little village called Hawkedon. We pulled up outside The Queen's Head, which was advertising Mother's Day lunches, and Paul went in and booked a table. Perfect.

Sunday dawned fair and chilly and, leaving Cas happily playing with some little piles of stones, we walked across the fields to the pub. We were greeted by the Australian landlady, who looked like a contender for England's roughest landlady. We had a fair-to-middling lunch. The landlady was very chatty, and when Paul had got over being told that she'd thought him to be a "right w****r" when she first saw him, we were chatty too. She told us that there was going to be some live music that afternoon and why didn't we stay on?

"Well, we would," we said "But we've left the dog at the cottage." "Oh, that's alright, my barman will drive you over to get him!" Which he did; Cas arrived and was very happy with a bowl of water and some packets of  crisps of his very own.

Mum decided that a few more Harvey's Bristol Creams couldn't do her any harm and talked long and volubly to anyone who'd listen about her lovely granddaughter. Her lovely granddaughter proved her student credentials by putting away several pints of the local ale, "Old Ken" by name and playing snooker with the locals. Paul also put away much Old Ken and became very jocose. I concentrated on red wine and listened to many anecdotes delivered by the landlord. Did we dance a bit? Maybe.

As it began to get dusk, mindful of the walk across the  fields, we said we'd have to go. The landlady again proffered the help of her barman. He was the only one who hadn't been drinking and, forgiving Paul for an earlier remark when he'd complained about his elbow being stiff from pulling pints, to the effect that it was the only thing that was (let's blame Old Ken), popped us all, including Cas, into his car when the music had finished. We only had the walk across the field from the gate to accomplish which we did. Paul & Becky instantly went to bed to work through the Old Ken while Mum and I stayed by the fire, talking and updating the log book.

I remember all of this. What I can't remember anything about was the music except that it was very loud.

L'enfant et les Sortileges

Today

Last night I spent a most enjoyable evening in the company of The Rambert Dance Company. One of their pieces was a delightful interpretation of Ravel's "L'Enfant et les Sortileges" in which the dancers portrayed children at play. Sometimes it was light-hearted, sometime sinister; children were fighting one minute, best friends the next. They joined in a range of apparently spontaneous dancing against an enchanted forest backdrop that, too, changed from beautiful to terrifying.

On the way home I talked to Paul about the games we played as children. "Are they quite lost now?" I asked.

In My Day

I don't go to many small children's parties these days but when I do, it seems that the adults have provided a bouncy castle, a MacDonald's tea or children's entertainer to take charge while they sit around, drinking wine and chatting. The kinds of games we used to play seem little in evidence.

I went to a fair number of children's parties when I was small and certainly Beatrice and I gave parties on our birthdays. (I don't remember any given by the boys - I wonder if that's accurate?) There was a standard set of games to be played. You didn't need to have the rules explained; they got into your brain sort of osmotically.

Nearly all of them involved some sort of skill and prizes and forfeits were the order of the day. We played blind man's buff, pinning the tail on the donkey, held races and skipping contests. "Simon Says" was guaranteed to produce much laughter as Simon thought of more and more absurd things for you to do. I suppose that game could be seen as the start of the ten steps to tyranny, but we enjoyed it; all the more when it was your turn to be Simon.

Some games were quite scary "What's the Time, Mr Wolf?" could produce a real thrill of fear as you waited for the moment when he shouted "Dinner Time!" and rushed at you.

One game I dredged up from my memory was "Oranges & Lemons". This was a dance in which two children (usually the tallest) stood facing each other with their hands forming an arch. The rest of the children would form a sort of a crocodile and weave under the arch as we all sang the song. As we came to the bit "Here comes the candle to light you to bed" the singing became a chant and went faster and faster and the arch would move up and down in a sawing motion. The trick was to dodge through when the arch was at its highest so that you weren't caught. Some luckless child would eventually become pinioned as the chopper came down faster and faster and you were "dead". This child probably had to pay a forfeit, too.

All in all, parties could be competitive affairs and it's no wonder that the occasional child would hide under the table and refuse to come out! But maybe they are just another preparation for the unpredictability of life itself and I'm not at all convinced that a tiny bit of fear, especially in a safe context, isn't healthy for the development of children.

Packing it in

Today

As is usual for this time of year, at least in David's world, there is a glut of courgettes/marrows. Having mentioned something about this on Facebook, it now appears that he is committed to sending a courgette (just one?) to our niece Andie up in the Midlands.

I don't know the best way of packing up a courgette so that it won't get bruised or crushed (will bubblewrap do the business?) and it'll have to be sent first class to ensure that "straight from the garden" freshness.

In My Day

Mamma was never one for forgetting birthdays and anniversaries and we could guarantee that each wedding anniversary would produce a highly appropriate gift.

In 1975 we had just moved to Rowan Avenue when our fourth anniversary came round. I'm not very good at the detail of anniversary meanings, only knowing silver, pearl, gold etc with any certainty, so when a somewhat squashed cardboard box arrived from Mamma for our anniversary, I was very excited and very curious.

We opened up the box together. Inside, residing lopsidedly on some kitchen paper, was a pineapple. It seems that the fourth anniversary is "fruit and flowers" and Mamma thought that a pineapple would be just the thing.

Two problems, tho'. Firstly, it was clear that she hadn't quite mastered the art of packing it, because half of it was quite crushed. Secondly, I suspect that she'd sent it parcel post, pineapples being rather heavy, and this one was now well beyond its "use by" date and the half that wasn't crushed was mildewed.

We thanked Mamma as enthusiastically as we could, rather regretting our lost pineapple, and never had the temerity to ask her why she hadn't just taken the easy option and send flowers via Interflora!

Brainiac

Today

Writing to my sister today, I was reflecting on the varying qualities of us four siblings. "There's no doubt about it", I wrote "Chris is just cleverer than I am."

In My Day

It's difficult enough having older siblings always there to point out the inadequacies inevitable to your junior status, without it being obvious that they are cleverer than you anyway. This was nowhere more obvious than in my relationship with Chris. David was away at boarding school for so much of the time that his undoubted braininess was less in daily evidence, so to speak.

Chris was often left in charge of Beatrice and me and, if Mamma's diaries are to be believed, was very good at it. It seemed that whatever he turned his hand to he could do well. He was good at maths and English and music and sport and so on. He was also clearly quite good-looking. I clung tenaciously to my superiority in the arts world but I remember one year we made our own Christmas cards and I thought that Chris's were superior to mine both in point of design and use of colour. And he once did a design for the family Christmas cake that made it the cake to end all cakes.

I think I probably believed just about everything he told me into the bargain and it's only in adulthood that I've separated out the true from the rubbish from the teasing.

One Christmas I was given a puppet as a gift. It was a string puppet and I loved it. I called it Poko which was about all the ownership I could claim. I was only nine and, maybe, if I could have taken Poko away in secret to practise, I might have mastered the necessary skills. Chris took up this puppet and immediately was master of the art. There's a picture in the family album that says it all.

I am ever grateful to Chris for being my champion, friend and mentor, but I have to remind myself that I've made a pretty good hand out of adulthood and that there is more to life than braininess.

Perambulations

Today

Such a funny picture on Facebook today of my little great-niece Evie with her brother in the doll's pram. He looked very happy to be there!

In My Day

How Becky loved her doll's pram. It was a very neat little affair with hood and collapsible wheeled base. I think it may have been handed down from Lizzie who was given it for her fifth birthday. I had bought it using some money-off vouchers given me in the maternity ward when I was having Becky.

Becky had many dolls and cuddly toys and spent hours with selected "babies" tucked up in this pram, wheeling them around the garden at Montfort Close.

There was another little child of about her age living in the close, Heidi Turner by name, and she often came down to play with Becky.

On one occasion I saw the two of them, each with their doll's prams solemnly doing the garden circuit. I strolled up to say "hello" and peeked into the prams to see which dolls were being given an airing today. My relaxed demeanour changed rapidly when I saw that the "dolls" were actually our two tortoises, on their backs, most firmly and neatly tucked in with turned-down sheets and everything. Their little front legs were waving about helplessly and they looked most miserable.

I scooped out the unfortunate animals and popped them back into their enclosure. It was hard to be angry with the two little girls who were only about five years' old and who had clearly thought that Columbus and Bobbie would be all the better for their airing. I carefully explained the danger. Becky certainly understood but I'm not sure about Heidi because I later found her bouncing Columbus along the ground making the sort of revving noises that are usually reserved for playing with toy cars. I was less gentle with her that time. 

At least Max is more than capable of making his feelings clear when he gets tired of being wheeled about by his sister.

Toast

Today

There's no doubt about it, toast made from my home-made bread is very special.Very crispy and good with jam. The slices are rather too large for our toaster so I cook them under the grill. Ordinary sliced bread goes in the toaster, of course. The toaster at the flat is a Dualit and relies on you depressing and raising a lever to get at the bread, unlike the standard pop-up toaster, and tends to allow smoke to waft perilously close to the smoke detector.

In My Day

At 4BH we actually owned a toasting fork which wasn't purely ornamental. In winter time when the fire was lit we would often make toast and do crumpets at the fire using this implement. There was an art to getting it just right. If you put it over flames, the bread would simply go up in flames too. But you wanted to avoid smokey bits as the toast then merely tasted sooty. The way to do it was to find a nice patch of hot glowing coals and hold the bread over that. There was a moment to be caught between the bread being merely rather hot and turning into charcoal. I think we often had to chuck away toast or eat charcoal and soot smeared with butter, because we'd missed these crucial details. Your face got pretty hot and red in the process and you became in need of refreshing cups of tea pretty regularly!

We did use the eye-level grill of our gas cooker to make toast as well. This was for many years rather above eye-level for me which made making toast hazardous in a different way.

How exciting it was when Daddy bought our first pop-up toaster! It was a dining room, not kitchen item and toast would be made at the table as we needed it. I think that it had two wide slots, each of which took two slices of bread. Mamma had by this time discovered Wonderloaf so toasting became a standardised process. To get your toast cooked on both sides you had to remove it after it had popped up and reverse the pieces. Daddy was a fan of what he called "Dutch Toast" whereby you had one toasted and one untoasted side, putting the butter and marmalade on the soft side. I don't know where Daddy got the name from; maybe he made it up so that this half-and-half affair would acquire some status and desirability. Certainly when I googled it I found images of rounded items that resembled large Melba toasts with unappetising slices of Gouda cheese on them!

What is interesting is that toast, probably originally a way of using up stale bread, is now an essential part of breakfast and is best made with fresh bread.

Crossing Plant

Today

Many of the properties we view are enhanced, if that's the word, by being covered with vegetation. Nothing, it is true, gives a house such an air of venerability as being covered with ivy. But the house at Croscombe is all but smothered under a clematis "Montana Rubens" and a huge wisteria and the owner of one house in Chilcompton was despairingly resigned to the ingress of his clematis into the garage.

In My Day

Our house in Stoke St Michael was built in the late 1970s, so when we moved in in 1986, it still had rather a raw look, so to speak. I took the back garden in hand, sowing grass seed on the muddy patch and planting a range of shrubs. Now for the front! The previous owners had, somewhat recklessly, planted five conifers directly in front of the house which threatened the foundations and each other, but the house itself was still rather bare.

"The thing to give it instant gravitas", I said to Paul with confidence "is a Russian Vine - it's known as "mile-a-minute" because it grows so fast!" Paul, whose horticultural knowledge is about as extensive as mine is of Sanskrit, blithely took my word for it. He even attached the trellis to the house front for me.

The plant was bought, planted and prospered. How wonderful the house looked, covered in this gracious vine. In summer it was covered with racemes of tiny creamy flowers and I began to feel very proud of my sagacity. OK, it had twisted itself inextricably around the TV aerial cable, but that didn't seem to affect our TV watching.

The plant first became seen as a problem when it encroached into our bedroom via the ever-open window. Tendrils waved threateningly over the bed and I began to have "Little Shop of Horrors" types of dreams. Would it engulf us in the night and would our strangled corpses be discovered by people who had to hack their way through with machetes?

Next, it found its way into the loft forcing its way under the eaves. Lack of sunlight made these outriders turn white and spindly. Somehow that made it all seem even more threatening. Pruning the beast only seemed to encourage it.

Eventually, after a couple of years' growth had sent it over the roof, causing our little house to all but disappear I decided it had to go.

With energy I began to cut it away at the base. The stems aren't particularly tough and soon I had cut through them all. But it wouldn't come down, as it was still firmly attached to the TV cable.

So up I went into the spare room and leaned out of the window with my secateurs, hacking away at strand after strand. The vine swayed menacingly. Finally, I thought "Nothing for it! The cable with have to go, too." I cut through the cable and the vine's last hold on the house was gone. The entire plant crashed onto the front garden taking with it the trellis. "Geronimo!" I shouted. An answering cheer went up. It seemed that all the neighbours had gathered to watch this astounding event and that they were as glad as I was to see it go !

So, venerable or not, those clematis and wisteria had better watch out!

Wheelie Awful

Today

I heard a story today about a young man who thought that it was a great idea to practice doing handbrake turns and wheelies in the local Tesco carpark during business hours. The local police and magistrates let him feel the full weight of the law including imposing a driving ban and the destruction of his car.

"That's a bit draconian", commented Paul. "Well, he was warned three times and the carpark was in use. He might have injured a child..." I countered.

In my Day

I am ever grateful to Paul for teaching me how to drive. He allowed me to take the wheel on almost all our journeys and was methodical and calm.

There are some maneuvers which are best not practised too often on the public highway. Back in 1985 supermarkets closed on Sundays so Paul did, indeed, take me to the local Tesco carpark for some practice.

Not, I hasten to add, to do handbrake turns and wheelies, but to get on top of clutch control, reversing around corners, parking and steering. Paul would take a few two litre lemonade bottles with us. These he artistically placed in chicanes across the carpark and I had to drive between them and reverse around them without knocking any over.

I had to reverse around the kerbstones in the car park and do three-point turns between lemonade bottles. Week after week Paul would take me and I became better and better at these skills and still do a mean hill start.

We were often entirely alone in the carpark and no-one ever came to tell us off.

So what do learner drivers do today, now that shops are open seven days a week?

Period Feature

Today

In the process of house-hunting we are constantly finding ourselves seduced by yet another charming property. The bungalow with the 1 acre garden was a case in point. Immaculately, kept, probably unchanged since it was first built back in the '70s.

I look at the mirrored fitted wardrobes and the coloured suites and half-tiled splash backs in the bathrooms. "It's like stepping back in time", I whispered to Paul.

In My Day

How exciting it was to buy our very first home! The house in Rowan Avenue was a new build and we were told that we could choose our bathroom suite from a range. Goodbye, the chipped white enamel baths and austere tiles of our childhood. Goodbye horrible antiquated baths on little claw feet that collected the dirt underneath. We debated the merits of avocado, rose or aqua. Would maize yellow work? What cute little tiles with their matching swirly patterns on white! How sensible the matching plastic bath panel that would keep dirt at bay! In the end, there were only two suites left and our friends the Levetts who were buying next door bid hard for the aqua which left us with the rose pink.

Later, when we moved to Mead Close we became the proud owners of an avocado bathroom suite! This colour looks pretty great on an avocado but does little to enhance the look of any bathroom. However, we were pretty broke and even when we remodelled the bathroom for the first time had to keep it. I had great difficulty in finding a fitted porcelain sink in the colour, which had by now joined the ranks of the drearily outdated, and probably spent over the odds to get one.

As one might expect, the plain white Victorian bath (complete with claw feet) has made a comeback and today we all love our neutral coloured bathrooms.

I have a suspicion that, not long from now, the avocado bathroom suite will be described by estate agents as a "period feature".

Music to my Ears

Today

This morning Paul was reciting, pretty well verbatim, from an album that his Dad used to play, with a mixture of solemnity and excitement, back in 1957. This album was called "A Journey into Stereophonic Sound" in which a posh-voiced narrator described the various things captured by this new recording method - the ceremony of the keys at the Tower, an express train whooshing past, The Ride of the Valkyrie. "How awed we were in those days", said Paul wistfully "imagine today's kids being excited by something like this."

In My Day

We had a vast collection of records. The family myth goes that Mamma first saw Daddy when he was painting the hall ceiling at 4 BH whilst listening to Beethoven's 7th on 78s. He had to climb down every four minutes to change the record.

The existence of the Henry Wood Gramophone Circle ensured that we would amass an ever-growing collection of records. Our 78 record deck had two turntables and records were doubled sided, odds and evens. This meant that you could move smoothly from disc one to two, and be turning over disc one ready and so on. A forty minute symphony could run to ten or more discs and were housed in boxes that were pretty heavy.

The decision to move to 33 rpm was a major one - there was a considerable outlay and we needed a broad classical repertoire. In the end the bullet was bitten and we made the change. We had a collection of over a thousand records which were housed in a filing cabinet in the room where the meetings were held. There were many advantages over 78s, quite apart from the greater length of each side. They were less susceptible to breakages and, while you could no longer play them with just about anything, including a rusty nail, the styli were miracles of precision. I remember that we had a little paper disc marked out with three concentric rings of black lines, one for 78, one for 45, one for 33rpm. The idea was that if the turntable was turning at exactly 33rpm the relevant black lines would blur into grey. It was possible to play a record designed for 33rpm at 45 or even 78 with hilarious (or so we thought) results. I think Mamma & Daddy rather frowned on this.

The move to stereo was less dramatic; after all, the recordings were still on vinyl and revolved at 33rpm. The change was more in the equipment and the careful placing of speakers. But gradually new recordings were made and our collection was updated. I don't recall feeling as much excitement about this as Paul and his Dad did and in fact am not sure that my hearing is really sensitive enough for the nuances of hifi.

I can usually tell when a pre-stereo recording is played on the radio as it has a curious quality of sounding as though the musicians are in a small room with me which I find rather endearing.