Pump up the volume

Today

When we were at last able to stay at the flat in Brighton, we were delighted to discover just how tranquil it is.

No funny noises (except when the newly fitted intruder alarm tried to go off), no floorboards talking.

We couldn't hear the neighbours moving about, so assume they couldn't hear us.

The bedroom's at the back overlooking a side street and there were hardly any cars.

We weren't even troubled by the seagulls!

In My Day

When we lived at the flat in Belmont in Brighton we had a very different experience. Our flat was on the top floor of a building that was opposite a British Rail working man's club.

External noises consisted of pigeons and seagulls on the sloping roof outside the bedroom window, the roar of traffic from Dyke Road and, on Friday and Saturdays nights, drunks issuing from the club.

What was even worse was the noise we ourselves made. We couldn't afford very thick carpet which probably made it hard for the lady in the flat beneath us. She was a single lady, called Miss Steele who worked in a clerical role at the Brighton & Hove police station.

Her recourse when we made a noise was to bang on the ceiling (we always assumed she used a broom handle, but it could have been a shotgun for all I know). This was particularly irritating when Lizzie was learning to walk as she fell over quite a bit. So we spent quite a lot of time taking Lizzie to parks so that she could run and jump freely without percussion accompaniment.

One night, at about 3.00 am, we were deeply asleep, when the doorbell rang furiously. Paul staggered to the door in his hastily donned dressing gown. There was Miss Steele, face screwed up with rage. "You're playing a guitar" she accused. Paul pointed out that he had been in bed asleep, that the room from which she'd thought she'd heard it was Lizzie's (I know she's talented, but she was only about a year old) and that, anyway, he didn't have a guitar.

We were furious, but decided with youthful arrogance, that she was probably going potty from being an old maid.

On the day we left the flat, she actually banged on the ceiling as we removed the carpet!

At the new flat there is someone on the ground floor who practises the piano occasionally, but I'd call that a civilised noise.

Spondulicks

Today

The work on the Brighton flat is just about finished. Over the past month we've gone down a couple of times to sort out last minute details.

Because our friend John who's been managing the project, was in France, it fell to us to pay the builders, plumber, and various other rude mechanicals in this drama.

Now builders take a dim view of cheques and direct transfers. No, they want cash. However, I take a dim view of walking through busy city centres with wads of the readies. I realise that I'm probably no more likely to get mugged than if I'm only carrying 50p, but the loss would be greater!

However, I did want the radiators to work and the rubbish to be cleared, didn't I? Well, then.

These things have to be managed. Firstly I had to make sure that there was enough cash in the cheque account as my other account is web-based only and doesn't do cash (does do high interest, tho' so there's a trade-off).

Secondly, I had to find out where the nearest branch in Brighton was.

Thirdly, I had to phone the bank's telephone hotline to arrange for the cash to be available at the branch.

The money would be available after 2.00 pm, they said. So Paul & I set off in the car. I had my passport, just in case they wanted proof of who I was.

The money was ready and I was taken into an inner room to count it (Rather a good precaution, I thought).

A quick dash to the car, clutching the bulging envelope, then up to the flat to hand it over.

In My Day

In 1972, Paul & I could at last take a belated honeymoon. I was very pregnant with Lizzie and had been working at my new job for about 3 months. We were always utterly broke. The arrangements in the Civil Service at that time were that you could draw your salary fortnightly for the first 3 months, then move to monthly pay. The salaries were paid either by cheque or in cash. I had just moved onto the monthly pay arrangement but realised that I would be away on payday. We absolutely couldn't afford to wait until we got back - if we did there'd be no holiday - so I arranged to have a payable order that I could cash at the post office in Brendon.

I trotted into the post office. It took the form of a rickety lean-to against an ancient cottage. I walked in confidently, shoving out of the way some sheep who appeared to have wandered in to collect their pensions. An equally ancient old crone appeared and I handed her the cheque.

She broke into grin quite worthy of the witch in Disney's Snow White and cackled "Oi think you be in for a baad marning!". She started rummaging around in drawers, biscuit tins, teapots etc for enough money to cash the cheque.

At that moment I was saved! A Post Office van arrived with the cash for the day. I had my money, but I expect that all the pensioners in Brendon had a bad morning instead.

Anyway, that's the last time I'm walking around Brighton with several £1000s in my pocket!

Today

I've just got back from a jolly weekend in Edinburgh to celebrate both Becky & Beatrice's birthdays and to sample the festival.

We saw all sorts of Fringe dance, acrobatic and musical events.

After we returned from the "Walk of the Dead" around the City graveyard and covenanters' prison, we didn't feel like sleeping, so we played our own version of room 101, only limited to pop stars. I was upset to find that I couldn't persuade the others to dump Leonard Cohen and Bob Dylan, but they did agree that Roy Orbison had to go. This then moved on to the worst pop songs. Was anything worse than "My Boy Lollipop"? Unless it was "I Like 'lectric Motors". Finally, we turned the game on its head with "pedestals". And everyone agreed with my choices - Queen, Annie Lennox (well, we were in Scotland) and Joan Armatrading.

This kept us going till after 2.00 am; we laughed a lot and learnt a good deal about each other's passions.

In My Day

We played a lot of games as children (no telly, you see), and not only board games like monopoly. We had our own precursor of Just a Minute, in which you had to talk for 2 minutes on a subject not of your choosing and with some words which you weren't allowed to introduce (these you didn't know in advance). (Such as "car" if you had to talk about driving etc.)

We played definitions, where a given word was written down one side of the page and up the other. You then had to fill in each gap with a word and give only the definition to the group. This worked well if there were a lot of possibilities; but we heard of a game where the only possibility seemed to be "emu". One player did try postulating a bird with (presumably) bird flu that called itself an "ebu"......

We had a whole book of limericks written by the family. This worked a bit like consequences, in that all but the line immediately above were concealed (you had to know what word you had to rhyme with).

"Won't you come up and look at my etchings
And my collection of beautiful sketchings
And if you should tire
There's a couch by the fire
That you can use for your stretchings"

Is an approximate memory of one.

Paul and I continued this with our family with Paul's version of "Call My Bluff" and our hilarious version of Noel Coward's "Adverbs". I remember one word "joyfully" - Paul was asked to remove our cat. Amelia from the arm of the chair in this fashion, which he did, vigorously and with a whoop of joy. I don't think she ever forgave him. And we puzzled Izzie for a long time with "deafly" as we ignored all her questions till she thought to write them down.....

Anyway I was very tired the next day what with all this frivolity,

Today

What a spendid week! I've just returned from a "5 day slimaway" break at my favourite health hydro the lorrens in Babbacombe.

I've been going with the girls for some years now. It's a family run place for ladies only and the package manages to fit in 35 treatments of different types to help kick start your slimming programme.

I've been exercised, pummelled, massaged, electrified, vacuumed and fed extremely carefully calorie-counted meals. I've sauna-ed, jacuzzi-ed, steamed, baked, scrubbed, showered, exfoliated. I even did some running and walking.

By so doing I managed to lose 6 1/2 lbs and 15 1/2 inches.

Result!

In My Day

I was a fattish child from the start, weighing in at 10lbs. I didn't much like exercise, and never made the connection between eating and weight gain. I was permitted to eat crisp sandwiches, even sugar sandwiches (white bread, butter, white caster sugar). There were no particular restrictions on the consumption of biscuits or bread.

I don't know that I was a very greedy child, but no-one then seemed to talk about diet. I ate my school dinner every day, including pudding (blancmange & jelly or chocolate sponge with chocolate custard featured) as well as a full cooked evening meal.

If you were fat, people veered between sympathy and sarcasm, but no-body suggested that you would be better off without sugar sandwiches or second helpings.

It wasn't till I was about 17 that I began to think about these things. I was put on a diet by my doctor (it would make amusing reading today) but thought I would help things along by lunching on liquorice sticks and drinking a lot of black coffee. It seemed a rather arty sort of thing to do!

I did lose some weight, but have spent the rest of my life trying to be very careful. Sometimes things go awry, such as when I somehow hit 14 1/2 stone in 2001.

The trouble is I have this fantasy, that if I'm very careful for a whole day, I will wake up the next morning with all the weight dropped off.

Now, where's that glass of wine?

Today

I've just got back from taking my cat Abby to the vet for her flea treatment. In order to get her there I have to plan a little campaign, Firstly she has to be lured indoors the night before. Then, while she eats her supper, I block up the catflap and put out cat litter. She is then confined to the utility room for the night.

Excursions to the kitchen during the night or next morning have to be carefully managed or she'll dart out and scarper, not to be seen for 2 days.

This isn't always successful and we have more than once had to cancel appointments with the vet or cattery because she's simply hidden herself somewhere.

Putting out the cat litter is more of a precaution than anything else, since she hates using a tray and by the time morning comes is holding it all in! No wonder she looks cross. Then I have to pop her in the basket and I'm all set. She's been having the flea treatment all her life so has no idea what it feels like to be eaten alive by fleas. Otherwise she'd be more grateful.

In My Day

I had my first proper cat when I was at art school. I think my flatmate actually thought of the idea but then couldn't cope with the house training and had made no provision for weekends and holidays. So Ariadne became mine by default.

She was a little stubby tabby with bight eyes and placid temperament. Because of my flatmate's attitude, when I went home for the weekend, Ariadne came with me. This involved a journey by train and bus. She became very relaxed about journeys in the cat basket. At holiday times, I had to manage suitcase, sewing machine, sewing box (I was a costume design student) and Ariadne at Worthing stations, sometimes changing at Brighton, and getting the bus at East Croydon.

On one occasion my half-brother invited me to spend a week with him and his family in a chalet at Blue Anchor Bay in Somerset. I enquired of British Rail about tickets for a cat. Learning that I would have to pay half fare if she travelled in the compartment and unwilling simply to leave her in the luggage van, I bought a ticket for me and hoped for the best.

I got on the train at Paddington. In 1970, the train took 4 hours to get to Taunton, then you changed to the local line (later closed and then reopened as the preserved West Somerset railway). I climbed into my compartment - there was only one spare seat. I took Ariadne out of her basket (which I then put in the luggage rack) and sat her on my lap. The ticket man came round "Got a ticket for that cat?" he said. I looked suitably blank and he probably decided he hadn't got time for the paperwork, because he said no more.

At one time I had visit the loo. I put Ariadne down on my seat and went off. When I got back she was still there, calmly keeping my seat warm. And not a single person in the compartment said a word. The journey home was a repeat.

Anyway, Ariadne had a lovely time at Blue Anchor Bay, hunting under the chalet (which was a stilts on the beach).

I'd like to teach Abby to travel to Brighton with us.

Today

Yesterday it rained for much of the day and evening. Which justified Murphy's Law ("if anything can go wrong it will") because we'd been invited to two barbecues. The first was with our wine circle friends and was in the afternoon. The second was the regular neighbours' gathering in the Close in the evening.

We trotted off to the first one, clutching wine. Somehow the rain held off and we chatted, drank wine and feasted moderately - Paul on barbecued chicken and burgers, me on some very nice stuffed peppers. We made regretful early farewells and went home for the next one. The rain was now looking rather settled and it soon became clear, by some sort of telepathy between neighbours, that the Close BBQ wasn't going to happen.

We also went to a BBQ at Becky's following her non-sky-diving event, two weeks ago. It was very hot and there was a lot of Veggie food on the grill. The next day we went back to Becky's for lunch. We found an unused throwaway BBQ so had grilled sweetcorn and veggie kebabs.

Many pubs round here also have regular BBQ nights throughout the summer so there's never a shortage of charred meat to eat.

In My Day

I don't know who invented the word barbecue, but I'd never heard of it when I was a child. Eating outdoors in the Summer was pretty well always a cold picnic or salads brought out from the kitchen. Mamma would prepare lettuce, tomatoes and cucumbers on a plate. Sometimes there was watercress, spring onions or radishes. There was always Heinz salad cream. The lettuces, for many years, would have just been the round variety. They took a deal of cleaning and you could never be confident that there would be no slugs. There might be potato salad and Mamma would add cold meat - corned beef or ham.

If we going on one of our walks, we might take a picnic. This would usually mean sandwiches and some fruit. As I rarely remember ever having good weather on these walks, picnics were often taken sheltering under a dripping tree, fending off spiders and earwigs.

Cooking hot food outdoors in the Summer usually was reserved for Boy Scouts (my brother was one) and meant sausages and beans cooked over a campfire. Very dubious fare, and certainly a boy-thing.

On Guy Fawkes night we always had a huge bonfire (that was one advantage our great big Victorian garden). After the fireworks were over, baking potatoes and roasting chestnuts would be suggested (probably by Chris, who presumably felt the need to demonstrate his scouting expertise). The potatoes would be shoved in the embers (there was always knowledgeable talk of wrapping them in mud which somehow was meant to confer special properties, but we never put this into practice) and chestnuts put onto a shovel. These culinary efforts usually resulted in half-cooked potatoes and fragments of chestnut, all of them tasting very strongly of ash & smoke. Though it tasted vile, it made you feel as though you'd gone back to some primordial roots.

Perhaps that's why it's usually the men that love to do the barbecuing,

Today

Paul has devoted much of this Summer to getting a nice tan on his chest and arms. Given that it's been one of the hottest Summers for years and that he's had the time to sit, bare-chested, in the garden, one could assume that he's well on his way to target.

However, he's not satisfied. He still feels too pale. He's planning a jaunt to Sicily in September with a friend and is worried about having the "white Brit" look. So he's bought a fake tan spray to top up. I explained to him about exfoliation and lent him my exfoliating mitt. It's something that you spray on daily so that the colour builds up.

Can't see the need myself - he's already a lot darker that me, but chacun etc....

It's probably all part and parcel of his growing his hair long and buying a sharp little sports car. So long as he doesn't add a leggy blonde....

In My Day

When I was a teenager, getting tanned involved slapping on oil so that you basically fried. (I believe my sister tried that a few times.) I, however, discovered early on that I came out in a rash after about 1/4 hour in the sun.

As SPF was future technology I found the Summers often very troubling. On holiday with David, walking in Exmoor one hot Summer, my hands and arms itched so badly with the rash that I had to wear long sleeves and I walked with the maps rolled up around my poor hands. I slapped on Calomine - again anti-histamine technology was not available - so that I also looked ridiculous with pinkish -white splodged all over me. People probably thought I had leprosy.

When I went on my European hitchhiking adventure I approached my doctor, who said that I had an allergy to UV light and he gave me some cream to apply. It certainly seemed to help.

I've since discovered that the condition is called "polymorphous light eruption" which makes it sound very grand. Having the condition has made me review the whole question of tanning, which, after all, isn't very good for your skin.

I like to think that, when the rest of my generation has wrinkled, leathery skin, I'll have smooth, soft skin like our Victorian forebears, who knew a thing or two.

Thank the medical profession for SFP60, I say!

Today

Last weekend was a weekend of feasting and frolicking. What with Becky jumping out of an aeroplane, Lizzie graduating and us celebrating our 35th wedding anniversary, much champagne was drunk.

A good deal of it was drunk at the Fete Champetre at Stourhead. This is a regular party with music, fireworks and a range of events around this beautiful Capability Brown garden. We go every time, if we can. The theme was "A Night with the Stars". As always, the Barretts dressed up. Liz & Becky took the whole b-list celebrity look very seriously with too much blonde hair, too much tan, overlarge handbags and oversmall dogs. Paul took it seriously with a jacket covered with shooting stars and the legend "Star Struck" on the back. And I put a posh frock on a teetered around the grass in high heels.

We had a picnic and, as always, the most beautiful weather. We sauntered around the gardens and I was invited to join in with a small choir singing "Dream a little dream of me" of Mama's & Papa's fame.

In My Day

There were always opportunities to dress up at home. On the landing there was a huge chest of
drawers which contained, among other things, dressing up clothes and curtains (which were always useful as cloaks etc). There is a picture in the family album of my brother Chris wearing a satin curtain as a skirt.

We were all dressed up as chessmen for the chess club's carnival float and it took me no effort at all to dress up as a fairy queen at any time.

The album shows Mamma dressed up variously, as a medieval lady in wimple, Victorian mother for the Croydon Millennium and Daddy dressed up as a schoolboy for no reason, it seems, other than a laugh.

For Christmas, when I was the Angel Gabriel in the school play, I had a plain white shift, but the most magnificent pair of cardboard and crepe paper wings which I had to carry on the bus. Beatrice was dressed up as a Christmas tree, also in cardboard and crepe paper and she, too, had to travel on the bus, in full paraphernalia. She was unable to sit down....

Perhaps the crowning achievement was when we put on a performance of the Mikado using only the forces the family could muster, that is, 6 of us. We mimed to the music. Problem, though - there are 3 little maids from school and we were only 2. No problem! Mamma put Beatrice in a double-sided costume and painted a Japanese face on a paper plate and affixed it to the back on her head. When the, moment came, she had to do a twirl and show the audience the back of her head!

Does this explain why I took a course in costume design - so that I could do in properly?

Today

Went to London for the weekend and forgot to take my diary. My diary is my constant companion. I always use plain A4 hardback lined notebooks so that I am not constrained by only having so much space for an entry (my brother's diary, apparently, gives him 12 lines per day..). So I can pour out writing for pages, scribble down something in 2 lines or catch up when I've forgotten to take it with me somewhere

I started this sequence in 1990, originally deciding that I would eschew the very personal "dear diary" stuff.

With the first half of this year being so peculiar, I started making some more personal commentary on my feelings - otherwise I would have burst.

However, when I read other's diaries, it's often the little day-to-day details that resonate, so I don't forget those.

In My Day

I started keeping a diary when I was about 15. As now, they were plain hardback books which I then decorated with pictures from magazines. In 1963, that meant the Beatles, the Rolling Stones etc.

I also peppered my entries with drawings, some of which were none too realistic. I recorded my school life and my vibrant family life. I had, as always, a close, if quirky relationship with my brother David and he obviously influenced me a great deal.

The diary records David's plan to let each other know when were out and that we'd left the key in an agreed place by leaving a note (where? I presume on the front door) saying "ching bop". I am not, and have never been clever enough to work out if there significance in this, outside of our agreed meaning, or whether it was just complete rubbish.

One can track, over the 3 diaries that represent me from 1963-1966, how I became more self-conscious, more serious, if you like, less innocently exuberant.

Lizzie owns that diary now and treasures it as a picture of me at 16 and because it makes her laugh so much.

Today

Recently returned from a very enjoyable visit to Sussex where we excitedly reviewed progress on the flat in Brighton. The bedrooms and hall are papered, the tiles are down in the kitchen and we've ordered the curtains and carpets.

Paul & I went to Lewes where there's an amazing 4-storey antiques emporium, and bought useful things like a wonderful sideboard, a truly useful 12 seater table and chairs and some delightfully mad furniture for the bedrooms.

So looking forward to actually being able to stay there.

I was talking to my brother about it and he said "it's a bit like a dolls' house - it's all going to be furnished in advance. With your home you furnish it as you go along."

In My Day

When Lizzie was four years' old we thought that she would like a dolls' house. We were rather broke at the time so decided to make it. As she was only four it had to be fairly robust. So Paul design a square 2-up 2-down with stairs, made out of batten-reinforced hardboard. He hinged the entire front to provide easy access.

Then he papered the house with a sort of white stone effect wallpaper, put in a little cottagy front door and wrote "rose cottage" over the door. The windows were made out of clear plastic.

Next he set to and made some furniture out of clothes pegs.

Meanwhile, I painted the roses around the door and made carpets and curtains out of scraps. I cut some potatoes and made potato print wallpaper, different for each room.

The process was not without some pain - at one time Paul, a little too enthusiastic with the Stanley blade, cut off the top of his thumb. He gathered up the bit (all covered with sawdust) and dashed to the hospital. They didn't want the bit and he had a slightly flattened thumb for a long time although it's grown back now.

When it was finished it stood about three foot high and four foot wide. Took up a lot of space in the bedroom.

Lizzie loved the dolls' house and it was used by her and all her friends until it fell apart about 10 years later.

I do rather love my full-sized dolls' house, though!

Today

Taking advantage of my retired status to spend some time lolling in the garden in the sun. We bought some new comfy loungers, 2 bottles of Pimm's, lemonade (diet, of course) and all the necessary accoutrements. We'd already had a pub lunch (shocking life I lead) and I'd had some wine. Paul had had some beer.

Got home, made a huge jug of Pimm's with lemonade, strawberries, cucumber, mint. Put up the comfy loungers and sunshades, slapped on the factor 60, got out my not-too demanding book and lounged. So did Paul. After a while, dozed off. Woke to find Paul topping up the jug.

Drank some more. So did Paul. Later Paul had some wine. Later still, some Archer's. While enjoying the dying embers of the chimenea, he had some port.

Middle of the night he wasn't too good at all. Paracetamol and a couple of hasty visits to the bathroom and he went off to sleep again. A bit delicate in the morning.

In My Day

I remember a visit once, back in 1975, to my friend Sue . She'd got a new boyfriend who had a couple of children aged about 9 or 10 and they lived in one of those little 2-up, 2-down houses behind Kemptown in Brighton.

Had a lovely meal and good chat. Boyfriend suggested that he and Paul go for a drink at the local corner pub. Sue and I stayed behind to keep an eye on kids and to chat.

Paul always insisted that it was the pickled eggs that did it - not the several pints of Newcastle Brown followed by a goodly number of shots of Old Crow Bourbon. And who am I to argue?

What I do know is that he had a rather disturbed night.

The following morning we had to return to Eastbourne. I was not a driver in those days so nothing for it - Paul had to drive. I'm absolutely sure that his alcohol levels were still well beyond legal.

As we drove through Lewes (no bypass in those days) Paul felt the urgent call that most of us experience with a shocking hangover. We were in a line of slow-moving cars; couldn't stop. I think a vest of Paul's, dragged from our overnight bag, did the duty. He clutched it with one hand over his mouth, clutched the steering wheel with the other. And we don't think that the policemen noticed.

I suppose life would be a lot more dull if we always learnt from our mistakes.

Today

Just returned from a week in Ireland on the Sheeps Head peninsula. We've been there many times now and feel really at home. We flew Ryanair to Shannon for the princely sum of £4.99 + taxes each, were in Ireland in 50 minutes. A 3 hour drive over the Killarney mountains and we were there. The roads were mostly good or being improved with 80% grants from the EU. After a rainy start, which made us wonder if we'd done the right thing, we had a beautiful time and allowed the place to exert its healing influence on us.

We generally stay in the same cottage; when we first went there, in 1997, there only about 1/2 a dozen cottages in the village. Now there must be 50 or 60, with more going up. Ireland has not been slow to recognise its potential as a holiday venue. Plus, as the population expands, homes are needed. Let's hope they don't kill the goose.

So far, the building has not spoiled the beauty or essential wildness of the place. And, after a trying year for all of us, we needed to experience the benefits of its physical and spiritual qualities.

In My Day

We first went to Ireland in 1990. We took the girls and Paul's Mother who had convinced herself that her family came from Tipperary and that all she had to do was walk into Tipperary and people would instantly recognise her and take her to the home of her fathers.

We decided to stay in Banagher, which is in county Offaly on the Shannon. Getting there was more of a palaver than it is now, via drive to Fishguard, ferry to Rosslare and long drive along shocking roads through worsening rain. Eventually we arrived in Banagher. It had taken us all day and it was now 10 at night. We went to the address of the cottage - all was dark and we had no idea how to find our landlady. No mobile phones. With some nervousness we knocked on the neighbours' front door - after all it was now 10.30. "Ah!" they said "you want Mrs...... at ....... address just down the road. No, no problem; we were just popping out for a Guiness."

We found our landlady who let us in. "Would you be going to bed right now?" she asked. "Well, we've a few things to unpack yes and we need to unwind." "Only I've just baked you a fresh pan of soda bread and I'll be right back." So our real introduction to Ireland was to be greeted with hot soda bread which we ate at 11.00 pm with Kerrygold butter and strawberry jam.

Like many people new to Ireland we tried to take in too much that week, with drives to Connemara etc, and learnt that getting a meal outside the towns was nearly impossible. We discovered Haughey's Bar in Banagher, which was by far the dirtiest, liveliest, most crowded bar I've ever visited. There was a regular Irish folk duo - a woman with 3 teeth, the blackest hair and largest bottom who could play five chords on the piano and sing "When Irish Eyes are Smiling" in a basso profundo that shook your boots like the notes from an ocean liner and a female demon fiddler who was aged about 80. We loved it and laughed almost continually.

Ireland was still pretty poor in those days - 15 years of EU grants and the rise of IT have utterly changed it in many ways - but we had a wonderful time and didn't mind the rain.

Mum never found her relatives who, I suspect, were largely figments of her mother's imagination, but this didn't shake her faith.

I hope that the Irish stay the Irish, regardless of the new-found wealth that is coming their way, because the place and people have something irreplaceable.

Today

Took a quick spin to Brighton yesterday to view progress on the flat. The sun was shining and the temperature was in 20s.

Hopped into the Lexus - off with its top. The way in which it folds into the boot is impressive and it's fun just to press the buttons.

Slapped on some factor 60 (some for Paul, too, on his head and forehead) and set off. There was much less windiness that I'd expected, even at 70 mph, and my hair survived the experience rather well.

An unexpected pleasure were the smells - newmown hay, philadelphus blossom and so on. Going through tunnels was a very noisy experience. And we were tempted to play thumpy music - which we did, although belonging to our generation - Deep Purple.

In My Day

When I lived at the Wilmington crossing gate house, my landlords, Eileen & Andy, had an Austin Healy in which they used to whizz around. Like the Lexus, strictly 2-seater. I had no transport and either had to walk to Eastbourne (quite a trek that) or get the bus. As Eileen and I were at the same college it made sense for me to be given a lift in the Austin. Trouble was, Eileen didn't drive and anyway, Andy had to get to work too.

No real problems if the hood was down - I just use to sit up on the back parcel shelf. In this position there was nothing to hold on to. I was much higher than driver or passenger, so had the full force of the wind in may face and hair. My hair used to get impossibly tangled.

Add to this the fact that Andy drove like the 24 year old he was and that the car wasn't exactly the newest car on the road and you have to wonder how I'm here to tell the tale.

It also makes you realise that you took risks during your youth that would have made your parents hair stand on end, so there's no point in railing at the things your children do. Just have to keep fingers crossed.

Today

Wandering along North Street in Brighton today, I noticed a Bravissimo store. Those of us women who are well-endowed in the chest department know how difficult it is to get a good and pretty bra. And Bravissimo bras start at a D cup.

The standard measurement mechanisms don't seem to work well at the non-average ends of the scale - M&S came up with a 40 B which anyone with 1/2 an eye can see isn't right. I've assumed D cup and have gone for 38D which seemed OK, although variable.

So, thinking that Bravissimo must know their stuff, I went in and asked to be measured. They didn't use a tape; just looked at me in my bra and decided that I must be either 34E or 34F. Tried on a couple and it seems that they are right.

In My Day

I had the embarrassing misfortune to have a 36 inch bust by the time I was 11. My mother thought that it was bad for the bust to have a bra too early (I don't think she was right there), but eventually took pity on my embarrassment at school and elsewhere and took me off to Dorothy Perkins to buy some bras. Sure enough, a 36 C cup was recommended and several tried on and bought.

One bra remained on - "Can she keep it on - it's her 1st bra", said my mother. "36C and never worn a bra?" giggled the teenage shop assistant. Which added to my shame. She needed slapping, but perhaps Mamma was wise to ignore the remark and sailed out of the shop.

Bra technology was inferior in those days, and straps regularly broke and hooks got detached. So I suffered in a different way from actually wearing a bra. I envied the other, smaller girls who could buy pretty little flowery bras. It took me until I was well into my 20s to learn to be proud of what nature had decreed.

What I can't understand is why some women choose the trauma of plastic surgery to give themselves J cups, when I would have been delighted to have remained a C cup.

Today

Pouring with rain today, so what better thing to do than sort out your paperwork? I sorted mine out after Paul's stuff was transported to Sussex, but after his return, we got sort of drowned in paper.

It appears that we have enough paperclips, rubber bands, fountain pen cartridges, drawing pins, pens, and punched plastic wallets to last us until we die. Punched plastic wallets are like wire coat hangers: they breed and take over the world when your back's turned.

I've a policy which is never leave a hotel, function etc without pocketing the free pen or pencil, so we also have pots, drawers and packets of these things, of variable quality.

Then there are the bank statements going back 10 years, out of date insurance policies and all those cheap loan, 0% credit transfer and accidental death insurance offers that you don't throw out the minute you get them.

We've at least 6 briefcases, some girlie, like my powder blue one, some smart, like Paul's silver one and some frankly frightful. I've found 4 clipboards and 7 document holders, zipped and unzipped. In fact we could equip an entire conference with assorted freebies.

And as for phone battery chargers - even though Paul can't bear to throw out his old phones, we still don't need 7 Nokia chargers as they're all the same.

In My Day

My father had a desk in the corner of our living room. The room was large, so it didn't exactly crowd us. He had boxes of pencils, from which we borrowed freely. For some reason I often couldn't find a pencil sharpener and many times used the kitchen bread knife for the purpose. Later Daddy bought one of those fancy desk-mounted ones.

We didn't have pen cartridges in those days; instead there were bottles of ink: Watermans and Quink. Daddy had a tall cylindrical tin full of paper clips. One of my pleasures during idle moments was to string them together in long chains. How Daddy must have been pleased when he wanted one in a hurry!

For paper we used drafts of parliamentary questions. On the back was plain paper for drawing or playing consequences, or keeping scores. On the front were fragments like this: "In view of the recent upsurge in... would the right honourable member for East Cheam like to assure the house that....." etc etc.

There was no such thing as punched plastic wallets and Daddy kept essential documents in manilla envelopes, secured with rubber bands and labelled on the outside.

Daddy just couldn't resist buying stationery and could go mad in WH Smiths.

Like father, like daughter actually - shopping in Staples brings out the worst in me. How is it then, that you can never find a drawing pin when you want one?

Today

At last it's warm enough to sit outside without woollies. Yesterday, being now retired, I took full advantage. I slapped on some factor 60, poured myself a glass of water and another of Madeira, took out my Harry Potter book and soaked up the sun.

Our garden is entirely patio, so there's no stretching on grass. Until we've replaced the mouse-nibbled loungers, there's really no stretching at all. However, we have our lovely cast iron furniture - and sunshades, of course.

Paul and I frequently take lunch outside; when the weather really warms up breakfast also. We like to sit out in the warm evenings with wine, candles and the chimenea (although that was irreparably cracked over the winter).

In My Day

When I was a child, garden furniture always involved striped canvas and wood. There were deckchairs whose construction required greater problem-solving skills than I had and which, even when erected properly, could collapse suddenly. Sometimes the canvas tore or the wood broke - I treated these contraptions with respect and fear and preferred to sit on the grass on a blanket.

We didn't have sunshades, although Daddy had a personal deckchair that had its own parasol attached. For the rest of us when Mamma or Daddy decided that tea would be taken outside, we had the "shelter". This was a canvas and wooden structure, which, when erected, looked like a stripey lean-to. It was orangey in shade and had a small fringed overhang at the front to keep off the sun and was tall enough for an adult to stand up in.

One could have made a good Laurel & Hardy type film of the struggles and arguments we had when trying to put it up. Once you'd got it up, you always hoped that no-one had been watching.....

Doing the job properly meant some tent pegs to hold it in place. We were often too lazy and many times had to scramble madly to catch it as the wind threatened to send it sailing off above the trees.

You could put the tea table in it to stop the butter melting too quickly or the milk curdling, or you could just sit in it, protected from the sun. It was such a job, getting it out and erected that the tea always tasted a little better, as though you'd really earned it. And the garden was a long way from the kitchen.

So we have it easy, Paul and I, with the garden table 4 paces away from the wine bottle and corkscrew.

Today

The shed arrived yesterday. The van driver dumped the pieces in the driveway. It was pouring with rain. "Manana" we said and left it there. It poured all day and the thought of the whole task became larger and larger. First, the pieces have to be dragged through the house into the back garden. Next, we need to check that they're all there. Then we have to attempt to assemble it, following the, no doubt lucid, instructions provided by Focus DIY. And we have to do this without getting our hands full of splinters, putting our backs out or having a major row.

The benefits are plain to see - our garden will be better organised, the lawnmower can come in out of the rain. And anyway we've paid for it.

This morning, after my run, I still had some energy, so, solo, I heaved the shed pieces through into the back garden. Noticed that one panel was a little damaged - can we repair it? Don't think I'll mention it Paul - it'll be amusing to see his face when he goes out the front and sees it gone!

Another instance of me seizing the carpe diem.

In My Day

When we bought the house in Montfort Close the owners were proud to tell us that there was a greenhouse, complete with vine. Well, when we took a look, we saw that the vine was pretty complete but that it had destroyed the greenhouse in the process.

So, at the end of the summer we bought a new one. Like the shed (above) it was delivered in anonymous flat pack form. So we stuck it in the back garden and tried to pretend that we'd never bought it.

One weekend, early the next spring which we were spending with our best mates, we all sized the proverbial on the Sunday morning. Cold, wet and windy though it was, the 4 of us unwrapped, read instructions, laid a brick base, lost and found screws, bolts etc and got up the greenhouse without so much as cracking a single pane.

I grew tomatoes and courgettes in the greenhouse, having hacked away the vine, as an unproductive things that wouldn't even give us a single bottle of Merlot .

And our best mates are still our best mates.

Today

Have to face it, the shed is knackered. The floor has disintegrated after x years of being subjected to Somerset winters. I heaved out the cushions for the garden furniture - showers of foam cascaded onto the patio. Cushion covers full of little nibbled holes. The cushions had obviously provided very comfortable winter quarters for probably several generations of mice.

Some of the cushions appeared undamaged but Paul wasn't taking any risks - "mice have very weak bladders, they've probably pee-ed on all of them." So out they all went. I have to say, we never saw any sign of mice while Arietty was alive - Abby's altogether less of a threat, it seems.

In My Day

Our house was overrun with mice. Droppings on the kitchen worktop, scurryings in the basement; once I saw one in my bedroom. Daddy tried everything: ordinary mousetraps they laughed at. There were a couple of cats in the house but the house was so big that no cats could keep them under control. He tried poison - the mice seemed to like it for breakfast. He even tried the horrible sticky boards - placed outside the holes, they certainly caught the mice who then either died a long and painful death trying to get off the stickiness, or my father had to bludgeon them to death in the morning. This was not a job he relished, and anyway, they made new holes and mice breed at a horrifying rate, so that there were always plenty more in the walls.

Eventually we became resigned to living with these creatures.

During the 50's we became intrigued with the building of 2 television transmitter masts; one for the BBC at Crystal Palace, one for ITV, just up the road by All Saints' church. I don't think we acted like the "no mobile transmitter in my backyard" brigade; it was rather exciting. Even more exciting was to hear that they had both been switched on. We didn't have TV, so why the excitement? Because from that day, we never saw a single mouse again.

Which just proves that radio waves do addle your brain - at least mice brains.

Today

I've really actually done it. Retired, that is. I left work in a flurry of flowers and champagne at the end of March. Given the state of flux of the rest of my life and that I've had two weeks' holiday since then, it's only now that I'm thinking about what it really means.

I had to fill in some form last week "occupation?" "retired". Well, that could mean any damn thing. You are defined in life by a number of things. For me, my marriage, my home and my occupation were the key planks on which I rested. One of those has completely gone away. The other two are still rather inclined to wobble if I rest my whole weight on them and threaten to tip me into the void.

So, I have to wonder whether I need to find new defining things and whether it really matters. Of course, there are plenty of things that I can do, but I don't just want to fill the time. When you are working you are achieving precise objectives as well as putting food on the table, so to speak. You also can say, when people ask you what you do, "I'm a......." and put a marker down as to where you belong. As a retired person, I could be any age from 55-105, I could be rich or poor, important or insignificant.

Of course, my lovely friends and family say "Oh, but you'll still be lovely, special you, whatever happens!" Thanks. But your occupation also shapes how you express your nature and I have no idea what'll happen now.

And it does make you sympathetic to women, whose whole lives are defined by being mothers, who become so depressed when the children leave home.

In my day

Paul retired, on health grounds, at the age of 48. He'd had recurring back problems as a result of 20 years of ambulance work and could take no more. To begin with, all was delight. He enjoyed cooking my meals when I came home, became obsessive about vacuum cleaning and doing his hobbies. He could also rest his back.

But when the back pain became less obtrusive and the reality of the smallness of his pension hit home he began to be restless. He explained that having hobbies as a way of unwinding from work was one thing, but to expect the model railway to fill one's horizons was another. And he got fed up waiting for me all day.

He found some ways to contribute: Youth offender panels and school governorships enabled him to find a position in society that had been taken away with his retirement. So it's really about being able to contribute something, whether it's creative or supportive.

Anyway, I'm looking forward to my posh retirement dinner tonight!

Today

Actually a little after the event, but a treatise on recipes and cooking. Last week it was Shrove Tuesday. I decided not to go to choir but to make some pancakes. Easy - one ounce of flour per pancake, one egg and enough milk.

Mixed away merrily, made four lovely thin pancakes, which I filled with a scrummy garlic mushroom and creme fraiche filling, topped with melted cheese and dinner was done.

Becky phones - "can I just confirm the recipe for pancakes - I've got Charl, Shona and Cat coming round soon". "Yes - 8 oz flour, 1 egg and a pint of milk will give you 8-10 pancakes".

The next day we have the post-mortem - "I realised that we didn't put in enough eggs", says Becky. "You won't need more than 1", says I, "how did it go?" "Well, we had a lot of failures, but eventually did get our pancakes....."

In My Day

My sister was married at the tender age of 18, to a man 7 years' her senior who expected to see his dinner, hot, ready as he walked in the door. A domestic goddess she was not.

Decided to make a chicken casserole one day. Gave me a call - "how do I start?" "well, I suggest you chop and brown some onions". "OK". A bit later "what do you mean, "Brown"?" I explained. She phoned every few minutes to ask what to do with the chicken, the stock, the vegetables, the oven temperature, the cooking time. I've no idea whether Dave ever got his first home-cooked meal on time. Perhaps it was a symbol of their marriage, that she accidentally threw an entire (piping hot) spaghetti bolognese into his lap on a later occasion.

I have a staple recipe called cottage cheese loaf which I make again and again. My sister gave me the recipe. A year or so ago she called. "Can you give me the recipe for cottage cheese loaf?"
"Well, you gave it to me", says I "but here it is."

I think that Mamma and my school between them gave me what I would describe as a repertoire for cooking. The rest comes with actually reading the recipe and having an ability to imagine flavours so that you can combine them well.

Anyway, my sister still doesn't do domestic goddess, but has found herself a husband who cooks and cleans.

Today

In (to paraphrase "The Weakest Link") a reversal of fortune, we went to Sussex to bring all Paul's stuff back.

Paul hired a transit van and we set off for Sussex. It was empty, of course, and reverberated a bit in anticipation of having a full load.

Unable to sleep, we'd set of at a ridiculously early hour. Utterly ridiculous, because we still hit 8.30 rush hour traffic at Worthing and 9.00 rush hour traffic at Brighton. Still, we stopped off at Flat 2 and admired the work that had been done on the ceiling.

Then off to collect the stuff. It had been fairly neatly arranged and, after all, Paul hadn't unpacked very much, All loaded in 1/2 an hour (all those sessions at the gym do have some effect, you know) and we were on our way back home in 40 minutes.

In My Day

It was so exciting when we moved from the flat in Belmont to our first house in Eastbourne. Even the fact that the mortgage repayment was 3 times the rent (that was in the days of 16% interest rates) couldn't damp our enthusiasm.

We were told that the house would be ready in March and started to get organised. We were so poor that we had hardly anything. The carpet wouldn't fit as the new house was open-plan, nor would the curtains. Paul decided to hire a Bedford van and we asked a friend to help. On the great day, Paul couldn't get away from work till the evening, so I started packing on my own. (Where was Lizzy? Perhaps at the childminders'...)

It's surprising how many boxes you can fill, even when you've very little furniture. I flogged up and down the stairs, taking stuff down in readiness. It didn't help that my period started that day - I had to lie down at one point.

Eventually Paul and friend turned up; were delighted at how much I'd managed to do solo and got the van loaded. We collected Lizzy and drove, in pouring rain, to Eastbourne.

The layout of the property was with the back garden, surrounded by a high wall, facing the road. There was a high wooden gate into the garden. As it was a new house there was no lawn and the garden was a sea of mud. We slipped and staggered into the house (good thing there were no carpets); the pieces of planking we'd laid over the mud being more of a hindrance than a help.

Paul & friend drove back to get another load. I tried to keep Lizzy, aged 2, entertained and to sort a few things out. There were a couple of cards and gifts at the house. Mamma, bless her, had sent a box which had tea and loo roll - the sort of things that tend to buried in a box labelled "Christmas Decorations".

The following day we went back to lift the carpet which we giving to Mum (it turned out to be full of pins as a result of all my sewing and fitted nothing at their flat).

Ever since using removal firms has seemed like a good idea.

My arms ache from lifting.

Today

Having a go at snowing today. The temperature doesn't seem low enough and there's been no long cold spell. However, on my way home tonight, it got worse and worse - visibility shocking and, once I got to Holcombe, some snow was lying. Don't think it will last.

The Met office warned us that, because of the antics of the North Atlantic Oscillator, we would be having a shocking winter. Doesn't seem to be true - a few chilly days and a poor attempt at does not a bad winter make.

In My Day

I remember the great cold winter of 1962/3. The first part was a prolonged period of freezing smog. This was before the clean air act, so London was still full of coal fires churning out sooty smoke which mixed with the fog to produce air which killed babies and old people.

I was doing a paper round at the time. I used to cycle from Upper Norwood to the paper shop in Thornton Heath. Each day I saw the frosty particles grow like stalactites on the garden walls. Sometimes I was too scared to actually ride my bike, it was so icy.

On boxing day 1962 it started to snow and snow and snow. I now really couldn't ride my bike. So I had to get up even earlier and walk, pushing the bike (it was very helpful in actually carrying the papers) down to Thornton Heath at about 5.30 in the morning.

On December 30th (a Sunday) it really began to blizzard. I got to the shop at some godawful time and picked up my bag. Even in 1962 Sunday papers were full of supplements so were always heavy. What was worse was having to scrape away snow from letter boxes and thrust the papers in, section by section. Why did so many people have these doors with letter boxes at ground level? It took ages and some papers got damaged (a fact that some customers actually complained about).

Eventually, two and a half hours later, I staggered back to the shop, frozen. "Don't stay, luv, you're dripping on the mat", says my sympathetic boss. I left and trudged back up the hill, longing for a cup of hot tea and my bed.

No such luck; when I got home I found that the snow had brought a tree down over the road, blocking the traffic (see blog 22/5/2005) and I simply had to help with carting away the logs.

It'll take more than a flurry of poor wet snow to stop me doing what I want.

Today

I've made the decision: it's going to be a Lexus Cabriolet. My company car goes back at the end of March. I want a car that gives me a sense of comfort and security while turning a couple of heads.

I test drove the Lexus a couple of weeks ago. There are really only 2 seats and Becky complained that I wouldn't be able to take her & Lizzy places. Tough - we'll go in her boring grey Toyota instead (once she's got the dents sorted).

It's blue with a cream leather interior. Everyone tells me that I'll get fantastic service from Lexus and that, anyway, it'll never go wrong.

In My Day

A new car was a concept utterly foreign to me until I began to have company cars.

When I met Paul, back in 1971, he had an ancient Sunbeam Rapier. One of those whose air conditioning consisted of rust holes in the floor. That died one night after we'd been out on a date, so he trotted off to a place on a very nasty Eastbourne council estate and bought an Austin Westminster for £25 from a man called Mr Fox (should have been our warning, really).

Paul was undergoing his police training at that time and was mortified to be stopped by the police. Turned out that the car had a forged tax disc and dodgy MOT. Paul stormed over to Foxy's, showed his warrant card and demanded his money back. Which he got and put down as a part payment on the Vauxhall Victor Estate that featured in an earlier blog.

I'm going to place my order in a couple of weeks - just love that new car smell.

Today

This week I announced my retirement from the company where I've worked for the past 19 years and of which I've been MD for 5.

Reactions were mixed - some didn't seem to notice, some congratulated me, some were cross, some in tears.

Given how my life has changed recently, this is just one more to roll with.

I've lots of plans, which include a visit to Machu Picchu in September, among other things. Odd to be doing much of it alone - but I'll sure I'll find lots of friends.

In My Day

My father was terrified of retirement. He used to read the obituaries involving other journalists. "Drank too much, of course, but it was retirement that actually killed him", he'd say. He was convinced that you had about 18 months after retirement.

When his own retirement from Hansard, at 65, approached, he begged, and was given, a stay of execution for 1 year. Once he'd retired, he took jobs travelling Europe reporting at the United Nations, NATO etc (this was before the use of tape recorders, when a crack journalist with top-notch shorhand skills was at a premium). He went to Paris, Strasbourg, Geneva. When that dried up he worked for the Press Association, still in the Houses of Parliament, on a freelance basis. He also did some shorthand teaching at Pitman's College in Holborn.

He didn't give up until he had a stroke that impaired his hearing, at the age of 74. And he lived to be 86.

I've no intention of going before my time. There's plenty to do and I'm going to do it. Flying lessons, anybody?

Today

This has been an odd week which has seen the end of my 35 year-old marriage. Having done the deed, I had to phone to tell friends and family. Without exception they were loving and supportive. I realised that I have many friends - it was easy to tell those who were handing out routine sympathy and those who really wanted me to know that they regarded me with love.

I found out that I haven't been the extra in what they saw as a friendship with Paul - it's true that you can't see yourself as others see you. I shan't test their patience - I feel confident in my decision, but it's so nice to know that they're there.

In My Day

At school I generally felt friendless, On my 1st day I sat next to a child who pinched and kicked me all day long. It became clear that my family were rather unusual, so that the views and ideas I assumed were normal were seen by many as odd. So my certainties were rocked. Plus I had to wear glasses - pink wire framed NHS glasses. I remember sitting on the playground wall, feeling very self-conscious and isolated. I broke or lost those specs as soon as I could.

Looking back, I realise that I did have some friends - there was a boy called Phillip and a girl called Christine. And another nice chap who welshed on his friends who were planning to pull some stunt on me involving bubble gum and mud.

Friendship is a gift, not a right. And I'm not about to throw it away.

This blog is a catch up blog as we've been in Canada for the past 10 days. So I'm going to divide it into 2 sections. I also find that Blogspot on my Nephew's iMac doesn't seem to give me the font options that I get on Windows.

GETTING THERE

Today

We travelled from Heathrow to Toronto via BA. The flight was at 11.00 am so we went up the night before and stayed at the Sheraton. Becky joined us for supper and we had a lovely evening.

I'd already checked in online so we whizzed through rapid baggage drop and soon were ensconced in our traveller plus slightly larger seats (makes a massive difference). They remembered my vegetarian meal as well.

We had stacks of luggage, what with snow boots, Christmas presents and all.

At Toronto there was Mark to meet us and take us the shortish drive to his house in Acton.

In My Day

We first went to Toronto back in 1980. It was out of the question to afford a flight direct. My Sister Carol had offered to pay for the trip but we wanted to be independent if we could.

Therefore we decided to fly Freddie Laker to JFK, where Carol and co would collect us. Freddie Laker offered
the first cut-price air journeys. What you did was scan the papers for ticket availability for the flight you wanted and then frantically go and buy them.

The day came; My brother told me that he'd seen tickets for the day we wanted advertised in "The Telegraph". He lent me the money till I could get mine out of my savings account, we bundled the kids next door and drove up to the booking office at Victoria from Eastbourne. Arrived, breathless, at the counter. Could they see our passports? Passports? Why do we need passports to buy a ticket? Well we did. Straight back into the car to go and get them.

At Uckfield the car broke down (regular readers of this blog will know all about our shocking cars). Finally took a taxi to get the passports and get back to London. Back by train the next day.

Whew!

Then packed up the girls, sandwiches and baggage. Caught the flight.

At JFK there was Carol to meet us in a big camper van. We drove through the night to get to their town house in Toronto.

It's true that being broke gives you more hassle and in an odd way, can cost you more.


CHRISTMAS

Today

This has been the first Christmas we've spent without the girls. We've spent a few away from home before, but always together. We set up the house with tree and presents and left it to the girls. We left out food for cuzzmas (the cousin's Christmas), decided to leave most of the gifts we'd been given at home to open later.

Our Nephew and family couldn't have been more welcoming. My Niece is Jewish so the festivity has had a definite multi religious feel with Chanakah menorah being lit and there being plenty of latkes, herring, and beetroot (for breakfast?),. along with stockings, turkey and crackers. My sister was there, my other niece and all of my Nephew's in-laws.

We worked away at the food - I cheered up all those of English extraction by bringing Christmas Pud and making custard and roast potatoes. There were about 20 guests and we had a loud and jolly time.

Boxing Day was a repeat at Suzee's house, with some of the same relatives and a host more.

In My Day

Daddy never wanted visitors at Christmas. I only remember one on one occasion - my French Penfriend Anne Davis. He felt that Christmas was strictly for the immediate bosom of the family. We had some strict traditions; some of them were based around the fact that David, being a St Paul's chorister, didn't arrive util about 4.00 pm.

Daddy wrote a family hymn, which David set to music. We sang this every year - "take the friendly hand, love and understand, stand together in a ring, lift your voices up and sing, lomg live the ......." I found it embarrassing at one time - now it makes me weep to remember it.

The moring was spent in preparation. The house was tidied, the fires lad, the table decorated. The meal never varied:

Tomato soup
Turkey, stuffing, ham, red cabbage, chestnuts, sprouts, roast potatoes, gravy
Christmas Pudding

We lit candles on the tree and opened gifts after dinner. Sometimes we sang carols as well.

Boxing day was quiet, with us enjoying our gifts and taking a chilly walk somewhere - probably Crystal Palace Park.

What is clear is that both events were full of a sense of family belonging. How wonderful to know that there's a whole family 3000 miles away with their arms held out.

Today

Recovering this morning from last night's Company Christmas bash. The company is also 20 years' old this year so we had a combined celebration.

Marvellous bash; we hired the SS Great Britain and about 125 people turned up, all dressed in their best (or their interpretation of it). Staff are allowed to invite a guest so there was a nice mixture of faces I knew and those I didn't.

The evening was themed around James Bond with car chase video games, a casino, a James Bond lookalike who did table magic and a great band. For those who were not interested in these delights, there was a ship to explore and plenty of quiet places to sit and chat. Food was plentiful and good and the venue spiffing.

I did my MD bit and cruised around, greeting all and making sure that all were happy and in their right places.

Paul took us in the Daimler so it all felt very posh.

In My Day

When I worked for the Inland Revenue, back in the 70s, office parties were a far cry from last night. On a fairly unpredictable day, close to Christmas, desks would be cleared and, if possible, moved to make space. Food of the sausage roll variety and a range of drinks would be wheeled in. I've an idea that we contributed to the cost. If you had a good and understanding boss, some cash would be donated. We stopped work at about 4.00 pm, somebody would heave in a tape player and music would be put on.

Then we'd proceed to drink a lot, eat a little, dance and say foolish things. I never saw anybody nipping off to the stationery cupboard but I'm sure it went on. Quite a lot of the senior managers would just absent themselves altogether and there were always a few lonely souls who stood there, clutching a glass and talking to nobody.

Round about 8.00 pm, I'd make my way to the station to catch a train home, or else call Paul who'd come and collect me. One grim year I got very drunk on Baileys - haven't been able to touch the stuff since. Another year I was certainly kissed very firmly by a chap who must have been 15 years my junior.

And in the morning you went into work, hoping you hadn't disgraced yourself or been horribly outspoken to someone, and helped to clear up the mess.

I think that last night will go down in the annals of great Christmas doos.

Today

On Monday I had a diet review session with my personal trainer. I'd filled in a questionnaire and he had produced 2 assessments. One detailed my metabolic type - I should eat slightly more carbohydrates than proteins and strictly limit fats. I have a slight issue with this, as, being a vegetarian, I find it rather hard to separate these items out. A nut - is it fat, carbohydrate or protein? Although, broadly, I see what he means. And it's pretty much how I eat already, although I could probably reduce carbs. (Bread is good, tho')

He also looked at my general levels of well-being and made a couple of suggestions about improvements, mainly centering around organic and whole foods. It's difficult to argue with him or his wife as they're both such good ads for what they do. In the main, he said that my well-being levels are good and that I manage stress well. (Just as well, given my job). So, like the dentist, leave well alone.

In My Day

Daddy also had "ideas" about food, a lot of which probably wouldn't stand up to today's nutritional scrutiny.

On the plus side, he loved fish. He would often arrive home on a Friday night with some mackerel which he would roll in porridge oats and fry. Mamma used to souse mackerel or herring, a process which filled the house with the smell of vinegar for days. She would also cook regular fish and chips for us all. Occasionally Daddy had skate. I used to watch, appalled and fascinated as he cut through and ate what appeared to me to be bones. And he ate tinned pilchards in tomato sauce, bones and all.

There was plenty of meat eaten in the house - I realise now that I only liked meat that was so overcooked or ersatz that it didn't really resemble meat. Daddy hated ersatz meat - even sausages or corned beef, so those items were fed to us, but not to him. He loved the fat on meat and believed that it was really good for you. With metabolic typing in mind, it could have been that it was good for him - he did live to be 86, after all. I, on the other hand, absolutely loathed it. That went for crispy bacon rind and pork crackling as well as the nasty kind that's attached to stewed beef or ham fat.

One Christmas there was the usual turkey and boiled ham joint. Daddy did the carving and, as usual, cut of a large slice of ham, meat, fat and rind, for each of us. This year I rebelled. I ate the meat, but simply couldn't eat the fat. There was a stand-off, following which I was told to leave the table and not allowed my Christmas pudding (something I have always loved - it's the dried fruit, you see). I myself have always been more tolerant with my young'uns on Christmas day.

On more than one occasion, Mamma cooked goose. She would collect the fat, fry some onions till they were blackened, and mix them with the fat which was allowed to harden. This she spread on toast with a little salt. We were also offered beef dripping on toast. I hated it all and nobody in the family had any understanding of why this might be.

Unusually for a child, I liked all vegetables, including cabbage, even the cabbage we had at school!

I have no idea whether I'm healthier that my parents or will live longer, but I do believe that good food comes in a variety of guises. Anyway, all that fat made me into a fat girl, and has caused me to struggle ever since.

Today

This weekend we went to see "Die Fledermaus" as performed by Southgate Opera (now in Potter's bar). It's a truly silly piece, about people with too much money, too much time on their hands and no judgment. Really an opportunity for Strauss to mess about and show how good he was at colleratura arias, waltzes and polkas.

Enjoyed it, anyhow, despite the "Helga" cross-dresser at the start of act 3.

In My Day

It was after a performance of "Die Fledermaus" that I experienced my first kiss. I was all of 13 years' old. I went with a chap I'd met at the Proms that summer. His name was (I presume it still is) John Medlock. He was about 16 and at some posh school near Ashford, Kent. He wrote me long longing letters during the Autumn term and we eventually met up at Sadler's Wells to see the Operetta. My mother decided that I couldn't go on such a date looking like a schoolgirl and bought me my first pair of proper stockings and some very nice grey shoes.

We were accompanied by a Proms Friend named Garnet. I suppose my mother thought she might be a chaperone. I remember that the show was very sparkling and that John held my hand.

Afterwards, Garnet buggered off and John walked me to the bus stop. We had a longish wait. Quite without warning he suddenly grabbed me and planted a smacker on my lips. I had absolutely no idea how to respond and turned away, unable to say a word. He silently handed me onto the bus. I suppose he wasn't very experienced, either, having been brought up in a public boarding school. Anyway, the relationship fizzled out soon after.

I actually found him on Friends Reunited a few years' back and sent an email but he didn't reply. Says it all, really.

Today

First frost of the year this week. My car's rear screen de-icer chose this week also to pack up, but never mind, all fixed now.

We went out last night to an Avon Ambulanceperson's reunion. Paul's bash, so, in conformity with tradition, I drove. Slippery little journey along Burrington Coombe.

In My Day

I learnt to drive relatively late, at the age of 37. Although I did have some proper lessons, it was really Paul who taught me in our Morris Marina. I passed my test on a Monday in October; on the following Sunday I was driving, on my own, late at night along the M27.

As winter loomed, Paul said to me "I must take you out to an empty carpark one frosty Sunday so that you can learn how to handle a skid." Bearing in mind the Marina's total lack of road handling, this seemed like a good idea.

One very frosty morning after our move to Southampton, I had to set off very early to carry out some training in Bexhill. There'd been rain, then a sudden clearing, so plenty of frost. M27 again, then A27. On the Chichester bypass a light freezing fog descended. I could see enough to know that, if I stayed in the inside lane, I'd shortly be stuck behind a lot of lorries, so I pulled out into the deserted outside lane. Suddenly the car was all over the road, back end wiggling like that frightful Renault Megane ad. If I close my eyes I can still see the way the view kept changing. I don't know whether I actually controlled the skid, but at least I didn't do foolish things like jam on the brakes.

After what appeared to be ages the car (let's face it, it wasn't down to my skill) straightened up, still well behind the lorries. It was only later that my legs started trembling.

Later I phoned Paul. "You know you were going to show me how to handle a skid?" I said "well, I've done it!"

If I could cope in a Marina, frost in a Toyota holds no terrors.

Today

Off to the dentist yesterday. How remarkable is that? Well, I haven't been for 20 years, that's how!

Result? If it ain't broke, don't fix it. Teeth in better nick than they've any right to be.

In My Day

I did go to the dentist regularly as a child, which is more than my parents did. Mamma had a full set of dentures which caused her endless trouble when consuming raspberries or tomatoes. Daddy didn't believe in dentists and had a fairly full set of fairly yellowish horse-like gnashers.

I mostly remember going alone and being subjected to all but the worst fillings and extractions without anaesthetic. Of course I was frightened of the dentist; it was frightening. An extraction using laughing gas also made me very wary of masks to breathe through. The masks they used were of rubber and had a vile smell. I've been convinced since that I can smell it every time I'm offered nitrous oxide, even though I know that it doesn't smell and the mask is of plastic.

I last went to the dentist before moving to the West Country - just never got around to going till now.

Anyhow, I've an appointment with the hygienist, who, I'm told, is far worse than the dentist.

Today

Last weekend was a success with regard to renewing friendships. We went to supper with an old colleague of mine, whom I hadn't seen in 10 years. She used to be one of our trainers and she left 10 years ago for pastures new. I bumped into her at my financial advisors' office, on reception. Delighted to see each other and much enjoyed our catching up session in her immaculate little bungalow just up the road.

She inadvertently led me to another catch-up session, having worked with a former friend. I say "former" as some sort of misunderstanding, generated out of who knows what, caused us to stop communicating with each other about 8 years ago.

I learnt that she'd had a good deal of illness and various other troubles; her phone number hadn't changed, so, on Sunday I called her up. She seemed jolly pleased, if a little surprised and I heard all about her life for the past 8 years.

In My Day

As my 50th birthday loomed, I became aware that Paul and the girls had some scheme afoot. I guessed what it was and also that they were struggling. Down the pub one night, I said "My birthday - do you want some help?" "Yes, please!" they cried. So I gave them a couple of clues about the possible whereabouts of various old friends of mine.

And they had some success. Becky tracked down an old boyfriend of mine who couldn't come - it was his 20th wedding anniversary that night. Paul found a college friend, who didn't come to the party, but with whom I've caught up a couple of times.

On the night, my old conductor of Musica Antiqua (see April 10th entry) and his wife turned up, with a CD of our music-making. We've seen them several times since. They are always delighted to see us and offer us the kindest hospitality. They are now proud grandparents.

Best of all was my friend Hugh. I'd known Hugh back in the Croydon Young Players days in about 1964 and had lost touch with him and his wife Shirley since about 1975. Paul took a speculation with Directory Enquiries, telling them that the name was so unusual that there was probably only one in England. After they'd told him that they didn't do a country-wide search, they then said that, actually, there was only one and gave Paul the number. How delighted I was when they arrived at my door! I remembered why we'd been friends in the first placed.

We saw each other a few times after that and they turned up at our millennium party, 2 years later. How sad that he died of lung cancer in 2003. I would have been even sadder if I hadn't had that chance to renew our friendship.

You can't take friendship for granted - it's a precious gift.

Today

More about my redundant first name. Yesterday I lent it to a little girl of my acquaintance who thinks that Alice is just about the coolest name in the universe. Apparently she's even named the voice of her father's satellite navigation system "Alice", although she did tell me that her cuddly donkey isn't called Alice.

Anyway, I put together an imposing-looking deed that gave her the right to use my Alice, along with her other names, as long as she wanted to. We signed the document and Paul witnessed it and I gave it to her for her 7th birthday. She seemed delighted, especially once she'd realised that she didn't have to change her existing names or get rid of them. I also gave her a copy of Alice in Wonderland.

In My Day

When I was a child we lived in a road full of imposing Victorian Villas in South London. They were all on 99 year leases, with only a few years to go. When the house next door, full of sitting tenants came up for sale, Daddy jumped at the chance to earn a bit of extra cash from the lets.

In one of the ground floor flats lived two Indian men. Very quiet, they were. One of them had a head of curly hair and I frequently thought that he was female.

One day Daddy went to collect the rent and this tenant opened the door, dressed as a woman. "I have to tell, you, Mr D", he said "My doctor informs me that I am now a woman. Will you please call me Carol." My father blinked, but, after all, this was London and he'd seen a fair bit of life. So he shrugged and said OK.

Next time the rent was due the other tenant came over to pay. Also dressed in female attire. "I have to tell you, Mr D," he said "My doctor informs me that I am now a woman. Will you please call me Brenda." "What's going on?" Said Daddy. "Are you trying to avoid trouble with the Police or something? Pull the other one." But it was true - they'd both changed sex within a couple of weeks of each other.

I think that Carol got married to a man, who, I remember hearing, didn't treat her at all well.

That is rather an extreme way of changing your name, though.

Today

Finally decided that sheet ironing was a step too far and have been sending sheets and duvet covers to the laundry. Today, as we start the winter swap around, I'm also sending the Summer bedspread to the laundry and giving one blanket its annual dry-clean.

I'm collecting an amazing number of safety pins, as the laundry has stopped using those little plastic tags. And the sheets do feel nice. It's a bit of a logistical problem, sometimes, as I only have 2 of everything, so laundry visits and bed-changing have to be synchronised.

Interesting that I've reverted to linen and cotton sheets and woollen blankets after all these years of dalliance with duvets and poly-cotton.

In My Day

Our sheets and Daddy's shirts went to the laundry. Everything else Mamma did by hand. The laundry was collected and delivered once a fortnight. Dirty bedlinen was brought into the hall. A double sheet was spread out and all items put onto it. Then the corners were drawn together and tied and there you had it - a huge Whittington-esque bundle of dirty linen.

The clean laundry was delivered wrapped in brown paper. Our sheets were changed as follows:
Once a fortnight, top sheet removed and put on bottom, bottom sheet removed and sent to laundry. Which meant that sheets stayed on the bed for four weeks. I suppose we did all wear pyjamas and nighties which saved the sheets.

The sheets were pure cotton and came in white, pink, blue or green. When they got very old, they would split down the middle (I remember once hastening this process by sliding my big toenail all down one sheet). Mamma would rip the sheet down the middle and turn it round and stitch it together by the outer, stronger sides. These "sides-to-middle" sheets only ever went onto the bottom.

It's not cheap - but then, what am I working for?

Today


Decided to go back to the gym this week. The Summer's feasting has taken its toll and I've at least 12lbs to lose if I'm going to fit into that dress for the Christmas bash. So, off to the personal trainer, who put me through various forms of torture. I was pleased to discover that I haven't lost all ground in the last 6 months. I can remember many of the exercises and even do most of them.


Some of them are quite scary; especially those that involve me lying on my back on a Swiss ball - that's the gym equivalent of a Space Hopper (without the ears).


Plus, Paul and I have started playing badminton again after a nearly 2 year gap. I was horrified when Paul absolutely thrashed me last week. That's usually my privilege.


In My Day


Daddy disapproved of sports, especially for girls. He really believed that it was a choice between brawn or brain and he preferred brain any day. He took no exercise himself. My mother occasionally went swimming at the Brockwell Park Lido and tried to teach me, but I was much too scared.


Gym lessons at school were a nightmare. How exactly does one climb up a rope? I never got off the ground. I remember the day I actually managed to vault over the box - that was a fluke as I only did it once. Teachers called me lazy and sloppy; I was just frightened and had no idea how to start.


I was always the last one to be picked when teams were chosen for various games (who'd want sloppy old me in their team?).


In the playground it was even worse; girls did handstands against the school wall, or cartwheels on the field. I didn't seem to have that spring.


Once at secondary school, I developed a liaison with the art mistress, Miss Jones. "I need Julia in the art room" she'd write on a note when it was time for hockey. So I managed to avoid that particularly nasty and ugly game.


I played a passing game of netball, because I was tall and could throw and catch a ball, so I generally found myself as goal shooter because in that position you don't have to do any running.

I managed to get through school without even coming near being in any sort of team. And, once past junior school, avoided sports days altogether.


At least my Becky can still do a cartwheel as she demonstrated this summer; and she's got a degree in linguistics. Just goes to show.

Today

So there we were, on a roundabout on the A36 Warminster bypass, broken down in a Rolls Royce Silver Spirit. The car's not paying its way in Silver Service, so Paul had bunged it on eBay. We had a visit to Sussex planned. "Let's give it one last run," pleaded Paul. "Up to you," says I, "It's your petrol bill." So we set off to Sussex.

Had a lovely weekend, I sang the Verdi Requiem in Alfriston, Paul visited various folks and we went over to Arundel Terrace to look at progress on the flat.

Set off home - I had a business commitment in Bath at 7.30 - we were in good time. As Paul pulled away from the roundabout, hideous graunchings occurred and the beast refused to move away from a compromising position halfway across the roundabout in the outside lane. How the passers-by must have laughed. When they weren't cursing, that is, because we were blocking their visibility.

Paul worked out that it was probably the 1/2 shaft, phoned the AA, asked our regular garage if we could dump the car there, I called for a taxi (thank God Vodafone for the mobile phone) so that I could get home and then off out to my meeting.

In My Day

Broken down cars - where do I start? Well, back in 1972, we were running an old 1960 Humber Hawk. This car, which was a poorly sprayed cream colour, had been known to be used in criminal activities before we bought it.

From the first, it had a whining back axle. I remember drives taken home late from Eastbourne back to Brighton through the silent Peachaven hearing the regular "whop, whop" of the axle. It could be quite reassuring.

In the Summer of 1972 we decided to have a holiday in Exmoor. I'd been longing to show my favourite place to Paul, so we booked B&B at Shilstone Farm near Brendon, deposited the cats at my brothers and set off. I was extremely pregnant with Lizzie.

We arrived safely, if rather late and tired, at Shilstone. In the following days we explored the beautiful Exmoor countryside. We quickly discovered a peculiarity of the Humber - it really didn't take to 1 in 4 hills. I think we chickened out altogether on Porlock and used the Toll road.

Several times we had to try again and take a run at a hill. A Hunter's Inn we just couldn't do it at all. I scanned the map and told Paul that every way out of the valley involved a 1 in 4. Only one thing for it; as the lowest gear was reverse....... Yes, we went up the hill backwards. Remembering that this was Summertime so there were plenty of tourist about......

We'd found a nice little restaurant in Porlock and several evenings had eaten there. Towards the end of our stay we decided to have a last meal there. So off we went. Suddenly Paul said that he was losing power. He turned the car round to try to get us back home, but no good. The car died beside a little farm about 3 miles from Shilstone. We pushed it into the farmyard, scaring the hens. The farmers were extremely sweet about our dumping a car on their land - well, I was very huge and we must have looked so desperate and poverty-stricken.

We walked back to Shilstone and eventually, with the kindest of help from our hosts, took the bus back home from Lynton.

Later that Summer we hired a car and went to arrange for the Humber to be dumped legally.

At least we hadn't already sold the Rolls Royce on eBay

Today

I'm fed up. I managed to fall out of bed last week while staying in Italy. I'm certainly very bruised and am not entirely convinced that I haven't cracked a rib or so. I'm fed up because it hurts a lot and I can't do ordinary things like roll over in bed (even without falling out) and because I feel so stupid.

I have to drive to Grantham on business next Tuesday and I'm not looking forward to it one bit.

In My Day

This wouldn't be the first time I've cracked a rib. Both of the other occurrence involved egg sandwiches and were immediately before holidays.

The first time was the day before our first trip to Italy in 1996. I popped out at lunchtime to buy a sandwich. I passed a beggar sitting on the pavement, but I had no change. So I thought I'd buy the sandwich first, then I'd have some change for the beggar. I came out of the bakers clutching the sandwich and my half open purse. Crash! Straight over something or other. The sandwich went one way, the change another and my skirt flew elegantly over my head. People helped me up and gathered my change. I lost my sandwich and was certainly not in the mood to give any beggar some money. And my rib twinged all the time I was in lovely Verona.

The second was just before a trip to West Cork in 1998. I rushed to finish my work and finally cleared my desk by 2.30. Just time to buy a sandwich and dap up to the bank to get foreign money. Goody, they had nice egg and tomato sandwiches at the bakers. I bought one and hurried up the street, taking a bite as I went. Crash! There I was, on the pavement, face pillowed on the sandwich, my skirt around my waist. I scrambled up as people asked me how I was. "My sandwich!" was all I could cry. "I've lost my sandwich!" I continued up to the bank, pulling bits of egg and tomato pips out of hair. They must have thought I was mad. This time I'd cracked a rib high in my chest and couldn't even lift a cup of tea to my lips.

Do you know, some people go through their whole lives without so much a cracking a little toe?