Today
How it was that I agreed to attend the Bexhill 100 classic car club's annual classic car show last Monday I'm not sure. Perhaps because my sister is membership secretary; perhaps because Paul was longing for an excuse to bring the Humber Imperial down.
Anyway, on about the only fine August Bank Holiday in the last 50 years (and also Becky's actual 30th birthday), I found myself on a recreation ground in Bexhill with nothing to do all day but sit in or near the car and listen to people tell us all about it (often incorrectly). As I'm a person who likes to be active, this was a little stultifying, to say the least.
The day was enlivened by the presence of my nephews Jacob & James who, both in their special ways, brought extra sunshine to the day. The presence of Clive the Dalek, manipulated by my brother in law, was less exciting.
We didn't win any prizes despite the number of people who came up and said " the best car ever made - I (my father, uncle) used to have one" and despite the car's seriously shiny state.
In My Day
If you follow this blog you will know that it was Paul who introduced me to delights of elderly wheeled machinery. many a Sunday we went to classic car shows, traction engine rallies and railway exhibitions. I sometimes enjoyed the traction engine rallies as there was quite a few parades of these amazing beasts and I always liked the fairground organs with their elaborate decorations and silly boom-boom renditions of the classics. and there were usually some stalls selling honey or clothes or something. Classic car and railway exhibitions were altogether duller.
Eventually I told Paul that I'd just about exhausted the possibilities of these events and could he please find another companion? Which meant that I've managed to avoid the Dorset Steam Fair altogether.
Still, even Paul got bored on Monday and we left a whole hour before the end.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Monday, August 20, 2007
Leg Up
Today
Up, for the first time in a week, following a rather nasty cellulitits attack because of my Milroy's Disease. I was away at a singing week in the Cotswolds when it struck, and we had to leave. Since then, I've had the usual high temperature, sore leg etc.
Am now able to eat again after several days in which nibbling on half a Rich Tea was the best I could do.
In My Day
The condition's a hereditary one and Daddy had a severe case of it. As the disease carries with it the risk of streptococcal infection and antibiotics weren't invented until Daddy was in his 40s there were times when his life was despaired of.
We became accustomed to Daddy's "attacks". It meant that he would be in bed, moaning and shivering with the high temperature (I don't know why it seems to help to moan loudly when your temperature's up, but it does), and out of action for about a week.
I remember one such occasion when I was about 18. Daddy had been ill for about 2 days. I'd been to my youth drama club and the group leader, whom I rather fancied, had offered me a lift home. (What was his name? oh, yes, Noel) I was wondering how to orchestrate asking him in for coffee, when he suffered a minor injury from something sparking from the dashboard of his ancient wreck of a car (it wasn't only Paul who drove appalling old bangers in those days). Easy! he needed minor medical attention so I asked him in.
Mamma, as usual, was all gracious attention, supplying gauze, antiseptic and coffee.
We were just getting past the social niceties when there was a strange "woofing" sound from outside the door, accompanied by scratching. Mamma went over. It was Daddy, on his hands and knees, with his pyjamas nearly at his ankles. "I'm a little dog," he said. "Can I come in?"
Bored with lying in bed and unable to walk, he'd crawled the whole way down the passage from the bedroom. Not only had he ignored the fact that said passage was communal and therefore he could easily be seen by our upstairs tenants, he had clearly not considered the possibility of visitors. We hustled him back to bed.
Noel, in the meantime, fled, never to enter our house again. He avoided me at Young Players meetings after that.
It's an ill-wind, however, and one good side effect of this week has been that I've lost 9lbs.
Up, for the first time in a week, following a rather nasty cellulitits attack because of my Milroy's Disease. I was away at a singing week in the Cotswolds when it struck, and we had to leave. Since then, I've had the usual high temperature, sore leg etc.
Am now able to eat again after several days in which nibbling on half a Rich Tea was the best I could do.
In My Day
The condition's a hereditary one and Daddy had a severe case of it. As the disease carries with it the risk of streptococcal infection and antibiotics weren't invented until Daddy was in his 40s there were times when his life was despaired of.
We became accustomed to Daddy's "attacks". It meant that he would be in bed, moaning and shivering with the high temperature (I don't know why it seems to help to moan loudly when your temperature's up, but it does), and out of action for about a week.
I remember one such occasion when I was about 18. Daddy had been ill for about 2 days. I'd been to my youth drama club and the group leader, whom I rather fancied, had offered me a lift home. (What was his name? oh, yes, Noel) I was wondering how to orchestrate asking him in for coffee, when he suffered a minor injury from something sparking from the dashboard of his ancient wreck of a car (it wasn't only Paul who drove appalling old bangers in those days). Easy! he needed minor medical attention so I asked him in.
Mamma, as usual, was all gracious attention, supplying gauze, antiseptic and coffee.
We were just getting past the social niceties when there was a strange "woofing" sound from outside the door, accompanied by scratching. Mamma went over. It was Daddy, on his hands and knees, with his pyjamas nearly at his ankles. "I'm a little dog," he said. "Can I come in?"
Bored with lying in bed and unable to walk, he'd crawled the whole way down the passage from the bedroom. Not only had he ignored the fact that said passage was communal and therefore he could easily be seen by our upstairs tenants, he had clearly not considered the possibility of visitors. We hustled him back to bed.
Noel, in the meantime, fled, never to enter our house again. He avoided me at Young Players meetings after that.
It's an ill-wind, however, and one good side effect of this week has been that I've lost 9lbs.
Thursday, August 09, 2007
Deuce
Today
For the first time since late 2005, Paul & I have had a game of badminton. Pretty evenly matched, I must say, although I did have the handicap of having also walked the 5 miles to Shepton.
I can't say that we're very good at the game, but being evenly matched is key; if either one was always winning or losing it wouldn't be any fun. So I think we'll go again next week.
In My Day
As earlier blogs will attest, ours was not a sporty family. There was the occasional desultory game of cricket on the lawn (driven mostly by my brothers' enthusiasm) and we used to play "piggy in the middle"......
Sport at school divided into gymnastics, sports and games. Gym was completely unnerving. I couldn't vault the box, climb up a rope or do handstands, somersaults or cartwheels. And as for touching my toes.....
Sports involved jumping, running and throwing things. My long legs meant that my jumping was not the worst and I could balance an egg on a spoon. By I had no turn of speed, nor muscle strength for throwing heavy objects.
Games included: netball, hockey, rounders and tennis. Hockey I avoided whenever possible. Netball I was a fair-to-middling goal shooter. Rounders - I could catch and throw a ball but my inability at running meant that I was often easily caught out. My reputation for physical awkwardness meant that I was always the last to be chosen for a team (didn't the teachers see how humiliating that was? or would they have stopped it if they had?).
I was never brilliant at tennis, but I could hit the ball and as it didn't involve being in a team or cold muddy weather, I rather liked it. It generally involved a fair amount of time lolling on grass in warm weather, talking to friends. Badminton is clearly its gentler friend.
And it burns 6 points an hour!
For the first time since late 2005, Paul & I have had a game of badminton. Pretty evenly matched, I must say, although I did have the handicap of having also walked the 5 miles to Shepton.
I can't say that we're very good at the game, but being evenly matched is key; if either one was always winning or losing it wouldn't be any fun. So I think we'll go again next week.
In My Day
As earlier blogs will attest, ours was not a sporty family. There was the occasional desultory game of cricket on the lawn (driven mostly by my brothers' enthusiasm) and we used to play "piggy in the middle"......
Sport at school divided into gymnastics, sports and games. Gym was completely unnerving. I couldn't vault the box, climb up a rope or do handstands, somersaults or cartwheels. And as for touching my toes.....
Sports involved jumping, running and throwing things. My long legs meant that my jumping was not the worst and I could balance an egg on a spoon. By I had no turn of speed, nor muscle strength for throwing heavy objects.
Games included: netball, hockey, rounders and tennis. Hockey I avoided whenever possible. Netball I was a fair-to-middling goal shooter. Rounders - I could catch and throw a ball but my inability at running meant that I was often easily caught out. My reputation for physical awkwardness meant that I was always the last to be chosen for a team (didn't the teachers see how humiliating that was? or would they have stopped it if they had?).
I was never brilliant at tennis, but I could hit the ball and as it didn't involve being in a team or cold muddy weather, I rather liked it. It generally involved a fair amount of time lolling on grass in warm weather, talking to friends. Badminton is clearly its gentler friend.
And it burns 6 points an hour!
Sunday, August 05, 2007
Blondie
Today
Back after 5 weeks in various parts of Europe, travelling with my niece and then aboard the Star Clipper on the Med. It's as I feared; my hair has gone blond.
Not a nice sun-kissed golden. More a kind of straw-like orange. And, despite hating to, I wore a hat most of the time. My fault partly, I guess, for having my hair dyed in denial of the advance of age.
In My Day
My father was the type of man who referred to women's hair as their "crowning glory". My mother always had long hair kept in a bun. Not particularly glorious as her hair was actually rather thin and inclined to whispiness (a trait which I've inherited, thanks, Mamma).
As girls we, too had long hair, usually plaited or in ponytails. My sister had a waterfall of wonderful straight golden hair. Mine was brown and, as stated before, inclined to whispiness. It always took ages to dry, as we didn't have a hair dryer, and I have an awful idea that hair washing night was on Sundays every three weeks.
When I was about twelve, probably as a result of a good deal of nagging on our parts, my sister and I had our hair cut. My father took a series of regretful pictures of our hair before it was cut. Beatrice's, as usual, looked wonderful (why did she want to cut it? it was never the same again), while mine looked like an afterthought.
Our hair was cut professionally. The cut took about 8 years off Beatrice's age, making her look like a five-year old, and added about 40 to mine, catapulting me into middle age in one easy step. It's no wonder that, after a short dalliance with '60s "mod" hair doos, I promptly allowed my hair to grow again into a hippie/student mane.
My father always said that, once you cut your hair, you had a life-long struggle managing it and lining the pockets of hairdressers.
And he was right, as usual.
Back after 5 weeks in various parts of Europe, travelling with my niece and then aboard the Star Clipper on the Med. It's as I feared; my hair has gone blond.
Not a nice sun-kissed golden. More a kind of straw-like orange. And, despite hating to, I wore a hat most of the time. My fault partly, I guess, for having my hair dyed in denial of the advance of age.
In My Day
My father was the type of man who referred to women's hair as their "crowning glory". My mother always had long hair kept in a bun. Not particularly glorious as her hair was actually rather thin and inclined to whispiness (a trait which I've inherited, thanks, Mamma).
As girls we, too had long hair, usually plaited or in ponytails. My sister had a waterfall of wonderful straight golden hair. Mine was brown and, as stated before, inclined to whispiness. It always took ages to dry, as we didn't have a hair dryer, and I have an awful idea that hair washing night was on Sundays every three weeks.
When I was about twelve, probably as a result of a good deal of nagging on our parts, my sister and I had our hair cut. My father took a series of regretful pictures of our hair before it was cut. Beatrice's, as usual, looked wonderful (why did she want to cut it? it was never the same again), while mine looked like an afterthought.
Our hair was cut professionally. The cut took about 8 years off Beatrice's age, making her look like a five-year old, and added about 40 to mine, catapulting me into middle age in one easy step. It's no wonder that, after a short dalliance with '60s "mod" hair doos, I promptly allowed my hair to grow again into a hippie/student mane.
My father always said that, once you cut your hair, you had a life-long struggle managing it and lining the pockets of hairdressers.
And he was right, as usual.
Thursday, July 05, 2007
Walk on by
Today
Well, we successfully collected my great-niece from Gatwick. This, despite the evidence of increased security. Also, despite the fact that Tess marched through arrivals with such ferocious confidence that I didn't think it could possibly be her. I was expecting an uncertain 14-year old to peer anxiously from the door, scanning the waiting faces.
Paul, however, was quicker off the mark than I; spotted her and dashed off to get her.
With only one contretemps when I though I'd lost my car park ticket (in a safe place, it was), we got out smoothly and off to Brighton.
I talked to Tess about it. "Well", she said "Mum said be a confident traveller, so I was!"
In My Day
Back in 1989, Lizzie decided she wanted to go to Canada and visit relatives. She needed a passport and so we duly filled in the forms and off they went. It was close to summertime so there was the usual backlog. The days passed but there was no sign of the passport.
So, Liz, aged 16, got the train to the nearest passport office in Newport, S Wales and stood in the queue and wouldn't move till they gave her her passport. She used a mixture of flattening verbiage, desperation and teenage courage to win through.
She had such a splendid time in Canada that she went back again 3 years later to stay for 6 months.
Anyway, let's hope Tess is equally confident on the Routes Nationales - we could do with some help.
Well, we successfully collected my great-niece from Gatwick. This, despite the evidence of increased security. Also, despite the fact that Tess marched through arrivals with such ferocious confidence that I didn't think it could possibly be her. I was expecting an uncertain 14-year old to peer anxiously from the door, scanning the waiting faces.
Paul, however, was quicker off the mark than I; spotted her and dashed off to get her.
With only one contretemps when I though I'd lost my car park ticket (in a safe place, it was), we got out smoothly and off to Brighton.
I talked to Tess about it. "Well", she said "Mum said be a confident traveller, so I was!"
In My Day
Back in 1989, Lizzie decided she wanted to go to Canada and visit relatives. She needed a passport and so we duly filled in the forms and off they went. It was close to summertime so there was the usual backlog. The days passed but there was no sign of the passport.
So, Liz, aged 16, got the train to the nearest passport office in Newport, S Wales and stood in the queue and wouldn't move till they gave her her passport. She used a mixture of flattening verbiage, desperation and teenage courage to win through.
She had such a splendid time in Canada that she went back again 3 years later to stay for 6 months.
Anyway, let's hope Tess is equally confident on the Routes Nationales - we could do with some help.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Deluge
Today
Terrible rain everywhere. According to whom you pay attention, a month's rain in one day or 6 months' rain in one day. Who cares who's right; it probably depends on where you live. Those poor folk in Sheffield. It's all very well to blame the Environment Agency, but if you planned for all of these things the costs would cause an outcry instead.
Closer to home, Lizzie, not for the first time, decided that Glasto is really not much fun when everything is covered in mud and wetness. Her mobile phone's ruined and her hippie spirit is certainly tempered with a fondness for hot showers and decent beds. So she decamped (literally) on Sunday.
In My Day
Camping! At some point someone (maybe a boy scout) tried to tell us that sleeping in a makeshift home, with a wet, dark walk to the nearest loos is fun!
Early in our marriage, we decided to buy a tent. It was a frame tent with zipped inner sleeping compartments. It took ages to get up and I still marvel that our marriage survived those discussions.
We took it to Devon (the sun mostly shone, so I coped) Cornwall (when we shared it with 2 other people, so cosy) and a number of short breaks.
In 1977 I had a whole week off - jubilee week, to be exact. I was very pregnant with Becky and we took the tent to Presteigne in Wales. Got the tent erected close to a nice little stream and settled down to a nice break.
Does anyone remember queen's silver jubilee week? how it rained and rained and rained? (Rather like the coronation itself). Lizzie insisted that we have a jubilee supper with as much RW&B as we could muster. We had to try to cook and eat it tucked in under the flaps, hiding from the pouring rain.
Eventually couldn't stand it any longer. Dismantled the soaking wet tent, drove to my brother's in the Midlands and begged a bath and overnight stay. Home where we had to leave the tent spread on the lounge floor for about 4 days before it dried.
And I've never camped (except on the Inca Trail) since.
The tent died after its very own Glasto experience when it wasn't dried by the borrowers at all and simply dissolved into mildewy fragments. I was rather glad of this excuse not to have to use it again.
Terrible rain everywhere. According to whom you pay attention, a month's rain in one day or 6 months' rain in one day. Who cares who's right; it probably depends on where you live. Those poor folk in Sheffield. It's all very well to blame the Environment Agency, but if you planned for all of these things the costs would cause an outcry instead.
Closer to home, Lizzie, not for the first time, decided that Glasto is really not much fun when everything is covered in mud and wetness. Her mobile phone's ruined and her hippie spirit is certainly tempered with a fondness for hot showers and decent beds. So she decamped (literally) on Sunday.
In My Day
Camping! At some point someone (maybe a boy scout) tried to tell us that sleeping in a makeshift home, with a wet, dark walk to the nearest loos is fun!
Early in our marriage, we decided to buy a tent. It was a frame tent with zipped inner sleeping compartments. It took ages to get up and I still marvel that our marriage survived those discussions.
We took it to Devon (the sun mostly shone, so I coped) Cornwall (when we shared it with 2 other people, so cosy) and a number of short breaks.
In 1977 I had a whole week off - jubilee week, to be exact. I was very pregnant with Becky and we took the tent to Presteigne in Wales. Got the tent erected close to a nice little stream and settled down to a nice break.
Does anyone remember queen's silver jubilee week? how it rained and rained and rained? (Rather like the coronation itself). Lizzie insisted that we have a jubilee supper with as much RW&B as we could muster. We had to try to cook and eat it tucked in under the flaps, hiding from the pouring rain.
Eventually couldn't stand it any longer. Dismantled the soaking wet tent, drove to my brother's in the Midlands and begged a bath and overnight stay. Home where we had to leave the tent spread on the lounge floor for about 4 days before it dried.
And I've never camped (except on the Inca Trail) since.
The tent died after its very own Glasto experience when it wasn't dried by the borrowers at all and simply dissolved into mildewy fragments. I was rather glad of this excuse not to have to use it again.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Goodbye, Baby
Today
A very sad time for my personal trainer, whose little boy died this week. He developed a brain tumour about 8 months ago and his parents have gone through the hell of invasive treatments, the flaring up and dying down of hope.
He was only 2 and can hardly have understood what was happening to him. Why he had to be separated from his parents in an alien environment, why he'd lost his so newly acquired skills of walking and talking, why he hurt so much.
While his parents must know that they did all they could for him, they must also wonder about whether the suffering caused by the treatments was worth the eventual outcome.
In My Day
We felt somewhat similarly when my nephew's baby died, after just 3 days of premature life, a few years ago. Her parents went through the treatment hell of IVF to have her and her grip on life was just too weak for her to last.
We can never know what pain or anguish she suffered and cannot really judge whether, for her, it would have been better not to have invaded her tiny body with tubes and attachments, so that our image of her (and indeed, the only photo we have) is of an isolated scrap, effectively tied into a cot. And so that she could let go with baby dignity.
To lose a child, and so young, must bring the worst of all pain and my heart goes out to them and all who've suffered likewise.
A very sad time for my personal trainer, whose little boy died this week. He developed a brain tumour about 8 months ago and his parents have gone through the hell of invasive treatments, the flaring up and dying down of hope.
He was only 2 and can hardly have understood what was happening to him. Why he had to be separated from his parents in an alien environment, why he'd lost his so newly acquired skills of walking and talking, why he hurt so much.
While his parents must know that they did all they could for him, they must also wonder about whether the suffering caused by the treatments was worth the eventual outcome.
In My Day
We felt somewhat similarly when my nephew's baby died, after just 3 days of premature life, a few years ago. Her parents went through the treatment hell of IVF to have her and her grip on life was just too weak for her to last.
We can never know what pain or anguish she suffered and cannot really judge whether, for her, it would have been better not to have invaded her tiny body with tubes and attachments, so that our image of her (and indeed, the only photo we have) is of an isolated scrap, effectively tied into a cot. And so that she could let go with baby dignity.
To lose a child, and so young, must bring the worst of all pain and my heart goes out to them and all who've suffered likewise.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Burghthday boy
Today
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In 1957, my parents took a caravan in Challaborou
gh bay, which is more or less opposite the Island. It rained nearly every day and Mamma & Daddy must have been at the end of their wits trying to keep us all amused. They organised many trips, one of which was to Burgh Island. The family album shows that Daddy spelled it "Borough" Island.
Just returned from a weekend celebrating Paul's 57th birthday. I decided to take him to Burgh Island, which is situated just off the South Devon coast near Kingsbridge. The island is cut off from the land at high tide; at low there's a sandy causeway over which you can walk or drive. When the tide's in the Sea Tractor takes you. It's an amazing contraption, now in its 3rd incarnation.
The island has a hotel on it. It's Art Deco and many famous people such as Agatha Christie and Noel Coward stayed there. Agatha Christie wrote "Evil Under the Sun" whilst on the island.
The hotel's been refurbished and is now a luxury retreat. We ate splendidly, drank champagne and cocktails and actually danced the foxtrot & waltz on Saturday night, despite the very tiny dance floor. Other guests were very sociable and on Saturday night Paul rounded off the evening by conducting a small group in "Jerusalem", sung enthusiastically but with the effects of the many cocktails evident in the lack of tune or time.
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We sat outside the Pilchard Inn in the afternoon sunshine, drinking cider and watching children play on the sands which were rapidly shrinking as the sea encroached from both sides.
In My Day
In 1957, my parents took a caravan in Challaborou
gh bay, which is more or less opposite the Island. It rained nearly every day and Mamma & Daddy must have been at the end of their wits trying to keep us all amused. They organised many trips, one of which was to Burgh Island. The family album shows that Daddy spelled it "Borough" Island.
We did go on the Sea Tractor (an earlier version), but I don't remember the hotel at all. I do remember the Pilchard Inn - I probably found the name very funny - and also that everything was rather down at heel.
We spent plenty of time, as children should, clambering over rocks and playing in the pools left behind by the tide. I found the whole idea of possibly being cut off by the tide sort of deliciously scary. The day we spent on the island gave us the best weather of the week and my back got rather sunburnt as no-one had heard of factor 50 then.
I wrote a diary of that week and it's still safely tucked up in the album and I've always remembered that particular holiday as one of the best of my childhood.
Which gave returning to it an especial resonance as well as being a most enjoyable experience.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Seasoned traveller
Today
I've been having lots of fun lately, planning our European tour with our Canadian great-niece. She's not quite 15, but I took rather a shine to her and thought it would be fun to see some of the continent through the eyes of a Trans-Atlantic teenager.
Ah! The Internet! Booking hotels, the ferry crossing, planning the itinerary, booking tickets for events (we're seeing opera in Verona and Jazz in Montreux), everything so easy and done in a moment. And the credit card - all paid for invisibly, so it seems. Of course, it does help if you don't have to spend hours trying to penny-pinch here and there.
We're going for just over 2 weeks in mid-July and will travel in France, Italy and Switzerland. We'll take the E-class as it's big enough for our bits and pieces.
In My Day
My other big European tour was back in 1968. All the world's young people were travelling, it seemed, using nothing but their thumbs and a lot of courage. So my friend Angela and I decided that we would take some time out one summer and do the same. We each scraped together £40.00 by dint of begging from parents, saving from our grants and doing a little casual work here and there.
We did take the precaution of pre-booking a couple of hostels in the bigger tourist spots and we bought a road map of Europe. Otherwise we played in by ear. In 6 weeks we covered: France, Italy, Greece, Crete, Yugoslavia, Austria, Germany, Belgium. We got home unscathed, with a fiver to spare and traveller's tales to dine out on for the rest of our lives.
We slept in hostels, tents, the decks of ferries, fields, the beach, caves cut into cliffs and, once, in the cab of a lorry driver in Turin. We ate whatever we were given, and lived off the cheapest food available. (This was often veg, fruit and bread). We met people of all ages and types, some exceptionally kind, some needlessly unpleasant. (The story of our escape from 2 Tunisians outside Paris and how we spent the night in the woods would make a story all of its own.) We spent a fair amount of time persuading various males that we were not available for cash, lifts or otherwise.
It was all part of being young and free in the '60s and I've never forgotten it.
I shan't sneer at 5 stars, lovely meals and good hairdryers this time around, tho'.
I've been having lots of fun lately, planning our European tour with our Canadian great-niece. She's not quite 15, but I took rather a shine to her and thought it would be fun to see some of the continent through the eyes of a Trans-Atlantic teenager.
Ah! The Internet! Booking hotels, the ferry crossing, planning the itinerary, booking tickets for events (we're seeing opera in Verona and Jazz in Montreux), everything so easy and done in a moment. And the credit card - all paid for invisibly, so it seems. Of course, it does help if you don't have to spend hours trying to penny-pinch here and there.
We're going for just over 2 weeks in mid-July and will travel in France, Italy and Switzerland. We'll take the E-class as it's big enough for our bits and pieces.
In My Day
My other big European tour was back in 1968. All the world's young people were travelling, it seemed, using nothing but their thumbs and a lot of courage. So my friend Angela and I decided that we would take some time out one summer and do the same. We each scraped together £40.00 by dint of begging from parents, saving from our grants and doing a little casual work here and there.
We did take the precaution of pre-booking a couple of hostels in the bigger tourist spots and we bought a road map of Europe. Otherwise we played in by ear. In 6 weeks we covered: France, Italy, Greece, Crete, Yugoslavia, Austria, Germany, Belgium. We got home unscathed, with a fiver to spare and traveller's tales to dine out on for the rest of our lives.
We slept in hostels, tents, the decks of ferries, fields, the beach, caves cut into cliffs and, once, in the cab of a lorry driver in Turin. We ate whatever we were given, and lived off the cheapest food available. (This was often veg, fruit and bread). We met people of all ages and types, some exceptionally kind, some needlessly unpleasant. (The story of our escape from 2 Tunisians outside Paris and how we spent the night in the woods would make a story all of its own.) We spent a fair amount of time persuading various males that we were not available for cash, lifts or otherwise.
It was all part of being young and free in the '60s and I've never forgotten it.
I shan't sneer at 5 stars, lovely meals and good hairdryers this time around, tho'.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Swinging Sixties
Today
"Flower Power" was the theme of the dance we went to in Puriton last Saturday. Another of those funny little wine circle dances, but an opportunity to try out our ballroom dancing and meet old friends.
Now, the theme. R05)12_fwcdance+(3).JPG)
eaders of my blog will know that the Barretts love to dress up. So Paul donned an Afro wig, Punjabi shirt, waistcoat, beads, sunglasses and jeans into which I'd sewn enormous floral flares. I wore a long straight blond wig, caftan top, wide-legged trousers and more beads. I did my eyes '60's style with lots of black and eyelashes painted onto my cheeks. We both wore bandannas in our hair and I stuck little instant floral "tattoos" on my cheek and breast. We both carried "Make love not war" slogans on our backs.
We arrived a little after the party had started and made an entrance with our "peace, man" signs, to much applause. And we won the prize- a decent bottle of Claret
In My Day
Did we really dress like that, back in the '60's? The answer seems to be that some of us did and some of us didn't. Paul, after a dalliance with Cuban Heel boots, reverted to tweed jackets and ties. After he met me, he did attempt a kipper tie, but it didn't go with his shirt or ubiquitous cord jacket. And, anyway, that was 1971.
Some of my art college male friends actually took bits of curtain remnants and, using their Mum's ancient Singer machines, stitched flares into all their jeans. The techniques (matched by me on Saturday) was very rough indeed - it was all for show.
In the earlier part of the '60's I was most definitely into mini dresses. Using a sewing technique only slightly more refined than my colleagues', I ran up many a shift dress, usually with billowing or flared sleeves. My brother ran quite a little business making kipper ties out of velvet which he sold to Carnaby St boutiques. We were all making things up as we went along and I know that he didn't cut them on the bias and the velvet was very thick, so they must have been impossible to wear. His concession to '60's fashion was to have a huge bush of curly hair (this came quite naturally to him by virtue of just never getting it cut) and to wear caftans from time to time.
My sister was married by 1967, and somehow never got into that vein, and a friend once said to my other brother "where were you in the '60's?" Wearing a shirt and tie, that much is clear.
Once at theatre design college, I began to make long dresses out of floral cotton, which I wore every day. They were more Thomas Hardy chic than hippie. My hair was always very long and straight, but I can't remember ever wearing a bandanna in it. My friend Sue actually applied painted eyelashes to her cheeks every day, using liquid eyeliner.
We were none of us really hippies, being all too middle class, and to tell the truth, rather looked down on people who didn't appear to wash.
Looking at that picture has convinced me never to dye my hair blond
"Flower Power" was the theme of the dance we went to in Puriton last Saturday. Another of those funny little wine circle dances, but an opportunity to try out our ballroom dancing and meet old friends.
Now, the theme. R
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eaders of my blog will know that the Barretts love to dress up. So Paul donned an Afro wig, Punjabi shirt, waistcoat, beads, sunglasses and jeans into which I'd sewn enormous floral flares. I wore a long straight blond wig, caftan top, wide-legged trousers and more beads. I did my eyes '60's style with lots of black and eyelashes painted onto my cheeks. We both wore bandannas in our hair and I stuck little instant floral "tattoos" on my cheek and breast. We both carried "Make love not war" slogans on our backs.We arrived a little after the party had started and made an entrance with our "peace, man" signs, to much applause. And we won the prize- a decent bottle of Claret
In My Day
Did we really dress like that, back in the '60's? The answer seems to be that some of us did and some of us didn't. Paul, after a dalliance with Cuban Heel boots, reverted to tweed jackets and ties. After he met me, he did attempt a kipper tie, but it didn't go with his shirt or ubiquitous cord jacket. And, anyway, that was 1971.
Some of my art college male friends actually took bits of curtain remnants and, using their Mum's ancient Singer machines, stitched flares into all their jeans. The techniques (matched by me on Saturday) was very rough indeed - it was all for show.
In the earlier part of the '60's I was most definitely into mini dresses. Using a sewing technique only slightly more refined than my colleagues', I ran up many a shift dress, usually with billowing or flared sleeves. My brother ran quite a little business making kipper ties out of velvet which he sold to Carnaby St boutiques. We were all making things up as we went along and I know that he didn't cut them on the bias and the velvet was very thick, so they must have been impossible to wear. His concession to '60's fashion was to have a huge bush of curly hair (this came quite naturally to him by virtue of just never getting it cut) and to wear caftans from time to time.
My sister was married by 1967, and somehow never got into that vein, and a friend once said to my other brother "where were you in the '60's?" Wearing a shirt and tie, that much is clear.
Once at theatre design college, I began to make long dresses out of floral cotton, which I wore every day. They were more Thomas Hardy chic than hippie. My hair was always very long and straight, but I can't remember ever wearing a bandanna in it. My friend Sue actually applied painted eyelashes to her cheeks every day, using liquid eyeliner.
We were none of us really hippies, being all too middle class, and to tell the truth, rather looked down on people who didn't appear to wash.
Looking at that picture has convinced me never to dye my hair blond
Monday, April 23, 2007
Smalls
Today
Another blog about choices and whether we have too many.
Having 2 places to live (that's another choice issue) has presented us with an interesting problem: what type and how many clothing items should have a permanent home in either location? After all, we want to be able just to nip off, so to speak, to Brighton, without a marathon packing session.
Essential must be underwear. For Paul this might seem easy: so many pairs of underpants and socks (black, brown, grey) and he's sorted. And so it is, except for 2 problems.
The first is that he keeps forgetting how many he's got of what where, so ends up taking more to be on the safe side and then finding out that he hasn't got any back home. At least not any that really work.
Which brings us to the second problem which is that the search is still on for the perfect style. Boxers (ride up) Button Front (the buttons won't stay done up) briefs (ride down) Trunks (get twisted) Y fronts (please!) and so on. So at any one moment he may have all his button fronts in Brighton and all his boxers in Somerset. And none of them are any good.
For me, it's even more difficult. I have bras in a range of styles, (depends on what's going on top), colours and sizes (as my weight varies). So, in the end, I just take what I need.
Knickers have so many styles (brief, high rise, thongs, boxers, shorts, midi, maxi, control) that I lose concentration in M&S. as you can see if you look at this link. And which to wear depends on what's going on top (beware the VPL!).
In My Day
I don't remember having so much choice. Bras in anything over a "C" cup tended to resemble the Clifton suspension bridge and came in black, white and "flesh". And the straps had a tendency to snap if you moved too quickly.
As a child I wore "pants" - these were usually navy blue and actually seemed to gather into elastic around the top of the thigh. They were certainly up to the task of holding in your tucked-up skirt if you wanted to mimic doublet and hose or were going paddling. Pretty they were not.
As a teenager I could buy knickers which were either briefs (slipped down uncomfortably beneath your tummy) or full (reminded you of Grandma). In the end, the best option seemed to be to buy packs of ten at a knock down price and throw them out when they got holes in them.
Speaking to my sister-in-law a while ago, she told me that she never bought knickers for herself; they were always bought by her Gran and very pretty they were, too. So, obviously, I'd been missing something.
Another blog about choices and whether we have too many.
Having 2 places to live (that's another choice issue) has presented us with an interesting problem: what type and how many clothing items should have a permanent home in either location? After all, we want to be able just to nip off, so to speak, to Brighton, without a marathon packing session.
Essential must be underwear. For Paul this might seem easy: so many pairs of underpants and socks (black, brown, grey) and he's sorted. And so it is, except for 2 problems.
The first is that he keeps forgetting how many he's got of what where, so ends up taking more to be on the safe side and then finding out that he hasn't got any back home. At least not any that really work.
Which brings us to the second problem which is that the search is still on for the perfect style. Boxers (ride up) Button Front (the buttons won't stay done up) briefs (ride down) Trunks (get twisted) Y fronts (please!) and so on. So at any one moment he may have all his button fronts in Brighton and all his boxers in Somerset. And none of them are any good.
For me, it's even more difficult. I have bras in a range of styles, (depends on what's going on top), colours and sizes (as my weight varies). So, in the end, I just take what I need.
Knickers have so many styles (brief, high rise, thongs, boxers, shorts, midi, maxi, control) that I lose concentration in M&S. as you can see if you look at this link. And which to wear depends on what's going on top (beware the VPL!).
In My Day
I don't remember having so much choice. Bras in anything over a "C" cup tended to resemble the Clifton suspension bridge and came in black, white and "flesh". And the straps had a tendency to snap if you moved too quickly.
As a child I wore "pants" - these were usually navy blue and actually seemed to gather into elastic around the top of the thigh. They were certainly up to the task of holding in your tucked-up skirt if you wanted to mimic doublet and hose or were going paddling. Pretty they were not.
As a teenager I could buy knickers which were either briefs (slipped down uncomfortably beneath your tummy) or full (reminded you of Grandma). In the end, the best option seemed to be to buy packs of ten at a knock down price and throw them out when they got holes in them.
Speaking to my sister-in-law a while ago, she told me that she never bought knickers for herself; they were always bought by her Gran and very pretty they were, too. So, obviously, I'd been missing something.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
The Great Jelly of London
Today
Absolutely exhausting few days, rehearsing for and singing in the Classical Spectacular concerts at the Albert Hall. I'm one of a loosely formed 100-strong choir named The English Concert Chorus and a few times a year we provide the choral element at these concerts.
I'm beginning to know a few folk and my way around and it's quite fun to sing away at the top of your voice in all these old pot-boilers. You know, Zadok the Priest, Aida choruses (choose between slaves or soldiers), bits of Carmina Burana. A great "Can Belto" occasion.
Of course, to make it spectacular, there has to be audience participation in such favourites as Jerusalem, Rule Britannia (the soloist usually saunters on draped in a Union flag) and Land of Hope and Glory.
There are canons for the 1812 overture, fireworks for no reason at all, a laser and light show. 100s of red, white and blue balloons cascade down at the end and everyone (including the choir) is issued with yet more Union flags to wave.
And the audience loves it.
In My Day
I spent the summers of my late teens at the Albert Hall (AKA the Great Jelly of London) at The Proms. I used to buy a book of tickets and then fund my travel by selling those I didn't want to use. I probably went to about 25 concerts during August-September. We queued outside door 2 and quite a lively social scene developed.
How we despised those who came along sedately and actually sat in seats. Door 2 opened a few minutes before door 15 (where the on-the-door tickets were sold) so that we regulars had a fair chance of being at the front. The doors would open and we'd all career down the stairs and along the corridors to bag a place "on the rail".
Of course we all did the last night. This was always crowded so you turned up the day before at about 1.00 pm with your sleeping bag and flask. Because you couldn't be expected to stay at your place in the queue all the time, there was a list system in force. You actually slept (or tried to) on the pavement and hoped that there'd be no rain, or if there was, that it wouldn't blow under the canopy.
And we all sang away lustily to LOH&G, Jerusalem, RB etc. We clapped madly to the Hornpipe and swayed rhythmically together in the slow bits (until officials who feared the power of 2000 youngsters all clapping and swaying in time would damage the fabric of the building stopped it...) and threw streamers over the orchestra.
It always signalled the end of a great summer of friendship and music and wasn't an object in itself.
No fireworks, though!
Absolutely exhausting few days, rehearsing for and singing in the Classical Spectacular concerts at the Albert Hall. I'm one of a loosely formed 100-strong choir named The English Concert Chorus and a few times a year we provide the choral element at these concerts.
I'm beginning to know a few folk and my way around and it's quite fun to sing away at the top of your voice in all these old pot-boilers. You know, Zadok the Priest, Aida choruses (choose between slaves or soldiers), bits of Carmina Burana. A great "Can Belto" occasion.
Of course, to make it spectacular, there has to be audience participation in such favourites as Jerusalem, Rule Britannia (the soloist usually saunters on draped in a Union flag) and Land of Hope and Glory.
There are canons for the 1812 overture, fireworks for no reason at all, a laser and light show. 100s of red, white and blue balloons cascade down at the end and everyone (including the choir) is issued with yet more Union flags to wave.
And the audience loves it.
In My Day
I spent the summers of my late teens at the Albert Hall (AKA the Great Jelly of London) at The Proms. I used to buy a book of tickets and then fund my travel by selling those I didn't want to use. I probably went to about 25 concerts during August-September. We queued outside door 2 and quite a lively social scene developed.
How we despised those who came along sedately and actually sat in seats. Door 2 opened a few minutes before door 15 (where the on-the-door tickets were sold) so that we regulars had a fair chance of being at the front. The doors would open and we'd all career down the stairs and along the corridors to bag a place "on the rail".
Of course we all did the last night. This was always crowded so you turned up the day before at about 1.00 pm with your sleeping bag and flask. Because you couldn't be expected to stay at your place in the queue all the time, there was a list system in force. You actually slept (or tried to) on the pavement and hoped that there'd be no rain, or if there was, that it wouldn't blow under the canopy.
And we all sang away lustily to LOH&G, Jerusalem, RB etc. We clapped madly to the Hornpipe and swayed rhythmically together in the slow bits (until officials who feared the power of 2000 youngsters all clapping and swaying in time would damage the fabric of the building stopped it...) and threw streamers over the orchestra.
It always signalled the end of a great summer of friendship and music and wasn't an object in itself.
No fireworks, though!
Friday, March 09, 2007
Not Mushroom Inside
Today
Splendid breakfast this morning. Four big flat mushrooms, sliced, gently fried in butter with wild thyme and black onion seeds. All served with toasted rye bread. Very nice way to start the day.
I bought the mushrooms at the local Tesco. I could've had: Flat mushrooms, closed cup mushrooms (standard or Value) chestnut (small or flat),Portobello, Button, Porcini, Shitake mushrooms or a selection pack of several varieties.
I read an article recently that suggested that we are excessively spoiled for choice in our food buying and harking back to the old days where you had what you were given and put up with it. I don't agree: greater choice adds to variety and fun in my cooking and diet.
In My Day
Mamma would buy 1/4lb mushrooms. They were always the same: middle-sized closed cup.
Splendid breakfast this morning. Four big flat mushrooms, sliced, gently fried in butter with wild thyme and black onion seeds. All served with toasted rye bread. Very nice way to start the day.
I bought the mushrooms at the local Tesco. I could've had: Flat mushrooms, closed cup mushrooms (standard or Value) chestnut (small or flat),Portobello, Button, Porcini, Shitake mushrooms or a selection pack of several varieties.
I read an article recently that suggested that we are excessively spoiled for choice in our food buying and harking back to the old days where you had what you were given and put up with it. I don't agree: greater choice adds to variety and fun in my cooking and diet.
In My Day
Mamma would buy 1/4lb mushrooms. They were always the same: middle-sized closed cup.
We only ever had mushrooms with our Sunday breakfast which was also the only day when we had a cooked breakfast. Egg, Bacon, Tomato, fried bread. Mamma would wash the mushrooms and pop them into the frying pan after everything else had been cooked and removed, put on a lid, turn off the stove and let them cook in the residual heat.
Given that there were 6 of us, I probably got about 1 1/2 mushrooms. I do remember enjoying them, though.
On a holiday in Ireland 2 years ago, my brother in law picked some mushrooms from the side of the lane and cooked and ate them for his supper. Now that is a step too far for me!
Monday, March 05, 2007
Wallflower
Today
On Saturday Paul and I did our duty and attended the annual dance of the Somerset Association of Amateur Winemakers. It was, as always, run on a shoestring, but we put on our glad rags, packed a little supper and some wine and trotted off.
This year, apart from the fact that we were doing our duty and supporting our friends, we had another reason for going: to practise our dancing. Yes! We've been having ballroom dancing lessons. Every week we go to a class in Yeovil with about 30 other couples and are learning to put together the waltz, cha-cha, foxtrot and jive.
So, even though the quality of the music was dubious, with the singer occasionally getting a note in tune, we actually did a waltz (twice) and foxtrot (once) for real! We managed not to look at our feet, could only do one step in the waltz and discovered that seasoned dancers, too, tend to cannon into one another when attempting to turn the corners in the foxtrot. Paul's look of intense concentration wasn't exactly romantic but I'm sure that'll pass.
In My Day
When I was about 13 I attended ballroom dancing classes on Saturday mornings in Croydon. I don't know whose idea it was but I went with a bunch of other girls from school. I've an idea that there were also boys attending, but I didn't know any of them and anyway, they never asked me to dance. So I usually partnered another girl and circled the room. We all shuffled about, equally badly. We learnt waltz, cha-cha, tango, quickstep. I remember the day when the male instructor took me for the quickstep. We had the floor to ourselves and he steered me along with a magnificent sweeping movement. I felt as though I'd sprouted wings - this was what it was about!
With all this, there was actually never an opportunity to put it into practice. Social occasions rarely involved dancing at all (since I wasn't a debutante!) and when they did, everyone just jiggled around like ungainly spiders. And anyway, no-one ever asked me to dance.
I'm looking forward to our weekend at Burgh Island in June where there will be real dancing. This time, not only will we be able to do it, I won't be a wallflower.
On Saturday Paul and I did our duty and attended the annual dance of the Somerset Association of Amateur Winemakers. It was, as always, run on a shoestring, but we put on our glad rags, packed a little supper and some wine and trotted off.
This year, apart from the fact that we were doing our duty and supporting our friends, we had another reason for going: to practise our dancing. Yes! We've been having ballroom dancing lessons. Every week we go to a class in Yeovil with about 30 other couples and are learning to put together the waltz, cha-cha, foxtrot and jive.
So, even though the quality of the music was dubious, with the singer occasionally getting a note in tune, we actually did a waltz (twice) and foxtrot (once) for real! We managed not to look at our feet, could only do one step in the waltz and discovered that seasoned dancers, too, tend to cannon into one another when attempting to turn the corners in the foxtrot. Paul's look of intense concentration wasn't exactly romantic but I'm sure that'll pass.
In My Day
When I was about 13 I attended ballroom dancing classes on Saturday mornings in Croydon. I don't know whose idea it was but I went with a bunch of other girls from school. I've an idea that there were also boys attending, but I didn't know any of them and anyway, they never asked me to dance. So I usually partnered another girl and circled the room. We all shuffled about, equally badly. We learnt waltz, cha-cha, tango, quickstep. I remember the day when the male instructor took me for the quickstep. We had the floor to ourselves and he steered me along with a magnificent sweeping movement. I felt as though I'd sprouted wings - this was what it was about!
With all this, there was actually never an opportunity to put it into practice. Social occasions rarely involved dancing at all (since I wasn't a debutante!) and when they did, everyone just jiggled around like ungainly spiders. And anyway, no-one ever asked me to dance.
I'm looking forward to our weekend at Burgh Island in June where there will be real dancing. This time, not only will we be able to do it, I won't be a wallflower.
Monday, February 26, 2007
It's My Round
Today
Lovely weekend at the flat in Brighton with my brother & his wife. We stopped at the Half Moon at Midhurst and had a pleasant if unremarkable lunch. David took advantage of his senior citizen status and had a set 3-course lunch.
Pubs continued to feature over the weekend. We tried 2 or 3 pubs in North Laine in Brighton before we were all happy. The William VI was too smokey, the Waggon & Horses too full. Paul was rather bursting by this time so into The Office. Not too much smoke and an easy Thai-inspired snacks menus. David & Joan wanted hot chocolate and I persuaded the staff to make them some, even though it wasn't on the menu. Too much "background" music for Joan so we had our lunch break in a tiny, rather down at heel courtyard.
In the evening before our supper at Terre a Terre we popped into Hotel du Vin for a cocktail. D&J professed to some ignorance about these delights but plunged in.
On the way home on Sunday David said that we are "pub dabblers" and that he rarely goes into one.
In My Day
As children we were not taken into pubs. In the 50s in London there was a definite feeling that they were for grown-ups only and Daddy was opposed to much drinking.
Once I reached my late teens, I and my colleagues at school began to visit pubs. a half of cider was probably what I drank, feeling rather wicked, especially if it was the lunch hour at school.
At college there was some pub visiting, but it was really Paul who introduced me to the idea of them being a proper place to go.
Our first date was at the Plough & Harrow in Littlington. Paul had so little money that he had to ration my intake.
Since then I've lost count. I've met dozens of friends for drinks or meals in pubs, popped into pubs on long journeys, had quiet drink at the local (wherever local was at the time), had Sunday lunch, evening meals, bar snacks, enjoyed classical concerts, folk and jazz. I've walked, driven, been driven. In Kilcrohane village life centres around Eileen's. Don't go there and you miss out on what's going on.
We've met people, made new friends, happened to see old ones. One thing about a pub for meeting friends is that there's no pressure on any individual to prepare food, clean the house wash-up etc.
I'm looking forward to the smoking ban, though, I must say.
Lovely weekend at the flat in Brighton with my brother & his wife. We stopped at the Half Moon at Midhurst and had a pleasant if unremarkable lunch. David took advantage of his senior citizen status and had a set 3-course lunch.
Pubs continued to feature over the weekend. We tried 2 or 3 pubs in North Laine in Brighton before we were all happy. The William VI was too smokey, the Waggon & Horses too full. Paul was rather bursting by this time so into The Office. Not too much smoke and an easy Thai-inspired snacks menus. David & Joan wanted hot chocolate and I persuaded the staff to make them some, even though it wasn't on the menu. Too much "background" music for Joan so we had our lunch break in a tiny, rather down at heel courtyard.
In the evening before our supper at Terre a Terre we popped into Hotel du Vin for a cocktail. D&J professed to some ignorance about these delights but plunged in.
On the way home on Sunday David said that we are "pub dabblers" and that he rarely goes into one.
In My Day
As children we were not taken into pubs. In the 50s in London there was a definite feeling that they were for grown-ups only and Daddy was opposed to much drinking.
Once I reached my late teens, I and my colleagues at school began to visit pubs. a half of cider was probably what I drank, feeling rather wicked, especially if it was the lunch hour at school.
At college there was some pub visiting, but it was really Paul who introduced me to the idea of them being a proper place to go.
Our first date was at the Plough & Harrow in Littlington. Paul had so little money that he had to ration my intake.
Since then I've lost count. I've met dozens of friends for drinks or meals in pubs, popped into pubs on long journeys, had quiet drink at the local (wherever local was at the time), had Sunday lunch, evening meals, bar snacks, enjoyed classical concerts, folk and jazz. I've walked, driven, been driven. In Kilcrohane village life centres around Eileen's. Don't go there and you miss out on what's going on.
We've met people, made new friends, happened to see old ones. One thing about a pub for meeting friends is that there's no pressure on any individual to prepare food, clean the house wash-up etc.
I'm looking forward to the smoking ban, though, I must say.
Friday, February 23, 2007
Fish out of Water
Today
Yesterday I actually managed to kick myself along unaided in the water for a few feet, albeit with a huge polystyrene tube wrapped around my middle and holding a float in my hands. This was on my 3rd swimming lesson.
I'd put in the "Please Santa" blog that I wanted to have swimming lessons for Christmas and Lizzie obliged by buying me 5 session with her swimming instructor friend Ben.
And I must say, he's very good and reassuring. Don't think that 5 sessions will quite do the trick, tho'
In My Day
As I may have said in earlier blogs, we were not a sporty family, so swimming didn't really feature on the family menu, so to speak. Mamma occasionally went swimming, usually in Summer, to the Brockwell Park Lido. She sometimes took me and attempted to teach me, but I was too frightened and physically awkward.
We also went swimming with the school to Thornton Heath Baths. This experience was quite frightful. The teacher, who never got in the water, was a very elderly lady called Miss Brockhurst. (I mainly remember jokes made about the fact that she clearly wore no type of bra)
She didn't get in the water. There were 35 girls in the group, the baths were old and cold with green tiles that reminded you of a public toilet. and had a strange echoing, hollow quality. Changing rooms were shared between about 5 girls and I remember my embarrassment at the fact that, at age 12 I was wearing a bra. I took as long as possible over getting changed and nervously got into the water.
Teaching me how to swim took the form of yelling imprecations at me because I wouldn't let go of the sides. Girls were splashing and yelling all around me. Some tried to get me to join in, which resulted in the ingestion of a good deal of vile smelling water.
I decided that I was a very talented person who just didn't need to add this one to the list
Synchronised Swimming champion in the making?
Yesterday I actually managed to kick myself along unaided in the water for a few feet, albeit with a huge polystyrene tube wrapped around my middle and holding a float in my hands. This was on my 3rd swimming lesson.
I'd put in the "Please Santa" blog that I wanted to have swimming lessons for Christmas and Lizzie obliged by buying me 5 session with her swimming instructor friend Ben.
And I must say, he's very good and reassuring. Don't think that 5 sessions will quite do the trick, tho'
In My Day
As I may have said in earlier blogs, we were not a sporty family, so swimming didn't really feature on the family menu, so to speak. Mamma occasionally went swimming, usually in Summer, to the Brockwell Park Lido. She sometimes took me and attempted to teach me, but I was too frightened and physically awkward.
We also went swimming with the school to Thornton Heath Baths. This experience was quite frightful. The teacher, who never got in the water, was a very elderly lady called Miss Brockhurst. (I mainly remember jokes made about the fact that she clearly wore no type of bra)
She didn't get in the water. There were 35 girls in the group, the baths were old and cold with green tiles that reminded you of a public toilet. and had a strange echoing, hollow quality. Changing rooms were shared between about 5 girls and I remember my embarrassment at the fact that, at age 12 I was wearing a bra. I took as long as possible over getting changed and nervously got into the water.
Teaching me how to swim took the form of yelling imprecations at me because I wouldn't let go of the sides. Girls were splashing and yelling all around me. Some tried to get me to join in, which resulted in the ingestion of a good deal of vile smelling water.
I decided that I was a very talented person who just didn't need to add this one to the list
Synchronised Swimming champion in the making?
Monday, February 19, 2007
Be Mine
Today
Which just goes to show that, while lavish celebrations are lovely, it's the love that matters.
Well, actually, a few days ago now, Paul took me to Ston Easton Park Hotel for a lavish Valentine's day celebration and night in the "Chinese" room. We took the Bentley and very nice she looked too, with several of her nieces and nephews in the car park.
We had tea and seed cake by the fire, acompanied by the longing glances of Sorrel the resident spaniel. We drank probably more Champagne than is strictly necessary, had a lovely meal and were very happy. Paul gave me yet another Valentine's card and behaved in all the ways that were appropriate to the day.
Given our recent history, this was really 2 Valentine's days rolled into one and I enjoyed every moment.
In My Day
If my parents celebrated St Valentine's day, I never knew about it. (There was a rumour that my Brother David, who was due to be born on 14th Feb, was scheduled to be named Valentine, but he wisely hung on for a day, thus escaping this fate.) Certainly there were no romantic candlelit suppers in expensive country house locations.
A few years ago I took on the responsibility for storing all my mother's papers. We sifted through all sorts of things. And, there, among letters, diaries and adverts for my Mother's lecture tours, were the Valentine's cards, faithfully kept, with loving messages from and to Mamma. Even more touching were the hastily written notes when Daddy was doing a late sitting in the House during the war and Mamma couldn't be there when he got home: "Supper is in the kitchen, back 11.00 ish, love Ali". Nothing unusual, but kept for 40 years.Which just goes to show that, while lavish celebrations are lovely, it's the love that matters.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Fall from Grace
Today
Paul is in the middle of reading "The God Delusion" by Richard Dawkins. Dawkins believes passionately in the abitilty of science eventually to explain everything. He quotes from a blog which says that those that answer questions by saying "it's the work of God" are basically saying a spiritual "dunno".
And I agree. It isn't the answer to attribute the unknown to the works of God. It means that we either stop all forms of research or that theists accept that, as we find out more answers, things that can be attributed to God will get fewer and fewer.
Dawkins book doesn't, of course, prove that there isn't a God either; merely that we should fearlessly examine the evidence for everything in this world.
In My Day
We were not brought up to be religious. Daddy had a good knowledge of the New Testament, but saw Jesus in humanist terms. That is; follow his rules of good behaviour, but the God bit can be ignored. Mamma was brought up as a Lutheran, despite her father being Jewish, but we were not taken to church.
I started going to Church, more for social reasons than any other. There was a damn good youth club up at All Saints and the curate (Mr MacDonald) was young and scrummy. Chris and I both started going to the club. (I think Chris even had a girlfriend there.) Going to church was part of it, so I went. I think Mamma was actually delighted when I decided, at age 16, to be christened and confirmed.
The club included a wide range of social activities - walks, dances, socials; I remember a visit to Coventry Cathedral. Belonging to the Church also provided me with a good regular income as a trusted babysitter for other churchgoers. We frequently met to discuss various theological and religious topics all designed to strengthen our faith.
I remember the day I bowed out of the Christian religion. We'd been studying Milton's "Paradise Lost" for A level at school. That Sunday during the club's discussion the curate talked about God being purely the God of love and goodness. "But," I said, "If Lucifer was one of God's angels; therefore a creation of God, God's creation must also encompass evil, since Lucifer was evil." A simple and frequently enough asked question, I'm sure. But Mr Mac couldn't find an answer. I think I could have accepted a view that answered "yes, but the choice of God, Jesus and thus mankind is for good". But all I got was flannel.
I reflected and decided that this cast doubt on the whole idea of God.
I feel confident that I can make good choices and live life rightly without a spurious belief in God. If others need God to live life rightly, fine by me. But I've no time for those who use God to justify cruelty, bigotry or to disguise hate with a mantle that says love.
Paul is in the middle of reading "The God Delusion" by Richard Dawkins. Dawkins believes passionately in the abitilty of science eventually to explain everything. He quotes from a blog which says that those that answer questions by saying "it's the work of God" are basically saying a spiritual "dunno".
And I agree. It isn't the answer to attribute the unknown to the works of God. It means that we either stop all forms of research or that theists accept that, as we find out more answers, things that can be attributed to God will get fewer and fewer.
Dawkins book doesn't, of course, prove that there isn't a God either; merely that we should fearlessly examine the evidence for everything in this world.
In My Day
We were not brought up to be religious. Daddy had a good knowledge of the New Testament, but saw Jesus in humanist terms. That is; follow his rules of good behaviour, but the God bit can be ignored. Mamma was brought up as a Lutheran, despite her father being Jewish, but we were not taken to church.
I started going to Church, more for social reasons than any other. There was a damn good youth club up at All Saints and the curate (Mr MacDonald) was young and scrummy. Chris and I both started going to the club. (I think Chris even had a girlfriend there.) Going to church was part of it, so I went. I think Mamma was actually delighted when I decided, at age 16, to be christened and confirmed.
The club included a wide range of social activities - walks, dances, socials; I remember a visit to Coventry Cathedral. Belonging to the Church also provided me with a good regular income as a trusted babysitter for other churchgoers. We frequently met to discuss various theological and religious topics all designed to strengthen our faith.
I remember the day I bowed out of the Christian religion. We'd been studying Milton's "Paradise Lost" for A level at school. That Sunday during the club's discussion the curate talked about God being purely the God of love and goodness. "But," I said, "If Lucifer was one of God's angels; therefore a creation of God, God's creation must also encompass evil, since Lucifer was evil." A simple and frequently enough asked question, I'm sure. But Mr Mac couldn't find an answer. I think I could have accepted a view that answered "yes, but the choice of God, Jesus and thus mankind is for good". But all I got was flannel.
I reflected and decided that this cast doubt on the whole idea of God.
I feel confident that I can make good choices and live life rightly without a spurious belief in God. If others need God to live life rightly, fine by me. But I've no time for those who use God to justify cruelty, bigotry or to disguise hate with a mantle that says love.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
C'mon light my fire
Today
Decided to light a fire tonight. It's a bit chilly out there and we're not going out.
Over Christmas we lit a couple of fires. Becky's friend who was visiting us for Christmas was just delighted on Christmas Eve. "You've got a real fire", he grinned.
I lit one last week when my nephews and nieces were visiting and gave them a quick lesson in how to do it. Of course, we've got central heating and anyway, this Winter's another mild one. In fact we had a discussion about whether we'd be too hot.
In My Day
When we were children we only had one source of heating in the main rooms and that was a coal fire. We lived in a great Victorian pile and the living room was about 30ft by 18 with a 15ft foot high ceiling. There were floor to ceiling sash windows at each end so the room wasn't exactly draught-proof. (For those who don't know, sash windows are intentionally draughty to give the fire some up-draught so that it won't go out.)
If you were lucky enough to get a seat by the fire, your legs got very hot and red on one side while the other side of you was distinctly chilly. Daddy or Mamma built the fire like this:
Newspaper first. Then a wigwam of kindling sticks. Finally the coal. If the weather was bad the fire might be reluctant to draw at all and sometime smoke, very black & dirty, blew into the room. Occasionally there was a chimney fire.
The fireplace itself had clearly been reduced in size, probably in the '30s to economise on the amount of coal that it burnt.
Daddy had his own set of chimney brushes, which slotted together so that you could go up to the top. We also had the chimney swept regularly by a professional. I can remember the fine film of soot everywhere after he'd finished, as well as the smell. Mamma & daddy were scathing when vaccuum cleaners began to be used instead. An ancient skill might have been lost, but it was much cleaner.
Mamma and Daddy were also critical of those who had central heating; I can't now remember why. I do remember Daddy caving in and buying some cylindrical heaters, that looked rather like the paraffin heaters available at the time. There was a large one for the living room and small ones for our bedrooms. At least that put paid to frost on the inside of our bedroom windows.
Later, when the clean air act came into force, we had to use coke or other smokeless fuel. It might have been cleaner but it wasn't such fun to light or to look at.
Anyway, I'm looking forward to sitting by the fire tonight with a nice glass of red wine!
Decided to light a fire tonight. It's a bit chilly out there and we're not going out.
Over Christmas we lit a couple of fires. Becky's friend who was visiting us for Christmas was just delighted on Christmas Eve. "You've got a real fire", he grinned.
I lit one last week when my nephews and nieces were visiting and gave them a quick lesson in how to do it. Of course, we've got central heating and anyway, this Winter's another mild one. In fact we had a discussion about whether we'd be too hot.
In My Day
When we were children we only had one source of heating in the main rooms and that was a coal fire. We lived in a great Victorian pile and the living room was about 30ft by 18 with a 15ft foot high ceiling. There were floor to ceiling sash windows at each end so the room wasn't exactly draught-proof. (For those who don't know, sash windows are intentionally draughty to give the fire some up-draught so that it won't go out.)
If you were lucky enough to get a seat by the fire, your legs got very hot and red on one side while the other side of you was distinctly chilly. Daddy or Mamma built the fire like this:
Newspaper first. Then a wigwam of kindling sticks. Finally the coal. If the weather was bad the fire might be reluctant to draw at all and sometime smoke, very black & dirty, blew into the room. Occasionally there was a chimney fire.
The fireplace itself had clearly been reduced in size, probably in the '30s to economise on the amount of coal that it burnt.
Daddy had his own set of chimney brushes, which slotted together so that you could go up to the top. We also had the chimney swept regularly by a professional. I can remember the fine film of soot everywhere after he'd finished, as well as the smell. Mamma & daddy were scathing when vaccuum cleaners began to be used instead. An ancient skill might have been lost, but it was much cleaner.
Mamma and Daddy were also critical of those who had central heating; I can't now remember why. I do remember Daddy caving in and buying some cylindrical heaters, that looked rather like the paraffin heaters available at the time. There was a large one for the living room and small ones for our bedrooms. At least that put paid to frost on the inside of our bedroom windows.
Later, when the clean air act came into force, we had to use coke or other smokeless fuel. It might have been cleaner but it wasn't such fun to light or to look at.
Anyway, I'm looking forward to sitting by the fire tonight with a nice glass of red wine!
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Figgy Pudding
Today
Well, I made and iced the cake. I made a lovely veggie christmas pudding (alcohol free so that Aron could enjoy it). Paul always worries that we won't have enough mince pies so I bought 24 miniature and 12 normal Duchy Original mince pies.
So we were all set.
This is how much of these provisions we ate:
About 8 of the miniature mince pies on Christmas Eve and the rest (of the miniature ones) on Boxing day when my enormous family turned up.
And that's it.
So I still have all the other fruit-rich goodies in the cupboard.
In My Day
Mamma used to make several Christmas puddings. They were very black and sticky. She made them in pudding basins, covered first in greaseproof paper, then with muslin tied with string.
We ate the first on Christmas day immediately after the turkey. Others were eaten at Easter, Daddy's birthday etc. They appeared to last forever.
Well, I made and iced the cake. I made a lovely veggie christmas pudding (alcohol free so that Aron could enjoy it). Paul always worries that we won't have enough mince pies so I bought 24 miniature and 12 normal Duchy Original mince pies.
So we were all set.This is how much of these provisions we ate:
About 8 of the miniature mince pies on Christmas Eve and the rest (of the miniature ones) on Boxing day when my enormous family turned up.
And that's it.
So I still have all the other fruit-rich goodies in the cupboard.
In My Day
Mamma used to make several Christmas puddings. They were very black and sticky. She made them in pudding basins, covered first in greaseproof paper, then with muslin tied with string.
We ate the first on Christmas day immediately after the turkey. Others were eaten at Easter, Daddy's birthday etc. They appeared to last forever.
The Christmas cake was probably tackled on Boxing day. It, too, was very black, and a little went a long way.
Mamma bought mincemeat which had suet in it, but made her mince pies with flaky pastry - a very time-consuming business, with its layers of butter. She'd dust them with icing sugar before serving. I think we started eating these on Christmas day and fresh batches were made from time to time.
Anyway, it's as I feared; not only will the cake not get eaten, my icing skills aren't a patch on Mamma's
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Thank you
Today
Had a spiffing Christmas. The girls were there, together with a friend of Becky's and we had fun, food and friendliness the whole time. None of this quarrelling after 2 days together in the same house, which is what the magazines tell us will happen.
After the Christmas apart last year and with all this year's troubles it was just lovely.
And I got some splendid gifts. Many of them showed a reference to my "Dear Santa" blog which does tell me who pays attention.
I shall sit down and write out "Thank you" letters early in the New Year. Even if you've been able to say thanks in person, nothing quite beats a written letter.
In My Day
When I was little, I rarely received gifts from outside the immediate family. I had no aunts and uncles (at least none whom we spent time with), nor a bundle of cousins. And our Christmases were always spent in the bosom of the family.
So I was never taught about sending thank you letters as it did seem rather pointless when the givers were right next to you at the breakfast table each morning.
Over the years I've much enjoyed the thank you letters sent to me by my neices. I say neices, because my nephews only sporadically thank me formally although the advent of email and texting has made it easier.
But the little cards I've received from the girls! Here are some examples:
After 2 consecutive years of managing to choose the right garments as gifts for one niece:
"If I were royal, I'd make you my official clothes buyer..."
From another, following a gift of a cool Monsoon bag:
"This bag is so cool that at school I've been making money by allowing my friends to hire it..."
And from another neice to whom I'd given a rather nice skirt and top, a somewhat belated card explaining that she'd spent a considerable amount of time videoing herself, using her phone, doing a sort ot catwalk display, but had failed to send it to me. (Later, when we were together, she showed it me on the actual phone, where she was doing a delighted twirl).
The thought counts, but the resulting gift shows just how much the givers understand you. Thank you all for your imaginatively chosen gifts.
Had a spiffing Christmas. The girls were there, together with a friend of Becky's and we had fun, food and friendliness the whole time. None of this quarrelling after 2 days together in the same house, which is what the magazines tell us will happen.
After the Christmas apart last year and with all this year's troubles it was just lovely.
And I got some splendid gifts. Many of them showed a reference to my "Dear Santa" blog which does tell me who pays attention.
I shall sit down and write out "Thank you" letters early in the New Year. Even if you've been able to say thanks in person, nothing quite beats a written letter.
In My Day
When I was little, I rarely received gifts from outside the immediate family. I had no aunts and uncles (at least none whom we spent time with), nor a bundle of cousins. And our Christmases were always spent in the bosom of the family.
So I was never taught about sending thank you letters as it did seem rather pointless when the givers were right next to you at the breakfast table each morning.
Over the years I've much enjoyed the thank you letters sent to me by my neices. I say neices, because my nephews only sporadically thank me formally although the advent of email and texting has made it easier.
But the little cards I've received from the girls! Here are some examples:
After 2 consecutive years of managing to choose the right garments as gifts for one niece:
"If I were royal, I'd make you my official clothes buyer..."
From another, following a gift of a cool Monsoon bag:
"This bag is so cool that at school I've been making money by allowing my friends to hire it..."
And from another neice to whom I'd given a rather nice skirt and top, a somewhat belated card explaining that she'd spent a considerable amount of time videoing herself, using her phone, doing a sort ot catwalk display, but had failed to send it to me. (Later, when we were together, she showed it me on the actual phone, where she was doing a delighted twirl).
The thought counts, but the resulting gift shows just how much the givers understand you. Thank you all for your imaginatively chosen gifts.
Monday, December 11, 2006
Mrs Frosty
Today
Well, I've actually put the first layer of icing on the Christmas cake. Not what you might call a professional job (how do cake icers get that smooth layer? Perhaps they use a sander when the icing's dry.
Hopefully, when I've covered it with jolly little decorations, no-one will notice the poor foundation, so to speak.
In My Day
Mamma was a great cake-maker for birthdays and Christmas. The Christmas cake would be made several weeks in advance. She would double line the tin and wrap the whole thing in brown paper before putting it in the oven to cook for 4 or 5 hours. I can still remember that slight burnt raisin smell that told us it was done.
Later she would marzipan the cake (she bought this and it was always a bright yellow colour) and a few days before Christmas put on the base icing. This took quite a long time and there were always debates about how much lemon juice in relation to how much glycerine went into the icing.
I think that, like me, Mamma always dreamt of finishing the cake well before Christmas, but what usually happen
ed was that she was frantically icing at 1 in the morning on Christmas eve.
This is how she did it:
First the design was worked out and transferred onto greasproof or tracing paper. Then the paper was laid on the cake and the design pricked out with a pin on the base icing. Mamma mixed up the icing and separated it into bowls, one for each colour. Each bowl was covered with a wet tea towel to keep it workable. Mamma used an icing gun rather than forcing bag (in my own forays, I've found the bag easier, but chacun etc....).
The the real work would start. We would help by finding the right nozzle or cleaning the coloured icing out of one so that she could use it with a different colour. (I can remember the taste of icing mixed with cochineal)
The most magnificent design was conceived by my brother Chris and Mamma gallantly laboured over it until it was done. We hardly dared to cut and eat it.
I wouldn't dare to imagine that mine will come anything close!
Well, I've actually put the first layer of icing on the Christmas cake. Not what you might call a professional job (how do cake icers get that smooth layer? Perhaps they use a sander when the icing's dry.
Hopefully, when I've covered it with jolly little decorations, no-one will notice the poor foundation, so to speak.
In My Day
Mamma was a great cake-maker for birthdays and Christmas. The Christmas cake would be made several weeks in advance. She would double line the tin and wrap the whole thing in brown paper before putting it in the oven to cook for 4 or 5 hours. I can still remember that slight burnt raisin smell that told us it was done.
Later she would marzipan the cake (she bought this and it was always a bright yellow colour) and a few days before Christmas put on the base icing. This took quite a long time and there were always debates about how much lemon juice in relation to how much glycerine went into the icing.
I think that, like me, Mamma always dreamt of finishing the cake well before Christmas, but what usually happen
ed was that she was frantically icing at 1 in the morning on Christmas eve. This is how she did it:
First the design was worked out and transferred onto greasproof or tracing paper. Then the paper was laid on the cake and the design pricked out with a pin on the base icing. Mamma mixed up the icing and separated it into bowls, one for each colour. Each bowl was covered with a wet tea towel to keep it workable. Mamma used an icing gun rather than forcing bag (in my own forays, I've found the bag easier, but chacun etc....).
The the real work would start. We would help by finding the right nozzle or cleaning the coloured icing out of one so that she could use it with a different colour. (I can remember the taste of icing mixed with cochineal)
The most magnificent design was conceived by my brother Chris and Mamma gallantly laboured over it until it was done. We hardly dared to cut and eat it.
I wouldn't dare to imagine that mine will come anything close!
Saturday, December 09, 2006
Frozen Assets
Today
In a burst of enthusiam this afternoon I made the red cabbage and cranberry sauce for Christmas lunch. "Easy to freeze", thought I, "and less to do on Christmas Eve".
They're sitting on the worktop, cooling slightly before I bung them in the freezer. Apart from a contretemps when one container of red cabbage sprang a leak (a little of the that red juice does go a long way), they're all done and dusted. And I'll do the same with the Brazil nut loaf mix.
In My Day
It was Paul's father who first enthused about getting a freezer, back in the early 70s. They were on offer at Debenham's and he worked out that he was better off getting credit to buy it, rather than waiting till he had the money when the price would have gone up.
When we moved to Rowan Avenue (our first proper house) we decided that we could do with one as well. We measured up the front porch and decided that a chest freezer would just fit in. To raise the cash we signed up with Barclaycard (our first credit card - what a lot of firsts).
The freezer was put into the porch and we discovered the first law of chest freezers - they need feeding. We celebrated the dubious joys of vegetable freezing. Beatrice worked for a vegetable auctioneers and we bought sacks of beans, parsnips, carrots and nets of cabbages at a knock down price. We didn't count the cost of a) travelling to Wisbech to get them (we'd have probably visited Beatrice anyway) or b) the time cost of laboriously scalding, cooling, bagging and labelling every single piece of produce.
We never got into the side of beef-type purchases but we did buy packs of various cuts of meat etc. We regularly trotted off to the cash and carry and returned with huge amounts of food which was duly decanted into the freezer's capacious stomach.
When Becky was a baby I used to freeze ice-cube trays with pureed vegetables and get out so many a day to give to the childminder.
The purchase of the freezer meant that we were unable to buy a washing machine, so we shared these appliances with our neighbours and best friends. They popped over to get out their frozen goods (it seemed as though they only had ice-cream in there!) while we used their kitchen like a launderette.
Shortly before we left no 33 the freezer died, having first deposited a huge gobbet of ice on the carpet.
Since then, no longer needing to store meaty things and preferring our veg fresh, we've relied on a fridge-freezer and eschewed rapacious chest freezers.
Anyway, I'd better go downstairs and sort things out.
In a burst of enthusiam this afternoon I made the red cabbage and cranberry sauce for Christmas lunch. "Easy to freeze", thought I, "and less to do on Christmas Eve".
They're sitting on the worktop, cooling slightly before I bung them in the freezer. Apart from a contretemps when one container of red cabbage sprang a leak (a little of the that red juice does go a long way), they're all done and dusted. And I'll do the same with the Brazil nut loaf mix.
In My Day
It was Paul's father who first enthused about getting a freezer, back in the early 70s. They were on offer at Debenham's and he worked out that he was better off getting credit to buy it, rather than waiting till he had the money when the price would have gone up.
When we moved to Rowan Avenue (our first proper house) we decided that we could do with one as well. We measured up the front porch and decided that a chest freezer would just fit in. To raise the cash we signed up with Barclaycard (our first credit card - what a lot of firsts).
The freezer was put into the porch and we discovered the first law of chest freezers - they need feeding. We celebrated the dubious joys of vegetable freezing. Beatrice worked for a vegetable auctioneers and we bought sacks of beans, parsnips, carrots and nets of cabbages at a knock down price. We didn't count the cost of a) travelling to Wisbech to get them (we'd have probably visited Beatrice anyway) or b) the time cost of laboriously scalding, cooling, bagging and labelling every single piece of produce.
We never got into the side of beef-type purchases but we did buy packs of various cuts of meat etc. We regularly trotted off to the cash and carry and returned with huge amounts of food which was duly decanted into the freezer's capacious stomach.
When Becky was a baby I used to freeze ice-cube trays with pureed vegetables and get out so many a day to give to the childminder.
The purchase of the freezer meant that we were unable to buy a washing machine, so we shared these appliances with our neighbours and best friends. They popped over to get out their frozen goods (it seemed as though they only had ice-cream in there!) while we used their kitchen like a launderette.
Shortly before we left no 33 the freezer died, having first deposited a huge gobbet of ice on the carpet.
Since then, no longer needing to store meaty things and preferring our veg fresh, we've relied on a fridge-freezer and eschewed rapacious chest freezers.
Anyway, I'd better go downstairs and sort things out.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Bat out of Hell
Today
Last night, having done about half of the Christmas Cards, Paul & I settled down to watch "Love Actually" Great film - I always feel that, if the Americans had got hold of it, it would have been sugary, but with Richard Curtis there's always an element of the ironic, sad or even bitter.
Quite a lot of the film was devoted to showing people running towards their love in a variety of ways, from the little boy living out a fantasy in the airport to the more sedate journey made by the PM.
In My Day
I first met Paul at a party and we had a couple of dates following that. I can't say that they set off fireworks for me. On one occasion I even tried to end it but Paul pleaded so much that I agreed to another meeting. (Well, he had spent a good deal of that occasion talking to an ex-girlfriend!).
Paul had just joined the Sussex police and about 3 weeks after we met, had to go to Sandgate for his training. "I'll see you on Friday" were his parting words.
He wrote me a light-hearted letter during the week, describing the horrors of life at a police training centre. Otherwise life went on as usual.
On the Friday, I came home from college, had a bite to eat, changed. 7.00 pm - no phone call, 7.30 pm - no phone call, 8.00 pm - no phone call. "Never mind, Julia," I told myself, "Pleasant enough while it lasted but no big deal."
I decided to wash my hair, which was very long and straight in studenty fashion. About 8.30 pm, just wrapped the towel around when the phone rang. It was Paul. "So sorry I didn't call sooner, the traffic was grim - I didn't get home till after 7.00 and Mum had cooked a big meal etc etc. Would you like to meet in town?"
Would I!! I bunged on my coat and ran all the way into town. It was downhill, about a mile and a half and the temperature was freezing. By the time I met Paul I actually had icicles in my hair.
We walked along the seafront, talking and talking and the rest, as they say, is history.
What the people in the film discover is that you should never let false pride get in the way of finding your love - and I would agree.
Last night, having done about half of the Christmas Cards, Paul & I settled down to watch "Love Actually" Great film - I always feel that, if the Americans had got hold of it, it would have been sugary, but with Richard Curtis there's always an element of the ironic, sad or even bitter.
Quite a lot of the film was devoted to showing people running towards their love in a variety of ways, from the little boy living out a fantasy in the airport to the more sedate journey made by the PM.
In My Day
I first met Paul at a party and we had a couple of dates following that. I can't say that they set off fireworks for me. On one occasion I even tried to end it but Paul pleaded so much that I agreed to another meeting. (Well, he had spent a good deal of that occasion talking to an ex-girlfriend!).
Paul had just joined the Sussex police and about 3 weeks after we met, had to go to Sandgate for his training. "I'll see you on Friday" were his parting words.
He wrote me a light-hearted letter during the week, describing the horrors of life at a police training centre. Otherwise life went on as usual.
On the Friday, I came home from college, had a bite to eat, changed. 7.00 pm - no phone call, 7.30 pm - no phone call, 8.00 pm - no phone call. "Never mind, Julia," I told myself, "Pleasant enough while it lasted but no big deal."
I decided to wash my hair, which was very long and straight in studenty fashion. About 8.30 pm, just wrapped the towel around when the phone rang. It was Paul. "So sorry I didn't call sooner, the traffic was grim - I didn't get home till after 7.00 and Mum had cooked a big meal etc etc. Would you like to meet in town?"
Would I!! I bunged on my coat and ran all the way into town. It was downhill, about a mile and a half and the temperature was freezing. By the time I met Paul I actually had icicles in my hair.
We walked along the seafront, talking and talking and the rest, as they say, is history.
What the people in the film discover is that you should never let false pride get in the way of finding your love - and I would agree.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Please, Santa
Today
I’ve received instructions from Becky to publish a “what I want for Christmas” blog. Traditionally, in our family, we don’t write present lists, preferring to place our trust in the hope that our nearest & dearest have being paying attention for the past year.
It’s also true that as you get older you can be harder to buy for – it’s no longer a question of buying you things you couldn’t afford or that you desperately need.
The flat in Brighton provides some inspiration, of course.
Well, here goes, Becky!
1 For the bedroom at the flat,
b. A pot to put my makeup brushes etc
2. Books
a. Novels
b.
c. Books on the geography and history of Peru
d. Surprise me……
3. Makeup
4. Self-improvement
a. Swimming lessons
b. Advanced driving lessons
5. Music
a. Tchaikovsky symphonies
b. Surprise me….
6. Clothes
a. Tops
b. Scarves & Pashminas
c. Interesting tights and popsocks
7. For the flat
a. Vases
b. Egg cups & spoons (we’ve only got two)
(Actually, we could do with some egg cups for home as well)
8. Food
a. Florentines
b. Panforte
c. Surprise me….
9. Jewellery
a. Earrings (no pierced ears, me)
b. Bracelets (not bangles)
10. Surprise me…..
In My Day
When we were children I think that we did write Christmas lists. These were generally available and you could pick anything off the list. We preserved secrecy over presents and I, at least, respected it. Christmas was so much more fun, if it was full of surprises.
We didn’t have Christmas stockings. One reason was that David woke up at St Paul’s where he was a chorister, on Christmas morning, so it would have been rather horrible if he couldn’t join in the fun. Also, we celebrated the German festival of St Nicholas on 5th December, when we put our shoes out on the windowsill and woke to find them full of sweets…
On Christmas day we waited, therefore, until after Christmas lunch with no presents at all. David would have arrived at about 3.00 pm, following evensong (it must have been hard for those choristers whose families didn’t live in London; perhaps they didn’t go home on Christmas Day at all…). We had a long and jolly lunch.
Then we adjourned into the next room. There would be the tree, 10ft high, – Mamma would start to light the candles (we would help). Then some carols were sung and, later, the family hymn. There was a folding card table for each of us, covered with a cloth. The cloth was intriguingly lumpy as it concealed our presents.
Then it was “go!” and we were all allowed to open our presents. I guess we all opened them in our own fashion. I suspect that I was rather fast and sometimes wished that I’d gone more slowly to enjoy them more.
By the time we’d finished and thanked everyone, it was about 7.00 O’clock so the rest of the evening was spent in enjoying our presents or in playing whatever new board game hade been bought by Mamma & Daddy.
After what 2006 has brought, what I actually want for Christmas is my family all around me.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Thanks for the memories
Today
During the past few weeks, I have, for a range of reasons, some of them unpleasant & difficult, been examining my memories of the past, especially childhood. I discovered a number of things.
Firstly that memories have different qualities. Some are sensory - those where you can feel or hear or taste the memory. - the feel of a garment or the smell of someone's hair. They take you back to actually feeling whatever age you were at the time and are not usually linked to a specific event.
Some are of a quite specific one-off event - these you can recount like a story.
Others are of the "this used to happen" variety. With these you know that there were events that happened similarly a number of times, It's hard to say "this was on this date or that", only that there were a number of occasions.
Then there are those that you suspect are the memories of someone telling you about the event, rather than of your own experience.
Sometimes you have a very vivid memory, only to discover, when presented with the facts, that you were actually wrong. I don't know how these memories ever take root.
Finally, you find out that, where you have shared an event with others, their memory is often quite different from yours.
In My Day
Here are 4 memories of a single event during our childhood:
I and my siblings were playing hide-and-seek. Our great Victorian pile was ideal for this purpose. I was "it".
Chris remembers that he had a great idea for a place for Beatrice to hide - in the dressing up drawer in the great chest of drawers on the landing. He tucked her in and went off to hide himself. Mamma called us to lunch. During the meal Mamma suddenly says "Where's Beatrice?" Chris, horrified, thinking he's killed her, volunteers to find her. Which he does and finds she's all right if more than a little traumatised.
Beatrice remembers the first part, and being afraid that she'll suffocate in the drawer (which she can't get out of) and the trauma.
I remember being in the garden, searching and being called into lunch, thus abandoning the game. I also remember Mamma asking the question, but mainly that Beatrice arrived late to the meal with such a feeble excuse for her lateness and traumatised state (she clearly didn't drop Chris in it) that I despised her for it.
And David doesn't appear to remember it at all.
At least, that is my memory of the discussion we had about it a couple of years ago.
Which makes you realise why witness statement following incidents often don't agree with each other, although nobody's lying.
During the past few weeks, I have, for a range of reasons, some of them unpleasant & difficult, been examining my memories of the past, especially childhood. I discovered a number of things.
Firstly that memories have different qualities. Some are sensory - those where you can feel or hear or taste the memory. - the feel of a garment or the smell of someone's hair. They take you back to actually feeling whatever age you were at the time and are not usually linked to a specific event.
Some are of a quite specific one-off event - these you can recount like a story.
Others are of the "this used to happen" variety. With these you know that there were events that happened similarly a number of times, It's hard to say "this was on this date or that", only that there were a number of occasions.
Then there are those that you suspect are the memories of someone telling you about the event, rather than of your own experience.
Sometimes you have a very vivid memory, only to discover, when presented with the facts, that you were actually wrong. I don't know how these memories ever take root.
Finally, you find out that, where you have shared an event with others, their memory is often quite different from yours.
In My Day
Here are 4 memories of a single event during our childhood:
I and my siblings were playing hide-and-seek. Our great Victorian pile was ideal for this purpose. I was "it".
Chris remembers that he had a great idea for a place for Beatrice to hide - in the dressing up drawer in the great chest of drawers on the landing. He tucked her in and went off to hide himself. Mamma called us to lunch. During the meal Mamma suddenly says "Where's Beatrice?" Chris, horrified, thinking he's killed her, volunteers to find her. Which he does and finds she's all right if more than a little traumatised.
Beatrice remembers the first part, and being afraid that she'll suffocate in the drawer (which she can't get out of) and the trauma.
I remember being in the garden, searching and being called into lunch, thus abandoning the game. I also remember Mamma asking the question, but mainly that Beatrice arrived late to the meal with such a feeble excuse for her lateness and traumatised state (she clearly didn't drop Chris in it) that I despised her for it.
And David doesn't appear to remember it at all.
At least, that is my memory of the discussion we had about it a couple of years ago.
Which makes you realise why witness statement following incidents often don't agree with each other, although nobody's lying.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
Drive me Crazy
Today
We've just come back from Yorkshire where Paul completed his Performance Driving Course, which I'd bought him for his birthday. I'd originally thought that he would do it while I was in S America but he wanted me to come along.
So he booked me into the Monk Fryston Hall hotel. As he was on a driving course, I, naturally, had no car. So I walked the amazingly flat lanes of Yorkshire, near Selby, while Paul relearnt the art of motoring.
In my Day
I put off driving for many years. Somehow, when I was 17, it didn't feel right, and, anyway, I couldn't afford it.
When I met Paul, he was, of course, car mad (some things never change!) and always drove. We lived in Sussex, always in places with good transport systems.
Paul did have one attempt to teach me in the (once criminally active) Humber Hawk, but after I panicked on a narrow bridge, and went into reverse at speed, he desisted.
In 1985 I had the opportunity to take up a post to do the training for the Computerisation of PAYE. However, it was made clear that there would be much travelling and that driving skills were really essential.
By a combination of suggestion and sloppily asked questions (by the interviewers) I got the job. I had 10 months in which to learn to drive. Paul's brother in law, who was a driving instructor, gave me some lessons, but practice was what was needed. So Paul simply allowed me to drive our Morris Marina whenever we went out.
He was calm, methodical and clear, I must say. And we never rowed while he taught me. He took me to empty carparks so that I could practice maneuvering and clutch control.
I passed my test at the 3rd attempt and was driving on the motorway alone, in the dark,within 5 days.
Paul spent much of the drive home yesterday re-teaching me, but, despite that, I owe him a debt for teaching me in the first place that I can never really repay. Although, he's driving to Wine circle tonight!
We've just come back from Yorkshire where Paul completed his Performance Driving Course, which I'd bought him for his birthday. I'd originally thought that he would do it while I was in S America but he wanted me to come along.
So he booked me into the Monk Fryston Hall hotel. As he was on a driving course, I, naturally, had no car. So I walked the amazingly flat lanes of Yorkshire, near Selby, while Paul relearnt the art of motoring.
In my Day
I put off driving for many years. Somehow, when I was 17, it didn't feel right, and, anyway, I couldn't afford it.
When I met Paul, he was, of course, car mad (some things never change!) and always drove. We lived in Sussex, always in places with good transport systems.
Paul did have one attempt to teach me in the (once criminally active) Humber Hawk, but after I panicked on a narrow bridge, and went into reverse at speed, he desisted.
In 1985 I had the opportunity to take up a post to do the training for the Computerisation of PAYE. However, it was made clear that there would be much travelling and that driving skills were really essential.
By a combination of suggestion and sloppily asked questions (by the interviewers) I got the job. I had 10 months in which to learn to drive. Paul's brother in law, who was a driving instructor, gave me some lessons, but practice was what was needed. So Paul simply allowed me to drive our Morris Marina whenever we went out.
He was calm, methodical and clear, I must say. And we never rowed while he taught me. He took me to empty carparks so that I could practice maneuvering and clutch control.
I passed my test at the 3rd attempt and was driving on the motorway alone, in the dark,within 5 days.
Paul spent much of the drive home yesterday re-teaching me, but, despite that, I owe him a debt for teaching me in the first place that I can never really repay. Although, he's driving to Wine circle tonight!
Monday, November 06, 2006
Tongue Twister
Today
On Friday Paul and I went to very nice concert given by OpusIII and the Selwood Strings at Marston House. A very civilised event and typical of many such occasions in musical Somerset.
I used to sing with OpusIII and it was good to see the gang again and have the opportunity for a chat.
It's an all-female choir and many of the pieces they sing are arrangements of popular songs - "Autumn Leaves", "How can I Keep from Singing" etc, but there are one or two pieces especially written for female choirs. One of these was a jolly interpretation of "Peter Piper Picked a Peck of Pickled Peppers" by Frank Bridge. ("I remember singing this when I was at school, aged about 12", I whispered to Paul.)
In My Day
When I went to grammar School, one of my most exciting early experiences was listening to the Madrigal Group. I set about finding out how you joined. Easy - you had to be in the main choir and be either in the 5th or 6th form.
The first was easily accomplished and the second just a matter of hanging on. Music was taught in my school much like reading is in primary schools, so I soon learnt my "every good boy deserves fruit" and, as there was much singing, was able to put it into practice.
By the time I was 15 I was a reasonably accomplished sight reader with a pretty top soprano voice. So I was in! In the elite group known as the madrigal group.
We did sing madrigals and a host of other songs as well. We were the ones who sang the more unusual Christmas carols at the nine lessons service and entered competitions. As this was a London School, competition was quite fierce, but we won prizes. And I liked very much the opportunity to get out of school and visit other London schools and venues for these events.
One of the songs we sang was "Peter Piper" by Frank Bridge, which I've never forgotten.
Bought some pickled peppers at a market stall the other day. They were horrible.
On Friday Paul and I went to very nice concert given by OpusIII and the Selwood Strings at Marston House. A very civilised event and typical of many such occasions in musical Somerset.
I used to sing with OpusIII and it was good to see the gang again and have the opportunity for a chat.
It's an all-female choir and many of the pieces they sing are arrangements of popular songs - "Autumn Leaves", "How can I Keep from Singing" etc, but there are one or two pieces especially written for female choirs. One of these was a jolly interpretation of "Peter Piper Picked a Peck of Pickled Peppers" by Frank Bridge. ("I remember singing this when I was at school, aged about 12", I whispered to Paul.)
In My Day
When I went to grammar School, one of my most exciting early experiences was listening to the Madrigal Group. I set about finding out how you joined. Easy - you had to be in the main choir and be either in the 5th or 6th form.
The first was easily accomplished and the second just a matter of hanging on. Music was taught in my school much like reading is in primary schools, so I soon learnt my "every good boy deserves fruit" and, as there was much singing, was able to put it into practice.
By the time I was 15 I was a reasonably accomplished sight reader with a pretty top soprano voice. So I was in! In the elite group known as the madrigal group.
We did sing madrigals and a host of other songs as well. We were the ones who sang the more unusual Christmas carols at the nine lessons service and entered competitions. As this was a London School, competition was quite fierce, but we won prizes. And I liked very much the opportunity to get out of school and visit other London schools and venues for these events.
One of the songs we sang was "Peter Piper" by Frank Bridge, which I've never forgotten.
Bought some pickled peppers at a market stall the other day. They were horrible.
Saturday, November 04, 2006
It's Plastic
Today
This morning Paul woke up and demanded toast & marmalade & frothy coffee for breakfast. "We've no bread", I warned "But I'll pop up to the shop to get some. Do they sell bread?" "Yes, as it's a Saturday", replied Paul. Not waiting to find out why the residents of the village only seem to want bread on Saturday I duly popped.
Started to prepare the toast. Paul complained that the bread was plastic. "All they had, I'm afraid," I replied and got on with the job.
In My Day
On one occasion, when I was about 10, we had a jaunt to the Maritime Museum at Greenwich. Greenwich was a little out of our normal beat and it was quite a lengthy journey by bus to get there.
I remember little about the museum, save that it was in quite grand surroundings, but I do remember stopping at a little cafe for afternoon tea.
That was in the days when they gave you bread and butter with your tea. The bread was composed of pretty well perfect rectangles, soft, thin and uniformly sliced. Mamma marvelled. "This bread is wonderful", she enthused "Where did you get it?"
"Ah!", said the waitress, "It's Wonderloaf." And she brought out a packet to show us. Mamma touched the waxy packaging and the softness - not a hint of a crust. And so beautifully thin. Wonderful for cucumber sandwiches, no crusty bits to struggle with, no bread knife to wield. Wonderloaf indeed.
Which is what we ate from from that time on.
Despite the snobbery (and I can put away a bit of sundried tomato ciabata with the best of them), I rather enjoyed my plastic bread, toasted, with low-fat butter and extremely good French plum jam.
This morning Paul woke up and demanded toast & marmalade & frothy coffee for breakfast. "We've no bread", I warned "But I'll pop up to the shop to get some. Do they sell bread?" "Yes, as it's a Saturday", replied Paul. Not waiting to find out why the residents of the village only seem to want bread on Saturday I duly popped.
Started to prepare the toast. Paul complained that the bread was plastic. "All they had, I'm afraid," I replied and got on with the job.
In My Day
On one occasion, when I was about 10, we had a jaunt to the Maritime Museum at Greenwich. Greenwich was a little out of our normal beat and it was quite a lengthy journey by bus to get there.
I remember little about the museum, save that it was in quite grand surroundings, but I do remember stopping at a little cafe for afternoon tea.
That was in the days when they gave you bread and butter with your tea. The bread was composed of pretty well perfect rectangles, soft, thin and uniformly sliced. Mamma marvelled. "This bread is wonderful", she enthused "Where did you get it?"
"Ah!", said the waitress, "It's Wonderloaf." And she brought out a packet to show us. Mamma touched the waxy packaging and the softness - not a hint of a crust. And so beautifully thin. Wonderful for cucumber sandwiches, no crusty bits to struggle with, no bread knife to wield. Wonderloaf indeed.
Which is what we ate from from that time on.
Despite the snobbery (and I can put away a bit of sundried tomato ciabata with the best of them), I rather enjoyed my plastic bread, toasted, with low-fat butter and extremely good French plum jam.
Saturday, October 28, 2006
Curtain Raiser
Today
On Thursday, Paul & I went to the Theatre Royal, Bath to see a performance of "Entertaining Angels", starring Penelope Keith. It was an excellent performance of a play with just the right combination of humour, suspense and passion.
We love going to the theatre and, as part of our retirement plan, have joined the associates of the Theatre Royal in Bath.
This gives us advance booking rights, free programmes and access to an exclusive lounge bar, the 1805 rooms. So, when the prospectus arrives, we're inclined to buy ticket for most things, and take a chance on their being some good.
So, I slept through the first act of Habeus Corpus (easy to catch up with the action in the 2nd half), was enthralled by the Rambert Dance Company and enchanted by Cole Porter's Anything Goes.
In My Day
Early memories of theatre-going are more centred round the opera. When the Carl Rosa Opera company came to the Streatham Hill Theatre, Daddy bought a whole batch of tickets. The theatre was so close to us and, being south of the river, tickets were cheap. So, by the age of 10, I'd seen La Boheme and Aida certainly. We regularly used to go to see the D'Oyley Carte Gilbert & Sullivan operettas and I remember at a relatively early age seeing Tannhauser, Die Meistersingers, Rosenkavalier and Hansel & Gretel, either at Covent Garden or Sadlers Wells.
My experience was further broadened when I became friendly, at the age of about 14, with a girl at school who had an absolute theatre passion Her name was Jill Strudwick and we used to save up our paper round pocket money to travel to the West End for Saturday matinees. We saw "Oliver", "Stop the World I want to Get Off", "The Sound of Music", and many more musicals. Perhaps it was that that has made me, unlike my siblings, so fond of Cole Porter, Gershwin etc. Jill developed crushes on various actors and was one of those people that knew all the details of their lives. (She probably now adores Hello! magazine.)
My love of drama really took off when I was doing A-levels and, later, theatre design. Living in London was like being in a vast drama treasure box and students were treated very well. My friends and I queued at the Old Vic for standing only tickets and in that way saw most of the National Theatre productions (Uncle Vanya, Hedda Gabler, Hamlet, all the classics) for a tiny price.
More adventurous was the Alwych Theatre. My brother David and I joined the RSC youth association and got concessionary tickets to all their productions. And we used to go to the World Theatre festival. With the aid of instantaneous translation headphones we experienced: "The Insect Play" in Polish, Pirandelli in Italian, a Russian dramatisation of "Crime & Punishment" (put me off actually reading the book) and saw Japanese Noh and Kabuki theatre.
At the more raw end, we used to go to the Vanbrugh Theatre to see RADA productions.
I find it hard to keep away from the theatre and marvel that it's outside the experience of so many people.
On Thursday, Paul & I went to the Theatre Royal, Bath to see a performance of "Entertaining Angels", starring Penelope Keith. It was an excellent performance of a play with just the right combination of humour, suspense and passion.
We love going to the theatre and, as part of our retirement plan, have joined the associates of the Theatre Royal in Bath.
This gives us advance booking rights, free programmes and access to an exclusive lounge bar, the 1805 rooms. So, when the prospectus arrives, we're inclined to buy ticket for most things, and take a chance on their being some good.
So, I slept through the first act of Habeus Corpus (easy to catch up with the action in the 2nd half), was enthralled by the Rambert Dance Company and enchanted by Cole Porter's Anything Goes.
In My Day
Early memories of theatre-going are more centred round the opera. When the Carl Rosa Opera company came to the Streatham Hill Theatre, Daddy bought a whole batch of tickets. The theatre was so close to us and, being south of the river, tickets were cheap. So, by the age of 10, I'd seen La Boheme and Aida certainly. We regularly used to go to see the D'Oyley Carte Gilbert & Sullivan operettas and I remember at a relatively early age seeing Tannhauser, Die Meistersingers, Rosenkavalier and Hansel & Gretel, either at Covent Garden or Sadlers Wells.
My experience was further broadened when I became friendly, at the age of about 14, with a girl at school who had an absolute theatre passion Her name was Jill Strudwick and we used to save up our paper round pocket money to travel to the West End for Saturday matinees. We saw "Oliver", "Stop the World I want to Get Off", "The Sound of Music", and many more musicals. Perhaps it was that that has made me, unlike my siblings, so fond of Cole Porter, Gershwin etc. Jill developed crushes on various actors and was one of those people that knew all the details of their lives. (She probably now adores Hello! magazine.)
My love of drama really took off when I was doing A-levels and, later, theatre design. Living in London was like being in a vast drama treasure box and students were treated very well. My friends and I queued at the Old Vic for standing only tickets and in that way saw most of the National Theatre productions (Uncle Vanya, Hedda Gabler, Hamlet, all the classics) for a tiny price.
More adventurous was the Alwych Theatre. My brother David and I joined the RSC youth association and got concessionary tickets to all their productions. And we used to go to the World Theatre festival. With the aid of instantaneous translation headphones we experienced: "The Insect Play" in Polish, Pirandelli in Italian, a Russian dramatisation of "Crime & Punishment" (put me off actually reading the book) and saw Japanese Noh and Kabuki theatre.
At the more raw end, we used to go to the Vanbrugh Theatre to see RADA productions.
I find it hard to keep away from the theatre and marvel that it's outside the experience of so many people.
Saturday, October 21, 2006
Painting by numbers
Today
Yesterday Paul & I travelled up to London to see a Beryl Cook exhibition at the Portal Gallery. We've always enjoyed Beryl Cook paintings with their apparent innocence belying a very acute and enthusiastic observation of ordinary people.
They are such a celebration of late 20th and early 21st century life.
We're toying with the idea of actually buying one for the flat in Brighton - out first proper foray into buying original art.
In My Day
I was the "arty" one of the family. I drew pictures from the time I could hold a pencil (at about 15 months) on any paper I could find. My parents were uncomprehending admirers of this talent; there being little other acknowledged skill in the family (tho' when I look at my mother's freehand cake icing, there had to be something there).
Christmas and birthday presents often took the form of painting by numbers kits, some of which I dutifully completed. They were really a sort of grown up colouring book, were boring to do and flat to look at. I was given books on "how to draw". There was an artist living on the first floor who also talked to me.
I do have the priviledge of having my original work displayed. The first one of these is a pastel abstract. I did this in response to hearing "Dessins Eternel" by Messiaen at Westminster Cathedral. It's all swirly oranges and yellows and lives on the wall at my sister's flat.
The 2nd one also hangs on my sister's wall and was done while I was at art college and had mastered the craft of oil painting. It was derived from some drawings I'd done while visiting Saffron Hill in London. It's one of those pieces which says a lot, but not what you intended. The most noticeable bit of the work is a huge "No Entry" sign. It's generated a lot of passion in its time; including having my sister's 1st husband take a knife to it.
Nice to know that my work has something in common with the Mona Lisa.
Yesterday Paul & I travelled up to London to see a Beryl Cook exhibition at the Portal Gallery. We've always enjoyed Beryl Cook paintings with their apparent innocence belying a very acute and enthusiastic observation of ordinary people.
They are such a celebration of late 20th and early 21st century life.
We're toying with the idea of actually buying one for the flat in Brighton - out first proper foray into buying original art.
In My Day
I was the "arty" one of the family. I drew pictures from the time I could hold a pencil (at about 15 months) on any paper I could find. My parents were uncomprehending admirers of this talent; there being little other acknowledged skill in the family (tho' when I look at my mother's freehand cake icing, there had to be something there).
Christmas and birthday presents often took the form of painting by numbers kits, some of which I dutifully completed. They were really a sort of grown up colouring book, were boring to do and flat to look at. I was given books on "how to draw". There was an artist living on the first floor who also talked to me.
I do have the priviledge of having my original work displayed. The first one of these is a pastel abstract. I did this in response to hearing "Dessins Eternel" by Messiaen at Westminster Cathedral. It's all swirly oranges and yellows and lives on the wall at my sister's flat.
The 2nd one also hangs on my sister's wall and was done while I was at art college and had mastered the craft of oil painting. It was derived from some drawings I'd done while visiting Saffron Hill in London. It's one of those pieces which says a lot, but not what you intended. The most noticeable bit of the work is a huge "No Entry" sign. It's generated a lot of passion in its time; including having my sister's 1st husband take a knife to it.
Nice to know that my work has something in common with the Mona Lisa.
Saturday, October 14, 2006
Gi'us a job
Today
I've just read Becky's blog on being unemployed. She & Lizzie seem remarkably calm about it - as well they might be as they have many skills and we aren't in a time of serious unemployment.
Becky made a comment about how strange it is not to have external demands made on one and I sympathise with this. Retirement brings this sort of strangeness too. I know that I owned and ran my own company (and remember one very crass friend who thought that, as MD I simply "made it up" as I went along), but there were still a lot of pressures, many of them external. And there were a lot of people whose lives depended on my decisions.
In My Day
Once we were married, I found out that this instantly affected my grant entitlement (as though being married meant that I was now a kept woman) and I no longer received even enough to cover my bus fare to college. We struggled on for a while, with the overdraft mounting up. Then one day, while I was working at home on some sewing project, the man from the rates dept turned up. Seemed we hadn't paid any.
Something had to give and that was my college (and with it teaching) career. I got the paper and applied for the first job I could find - as an auxiliary nurse in an old people's home. Well, I'd spent one summer cleaning in an old people's home so was qualified, surely?
They weren't very exacting in the interview and the job was mine. Day after day of blanket baths, cleaning up old ladies' poo and serving meals. It was rivetting. I did it as well as I could.
The a friend of mine told me that the Inland Revenue were recruiting temporary staff to deal with the early redemption of post-war credits. Just as rivetting as the old ladies, but cleaner and more money. So off I went and was duly recruited.
This actually led to a career in the Inland Revenue which led to my joining Flare which led to my owning it which led to my selling it which led me to where I am now.........
Which just goes to show that things you don't plan sometimes work out the best. It's just a question of seizing the opportunity.
I've just read Becky's blog on being unemployed. She & Lizzie seem remarkably calm about it - as well they might be as they have many skills and we aren't in a time of serious unemployment.
Becky made a comment about how strange it is not to have external demands made on one and I sympathise with this. Retirement brings this sort of strangeness too. I know that I owned and ran my own company (and remember one very crass friend who thought that, as MD I simply "made it up" as I went along), but there were still a lot of pressures, many of them external. And there were a lot of people whose lives depended on my decisions.
In My Day
Once we were married, I found out that this instantly affected my grant entitlement (as though being married meant that I was now a kept woman) and I no longer received even enough to cover my bus fare to college. We struggled on for a while, with the overdraft mounting up. Then one day, while I was working at home on some sewing project, the man from the rates dept turned up. Seemed we hadn't paid any.
Something had to give and that was my college (and with it teaching) career. I got the paper and applied for the first job I could find - as an auxiliary nurse in an old people's home. Well, I'd spent one summer cleaning in an old people's home so was qualified, surely?
They weren't very exacting in the interview and the job was mine. Day after day of blanket baths, cleaning up old ladies' poo and serving meals. It was rivetting. I did it as well as I could.
The a friend of mine told me that the Inland Revenue were recruiting temporary staff to deal with the early redemption of post-war credits. Just as rivetting as the old ladies, but cleaner and more money. So off I went and was duly recruited.
This actually led to a career in the Inland Revenue which led to my joining Flare which led to my owning it which led to my selling it which led me to where I am now.........
Which just goes to show that things you don't plan sometimes work out the best. It's just a question of seizing the opportunity.
Monday, September 04, 2006
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.
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.
Saturday, September 02, 2006
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!
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!
Thursday, August 31, 2006
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,
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,
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