Today
My brother David is in the process of de-cluttering, to use a current bit of jargon. This is taking him a good long way down memory lane. Today he shared with us a picture of an ancient Black Magic tin - "in the days when they were magic" enthused David. Izzie commented that it was the old button box and David pointed out that an earlier label said it was his "Bike Box". (Blimey, it's like Time Team at David's place!)
In My Day
"Bike Box" can only mean one thing: it's the essential box you take with you in case you have a puncture.
While I have never learnt to change a car tyre, preferring to rely on my husband or the AA, I did have to learn how to repair a bicycle puncture. I don't think that tyres were as robust in those days - nowadays, what with off-roading bikes and high-tech design, it doesn't seem to be a problem.
The puncture would, of course, occur at the point of no return. Often I didn't have brothers to help me and was impossibly far away from anywhere I could walk to for help.
Let's see if I can remember what I had to do. First make sure that the "bike box" isn't actually still resting on the hall table at home. Next, with the help of a lever (I seem to remember using spoons on occasions) peel off the tyre. The actual puncture would be in the inner tube which was nestling inside the tyre.
Now look hopefully at the inner tube. On very rare occasions you could see the gaping great hole. More often you had to pump up the tube to locate that nasty hissy hole. Was the bicycle pump attached to the bike? Oh good. Now, the most efficient way of locating the actual puncture was to hold the partly pumped inner tube in some water and watch for bubbles. This often meant a fruitless search for puddles; sometime you just had to spit and hope for the best.
Having found the bubble, you marked it with some chalk (essential part of the Bike Box) so that you wouldn't lose the place.
Then you dried the place and smeared some evil-smelling glue over it, followed by a suitably-sized patch cut from some rubberised canvas in your box.
Finally the whole thing was reassembled onto the wheel. Somehow getting the tyre back on was far harder than getting it off and you went round and round, ruining several spoons until the tyre was back. Now to pump it up! Has the valve got lost in the undergrowth? Oh, here it is.
All pumped up and ready to go? If you were lucky there had only been one puncture and you could carry on, now about two hours late, on your way. If not, the tyre deflated as soon as you put any weight on it and the whole process had to be repeated.
You needed to be made of stern stuff to go out on your bike back in those days!
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Hedge
Today
The survey reports on Spencer House have come back and they show that the property is in a conservation area and that there are at least two trees, a beech and a red cypress, with preservation orders in the garden. Well I wasn't planning to hack them down anyway; just a little pruning, maybe?
The bit I do want to hack down is a thick hedge of Cupressocyparis Leylandii, that obstructs where I want to build the conservatory.
"I'll probably win an award if I cut that down," I joked to Lizzie.
In My Day
How exciting it was, back in 1975, to move into our first proper own house. The fact that it was so newly built that everything reeked of damp plaster and the garden was a sea (a very small sea, admittedly) of mud, didn't matter at all.
I had no idea about gardening and neither did Paul. (In, fact he still proudly knows nothing about gardening.) But the space was small and easy to manage, surely? And the faster things grew and the more "instant" they were, so much the better.
In one way, I was better off than Beverley and John, who'd bought the house on the end. In addition to the pocket handkerchief at the back and grass verge at front, they had a strip that bordered the corner.
Privacy and safety being top priorities, John went out to find what plant he could use to achieve this end and so discovered the Leylandii. He planted about ten, close together. "They grow to about forty feet," he said happily. Never mind that they would obscure the sunlight, put roots out dangerously close to the house's foundations and require acrobatic skills to carry out the pruning, here was privacy that grew almost in an instant.
We only lived at Rowan Avenue (what happened to the rowans? they probably all died under the influence of the Leylandii) for seven years and the hedge was already a rather formidable object, threatening to engulf the pavement totally and consuming much of John's time in attempts to keep it cut back and tidy.
The trouble was, John wasn't the only person to think that these quick-growing conifers were the gardener's dream, All over Britain, Leylandii became ubiquitous, even appearing as hedges in the rural landscape and imparting an incongruous air to our otherwise pleasantly mixed greenery.
Having had our flirtation with instant hedging, we are now busily grubbing up these monstrous plantations as unmanageable eyesores.
I wonder what John's view of Leylandii hedges is now and whether the one he planted at Rowan avenue still survives.
The survey reports on Spencer House have come back and they show that the property is in a conservation area and that there are at least two trees, a beech and a red cypress, with preservation orders in the garden. Well I wasn't planning to hack them down anyway; just a little pruning, maybe?
The bit I do want to hack down is a thick hedge of Cupressocyparis Leylandii, that obstructs where I want to build the conservatory.
"I'll probably win an award if I cut that down," I joked to Lizzie.
In My Day
How exciting it was, back in 1975, to move into our first proper own house. The fact that it was so newly built that everything reeked of damp plaster and the garden was a sea (a very small sea, admittedly) of mud, didn't matter at all.
I had no idea about gardening and neither did Paul. (In, fact he still proudly knows nothing about gardening.) But the space was small and easy to manage, surely? And the faster things grew and the more "instant" they were, so much the better.
In one way, I was better off than Beverley and John, who'd bought the house on the end. In addition to the pocket handkerchief at the back and grass verge at front, they had a strip that bordered the corner.
Privacy and safety being top priorities, John went out to find what plant he could use to achieve this end and so discovered the Leylandii. He planted about ten, close together. "They grow to about forty feet," he said happily. Never mind that they would obscure the sunlight, put roots out dangerously close to the house's foundations and require acrobatic skills to carry out the pruning, here was privacy that grew almost in an instant.
We only lived at Rowan Avenue (what happened to the rowans? they probably all died under the influence of the Leylandii) for seven years and the hedge was already a rather formidable object, threatening to engulf the pavement totally and consuming much of John's time in attempts to keep it cut back and tidy.
The trouble was, John wasn't the only person to think that these quick-growing conifers were the gardener's dream, All over Britain, Leylandii became ubiquitous, even appearing as hedges in the rural landscape and imparting an incongruous air to our otherwise pleasantly mixed greenery.
Having had our flirtation with instant hedging, we are now busily grubbing up these monstrous plantations as unmanageable eyesores.
I wonder what John's view of Leylandii hedges is now and whether the one he planted at Rowan avenue still survives.
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Grammar Geek
Today
This year on Easter Saturday I gave a lunch for assorted family members. I really like planning these lunches and this year thought I'd go for more, smaller, courses so that I could experiment. Purely for the fun of it, I thought I would type up a menu with suggested wines, just like some of the tasting menus we'd had on our South American tour.
"I wouldn't," advised Paul "you're pushed for time and it'll only lead to trouble."
He was right, of course. My family mercilessly pointed out all the discrepancies in my capitalisation and laughed long and loud about a single quail laying all dozen eggs, because of a misplaced apostrophe (actually, a typical quail's clutch is about ten - twelve eggs) and failed to spot the one error that I had noticed. I'm sure this contributed to the general hilarity.
Proof-reading this blog is hard enough and, although I get Paul to help me, errors creep through. Of course, the things I write are mostly not so important that a small error can matter, but I prefer to get things right.
In My Day
One of the more thankless tasks (fortunately not my job) carried out in the Tax Office was the one involving building sub-contractors. These folk had a bad reputation for slipping between employed and self-employed categories, so to avoid PAYE they had to apply for a certificate.
To stop a trade in these documents they carried a photo of the applicant who was told that the photo had to be full-face, bareheaded etc.
The chap who had this job was a rather nerdy, pernickety sort of person and one day as he opened his post he roared with laughter. "What's the matter with these people?" he demanded. He showed me a picture submitted for a certificate showing a rather puzzled-looking chap staring at the camera, wearing on his head what appeared to be a tea-cosy, pulled firmly down.
"We tell them 'without a hat,'" sighed the officer and went to get the file. Next minute he was laughing even harder. Apparently his letter to the sub-contractor had mistakenly said "with a hat". No wonder the guy looked so puzzled.
If even nerds and geeks can get it wrong what hope is there for me?
This year on Easter Saturday I gave a lunch for assorted family members. I really like planning these lunches and this year thought I'd go for more, smaller, courses so that I could experiment. Purely for the fun of it, I thought I would type up a menu with suggested wines, just like some of the tasting menus we'd had on our South American tour.
"I wouldn't," advised Paul "you're pushed for time and it'll only lead to trouble."
He was right, of course. My family mercilessly pointed out all the discrepancies in my capitalisation and laughed long and loud about a single quail laying all dozen eggs, because of a misplaced apostrophe (actually, a typical quail's clutch is about ten - twelve eggs) and failed to spot the one error that I had noticed. I'm sure this contributed to the general hilarity.
Proof-reading this blog is hard enough and, although I get Paul to help me, errors creep through. Of course, the things I write are mostly not so important that a small error can matter, but I prefer to get things right.
In My Day
One of the more thankless tasks (fortunately not my job) carried out in the Tax Office was the one involving building sub-contractors. These folk had a bad reputation for slipping between employed and self-employed categories, so to avoid PAYE they had to apply for a certificate.
To stop a trade in these documents they carried a photo of the applicant who was told that the photo had to be full-face, bareheaded etc.
The chap who had this job was a rather nerdy, pernickety sort of person and one day as he opened his post he roared with laughter. "What's the matter with these people?" he demanded. He showed me a picture submitted for a certificate showing a rather puzzled-looking chap staring at the camera, wearing on his head what appeared to be a tea-cosy, pulled firmly down.
"We tell them 'without a hat,'" sighed the officer and went to get the file. Next minute he was laughing even harder. Apparently his letter to the sub-contractor had mistakenly said "with a hat". No wonder the guy looked so puzzled.
If even nerds and geeks can get it wrong what hope is there for me?
Saturday, April 14, 2012
Roots
Today
This week the survey was carried out on Spencer House. I talked to the surveyor about the trees and shrubs in the garden. "Well, it's a conservation area", he said "so you'll need permission to do any pruning." The garden was once part of the estate of Oakhill Manor and has some very majestic and mature trees.
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I still have to learn what they all are and how to deal with them. And I'm sure that that will involve tree surgeons and the like, of which the local council publishes a list.
There isn't a single plant in my little garden (always excepting the ever-encroaching brambles) that I haven't planted myself during the past twenty-five years - the lovely Elaeagnus that grows as fast as the brambles but gives beautiful green and gold foliage all year round, the fragrant Viburnum and my gorgeous Dublin Bay rose.
And, of course, the apple tree.
In My Day
At the tail end of 1986 we moved into our new home. Once we'd got the central heating more or less sorted, found a way of fitting Becky and her toys into her tiny bedroom and finally got the cooker wedged into place, it was time to explore the rest of our property.
The property boasted an integral garage, a joy previously untasted. It had an ancient up-and-over door which was unlocked, the key probably having been missing for years. We peered into the depths. There was some of our stuff in there, dumped by the removal firm and that general air of dust and spiders that pervades most outbuildings.
Near the front was something unexpected. Sitting lopsidedly in a Safeway's carrier bag was a diminutive apple tree. The label announced that it was a Worcester and was self-germinating. Nothing, however, announced how it had got there. Still there it was and I carefully planted it at the top of the garden, much to the delight of my neighbour who also had a Worcester apple tree.
Later the whole story emerged. The new house was only a matter of about three miles from my brother David's home. Thinking to welcome us festively they turned up, mob-handed, on December 23rd, our moving-in day. They had all the musical instruments they could muster and the apple tree. Lustily they sang and played carols outside our front door. We, however, were at the time feasting on cauliflower cheese at Cousin's restaurant in Shepton (see 28 March 2012 entry). Eventually they became aware of the deafening silence that surrounded them. They packed up their instruments and carol books and tiptoed away, leaving the apple tree in the garage.
That first year the tree produced four apples, which I made into a tarte tatin to share with my loving brother's family.
Unfortunately, I fear that uprooting the tree to take it to Oakhill will just kill it, so it will have to stay as a symbol of welcome and hope to the future inhabitants of no 7.
.jpg)
I still have to learn what they all are and how to deal with them. And I'm sure that that will involve tree surgeons and the like, of which the local council publishes a list.There isn't a single plant in my little garden (always excepting the ever-encroaching brambles) that I haven't planted myself during the past twenty-five years - the lovely Elaeagnus that grows as fast as the brambles but gives beautiful green and gold foliage all year round, the fragrant Viburnum and my gorgeous Dublin Bay rose.
And, of course, the apple tree.
In My Day
At the tail end of 1986 we moved into our new home. Once we'd got the central heating more or less sorted, found a way of fitting Becky and her toys into her tiny bedroom and finally got the cooker wedged into place, it was time to explore the rest of our property.
The property boasted an integral garage, a joy previously untasted. It had an ancient up-and-over door which was unlocked, the key probably having been missing for years. We peered into the depths. There was some of our stuff in there, dumped by the removal firm and that general air of dust and spiders that pervades most outbuildings.
Near the front was something unexpected. Sitting lopsidedly in a Safeway's carrier bag was a diminutive apple tree. The label announced that it was a Worcester and was self-germinating. Nothing, however, announced how it had got there. Still there it was and I carefully planted it at the top of the garden, much to the delight of my neighbour who also had a Worcester apple tree.
Later the whole story emerged. The new house was only a matter of about three miles from my brother David's home. Thinking to welcome us festively they turned up, mob-handed, on December 23rd, our moving-in day. They had all the musical instruments they could muster and the apple tree. Lustily they sang and played carols outside our front door. We, however, were at the time feasting on cauliflower cheese at Cousin's restaurant in Shepton (see 28 March 2012 entry). Eventually they became aware of the deafening silence that surrounded them. They packed up their instruments and carol books and tiptoed away, leaving the apple tree in the garage.
That first year the tree produced four apples, which I made into a tarte tatin to share with my loving brother's family.
Unfortunately, I fear that uprooting the tree to take it to Oakhill will just kill it, so it will have to stay as a symbol of welcome and hope to the future inhabitants of no 7.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Grubby
Today
Maybe it's because I cleaned my specs today or maybe it's the spring sunshine, but I've been noticing griminess today. The shower head was clogged with lime that had become rather grubby-looking, there was old tea ingrained into the teapot stand and the microwave plate looked far from clean. The morning sunshine revealed how smeared the windows are.
So I rubbed away, reflecting on just how much dirt we don't really notice.
In My Day
Growing up in London, I think I believed that dirt was actually simply a result of age. It didn't really occur to me to think that all dirt is caused by something.
The blackened buildings in London were just old, as was our ceiling at 4BH with its yellowy-brown stains. Dust also just appeared; it was made of nothing specific. This was quite a comfortable way of looking at things; the bottoms of saucepans weren't black from repeated exposure to flames and spilt food, they were just old.
As I grew up I began to see things differently. For one thing, the clean air act of 1963 relegated the London Smogs to the history books and I began to understand that the "age" on buildings was actually ingrained soot from millions of coal fires, couple with rain. Buildings were cleaned up, often revealing their full beauty for the first time in a hundred and fifty years. When I visited Mdina in Malta a few years ago the buildings, which are mostly much older than London's, were a lovely golden, never having had to deal with soot or much rain.
But still sometimes dirt builds up so slowly that we are not aware. Mamma was a forty Craven A a day smoker and I truly think she was unaware of how dirty this made everything. When she lived at Dorking she had a problem with foundations that meant that all her furniture had to be stored. Paul and I helped to put it all back.
"This TV's pretty grubby, Mamma", I said. Mamma protested that she'd dusted it before it had gone into store. "Well", I said, demonstrating with a soapy cloth "it's covered in a brown sticky film, I'm surprised you could watch TV; it must have been sepia!" Her books, too, all had yellowed spines. In vain for her to protest that that was the effect of age. "I have books that are much older", I said, exasperated "and they're not yellowed. It's tar from your cigarettes." But she wasn't convinced.
What is true is that no amount of scrubbing will ever remove all the grubbiness of living, although I presently have a very shiny bathroom.
Maybe it's because I cleaned my specs today or maybe it's the spring sunshine, but I've been noticing griminess today. The shower head was clogged with lime that had become rather grubby-looking, there was old tea ingrained into the teapot stand and the microwave plate looked far from clean. The morning sunshine revealed how smeared the windows are.
So I rubbed away, reflecting on just how much dirt we don't really notice.
In My Day
Growing up in London, I think I believed that dirt was actually simply a result of age. It didn't really occur to me to think that all dirt is caused by something.
The blackened buildings in London were just old, as was our ceiling at 4BH with its yellowy-brown stains. Dust also just appeared; it was made of nothing specific. This was quite a comfortable way of looking at things; the bottoms of saucepans weren't black from repeated exposure to flames and spilt food, they were just old.
As I grew up I began to see things differently. For one thing, the clean air act of 1963 relegated the London Smogs to the history books and I began to understand that the "age" on buildings was actually ingrained soot from millions of coal fires, couple with rain. Buildings were cleaned up, often revealing their full beauty for the first time in a hundred and fifty years. When I visited Mdina in Malta a few years ago the buildings, which are mostly much older than London's, were a lovely golden, never having had to deal with soot or much rain.
But still sometimes dirt builds up so slowly that we are not aware. Mamma was a forty Craven A a day smoker and I truly think she was unaware of how dirty this made everything. When she lived at Dorking she had a problem with foundations that meant that all her furniture had to be stored. Paul and I helped to put it all back.
"This TV's pretty grubby, Mamma", I said. Mamma protested that she'd dusted it before it had gone into store. "Well", I said, demonstrating with a soapy cloth "it's covered in a brown sticky film, I'm surprised you could watch TV; it must have been sepia!" Her books, too, all had yellowed spines. In vain for her to protest that that was the effect of age. "I have books that are much older", I said, exasperated "and they're not yellowed. It's tar from your cigarettes." But she wasn't convinced.
What is true is that no amount of scrubbing will ever remove all the grubbiness of living, although I presently have a very shiny bathroom.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Potty
Today
I had what can only be described as a "funny turn" last Sunday. The borders between reality and imagination seemed to be blurred and I wasn't at all sure whether things that were so important to remember had really happened or only been in a dream.
This strange sensation was followed by a night in which closing my eyes brought forth a series of bizarre, unconnected and sometimes unpleasant images that crowded the backs of my eyelids.
The sensible thing seemed to be to keep them open which I did until about three AM when at last closing my eyes brought merely greyness followed by sleep.
I feel fine now and can only assume that it was as a result of recent overload. I decided to try to get my life into better balance.
But the truth is, when you're in your 60s, episodes like this can trigger the fear that, actually, you're showing the first signs of going into old-age pottiness.
In My Day
Paul's mother and grandmother lived well into their 90s and both were pretty demented towards the end.
With Nan this was fairly clearly Alzheimer's with episodes of confusion, forgetfulness and rage. This was not helped by a liking for more than a little tipple. More than once Paul had to help Mum and Dad as they struggled to heave the resisting Nan into a chair or out of a cold bath.
Eventually, Nan reached the tipping point when Mum and Dad felt they had to have a break and arranged for respite care for Nan. I don't think she ever came home after that and the last few years of her life were spent in a clouded twilight.
Although Mum did slide into dementia in the last couple of years of her life there was none of the anger, incontinence, inability to eat etc that mark out proper Alzheimer's. Instead she allowed herself a gradual giving up of responsibilities. Paul's sister was always on hand and Paul called her daily to check she was OK and she had help in the way of cleaners and carers who visited.
It was only about a year before she died when her grandson was shocked to find her wandering about her flat with the gas grill on full, but not lit and her with a box of matches. It was clear that Mum had reached the point when she needed expert help.
Did she know this? She was pretty accepting of anything Paul told her was a Good Thing and she didn't seem to mind the residential care home. I am of the opinion that Mum was not just preparing herself for the slide out of life but also her children. It's easier to say goodbye when your mother no longer seems to recognise you and only shows a fondness for strawberries and chocolate buttons. She's not seen as losing anything and you are losing less than if she'd still been feisty with everything to live for.
I'm not ready for any kind of slide just yet and feel sure that, at the moment at least, I'm not at all potty.
I had what can only be described as a "funny turn" last Sunday. The borders between reality and imagination seemed to be blurred and I wasn't at all sure whether things that were so important to remember had really happened or only been in a dream.
This strange sensation was followed by a night in which closing my eyes brought forth a series of bizarre, unconnected and sometimes unpleasant images that crowded the backs of my eyelids.
The sensible thing seemed to be to keep them open which I did until about three AM when at last closing my eyes brought merely greyness followed by sleep.
I feel fine now and can only assume that it was as a result of recent overload. I decided to try to get my life into better balance.
But the truth is, when you're in your 60s, episodes like this can trigger the fear that, actually, you're showing the first signs of going into old-age pottiness.
In My Day
Paul's mother and grandmother lived well into their 90s and both were pretty demented towards the end.
With Nan this was fairly clearly Alzheimer's with episodes of confusion, forgetfulness and rage. This was not helped by a liking for more than a little tipple. More than once Paul had to help Mum and Dad as they struggled to heave the resisting Nan into a chair or out of a cold bath.
Eventually, Nan reached the tipping point when Mum and Dad felt they had to have a break and arranged for respite care for Nan. I don't think she ever came home after that and the last few years of her life were spent in a clouded twilight.
Although Mum did slide into dementia in the last couple of years of her life there was none of the anger, incontinence, inability to eat etc that mark out proper Alzheimer's. Instead she allowed herself a gradual giving up of responsibilities. Paul's sister was always on hand and Paul called her daily to check she was OK and she had help in the way of cleaners and carers who visited.
It was only about a year before she died when her grandson was shocked to find her wandering about her flat with the gas grill on full, but not lit and her with a box of matches. It was clear that Mum had reached the point when she needed expert help.
Did she know this? She was pretty accepting of anything Paul told her was a Good Thing and she didn't seem to mind the residential care home. I am of the opinion that Mum was not just preparing herself for the slide out of life but also her children. It's easier to say goodbye when your mother no longer seems to recognise you and only shows a fondness for strawberries and chocolate buttons. She's not seen as losing anything and you are losing less than if she'd still been feisty with everything to live for.
I'm not ready for any kind of slide just yet and feel sure that, at the moment at least, I'm not at all potty.
Friday, April 06, 2012
Hello, Kitty
Today
My niece, who openly regards herself as "mother" to her spaniels has rather fallen in love with some cats she's caring for. She wondered if she could ensure that her dogs wouldn't eat the kittens if she got any.
"The only dogs," I informed her, knowledgeably "that eat cats are Jack Russells and Lurchers."
In My Day
Caspian the dog had been taught early on to treat cats with the greatest of respect and caution. In 1993 the old cats died and we acquired Amadeus and Arietty.
I spoke sternly to Cas. "We're getting some kittens; you harm them and it's back to the RSPCA where you came from!" He laid his head on my lap and gave me that "don't you love me any more?" gaze that dogs do so well.
He was used to cats ignoring him and slapping him; what he didn't expect was a cat who adored him. Amadeus was a smart little black-and-white who had been reared in a farm cottage where dogs ran in and out all the time.
As soon as he saw Cas he ran over to him. Cas braced for impact. Instead Amadeus got onto his hind legs and wrapped his paws around Cas's nose, pulling it down to his level so that he could kiss him. Caspian was dumbfounded and just let him do this. On one occasion, Cas gave a huge yawn and Amadeus put his head inside the dog's mouth to have a look around. Cas simply stood there with his jaw uncomfortably locked open until the kitten withdrew his head.
Later, he allowed the kitten to eat his food (Amadeus would dart between his paws as he stood over his food bowl and just tuck in) and to use him as a sofa. Many a morning we would find Cas hunched up in the corner of his kennel while the cat sprawled luxuriously in the bed.
Once or twice he growled slightly when the kitten's playing with his tail threatened to become actually painful. I think that was more a call to us to remove the kitty, rather than a threat to Amadeus, because he never once hurt or attacked the kittens.
And I think Spaniels are in general a good tempered breed; so why don't you go for it, Sarah?
My niece, who openly regards herself as "mother" to her spaniels has rather fallen in love with some cats she's caring for. She wondered if she could ensure that her dogs wouldn't eat the kittens if she got any.
"The only dogs," I informed her, knowledgeably "that eat cats are Jack Russells and Lurchers."
In My Day
Caspian the dog had been taught early on to treat cats with the greatest of respect and caution. In 1993 the old cats died and we acquired Amadeus and Arietty.
I spoke sternly to Cas. "We're getting some kittens; you harm them and it's back to the RSPCA where you came from!" He laid his head on my lap and gave me that "don't you love me any more?" gaze that dogs do so well.
He was used to cats ignoring him and slapping him; what he didn't expect was a cat who adored him. Amadeus was a smart little black-and-white who had been reared in a farm cottage where dogs ran in and out all the time.
As soon as he saw Cas he ran over to him. Cas braced for impact. Instead Amadeus got onto his hind legs and wrapped his paws around Cas's nose, pulling it down to his level so that he could kiss him. Caspian was dumbfounded and just let him do this. On one occasion, Cas gave a huge yawn and Amadeus put his head inside the dog's mouth to have a look around. Cas simply stood there with his jaw uncomfortably locked open until the kitten withdrew his head.
Later, he allowed the kitten to eat his food (Amadeus would dart between his paws as he stood over his food bowl and just tuck in) and to use him as a sofa. Many a morning we would find Cas hunched up in the corner of his kennel while the cat sprawled luxuriously in the bed.
Once or twice he growled slightly when the kitten's playing with his tail threatened to become actually painful. I think that was more a call to us to remove the kitty, rather than a threat to Amadeus, because he never once hurt or attacked the kittens.
And I think Spaniels are in general a good tempered breed; so why don't you go for it, Sarah?
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Feline Felicity
Today
The next stage in the new home purchase has been reached and we are beginning to make proper plans.
While we have the luxury of not having to move out of here before moving into Spencer House, there will still be a day or two of activity involving removal trucks and strangers stomping about carting furniture.
So, thinking about Abby's happiness, we've decided she'll be best off in the cattery for a couple of days during the worst of it. Then we can settle her more easily into her new environment.
In My Day
Of course, we haven't always had either the option of having staged moving or of being able to afford a cattery.
When we moved to Montfort Close in 1982, I couldn't even find the cat basket and a terrified Amelia tore the cardboard cat box to shreds in minutes. I seem to remember moving them in a unibox with a board over the top to prevent egress. Fortunately the journey was only about five miles so it wasn't too difficult.
When we arrived. Amelia quite quickly set about exploring, but Agamemnon was simply furious and wouldn't leave the utility room where he slept uncomfortably on some dismantled metal shelving and forced us to give him a litter tray. After five days I'd had enough of this sulky behaviour. He was eating normally, wasn't he? So this was just a mind game which I was determined to win. In was high summer and I chucked him into the garden, where he found that it was much more fun than the pocket-handkerchief he was used and promptly forgot his bad temper in the fun of climbing up trees.
Moving here was far worse. There was a lengthy period when we were homeless, staying with Chris at Glenthorne. As this was a home that boasted three German Shepherd dogs we clearly had to accommodate the animals in a local kennel/cattery. The cats (and Caspian the dog) were there for eight long weeks. We visited them a few times and they looked so miserable. When we were eventually reunited there was no sulking. They were all far too delighted to have found us again and to have their freedom.
It's fine, Abby, you'll be just fine. Altho' I think a new collar with address tag might be in order, just in case.
The next stage in the new home purchase has been reached and we are beginning to make proper plans.
While we have the luxury of not having to move out of here before moving into Spencer House, there will still be a day or two of activity involving removal trucks and strangers stomping about carting furniture.
So, thinking about Abby's happiness, we've decided she'll be best off in the cattery for a couple of days during the worst of it. Then we can settle her more easily into her new environment.
In My Day
Of course, we haven't always had either the option of having staged moving or of being able to afford a cattery.
When we moved to Montfort Close in 1982, I couldn't even find the cat basket and a terrified Amelia tore the cardboard cat box to shreds in minutes. I seem to remember moving them in a unibox with a board over the top to prevent egress. Fortunately the journey was only about five miles so it wasn't too difficult.
When we arrived. Amelia quite quickly set about exploring, but Agamemnon was simply furious and wouldn't leave the utility room where he slept uncomfortably on some dismantled metal shelving and forced us to give him a litter tray. After five days I'd had enough of this sulky behaviour. He was eating normally, wasn't he? So this was just a mind game which I was determined to win. In was high summer and I chucked him into the garden, where he found that it was much more fun than the pocket-handkerchief he was used and promptly forgot his bad temper in the fun of climbing up trees.
Moving here was far worse. There was a lengthy period when we were homeless, staying with Chris at Glenthorne. As this was a home that boasted three German Shepherd dogs we clearly had to accommodate the animals in a local kennel/cattery. The cats (and Caspian the dog) were there for eight long weeks. We visited them a few times and they looked so miserable. When we were eventually reunited there was no sulking. They were all far too delighted to have found us again and to have their freedom.
It's fine, Abby, you'll be just fine. Altho' I think a new collar with address tag might be in order, just in case.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Comfort Food
Today
I've just made that old veggie stand-by, cauliflower cheese, for supper. Very good it was too.
And it's a great comfort food.
In My Day
With a mixture of hope and anxiety we moved into 7 Mead Close on 23 December 1986. The weather was dull and droopy and I couldn't figure out how to get the central heating working. My new neighbour, up to her floury elbows in mincepie making, promised that her husband would come over and explain it all later.
I went back to check that all the furniture was roughly in the right place. As Stoke at that time was a gas-free village I'd had to leave my nearly new gas cooker behind and had bought in the sales a top of the range halogen ceramic hob cooker. This had been faithfully delivered but was too large to fit into the space allocated for cookers in my new kitchen. I couldn't even heat up soup.
This felt like some kind of final straw. Here we were, embarking on a new life, and it seemed to be going wrong in a chilly and dull kind of way. I bucked myself up and when Paul came home we all flossied ourselves up and piled into the car to see what Shepton Mallet could offer in the way of supper.
After walking rather hopelessly up the Main Street (where I fell over on the cobbles) we discovered Cousin's Restaurant just opposite the police station. It didn't look too prepossessing but we were cold and hungry and went in.
Veggie food they did not do, but they did offer cauliflower cheese. Seeing that Becky's eyes glistened as they brought a dish in, they fetched another larger one just for her and piles of very good chips.
Suddenly, everything seemed a little better as we worked our way through the tasty veg. We went home and my neighbour turned up and fixed the heating as promised and the house slowly warmed up. Maybe it was going to be all right after all.
Talking to Lizzie the other day about that evening her main memory seemed to be the cauliflower cheese. Comfort food, indeed.
I've just made that old veggie stand-by, cauliflower cheese, for supper. Very good it was too.
And it's a great comfort food.
In My Day
With a mixture of hope and anxiety we moved into 7 Mead Close on 23 December 1986. The weather was dull and droopy and I couldn't figure out how to get the central heating working. My new neighbour, up to her floury elbows in mincepie making, promised that her husband would come over and explain it all later.
I went back to check that all the furniture was roughly in the right place. As Stoke at that time was a gas-free village I'd had to leave my nearly new gas cooker behind and had bought in the sales a top of the range halogen ceramic hob cooker. This had been faithfully delivered but was too large to fit into the space allocated for cookers in my new kitchen. I couldn't even heat up soup.
This felt like some kind of final straw. Here we were, embarking on a new life, and it seemed to be going wrong in a chilly and dull kind of way. I bucked myself up and when Paul came home we all flossied ourselves up and piled into the car to see what Shepton Mallet could offer in the way of supper.
After walking rather hopelessly up the Main Street (where I fell over on the cobbles) we discovered Cousin's Restaurant just opposite the police station. It didn't look too prepossessing but we were cold and hungry and went in.
Veggie food they did not do, but they did offer cauliflower cheese. Seeing that Becky's eyes glistened as they brought a dish in, they fetched another larger one just for her and piles of very good chips.
Suddenly, everything seemed a little better as we worked our way through the tasty veg. We went home and my neighbour turned up and fixed the heating as promised and the house slowly warmed up. Maybe it was going to be all right after all.
Talking to Lizzie the other day about that evening her main memory seemed to be the cauliflower cheese. Comfort food, indeed.
Monday, March 26, 2012
A Whole World Away
Today
Paul and I have recently returned from our South and Central American holiday. We visited Chile, Argentina, Uruguay, Colombia and Honduras.
My brother Chris prefers the world's wilder places as destinations because he thinks that all cities are pretty much the same, and in fact in Chile, Argentina and Uruguay the cities had so much in common with Europe that we hardly felt we were abroad.
We didn't feel like this in Tegucigalpa. What with armed guards at every supermarket and cafe, the necessity for even well-to-do families to have their water delivered twice weekly, and the injunction not to enter into the city wearing anything resembling jewellery, we felt we were stepping into an alien place.
My Honduran cousin Ernesto pointed out to me rather tartly that most of the world lives the same way or worse than Honduras; the way we live in Western Europe being reserved for a very small and privileged sector of the human race.
In My Day
When did foreign places stop feeling foreign? Was it as a result of our desire to travel without being inconvenienced by the strange? Or are we simply all subject to globalisation?
When I did my great hitch-hiking tour back in 1969 many places even on mainland Europe did feel very foreign indeed. There were not the ubiquitous fast-food chains in every city, nor were there supermarkets selling roughly the same food everywhere.
This made for an experience that was unsettling, challenging and exciting. In Florence we tasted Pizza for the first time; bought from local pizzerias in large square slabs. In Athens we bought Souvlaki from roadside stalls - full of fresh tomatoes and flat-leaved parsley. Even eating parsley, usually at that time in England a throw-away garnish, was new. Plumbing was different and we became accustomed to the hole-in-the-floor variety. And, of course, you took your life in your hands if you drank the water!
When we arrived in Crete, courtesy of an overnight tramp ferry from Piraeus, the difference was even more marked. Crete is now a playground for holidaying Brits and bristles with high-rise and Macdonalds. Then it was a dusty, forgotten corner of Greece. One day, eating our lunch and awaiting our bus to Matala, we were invited into a little local cafe. It was dark, dingy and pretty well empty. The owners offered us a bottle of local red wine to go with our sandwiches, indicating that it was on the house. As we finished, music started up and we were drawn into a circle of dancing locals, where they kicked up their heels in true Greek fashion. When we got to Matala we found that the local cafe did amazing omelettes for a few Drachma and had no objection if we took in tomatoes and onions bought in the market to slice over them. We often brought in our own wine as well. People picking over fruit for sale in the market place would offer us bunches of grapes as gifts.
And we slept on the beach or in the artificial caves without hindrance or fear.
I seriously doubt that that would happen today; Matala boasts luxury hotels and restaurants whose owners would be much too keen on their profits and too used to foreigners to spend time on a Sunday, leisurely picking over grapes and handing them out to hippies.
I'm in a poor position to judge whether what is gained by adopting the Western European way of life is greater than what is lost. Perhaps it's possible to have potable water without adopting global blandness. I hope so.
Paul and I have recently returned from our South and Central American holiday. We visited Chile, Argentina, Uruguay, Colombia and Honduras.
My brother Chris prefers the world's wilder places as destinations because he thinks that all cities are pretty much the same, and in fact in Chile, Argentina and Uruguay the cities had so much in common with Europe that we hardly felt we were abroad.
We didn't feel like this in Tegucigalpa. What with armed guards at every supermarket and cafe, the necessity for even well-to-do families to have their water delivered twice weekly, and the injunction not to enter into the city wearing anything resembling jewellery, we felt we were stepping into an alien place.
My Honduran cousin Ernesto pointed out to me rather tartly that most of the world lives the same way or worse than Honduras; the way we live in Western Europe being reserved for a very small and privileged sector of the human race.
In My Day
When did foreign places stop feeling foreign? Was it as a result of our desire to travel without being inconvenienced by the strange? Or are we simply all subject to globalisation?
When I did my great hitch-hiking tour back in 1969 many places even on mainland Europe did feel very foreign indeed. There were not the ubiquitous fast-food chains in every city, nor were there supermarkets selling roughly the same food everywhere.
This made for an experience that was unsettling, challenging and exciting. In Florence we tasted Pizza for the first time; bought from local pizzerias in large square slabs. In Athens we bought Souvlaki from roadside stalls - full of fresh tomatoes and flat-leaved parsley. Even eating parsley, usually at that time in England a throw-away garnish, was new. Plumbing was different and we became accustomed to the hole-in-the-floor variety. And, of course, you took your life in your hands if you drank the water!
When we arrived in Crete, courtesy of an overnight tramp ferry from Piraeus, the difference was even more marked. Crete is now a playground for holidaying Brits and bristles with high-rise and Macdonalds. Then it was a dusty, forgotten corner of Greece. One day, eating our lunch and awaiting our bus to Matala, we were invited into a little local cafe. It was dark, dingy and pretty well empty. The owners offered us a bottle of local red wine to go with our sandwiches, indicating that it was on the house. As we finished, music started up and we were drawn into a circle of dancing locals, where they kicked up their heels in true Greek fashion. When we got to Matala we found that the local cafe did amazing omelettes for a few Drachma and had no objection if we took in tomatoes and onions bought in the market to slice over them. We often brought in our own wine as well. People picking over fruit for sale in the market place would offer us bunches of grapes as gifts.
And we slept on the beach or in the artificial caves without hindrance or fear.
I seriously doubt that that would happen today; Matala boasts luxury hotels and restaurants whose owners would be much too keen on their profits and too used to foreigners to spend time on a Sunday, leisurely picking over grapes and handing them out to hippies.
I'm in a poor position to judge whether what is gained by adopting the Western European way of life is greater than what is lost. Perhaps it's possible to have potable water without adopting global blandness. I hope so.
Friday, March 23, 2012
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
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!
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!
Thursday, February 09, 2012
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 07, 2012
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.
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.
Monday, February 06, 2012
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!
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!
Thursday, February 02, 2012
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".
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".
Friday, January 20, 2012
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
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.
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.
Monday, January 09, 2012
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 03, 2012
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!
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!
Saturday, December 24, 2011
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!
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?"
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!
Friday, December 23, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, December 18, 2011
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".
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".
Saturday, December 17, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 06, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, December 04, 2011
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!
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!
Friday, November 25, 2011
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 .......
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 .......
Wednesday, November 09, 2011
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.
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.
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