Today
Raining hard in Brighton today after a beautiful weekend. Looking at the forecast I see that the weather this week is day on/day off with regard to rain and sun.
"I remember my holiday in Devon & Cornwall with Ann Bryant", I said to Paul "That's exactly what we had."
In My Day
When I was in my teens the best way to have an affordable holiday was to join the Youth Hostels Association. It was very cheap and offered accommodation throughout Europe where you were likely to be pretty safe, if not always comfortable. In England at that time there were fairly strict rules about getting to the hostels under your own steam and driving or hitch-hiking was much frowned upon. I wasn't a sporty girl but I did like my holidays to be active.
In 1965 I and my friend Ann Bryant decided that a cycling holiday around Devon and Cornwall would be just the thing. We booked accommodation in advance, staying at each coastal hostel between Plymouth and Exeter, heading westwards. We caught the train from Paddington to Plymouth where our adventures began.
Our bikes weren't especially top of the range; my bike had no gears and Ann's was a little Moulton. Given the hilly nature of the terrain, you can see that we spent a fair bit of time walking.
The hostels were extremely varied from elegant houses to tumbledown cottages that appeared to get their water from the well. Some of them offered breakfasts (a very few even offered supper) and we took advantage of this when we could. But often we found ourselves heating up beans over ancient stoves that ought to have been condemned and wrestling with recalcitrant toasters.
Our decision to stay at each hostel meant a very varied programme of distances to travel. Ideally, in an ideal summer, this should have given us some easy days during which we could potter about, take a scenic detour or catch up on our tans.
Unfortunately, the weather opted for a day on-day off approach to sunshine and showers. There were days when we seemed to make no headway against the Atlantic gales, peddling frantically and apparently staying still.
When you had fifty miles to go, this was rather discouraging. On one occasion - between Newquay and Padstow, the going was so rough and our headway was so slow that we gave in and caught a train which creaked its was across the moors taking probably longer that we would have done by bike, but at least we were dry. Between Tintagel (a rickety stony hostel clinging to the cliff edge and Boscastle was only six miles and we were looking forward to a day scrambling over rocks and exploring the coastline. Instead, force ten gales kept us indoors where we were probably the record holders for spending time at the Boscastle witch museum.
We did have some lovely days too - discovering the Minack Theatre by accident and watching a rehearsal for King Lear as the sun set over the sea, and cycling in sparkling weather from Minehead to Exeter along the beautiful Exe valley.
It was on this holiday that Ann shocked the locals by wearing very short shorts and causing one ancient to call out as we went by:"Yoo'm better pull yoom skirrt down; yooom paaants is showin!" as he cackled with laughter.
What the holiday taught me was to be self reliant and that the weather is not all that makes a holiday. And I remember just about every detail after over forty years.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Cap and gown
Today
My sister graduated today with a BA in Eng lit and phil from the Open University. It's taken her seven years of hard work, concentration and commitment to get there and I'm just so proud of her.
There was a lovely ceremony at the Dome and we were reminded that the OU stands not just for social inclusion but also social justice. The honorary doctorate was awarded to Dame Stephanie Shirley whose life story was an example of triumph over adversity.
"You're the second Dixon of our generation to get a degree," I told her. Later there was a discussion about the benefits a degree can bring and Lizzie pointed out that Chris and I achieved a great deal and we neither have degrees. "It doesn't mean that you're totally handicapped if you don't have one," I said "And having a degree is an achievement in itself. After all, I'm finding studying for an NVQ hard enough!"
In My Day
Daddy couldn't have achieved what he did without the education he received from the Society of Friends. Thereafter, everything he did was as the result of his own initiative and hard graft. He found it hard to see what additional benefits a degree could bring. So, while he was an enthusiastic supporter of a good grammar school education, he felt that anything past the age of sixteen (at a pinch eighteen) was really time wasted that could be better spent at the school of life and hard knocks.
When you look at his life and how much he really did achieve it can be hard to argue with his viewpoint. As neither Chris nor I have a degree and yet have achieved a fair amount in commercial terms, the modern emphasis on higher education seems still more questionable. Especially as he and I are also not particularly backward in the area of intellectual and cultural knowledge and understanding. But I also think that Daddy's quite aggressive stance against higher education was not helpful. A university education would hardly have hampered us and might have opened a few doors sooner. I did spend four years at art school where I failed to gain a degree and the skills I learnt (such as corset making and how to construct a model out of balsa wood) have been very little use to me.
I can only find it in my heart to feel so proud of those members of my family who have worked against difficulties to achieve so much and I know that we all, whatever our education, learn much of what we need from life's lessons and hard knocks.
My sister graduated today with a BA in Eng lit and phil from the Open University. It's taken her seven years of hard work, concentration and commitment to get there and I'm just so proud of her.
There was a lovely ceremony at the Dome and we were reminded that the OU stands not just for social inclusion but also social justice. The honorary doctorate was awarded to Dame Stephanie Shirley whose life story was an example of triumph over adversity.
"You're the second Dixon of our generation to get a degree," I told her. Later there was a discussion about the benefits a degree can bring and Lizzie pointed out that Chris and I achieved a great deal and we neither have degrees. "It doesn't mean that you're totally handicapped if you don't have one," I said "And having a degree is an achievement in itself. After all, I'm finding studying for an NVQ hard enough!"
In My Day
Daddy couldn't have achieved what he did without the education he received from the Society of Friends. Thereafter, everything he did was as the result of his own initiative and hard graft. He found it hard to see what additional benefits a degree could bring. So, while he was an enthusiastic supporter of a good grammar school education, he felt that anything past the age of sixteen (at a pinch eighteen) was really time wasted that could be better spent at the school of life and hard knocks.
When you look at his life and how much he really did achieve it can be hard to argue with his viewpoint. As neither Chris nor I have a degree and yet have achieved a fair amount in commercial terms, the modern emphasis on higher education seems still more questionable. Especially as he and I are also not particularly backward in the area of intellectual and cultural knowledge and understanding. But I also think that Daddy's quite aggressive stance against higher education was not helpful. A university education would hardly have hampered us and might have opened a few doors sooner. I did spend four years at art school where I failed to gain a degree and the skills I learnt (such as corset making and how to construct a model out of balsa wood) have been very little use to me.
I can only find it in my heart to feel so proud of those members of my family who have worked against difficulties to achieve so much and I know that we all, whatever our education, learn much of what we need from life's lessons and hard knocks.
Friday, April 17, 2009
New Look
Today
Yesterday Paul heaved out his old camcorder - the one with tapes - and hooked it up to the telly to play old videos. With horror I watched the videos of me in Ireland 2002. Not only was I very large, I didn't seem to be taking any trouble. I wore awful jumpers and my hair, as often as not, looked as though I hadn't used a brush on it for a fortnight. My face looked raddled and old and fat. My view of things wasn't helped by the (intentional) emphasis on just how much and how often I was filling my face.
Now, I have generally regarded myself as one who does take trouble, so this video was a shock to my perception of myself.
I was talking to someone at last week's christening whose special area of study is how the digital age changes perception and changes memory. "Do you think", I asked "that photography radically changed how our memories are shaped?" "Most certainly." replied my companion.
In My Day
Mamma, as I have said many times, was German. She became fully naturalised after the end of the war and always regarded England as her home. She had little patience for immigrant Germans who wanted to join ex-pat groups of one kind or another. This wasn't so surprising; England had accepted her without comment at a time when her people were being slaughtered by Hitler.
One of the first things she did was to perfect her English. She spoke language idiomatically and fluently and many people told her that they wouldn't have guessed that she was German. She kept a diary, written in English, and said that she dreamt in English. Although she always had a little trouble with "th" and "s" in conjuction - according to her we lived in "souse east" London and Elizabeth always came out "Elizabez".
She died in 1981, before the advent of camcorders, so I was delighted when I happened upon an audio tape recorded by Paul on the event of Mamma's 63rd birthday. I listened with great amusement to four-year old Lizzie's appalling Sussex accent and to the general chit-chat. "Who", I said to Paul, "is that German woman whose voice I keep hearing?" "Why, Mamma", He said. "Did she always have that very strong accent?" I asked. "Certainly."
I was very shocked; my entire perception of my mother, not just in childhood, but in my life to that point was being overturned. And now, how do I remember Mamma's voice speaking to me? The truth is, I just don't know any more.
It's not just what we see, but what we hear, that changes our memories and I fear that, unless we totally cut ourselves off, there's nothing we can do about it.
Yesterday Paul heaved out his old camcorder - the one with tapes - and hooked it up to the telly to play old videos. With horror I watched the videos of me in Ireland 2002. Not only was I very large, I didn't seem to be taking any trouble. I wore awful jumpers and my hair, as often as not, looked as though I hadn't used a brush on it for a fortnight. My face looked raddled and old and fat. My view of things wasn't helped by the (intentional) emphasis on just how much and how often I was filling my face.
Now, I have generally regarded myself as one who does take trouble, so this video was a shock to my perception of myself.
I was talking to someone at last week's christening whose special area of study is how the digital age changes perception and changes memory. "Do you think", I asked "that photography radically changed how our memories are shaped?" "Most certainly." replied my companion.
In My Day
Mamma, as I have said many times, was German. She became fully naturalised after the end of the war and always regarded England as her home. She had little patience for immigrant Germans who wanted to join ex-pat groups of one kind or another. This wasn't so surprising; England had accepted her without comment at a time when her people were being slaughtered by Hitler.
One of the first things she did was to perfect her English. She spoke language idiomatically and fluently and many people told her that they wouldn't have guessed that she was German. She kept a diary, written in English, and said that she dreamt in English. Although she always had a little trouble with "th" and "s" in conjuction - according to her we lived in "souse east" London and Elizabeth always came out "Elizabez".
She died in 1981, before the advent of camcorders, so I was delighted when I happened upon an audio tape recorded by Paul on the event of Mamma's 63rd birthday. I listened with great amusement to four-year old Lizzie's appalling Sussex accent and to the general chit-chat. "Who", I said to Paul, "is that German woman whose voice I keep hearing?" "Why, Mamma", He said. "Did she always have that very strong accent?" I asked. "Certainly."
I was very shocked; my entire perception of my mother, not just in childhood, but in my life to that point was being overturned. And now, how do I remember Mamma's voice speaking to me? The truth is, I just don't know any more.
It's not just what we see, but what we hear, that changes our memories and I fear that, unless we totally cut ourselves off, there's nothing we can do about it.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Hairdo
Today
Fashions do go in circles, they say. At the weekend, Becky was sporting a little Aliceband in her hair. "Well, my boyfriend says he likes me in an Aliceband", she explained, somewhat defensively. No reason; Alicebands are pretty trendy at the moment, after all.
"I used to wear an Aliceband, generally made out of ribbon", I said.
In My Day
The trouble with the circular nature of fashion is that it can be hard to forget the connotations of the first time you experienced it. In fact Alicebands are really connected in my mind with childhood hair management, rather than fashion, so I tend to see it as an intrinsically childlike style.
I had long hair until I was about thirteen. For day to day wear, I had two plaits. Mamma always put a side parting at the front, which resulted in the parting doing a little wiggle to get to the centre at the back and in slightly uneven plaits. The plaits were tied up with ribbons. Mamma always bought nylon ribbon in bright colours. The ribbon was first wrapped twice around the end of the plait and then knotted and tied into a bow. The knot and bow did all the work; no elastic bands or anything.
On special occasions, my hair was released from its bonds and tied up with a ribbon in Aliceband style.
Mamma generally put a big bow at the top and secured the whole thing with a plentiful supply of hairgrips. I remember reciting some poetry at a Townswomen's guild event when I was not quite five years old. The poem started "I love to wear my party frock that Auntie bought in town...". Mamma made me a pink taffeta frock with blue scalloped ribbons and tied my hair up in a large satin ribbon to match. I felt so beautiful wearing it.
Mamma generally put a big bow at the top and secured the whole thing with a plentiful supply of hairgrips. I remember reciting some poetry at a Townswomen's guild event when I was not quite five years old. The poem started "I love to wear my party frock that Auntie bought in town...". Mamma made me a pink taffeta frock with blue scalloped ribbons and tied my hair up in a large satin ribbon to match. I felt so beautiful wearing it.Later, plaits gave way to pony tails, either flowing loose or plaited with a ribbon top and bottom. At one time I used little clips ornamented with butterflies top and bottom. This so amused the third year girls at Grammar school that they used to chase me around the playground yelling "Flutter by, butterfly!" This was more intimidating than it might at first seem and is probably why I nagged to have my hair cut.
My ribbons did at one time offer some drama, providing a somewhat strange snack for a goat at London Zoo, as he pulled at my bright red ribbon. We watched in horror as the whole lot went down his throat.
So, while I do like to be on-trend, I also think that Alicebands won't feature in my wardrobe this Spring.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Tumbledown
Today
Once again, silly "getting to know you" questionnaires have been circulating on the Internet. I can't resist them and tackle them with enthusiasm. Becky commented on my answer to "What are you most afraid of?", which was: "Apart from dying? Stairs." "Aw", said Becky, "that made me want to give you a hug. Is it true?"
"Oh yes," I said. And it is. When the girls were small and had to be carried downstairs, I regularly had visions of falling down with them in my arms. I often used to say to Paul, "That's one less time I have to do this."
I negotiate stairs with caution and often wonder if I'll meet my end falling downstairs.
In My Day
Our huge Victorian house had a rather grand staircase from the first to the ground floor. There was a slight curve starting from the top and another curve at the bottom as they turned to the lower passageway. There were beautiful cast iron banisters, depicting angel heads, and the whole was overlooked by a stained glass window that cast pools of jewel-like colour onto the hall whenever the sun shone.
It may be one of those memories that gain flesh by being recounted many times, but one day, when I was about three years old, I fell down this flight of stairs. Mamma heard the crash and came running. She knew that she wouldn't reach me before I smashed into the wall before the final turn. She called out to me to grab the banisters. Somehow, I had the presence of mind to do this and my fall towards concussion was halted as I swung to a standstill.
Later, Beatrice, aged about two, fell down the stairs to the basement. These, too, had a curve at the bottom and she crashed into the wall and broke a collar bone. This I remember most clearly, being a witness, and don't know whether it contributed to her epilepsy.
Maybe the memory of these events drives my adult anxiety and visions, but what I don't understand is why I've never seriously considered living in a bungalow.
Once again, silly "getting to know you" questionnaires have been circulating on the Internet. I can't resist them and tackle them with enthusiasm. Becky commented on my answer to "What are you most afraid of?", which was: "Apart from dying? Stairs." "Aw", said Becky, "that made me want to give you a hug. Is it true?"
"Oh yes," I said. And it is. When the girls were small and had to be carried downstairs, I regularly had visions of falling down with them in my arms. I often used to say to Paul, "That's one less time I have to do this."
I negotiate stairs with caution and often wonder if I'll meet my end falling downstairs.
In My Day
Our huge Victorian house had a rather grand staircase from the first to the ground floor. There was a slight curve starting from the top and another curve at the bottom as they turned to the lower passageway. There were beautiful cast iron banisters, depicting angel heads, and the whole was overlooked by a stained glass window that cast pools of jewel-like colour onto the hall whenever the sun shone.
It may be one of those memories that gain flesh by being recounted many times, but one day, when I was about three years old, I fell down this flight of stairs. Mamma heard the crash and came running. She knew that she wouldn't reach me before I smashed into the wall before the final turn. She called out to me to grab the banisters. Somehow, I had the presence of mind to do this and my fall towards concussion was halted as I swung to a standstill.
Later, Beatrice, aged about two, fell down the stairs to the basement. These, too, had a curve at the bottom and she crashed into the wall and broke a collar bone. This I remember most clearly, being a witness, and don't know whether it contributed to her epilepsy.
Maybe the memory of these events drives my adult anxiety and visions, but what I don't understand is why I've never seriously considered living in a bungalow.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
Thumper
Today
Just recovered from a corker of a migraine which took out pretty well all of yesterday. It may be that the very moderate amount of alcohol I consumed the night before, having not drunk any for three weeks, was the triggering factor. Who knows? I do know that the pain and vomiting destroyed my day and I had no choice but to ride it out.
In My Day
Mamma used to talk about migraines when I was a child, but I don't think I really knew what she was talking about. I probably thought (as so many people still do) that they were just bad headaches.
I started having migraines when I was about seventeen. They were always associated with the first day of my period, although I didn't get one every month. I quickly discovered that regular pain-killers were of no use (partly because I would vomit them up within ten minutes). I never thought of consulting a doctor and just used to ride them out as I did yesterday.
I did once consult one of David's girlfriends who was training to be a doctor. She advised that I drink some sweet tea and I found that, if I did this after the vomiting phase was over, I felt better sooner.
The worst migraine was the last for many years. This was the last period before I conceived Lizzy. We were at the flat at Belmont and had invited a friend over for supper. I spent the day in bed, staggering from bed to bathroom. Paul was also in some discomfort. having just had a steroid injection for some condition. Why we didn't just contact the friend and say we couldn't see him I don't know - probably it was before we got our phone and we were neither of us in a fit state to walk down the road to the phone box. The time of arrival of said friend drew nearer and I forced myself to get up and dressed. My head hurt so much that I couldn't bring myself to brush my hair, so I just left it in its rumpled state. I've no idea how we got through the evening but Neil, who wasn't a sensitive chap at the best of times. didn't seem to notice anything.
There used to be doctors who dismissed just about every surgery visit from young women with a "Don't worry, it'll clear up when you start having babies". Which was all very well. Except in this case it was really true. I didn't have another migraine until I approached the menopause, twenty-five years later, so had to assume that hormone fluctuations were the trigger.
Now that I don't have any hormones any more, I'll have to look for another reason. The good news is that, having effectively eaten nothing for a day and a half, I've lost 5lbs...
Just recovered from a corker of a migraine which took out pretty well all of yesterday. It may be that the very moderate amount of alcohol I consumed the night before, having not drunk any for three weeks, was the triggering factor. Who knows? I do know that the pain and vomiting destroyed my day and I had no choice but to ride it out.
In My Day
Mamma used to talk about migraines when I was a child, but I don't think I really knew what she was talking about. I probably thought (as so many people still do) that they were just bad headaches.
I started having migraines when I was about seventeen. They were always associated with the first day of my period, although I didn't get one every month. I quickly discovered that regular pain-killers were of no use (partly because I would vomit them up within ten minutes). I never thought of consulting a doctor and just used to ride them out as I did yesterday.
I did once consult one of David's girlfriends who was training to be a doctor. She advised that I drink some sweet tea and I found that, if I did this after the vomiting phase was over, I felt better sooner.
The worst migraine was the last for many years. This was the last period before I conceived Lizzy. We were at the flat at Belmont and had invited a friend over for supper. I spent the day in bed, staggering from bed to bathroom. Paul was also in some discomfort. having just had a steroid injection for some condition. Why we didn't just contact the friend and say we couldn't see him I don't know - probably it was before we got our phone and we were neither of us in a fit state to walk down the road to the phone box. The time of arrival of said friend drew nearer and I forced myself to get up and dressed. My head hurt so much that I couldn't bring myself to brush my hair, so I just left it in its rumpled state. I've no idea how we got through the evening but Neil, who wasn't a sensitive chap at the best of times. didn't seem to notice anything.
There used to be doctors who dismissed just about every surgery visit from young women with a "Don't worry, it'll clear up when you start having babies". Which was all very well. Except in this case it was really true. I didn't have another migraine until I approached the menopause, twenty-five years later, so had to assume that hormone fluctuations were the trigger.
Now that I don't have any hormones any more, I'll have to look for another reason. The good news is that, having effectively eaten nothing for a day and a half, I've lost 5lbs...
Thursday, March 26, 2009
In Stitches
Today
Much as I love being down at the flat, occasionally time hangs a little heavy. We don't want to spend all our time visiting relatives and, although eating out is lovely, it's also expensive and fattening. So there are dull or rainy days and long evenings to fill.
The flat is our 2nd home, rather than just a holiday venue and we want to be able to do at least some of the things we do at home. To that end Paul brought down a selection of bits and pieces and has been happily creating models for his railway, sitting at one of the trestles in the veranda.
"I could get myself another sewing machine and use the other trestle and make handbags etc", I said. After some Internet browsing, looking at machines that cost £200 and are inferior to mine, I had a brainwave. My machine only weighs about 7k - I can simply bring it down each time we visit for more than a week or! Simple!
In My Day
Like many others of my generation, I learnt to use a sewing machine on my mother's electrified Singer sewing machine. It was gloriously ornate in black with gold scrolls, gloriously slow, and given to temper tantrums involving tension.
I was given my first very own machine as a 21st birthday gift. It was a creme de la creme machine - an elegant Necchi. Daddy was immensely pleased that the shopkeeper threw in the carrying case for nothing in return for cash, although I can't imagine how I would have coped without the case. The whole thing cost £70.
For its time the machine was unusually light to carry and very versatile. Each term I travelled from London to Worthing by train carrying my case, my sewing machine and wooden sewing box (in later years I also carried a basket containing my cat Ariadne), for use on my costume design and needlework training.
That sewing machine went everywhere with me. I remember a customer at Stefan's Bridge Club in London, who'd fallen on hard times, whose entire wardrobe I altered to suit modern styles (and, it must be said, her altered shape) using the Necchi. She paid me very good money indeed.
I made elaborate costumes, curtains, wedding dresses, clothes for myself, countless outfits for the girls, gifts for all the family, even, after some pressure, a hideous choir outfit for Beatrice. The machine paid for itself again and again.
How I kept it going I don't know, Necchi having long since gone out of business. Eventually, about seven years ago I thought it was about time for a new machine, so I bought a new Elna and gave the Necchi to Becky who never got it working. Still, thirty-five years' hard use isn't bad.
I still think of that Necchi with nostalgia, though it must be said that I really like the automatic buttonhole feature on my new one!
Much as I love being down at the flat, occasionally time hangs a little heavy. We don't want to spend all our time visiting relatives and, although eating out is lovely, it's also expensive and fattening. So there are dull or rainy days and long evenings to fill.
The flat is our 2nd home, rather than just a holiday venue and we want to be able to do at least some of the things we do at home. To that end Paul brought down a selection of bits and pieces and has been happily creating models for his railway, sitting at one of the trestles in the veranda.
"I could get myself another sewing machine and use the other trestle and make handbags etc", I said. After some Internet browsing, looking at machines that cost £200 and are inferior to mine, I had a brainwave. My machine only weighs about 7k - I can simply bring it down each time we visit for more than a week or! Simple!
In My Day
Like many others of my generation, I learnt to use a sewing machine on my mother's electrified Singer sewing machine. It was gloriously ornate in black with gold scrolls, gloriously slow, and given to temper tantrums involving tension.
I was given my first very own machine as a 21st birthday gift. It was a creme de la creme machine - an elegant Necchi. Daddy was immensely pleased that the shopkeeper threw in the carrying case for nothing in return for cash, although I can't imagine how I would have coped without the case. The whole thing cost £70.
For its time the machine was unusually light to carry and very versatile. Each term I travelled from London to Worthing by train carrying my case, my sewing machine and wooden sewing box (in later years I also carried a basket containing my cat Ariadne), for use on my costume design and needlework training.
That sewing machine went everywhere with me. I remember a customer at Stefan's Bridge Club in London, who'd fallen on hard times, whose entire wardrobe I altered to suit modern styles (and, it must be said, her altered shape) using the Necchi. She paid me very good money indeed.
I made elaborate costumes, curtains, wedding dresses, clothes for myself, countless outfits for the girls, gifts for all the family, even, after some pressure, a hideous choir outfit for Beatrice. The machine paid for itself again and again.
How I kept it going I don't know, Necchi having long since gone out of business. Eventually, about seven years ago I thought it was about time for a new machine, so I bought a new Elna and gave the Necchi to Becky who never got it working. Still, thirty-five years' hard use isn't bad.
I still think of that Necchi with nostalgia, though it must be said that I really like the automatic buttonhole feature on my new one!
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Soundtrack
Today
So, on Friday, arranged around a very nice meal, I played V William's "The Lark Ascending", Elgar's Cello Concerto and V William's "A Sea Symphony". I even found a website which provided programme notes so downloaded some and made a little programme. V enjoyable - and I found that I listened much more closely, especially to the symphony. And it kind of made Friday evening special
In 1941 bombs destroyed The Queen's Hall in London. This was a major concert venue and a fund, under the auspices of Sir Henry Wood, was set up to rebuild. He died in 1944 but the funds still continued.
My parents contribution was to create the Henry Wood Gramophone Circle. Gramophone societies were quite common at that time. Not everyone had their own record-player and it was costly to amass a collection of discs.
The Circle met at 4 Beulah every third Sunday. Mamma and Daddy were very proud that they had the space to do this; many others had to meet in church halls and the like which gave a colder air to the proceedings. At 4 BH members were able to sit in armchairs and enjoy a family atmosphere. Normally, I suppose, about fifteen-twenty members would gather; sometimes we had bumper nights of about thirty or more which was quite a strain on the seating.
Initially, of course, the records were 78rpm which gave you four minutes of listening per disc. The record deck had two turntables and the records were double sided in alternate numbering 1,3 2,4 etc. This meant that you could go fairly smoothly from disc one to two, with time to get number three ready. This way, the Beethoven symphony you were listening to wasn't too lumpy.
Later, Daddy transferred to long play. I remember the cabinet of discs - hundreds, it seemed - carefully catalogued.
As we got older we were occasionally allowed to devise our own programmes and present them to the circle.
The circle was affiliated to a larger group and the members formed the large part of Mamma and Daddy's social circle for many years. We had patrons: Margaret Ritchie whom I remember as having a swe
et round face and delightful voice singing "My Heart Ever Faithful" and Peter Katin, pianist who several times visited with his wife and little boy Nicholas. Apparently Beatrice met him a few years ago and he had no recollection of these events.
The Circle kept going for over twenty years and was eventually disbanded when it finally became obvious that The Queens' Hall would never be rebuilt. The money my parents had so carefully gathered went towards a Sir Henry Wood memorial.
Programme preparation is quite tricky, as we've discovered, so I don't really blame Paul for switching from all four Bach orchestral suites to Santana.
Wherever you go, these days, there is recorded music as a backdrop to our lives. In cafes, bars, shops and shopping malls. I have my Walkman plugged into my ears as I walk the treadmill and read a trashy mag, we listen to it in the car and while we're making the tea.
Sometimes it does intrude; I've become bolder about asking for music in pubs to be turned down, and I heard of one orchestral player who was horrified to hear the Bach B Minor Mass as background music in a restaurant. When the club next door started up with its hip-hop, the waiter's response was to turn the Bach up to full volume!
"The trouble is," I said to Paul "we often don't really listen to our music. Why don't we take it in turns to devise a proper programme of music and really listen, not talk?" "Good idea," said my spouse.
So, on Friday, arranged around a very nice meal, I played V William's "The Lark Ascending", Elgar's Cello Concerto and V William's "A Sea Symphony". I even found a website which provided programme notes so downloaded some and made a little programme. V enjoyable - and I found that I listened much more closely, especially to the symphony. And it kind of made Friday evening special
In My Day
In 1941 bombs destroyed The Queen's Hall in London. This was a major concert venue and a fund, under the auspices of Sir Henry Wood, was set up to rebuild. He died in 1944 but the funds still continued.
My parents contribution was to create the Henry Wood Gramophone Circle. Gramophone societies were quite common at that time. Not everyone had their own record-player and it was costly to amass a collection of discs.
The Circle met at 4 Beulah every third Sunday. Mamma and Daddy were very proud that they had the space to do this; many others had to meet in church halls and the like which gave a colder air to the proceedings. At 4 BH members were able to sit in armchairs and enjoy a family atmosphere. Normally, I suppose, about fifteen-twenty members would gather; sometimes we had bumper nights of about thirty or more which was quite a strain on the seating.
Initially, of course, the records were 78rpm which gave you four minutes of listening per disc. The record deck had two turntables and the records were double sided in alternate numbering 1,3 2,4 etc. This meant that you could go fairly smoothly from disc one to two, with time to get number three ready. This way, the Beethoven symphony you were listening to wasn't too lumpy.
Later, Daddy transferred to long play. I remember the cabinet of discs - hundreds, it seemed - carefully catalogued.
The programmes weren't just slung together, either. They were carefully themed, mostly along symphony concert lines. There were exceptions. Daddy would play "Scheherazade" and read aloud from Lane's translation of "The Arabian Nights" carefully slotting his words to the meaning and fluctuations of the music.
As we got older we were occasionally allowed to devise our own programmes and present them to the circle.
The circle was affiliated to a larger group and the members formed the large part of Mamma and Daddy's social circle for many years. We had patrons: Margaret Ritchie whom I remember as having a swe
et round face and delightful voice singing "My Heart Ever Faithful" and Peter Katin, pianist who several times visited with his wife and little boy Nicholas. Apparently Beatrice met him a few years ago and he had no recollection of these events.The Circle kept going for over twenty years and was eventually disbanded when it finally became obvious that The Queens' Hall would never be rebuilt. The money my parents had so carefully gathered went towards a Sir Henry Wood memorial.
Programme preparation is quite tricky, as we've discovered, so I don't really blame Paul for switching from all four Bach orchestral suites to Santana.
Friday, March 13, 2009
One for the Pot
Today
The days are getting longer and brighter and it's very easy to see just how much dust has collected. So, as part of another of my cleaning sprees, I washed every one of my 120 teapots.
I know how this collection started; with a gift of the famous motor car teapot given to Paul by a grateful patient. Our friends, as a joke, followed it up with a Charles & Di teapot and the collection was born. I don't know at what point it came to be considered as mine.
There are some basic rules: the teapot has to have a quirky or amusing design, be a real teapot and the handle, spout and lid should be an integral part of the design. Having said that, I never turned away the little pots (encouragingly marked "do not use hot water") given me by my many nephews and nieces.
For the first time since this blog was born Paul has made a suggestion as to editorial content. Not to squash this budding talent I include it. We were in Tesco today looking for tea. No, I don't mean PG tips or camomile tea, I mean tea. Tea that is spooned into a pot, subjected to boiling water and strained into a cup. Paul, whose passion for and ability to make good tea far outstrips mine, commented how hard it is today to find a good range of loose teas. I heard a while ago that this item has now been removed from the standard shopping basket that is used in calculating price fluctuations.
The point is, I may have about 120 crazy teapots but we also use a proper pot every day. It's a good round blue and white china pot with a natty little nylon infuser sitting under the lid. And every single cup of tea we have at home uses this pot.
In My Day
I do think that everyone used teapots when I was a child. Tea was spooned in from caddies "one per cup and one for the pot", boiling water added and the resulting potion drunk throughout the land. The commonest type of pot was a "Brown Betty" - these are still made today.
Daddy, of course, had his own ideas. He believed that tea was good but tannin bad (full of antioxidants, actually, Daddy). Putting leaves into the pot, pouring on the water and then leaving it for the time it takes to drink several cups, results in steadily strengthening tea and an increase in tannin. He also believe that warming the pot with water had a weakening effect on the brewing process. So Daddy used to put the tea into a jug, pour in the boiling water, let it stand, then strain it into the pot. The tea in the pot would stay uniformly at the desired strength, only gradually getting cooler.
I believe my brother David still uses this system, together with a nifty little wall-mounted tea dispenser.
I find it amazing that people today firstly use teabags, secondly pour on off-the-boil or reboiled water, and thirdly don't use a teapot.
Some historians believe that the industrial revolution could only have started in England when it was (before sewage) because we all drank strong tea which involved boiling water (killed the germs) tannin (a natural antibiotic) and which didn't make you drunk. With the art of tea-making fast dying out it's no wonder the country's done for.
The days are getting longer and brighter and it's very easy to see just how much dust has collected. So, as part of another of my cleaning sprees, I washed every one of my 120 teapots.
I know how this collection started; with a gift of the famous motor car teapot given to Paul by a grateful patient. Our friends, as a joke, followed it up with a Charles & Di teapot and the collection was born. I don't know at what point it came to be considered as mine.
There are some basic rules: the teapot has to have a quirky or amusing design, be a real teapot and the handle, spout and lid should be an integral part of the design. Having said that, I never turned away the little pots (encouragingly marked "do not use hot water") given me by my many nephews and nieces.
For the first time since this blog was born Paul has made a suggestion as to editorial content. Not to squash this budding talent I include it. We were in Tesco today looking for tea. No, I don't mean PG tips or camomile tea, I mean tea. Tea that is spooned into a pot, subjected to boiling water and strained into a cup. Paul, whose passion for and ability to make good tea far outstrips mine, commented how hard it is today to find a good range of loose teas. I heard a while ago that this item has now been removed from the standard shopping basket that is used in calculating price fluctuations.
The point is, I may have about 120 crazy teapots but we also use a proper pot every day. It's a good round blue and white china pot with a natty little nylon infuser sitting under the lid. And every single cup of tea we have at home uses this pot.
In My Day
I do think that everyone used teapots when I was a child. Tea was spooned in from caddies "one per cup and one for the pot", boiling water added and the resulting potion drunk throughout the land. The commonest type of pot was a "Brown Betty" - these are still made today.
Daddy, of course, had his own ideas. He believed that tea was good but tannin bad (full of antioxidants, actually, Daddy). Putting leaves into the pot, pouring on the water and then leaving it for the time it takes to drink several cups, results in steadily strengthening tea and an increase in tannin. He also believe that warming the pot with water had a weakening effect on the brewing process. So Daddy used to put the tea into a jug, pour in the boiling water, let it stand, then strain it into the pot. The tea in the pot would stay uniformly at the desired strength, only gradually getting cooler.
I believe my brother David still uses this system, together with a nifty little wall-mounted tea dispenser.
I find it amazing that people today firstly use teabags, secondly pour on off-the-boil or reboiled water, and thirdly don't use a teapot.
Some historians believe that the industrial revolution could only have started in England when it was (before sewage) because we all drank strong tea which involved boiling water (killed the germs) tannin (a natural antibiotic) and which didn't make you drunk. With the art of tea-making fast dying out it's no wonder the country's done for.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Without a Word of a Lie
Today
This morning Paul asked me where I'd put my water glass. "Did you bring it down?" he asked. "I might have done or it might be in the study," I said "actually, I don't remember what I did and that's the honest truth." "As distinct from the dishonest truth," I added.
Paul and I had a discussion about how the language contains many expressions that presuppose that lying is a common element in our speech "without a word of a lie", "I gotta to be honest" "to tell the truth" "that's the honest truth" etc.
In My Day
When do we learn to lie? At what age do we discover the possibility and what drives the extent to which we lie? Is it when we lose the completeness of trust; catching our parents or siblings out in a lie?
Daddy took a strong view about lying (it's understandable; if your children always tell the truth it makes your life much simpler), reserving corporal punishment for this transgression.
I think that I was generally a truthful child, but between the ages of about eight and ten I got into the habit of lying to avoid trouble. I think I only lied because of a sense that what I had done was so naughty that retribution must surely follow.
The problem was, being only a child and not naturally devious, I wasn't very good at it. Successful lying involves sustaining the lie for ever and the expert concealment of evidence.
It was no good my telling Mamma that Beatrice had stolen and eaten her Toblerone (initially a reasonable supposition as Beatrice had a much sweeter tooth than I) when the remains of the packet was sticking out of my pocket. And whom did I blame for eating the entire soft inside of a loaf of bread, leaving just the outside crust?
And retribution surely followed the discovery of the lie. With some ceremony I would be laid face downwards on Daddy's knee, my head dangling uncomfortably close to his lymphatically swollen feet. He would yank up my skirt and plant about half a dozen wallops with the flat of his hand on the fleshiest part of my buttocks. Once done I was free to go and the matter would not be mentioned again.
Daddy used to talk openly about his attitude to corporal punishment; use it rarely, give a good and proper warning, use only the palm of your hand (this puts a natural brake on actually doing any damage) and smack only the fleshiest and most resilient parts of the body.
I remember not the stinging of the smack (he was true to his word and never did anything that actually caused lasting pain or injury) but the utter humiliation and unpleasantness of being so treated.
One day I put him to the test. I accidentally broke a window playing ball. When the matter came to light I decided to make a clean breast of it. I was not smacked; only ticked off and learnt that Daddy, at any rate, could be trusted. Mamma never smacked me; her forays into this art being limited to catching the boys a clip in passing when they were being unbearably cheeky.
I think that what I learnt was that it's nearly always best to be truthful, and if you're going to lie, plan it well and never be caught out.
This morning Paul asked me where I'd put my water glass. "Did you bring it down?" he asked. "I might have done or it might be in the study," I said "actually, I don't remember what I did and that's the honest truth." "As distinct from the dishonest truth," I added.
Paul and I had a discussion about how the language contains many expressions that presuppose that lying is a common element in our speech "without a word of a lie", "I gotta to be honest" "to tell the truth" "that's the honest truth" etc.
In My Day
When do we learn to lie? At what age do we discover the possibility and what drives the extent to which we lie? Is it when we lose the completeness of trust; catching our parents or siblings out in a lie?
Daddy took a strong view about lying (it's understandable; if your children always tell the truth it makes your life much simpler), reserving corporal punishment for this transgression.
I think that I was generally a truthful child, but between the ages of about eight and ten I got into the habit of lying to avoid trouble. I think I only lied because of a sense that what I had done was so naughty that retribution must surely follow.
The problem was, being only a child and not naturally devious, I wasn't very good at it. Successful lying involves sustaining the lie for ever and the expert concealment of evidence.
It was no good my telling Mamma that Beatrice had stolen and eaten her Toblerone (initially a reasonable supposition as Beatrice had a much sweeter tooth than I) when the remains of the packet was sticking out of my pocket. And whom did I blame for eating the entire soft inside of a loaf of bread, leaving just the outside crust?
And retribution surely followed the discovery of the lie. With some ceremony I would be laid face downwards on Daddy's knee, my head dangling uncomfortably close to his lymphatically swollen feet. He would yank up my skirt and plant about half a dozen wallops with the flat of his hand on the fleshiest part of my buttocks. Once done I was free to go and the matter would not be mentioned again.
Daddy used to talk openly about his attitude to corporal punishment; use it rarely, give a good and proper warning, use only the palm of your hand (this puts a natural brake on actually doing any damage) and smack only the fleshiest and most resilient parts of the body.
I remember not the stinging of the smack (he was true to his word and never did anything that actually caused lasting pain or injury) but the utter humiliation and unpleasantness of being so treated.
One day I put him to the test. I accidentally broke a window playing ball. When the matter came to light I decided to make a clean breast of it. I was not smacked; only ticked off and learnt that Daddy, at any rate, could be trusted. Mamma never smacked me; her forays into this art being limited to catching the boys a clip in passing when they were being unbearably cheeky.
I think that what I learnt was that it's nearly always best to be truthful, and if you're going to lie, plan it well and never be caught out.
Friday, March 06, 2009
Rescue
Today
This morning Paul & I watched the kittens playing. They're pretty evenly matched and their play-fighting becomes less innocuous as they get bigger. Albinoni even hissed at Agnes today as she must have caught a tender spot.
Paul consoled Albinoni. We talked about a fairly silly detective drama we'd seen the night before which centered round a woman who rescued cats and had about thirty. Paul quoted from the drama "People who have cats should get a life". "Although," he added "I do think that three's the absolute upper limit." "I do like to have a couple of cats trundling around," I agreed. "But not thirty!" said my spouse. "What, like Mrs Entwhistle?"
In My Day
When we first moved into Belmont in 1971, I still owned Ariadne, the tabby who'd been with me right through college. We weren't supposed to have pets but we smuggled her in and, as the flat had access to the fire escape, she could get in and out. Ariadne had been suffering from an alop
ecia as a side-effect of neutering; she was receiving treatment but it's true to say that she did look a little scruffy.
One evening she didn't turn up. When she'd been missing for a few days we set about working out how to trace her. We went to the RSPCA but they didn't have her. We could hardly ask other residents as that would be an admission that we illegally had a pet. I can't remember how, but eventually a batty old lady who lived a few streets away told us that Ariadne had been found inside a vacant flat at Belmont and had been taken to a local cat rescue organisation run by a Mrs Entwhistle. We tracked down her number and paid a visit. The house reeked of cat piss and cats stared at us from every corner, I fervently hoped that Ariadne wasn't in such a vile place. At first she denied all knowledge but eventually told us that Ariadne had gone to new owners.
I was stunned and all the way home railed at Paul about it. We went to the RSPCA to ask advice. "Oh, Mrs Entwhistle!" they said in that tone of voice. "She's an absolute thorn in our sides; she simply hampers our work at every step and will not co-operate in any way. However, in law, a cat is not like a dog; it's simply a personal possession, like a watch, so she is guilty of theft in simply taking your cat, not taking proper steps to find the owner and then giving her away."
We called the police. "Oh, Mrs Entwhistle!" they said in that tone of voice "She's a perpetual nuisance; we'll put CID onto it." Which they did. However, they never found Ariadne and eventually Mrs E told us that, actually, Ariadne had been in such poor condition that she's had her destroyed. There seemed no point in further pursuit and no way of determining whether she was telling the truth.
It's true, most do-gooders often do no good at all.
This morning Paul & I watched the kittens playing. They're pretty evenly matched and their play-fighting becomes less innocuous as they get bigger. Albinoni even hissed at Agnes today as she must have caught a tender spot.
Paul consoled Albinoni. We talked about a fairly silly detective drama we'd seen the night before which centered round a woman who rescued cats and had about thirty. Paul quoted from the drama "People who have cats should get a life". "Although," he added "I do think that three's the absolute upper limit." "I do like to have a couple of cats trundling around," I agreed. "But not thirty!" said my spouse. "What, like Mrs Entwhistle?"
In My Day
When we first moved into Belmont in 1971, I still owned Ariadne, the tabby who'd been with me right through college. We weren't supposed to have pets but we smuggled her in and, as the flat had access to the fire escape, she could get in and out. Ariadne had been suffering from an alop
ecia as a side-effect of neutering; she was receiving treatment but it's true to say that she did look a little scruffy.One evening she didn't turn up. When she'd been missing for a few days we set about working out how to trace her. We went to the RSPCA but they didn't have her. We could hardly ask other residents as that would be an admission that we illegally had a pet. I can't remember how, but eventually a batty old lady who lived a few streets away told us that Ariadne had been found inside a vacant flat at Belmont and had been taken to a local cat rescue organisation run by a Mrs Entwhistle. We tracked down her number and paid a visit. The house reeked of cat piss and cats stared at us from every corner, I fervently hoped that Ariadne wasn't in such a vile place. At first she denied all knowledge but eventually told us that Ariadne had gone to new owners.
I was stunned and all the way home railed at Paul about it. We went to the RSPCA to ask advice. "Oh, Mrs Entwhistle!" they said in that tone of voice. "She's an absolute thorn in our sides; she simply hampers our work at every step and will not co-operate in any way. However, in law, a cat is not like a dog; it's simply a personal possession, like a watch, so she is guilty of theft in simply taking your cat, not taking proper steps to find the owner and then giving her away."
We called the police. "Oh, Mrs Entwhistle!" they said in that tone of voice "She's a perpetual nuisance; we'll put CID onto it." Which they did. However, they never found Ariadne and eventually Mrs E told us that, actually, Ariadne had been in such poor condition that she's had her destroyed. There seemed no point in further pursuit and no way of determining whether she was telling the truth.
It's true, most do-gooders often do no good at all.
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
A Life Worth Living
Today
Along with the rest of the nation, I was grieved to hear of the violent end to the life of little Brandon Muir. The news presenter described the ferocity of the attacks on his two -year old body. They also described the life lived by his prostitute heroin-addicted mother and showed scenes from around where she lived. The flats were grubby, dismal, sprayed with graffiti, windows boarded up. And I wondered about the kind of life he would have had, had he not been beaten to death. Another kind of death, I guess.
I felt ashamed that we allow people to live in these places and in such squalor. We have the means to improve things; where is our will?
Unfortunately, Brandon is by no means the first, nor the last little child to suffer in this way.
In My Day
In 1973 we were living in Brighton when the story of Maria Colwell broke. She was taken to the Royal Sussex Hospital in a pram, her little undersized 7-year old body a mass of bruises, her little stomach empty of food.
The hounds of recrimination were let loose. Social Services, not for the first or the last time, took all the brunt of the criticism and sweeping changes were promised.
At that time we were living at Belmont and Lizzie was a baby. The repercussions from the Maria Colwell case reverberated throughout Brighton for a long time, as we were to find out.
I suppose Lizzie was about twenty months old and we had commenced on the task of toilet training. This was not going well. Lizzie didn't really seem to want to understand what it was all about (with hindsight - how we worried as though it's not something all children learn to do eventually). On the evening in question, once Liz had been bathed we left her to trot about without a nappy, potty invitingly placed on the living room floor. Liz wasn't yet very steady on her feet and she suddenly fell in such a way that she landed, bottom down, on the potty. I picked up the screaming child and nearly screamed myself when I saw just how much blood was pouring from her little underneath.
We bundled her up and off to the the Royal Sussex A&E. As usual, they were busy. A tired intern prodded at Lizzie, rather scaring her, and said that she needed to see a paediatrician. As it was now nine at night, they had to call one in.
At about ten pm we were ushered into the presence of the paediatrician. He looked briefly at Lizzie's injury, then began to ask us a lot of personal questions. While he did this he looked all over Lizzie, testing her for fractures, bruises and other signs of abuse. I guess he was also looking for signs of intimidation. Fortunately, Lizzie, the pain forgotten, was at her sociable best, chattering to the consultant and trying to grab his stethoscope. Eventually he said "you're a nice little baby" and indicated that we could go. "And the injury?" we ventured. "Oh that," he said "Just keep it clean, it'll clear up in a day or two." Which it did.
While we understood the need for him to carry out this scrutiny, it's sad that all this still doesn't prevent the real tragedies from happening. Little Brandon, I am so sorry for you, alive or dead.
Along with the rest of the nation, I was grieved to hear of the violent end to the life of little Brandon Muir. The news presenter described the ferocity of the attacks on his two -year old body. They also described the life lived by his prostitute heroin-addicted mother and showed scenes from around where she lived. The flats were grubby, dismal, sprayed with graffiti, windows boarded up. And I wondered about the kind of life he would have had, had he not been beaten to death. Another kind of death, I guess.
I felt ashamed that we allow people to live in these places and in such squalor. We have the means to improve things; where is our will?
Unfortunately, Brandon is by no means the first, nor the last little child to suffer in this way.
In My Day
In 1973 we were living in Brighton when the story of Maria Colwell broke. She was taken to the Royal Sussex Hospital in a pram, her little undersized 7-year old body a mass of bruises, her little stomach empty of food.
The hounds of recrimination were let loose. Social Services, not for the first or the last time, took all the brunt of the criticism and sweeping changes were promised.
At that time we were living at Belmont and Lizzie was a baby. The repercussions from the Maria Colwell case reverberated throughout Brighton for a long time, as we were to find out.
I suppose Lizzie was about twenty months old and we had commenced on the task of toilet training. This was not going well. Lizzie didn't really seem to want to understand what it was all about (with hindsight - how we worried as though it's not something all children learn to do eventually). On the evening in question, once Liz had been bathed we left her to trot about without a nappy, potty invitingly placed on the living room floor. Liz wasn't yet very steady on her feet and she suddenly fell in such a way that she landed, bottom down, on the potty. I picked up the screaming child and nearly screamed myself when I saw just how much blood was pouring from her little underneath.
We bundled her up and off to the the Royal Sussex A&E. As usual, they were busy. A tired intern prodded at Lizzie, rather scaring her, and said that she needed to see a paediatrician. As it was now nine at night, they had to call one in.
At about ten pm we were ushered into the presence of the paediatrician. He looked briefly at Lizzie's injury, then began to ask us a lot of personal questions. While he did this he looked all over Lizzie, testing her for fractures, bruises and other signs of abuse. I guess he was also looking for signs of intimidation. Fortunately, Lizzie, the pain forgotten, was at her sociable best, chattering to the consultant and trying to grab his stethoscope. Eventually he said "you're a nice little baby" and indicated that we could go. "And the injury?" we ventured. "Oh that," he said "Just keep it clean, it'll clear up in a day or two." Which it did.
While we understood the need for him to carry out this scrutiny, it's sad that all this still doesn't prevent the real tragedies from happening. Little Brandon, I am so sorry for you, alive or dead.
Sunday, March 01, 2009
Arty-farty
Today
V excited because a local restaurant has given me two walls on which to display my framed photos for sale. I really only started taking photos five years ago when Paul gave me a very nice small digital camera. I got into the habit of carrying it with me everywhere and discovered that I have quite an eye for a shot. I began to notice that I had bulging folders on my computer of photos (presently standing at about 11,000) and wondered what use to make of them.
When an acquaintance of ours produced a show of her photos mounted in cheap frames and charged a whole lot of money, I thought I could do better, so I did.
I use Photoshop to manipulate the images and do my own mounting and framing, so that the whole is properly presented.
The proprietor of the restaurant asked me to write a little bit about myself. Thinking that a blurb that ran "Well, Julia quite likes to take a few pictures with her very simple camera" lacked the right artistic gravitas, I've delved into my past and come up with a reference to my art school days.
In My Day
I may have said before that I was considered to be the "arty" one of the family. Well, someone had to fill the vacancy and I was the only one who couldn't keep away from paper and pencil.
Looking back, I do think that I drew quite well, but I also think that I lacked a real sense of design. It was Mamma or Chris who designed our cake layouts and Daddy who put together the Christmas cards. When I applied to St Martins Art College, David designed and made a very natty card viewer for some of my slides of my theatre designs. The college was much more fascinated by this than by my costumes.... And I never learnt to manipulate paint.
At college I learnt to sew and design clothes - a skill I still have, though only occasionally employed these days. But overall, I think my artistic ability has been much inflated within my family. The outside world, being more astute, paid me little attention. An eminent stage designer once came to assess and review our work while I was at Worthing college. He looked at my stage designs for "Rhinoceros", patted me on the head and told me to be sure to tell my children that Mummy had once been to art college. I'm still reeling from that multi-layered insult.
Although I trained to be an art and needlework teacher, I'm glad I didn't follow through as I've no idea how I would have sustained any creative flow long enough to be an inspiration to children.
I must say that, after a lifetime of working using just my brain, I really enjoy the physical act of creating the framework for my pictures. And at least I haven't sunk into the old-lady retirement habit of taking up water-colour painting.
V excited because a local restaurant has given me two walls on which to display my framed photos for sale. I really only started taking photos five years ago when Paul gave me a very nice small digital camera. I got into the habit of carrying it with me everywhere and discovered that I have quite an eye for a shot. I began to notice that I had bulging folders on my computer of photos (presently standing at about 11,000) and wondered what use to make of them.
When an acquaintance of ours produced a show of her photos mounted in cheap frames and charged a whole lot of money, I thought I could do better, so I did.
I use Photoshop to manipulate the images and do my own mounting and framing, so that the whole is properly presented.
The proprietor of the restaurant asked me to write a little bit about myself. Thinking that a blurb that ran "Well, Julia quite likes to take a few pictures with her very simple camera" lacked the right artistic gravitas, I've delved into my past and come up with a reference to my art school days.
In My Day
I may have said before that I was considered to be the "arty" one of the family. Well, someone had to fill the vacancy and I was the only one who couldn't keep away from paper and pencil.
Looking back, I do think that I drew quite well, but I also think that I lacked a real sense of design. It was Mamma or Chris who designed our cake layouts and Daddy who put together the Christmas cards. When I applied to St Martins Art College, David designed and made a very natty card viewer for some of my slides of my theatre designs. The college was much more fascinated by this than by my costumes.... And I never learnt to manipulate paint.
At college I learnt to sew and design clothes - a skill I still have, though only occasionally employed these days. But overall, I think my artistic ability has been much inflated within my family. The outside world, being more astute, paid me little attention. An eminent stage designer once came to assess and review our work while I was at Worthing college. He looked at my stage designs for "Rhinoceros", patted me on the head and told me to be sure to tell my children that Mummy had once been to art college. I'm still reeling from that multi-layered insult.
Although I trained to be an art and needlework teacher, I'm glad I didn't follow through as I've no idea how I would have sustained any creative flow long enough to be an inspiration to children.
I must say that, after a lifetime of working using just my brain, I really enjoy the physical act of creating the framework for my pictures. And at least I haven't sunk into the old-lady retirement habit of taking up water-colour painting.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
2nd Class
Today
As our financial situation strengthens, we've increased the standard that we apply to celebrations. None more than Valentine's where we now take it in turns to provide the feasting, thus adding a competitive element.
With this in mind Paul booked a weekend at our local posh hotel (The Charlton House) for the valentine weekend. We accepted that there'd be no dancing at looked forward to staying at this elegant hotel and being tourists in our own town.
What we weren't prepared for was the limited menu selection. In the past the CH has offered two menus; one veggie, the other standard and there has been variety, taste and excellent presentation.
The only veggie item on the main course menu was a warm salad of goat's cheese. I happen to dislike goat's cheese so the chef replaced it with some mozzarella. The meal itself was just put on the plate with no particular attention to presentation and style.
The next day I spoke to the duty manager "I really don't want to eat the same thing two days running", I said "can you help?" "Just ask and the chef will do what you want," she said airily.
This seemed too good to be true and it was. That night the waiter said that the menu changes daily and indeed it had with a hot main course containing - goat's cheese! I substituted a rather dull mozzarella salad instead. At least I didn't overeat.
In the morning we expressed our views. "This is hardly the cheapest place in town and the food was not only unimaginative, it was poorly presented. I feel like a second class citizen," I protested. They were very apologetic but I doubt whether anything will be done.
In My Day
Looking back I realise that I never much liked meat unless it was so overcooked or ersatz that it didn't really resemble meat.
By the time I was eighteen I had started to prefer to avoid meat altogether. When I worked as a waitress, the chef at one place was so appalled that I didn't eat meat that he gave me meaty food parcels to take home for the cat!
For quite a few years I hovered betwixt and between, sometimes, I think because I didn't really know how to cook appetising veggie meals. In my first year in Worthing I think I more or less lived on onion omelettes.
Paul gamely accepted whatever I cooked him; during the early vegetarian days that must have been far from easy.
So by the time we were at Rowan Avenue we were eating the full range of foods, meat and fish included. It was Becky who, at the age of four announced that she wasn't eating "dead animals" any more, that galvanised me into discovering the wonderful world of meat-free meals.
I trawl the cuisines of the world for amazing dishes and always pay attention to presentation, believing that we eat with our eyes as well at mouths.
While I fully accept that there are completely healthy people who never allow anything green past their lips, I secretly feel that meat is somehow unclean. What I don't feel is that I'm second class.
As our financial situation strengthens, we've increased the standard that we apply to celebrations. None more than Valentine's where we now take it in turns to provide the feasting, thus adding a competitive element.
With this in mind Paul booked a weekend at our local posh hotel (The Charlton House) for the valentine weekend. We accepted that there'd be no dancing at looked forward to staying at this elegant hotel and being tourists in our own town.
What we weren't prepared for was the limited menu selection. In the past the CH has offered two menus; one veggie, the other standard and there has been variety, taste and excellent presentation.
The only veggie item on the main course menu was a warm salad of goat's cheese. I happen to dislike goat's cheese so the chef replaced it with some mozzarella. The meal itself was just put on the plate with no particular attention to presentation and style.
The next day I spoke to the duty manager "I really don't want to eat the same thing two days running", I said "can you help?" "Just ask and the chef will do what you want," she said airily.
This seemed too good to be true and it was. That night the waiter said that the menu changes daily and indeed it had with a hot main course containing - goat's cheese! I substituted a rather dull mozzarella salad instead. At least I didn't overeat.
In the morning we expressed our views. "This is hardly the cheapest place in town and the food was not only unimaginative, it was poorly presented. I feel like a second class citizen," I protested. They were very apologetic but I doubt whether anything will be done.
In My Day
Looking back I realise that I never much liked meat unless it was so overcooked or ersatz that it didn't really resemble meat.
By the time I was eighteen I had started to prefer to avoid meat altogether. When I worked as a waitress, the chef at one place was so appalled that I didn't eat meat that he gave me meaty food parcels to take home for the cat!
For quite a few years I hovered betwixt and between, sometimes, I think because I didn't really know how to cook appetising veggie meals. In my first year in Worthing I think I more or less lived on onion omelettes.
Paul gamely accepted whatever I cooked him; during the early vegetarian days that must have been far from easy.
So by the time we were at Rowan Avenue we were eating the full range of foods, meat and fish included. It was Becky who, at the age of four announced that she wasn't eating "dead animals" any more, that galvanised me into discovering the wonderful world of meat-free meals.
I trawl the cuisines of the world for amazing dishes and always pay attention to presentation, believing that we eat with our eyes as well at mouths.
While I fully accept that there are completely healthy people who never allow anything green past their lips, I secretly feel that meat is somehow unclean. What I don't feel is that I'm second class.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
The Way Out
Today
The next generation in our family is coming on, thick and fast. Yesterday we met 4-week old Isaac. He's got unusual eyes; they're dark, possibly brown (I was sort of surprised not to see the usual blue) which are very focused. I kept expecting him to give me a proper smile.
His mother was feeling not too well, so we all took our turn to hold him and eventually he fell asleep in my arms for well over an hour. I hope his mum felt recharged.
His name was a subject for discussion before the birth with much playing around with possible names, but I hadn't heard this one suggested before. He still doesn't have a second name - but that's not, after all, mandatory.
"Do you realise", I said to Alice "that the name has a resonance for our family?"
In My Day
Daddy used to describe to us his early life; how, because of his father's drunkenness, he had to scratch a few pennies sweeping horse dung from the streets of London. How his mother scraped to send him to a better school (where he didn't last very long). How he was apprenticed to a book binders as a "glue boy". And, finally, how he spent his spare time at evening classes run, free, by the Society of Friends.
There he avidly learnt all he could: English grammar, Music, French and Pitman's Shorthand, invented by Sir Isaac Pitman.
Using his new skills of English and shorthand he blagged his way into a reporting job which led him to the dizzy heights of being senior reporter at Hansard.
Daddy used to try to teach us shorthand; I think I did learn some and have an idea that Chris became quite good at it. Around the house one sometimes came across spiral-bound notebooks containing pages of squiggles and dots. These were clear to Daddy (although he was sometimes a bit careless over the dots which represented vowels so that he might not be sure whether a word was"if" or "of", "spit" or "spot"), but made me feel illiterate when I looked at them.
I know that Mamma gave Daddy's notebooks, carefully kept, containing the recording of the abdication of Edward viii and the declaration of WW2, to the House of Commons archive.
Later on Daddy also taught shorthand at Pitman's college in Holborn in London. Perhaps understandably, he rather dreaded the introduction of tape recorders and would have been appalled at such things as voice recognition software; he'd have been straight out of a job.
Daddy was a fan of Pitman's shorthand all his life, keeping a bust of Sir Isaac in the house and decrying all other methods as inferior. And why not? Pitman's was his way out of the pit.
Yesterday everyone was admiring Isaac's lovely long fingers and predicting a musical career for him. Who knows? At least he's unlikely to have to claw his way out of the pit.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Knots
Today
Bought a rather nice pair of trousers at Mulberry yesterday. I tried them on this morning, but first had to remove the labels. This wasn't just a simple tag attached with one of those nasty little plastic things; there were three: a label giving the brand, one with size and price and a little envelope containing a spare button. They all had separate cords and were threaded through a little ribbon which appeared to have no other purpose than to be attached to by labels. (It explains why these clothes are so expensive - the full price of these trousers is £245, reduced to £88 - it's very labour-intensive.)
Anxious not to damage these in case I had to return the trousers as too small, I spent some time carefully disentangling the strings till they all came free.
Over the weekend a similar problem with the lovely emerald pendant Paul had given me; the fine chain had several knots in it. I popped on my specs and lit the lamp and fiddled until it was free.
Quite satisfying.
In My Day
I've always liked unravelling knots. I remember Mamma preparing to do knitting. Wool didn't come in ready-wound balls; it came in hanks which had to be turned into balls. I would sit there with one end of each hank around each wrist while Mamma made the ball. You couldn't lose concentration, either; if your wrists went slack, the whole process was halted. In fact, it was the only thing I ever mastered about knitting.
Mamma also had a "sewing box". This contained reels of thread, needles, lengths of embroidery silks, thimbles, darning mushrooms and the like. For reasons unknown it often became impossibly untidy. Perhaps when the lights were out they all had a party. Perhaps there are little gnomes that creep out and tangle everything up.
On dull days when I wanted to avoid having to go out and play in the cold, I'd take up this box and sort it all out. The reels of thread would be wound back up and the ends tucked into the little nick in the side designed for that purpose. Buttons would be sorted (that is, until Daddy put them all into little cough sweet tins labelled "Bunz - smarl" and other jokey titles - I still had some until recently).Then the coloured scraps of wool. Each would be wound using my elbow and space between thumb and finger. Then, saved till the last, the best. Sorting out the embroidery threads. Mamma used (as I still do when there's any embroidery to be done) stranded cotton which consisted of six threads twisted together. You could choose to use any thickness from one to six threads, the norm being three, and they were always in a hopeless muddle. I would start with one and carefully follow through the twists and turns, the unders and overs, until I had the full length. I'd twist it into a figure of eight, using my thumb and first finger. Then on to the next until there they were, all neatly sorted in colour gradations, ready for use.
I really enjoyed doing it - there was the occasional impossible knot which you just had to cut through - an analogy for life, I guess, or at least how I approach it.
I still have Mamma's darning mushrooms and have used them in anger.
Bought a rather nice pair of trousers at Mulberry yesterday. I tried them on this morning, but first had to remove the labels. This wasn't just a simple tag attached with one of those nasty little plastic things; there were three: a label giving the brand, one with size and price and a little envelope containing a spare button. They all had separate cords and were threaded through a little ribbon which appeared to have no other purpose than to be attached to by labels. (It explains why these clothes are so expensive - the full price of these trousers is £245, reduced to £88 - it's very labour-intensive.)
Anxious not to damage these in case I had to return the trousers as too small, I spent some time carefully disentangling the strings till they all came free.
Over the weekend a similar problem with the lovely emerald pendant Paul had given me; the fine chain had several knots in it. I popped on my specs and lit the lamp and fiddled until it was free.
Quite satisfying.
In My Day
I've always liked unravelling knots. I remember Mamma preparing to do knitting. Wool didn't come in ready-wound balls; it came in hanks which had to be turned into balls. I would sit there with one end of each hank around each wrist while Mamma made the ball. You couldn't lose concentration, either; if your wrists went slack, the whole process was halted. In fact, it was the only thing I ever mastered about knitting.
Mamma also had a "sewing box". This contained reels of thread, needles, lengths of embroidery silks, thimbles, darning mushrooms and the like. For reasons unknown it often became impossibly untidy. Perhaps when the lights were out they all had a party. Perhaps there are little gnomes that creep out and tangle everything up.
On dull days when I wanted to avoid having to go out and play in the cold, I'd take up this box and sort it all out. The reels of thread would be wound back up and the ends tucked into the little nick in the side designed for that purpose. Buttons would be sorted (that is, until Daddy put them all into little cough sweet tins labelled "Bunz - smarl" and other jokey titles - I still had some until recently).Then the coloured scraps of wool. Each would be wound using my elbow and space between thumb and finger. Then, saved till the last, the best. Sorting out the embroidery threads. Mamma used (as I still do when there's any embroidery to be done) stranded cotton which consisted of six threads twisted together. You could choose to use any thickness from one to six threads, the norm being three, and they were always in a hopeless muddle. I would start with one and carefully follow through the twists and turns, the unders and overs, until I had the full length. I'd twist it into a figure of eight, using my thumb and first finger. Then on to the next until there they were, all neatly sorted in colour gradations, ready for use.
I really enjoyed doing it - there was the occasional impossible knot which you just had to cut through - an analogy for life, I guess, or at least how I approach it.
I still have Mamma's darning mushrooms and have used them in anger.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Goggle-box
Today
Paul spends a fair bit of his time these days grumbling about the quality of TV, at least freeview TV. And he has a point. Along with deadly reality TV shows in which attention-starved individuals parade their failings in front of the viewing public, we have seemingly endless quiz and game shows, talent contests and soap operas. There are dreadful Japanese and American cartoon shows (and even the Simpsons are getting a little stale by now) and shows giving celebrities (some of whom really ought to be older and wiser) plenty of opportunities of making prats of themselves. There seems to be little new drama and much of the day is given over to repeats of old dramas, especially crime and police. Although I admit to a weakness for "The X Factor", Strictly Come Dancing" and "CSI".
And it may look like we have 999 channels to choose from but actually most programmes are duplicated about 20 times.
So we have a beautiful LCD, digital, HD-ready TV and all we really watch is the News and The Bill. "I've a good mind to stop paying for a licence," said Paul "There's nothing worth watching."
And they say that British TV is the best in the World which doesn't say much for the rest.
In My Day
It is, of course, possible to live life without a TV at all. Our friends the Lovells brought up their 6 children without TV and their eldest boy was officially "Britain's Brightest" after he got 12 a* grades in his GCSE's a few years back. The newspapers made a fair bit out of the fact that there was no TV in the house.
I was brought up without TV. We had a radio and I wasted a good deal of my time listening to such intellectually stimulating shows as "Ray's a Laugh" "Round the Horne" and "The Clitheroe Kid". And later I listened to Radio Caroline.
I did occasionally get to see a TV; our upstairs neighbours, the Evanses had one and sometimes I was invited up to watch "Andy Pandy" "Bill & Ben" and "Muffin the Mule". Puts the Tellytubbies to shame, really. And I think we watched the coronation on television.
I can't now remember whether Mamma and Daddy had any objection to telly or whether it was simply not regarded as a priority. It did, however, mean that we spent a lot of our time reading or pursuing hobbies, which is arguably better at developing the mind. Long evenings were enlivened with various games: Consequences, Hangman, Just a Minute (well, our version of it), definitions, as well as the more ordinary board games.
I recall one Sunday evening when we were all at home, sitting by the fire reading. The room was deadly quiet. Suddenly Daddy put down his book and told us to put down ours, He then asked us each to give a resume of what we'd been reading to the rest of the family. It was undoubtedly good for our brains to do this, but he could equally well have played the same game over our favourite TV shows. So I don't think I can lay claim to a superior intellect by virtue of not having TV.
Paul and I didn't really get a permanent TV, other than of a very scrappy variety, until about 1989. Although I remember Beatrice hiring one in time for the 1978 Olympics and us all much enjoying TISWAS on Saturday mornings, the chief feature of which seemed to be the chucking of buckets of water over caged-up students.
What I find disturbing is that Paul, who was brought up with TV, has a photographic memory for all the early advertising jingles and is prone to start singing them if I don't put a stop to it.
Paul spends a fair bit of his time these days grumbling about the quality of TV, at least freeview TV. And he has a point. Along with deadly reality TV shows in which attention-starved individuals parade their failings in front of the viewing public, we have seemingly endless quiz and game shows, talent contests and soap operas. There are dreadful Japanese and American cartoon shows (and even the Simpsons are getting a little stale by now) and shows giving celebrities (some of whom really ought to be older and wiser) plenty of opportunities of making prats of themselves. There seems to be little new drama and much of the day is given over to repeats of old dramas, especially crime and police. Although I admit to a weakness for "The X Factor", Strictly Come Dancing" and "CSI".
And it may look like we have 999 channels to choose from but actually most programmes are duplicated about 20 times.
So we have a beautiful LCD, digital, HD-ready TV and all we really watch is the News and The Bill. "I've a good mind to stop paying for a licence," said Paul "There's nothing worth watching."
And they say that British TV is the best in the World which doesn't say much for the rest.
In My Day
It is, of course, possible to live life without a TV at all. Our friends the Lovells brought up their 6 children without TV and their eldest boy was officially "Britain's Brightest" after he got 12 a* grades in his GCSE's a few years back. The newspapers made a fair bit out of the fact that there was no TV in the house.
I was brought up without TV. We had a radio and I wasted a good deal of my time listening to such intellectually stimulating shows as "Ray's a Laugh" "Round the Horne" and "The Clitheroe Kid". And later I listened to Radio Caroline.
I did occasionally get to see a TV; our upstairs neighbours, the Evanses had one and sometimes I was invited up to watch "Andy Pandy" "Bill & Ben" and "Muffin the Mule". Puts the Tellytubbies to shame, really. And I think we watched the coronation on television.
I can't now remember whether Mamma and Daddy had any objection to telly or whether it was simply not regarded as a priority. It did, however, mean that we spent a lot of our time reading or pursuing hobbies, which is arguably better at developing the mind. Long evenings were enlivened with various games: Consequences, Hangman, Just a Minute (well, our version of it), definitions, as well as the more ordinary board games.
I recall one Sunday evening when we were all at home, sitting by the fire reading. The room was deadly quiet. Suddenly Daddy put down his book and told us to put down ours, He then asked us each to give a resume of what we'd been reading to the rest of the family. It was undoubtedly good for our brains to do this, but he could equally well have played the same game over our favourite TV shows. So I don't think I can lay claim to a superior intellect by virtue of not having TV.
Paul and I didn't really get a permanent TV, other than of a very scrappy variety, until about 1989. Although I remember Beatrice hiring one in time for the 1978 Olympics and us all much enjoying TISWAS on Saturday mornings, the chief feature of which seemed to be the chucking of buckets of water over caged-up students.
What I find disturbing is that Paul, who was brought up with TV, has a photographic memory for all the early advertising jingles and is prone to start singing them if I don't put a stop to it.
Saturday, February 07, 2009
Tummy
Today
Woke up feeling a little bit queasy this morning. We'd been to visit friends the evening before, all of whom over the past couple of weeks, have had a version of a rather enduring tummy bug. Just hope I haven't caught it.
I'm not very often subject to bouts of tummy problems and since we don't have small children or much contact with them, we aren't usually affected by circulating infections.
However, I drank some tea and water and ate some toast and feel rather better now.
"There's usually only one explanation when a piece of toast makes you feel better!" I said to Paul.
In My Day
Working full-time as well as bringing up 2 children was quite a struggle. While, in my fantasies I always imagined having 5 daughters, rather like Mrs Bennett, I knew that would put me under absurd pressure.
So I was determined to stick at 2, so had been fitted with a "copper 7" IUD.
In the autumn of 1978, Beatrice was living with us at Rowan Avenue, following her Canadian adventure. Liz was 6 and Becky about 15 months old.
Paul must have been on earlies that Sunday morning; certainly he wasn't in the house when Beatrice brought in my morning tea. "Ooh!" said I, as I sat up "I feel a bit sick." I drank my tea and nibbled on a Rich Tea biscuit. "I feel better now", I said and clapped my hand to my mouth, unwilling to believe the most likely explanation for this phenomenon.
But it was true. A quick jaunt to the doctor made it clear that baby number 3 was on the way. The doctor, in all serious kindness, said that, as the contraception offered by the NHS had failed me, the NHS would also provide an abortion if I so wished. I considered and decided that, although it would be a struggle, I could manage and find the love for number 3.
The midwife told me many cheery tales of beautiful babies born clutching the IUDs in their fists, the queasiness wore off and we told people the news. I told Chris and lamented the fact that I'd just sold a lot of Becky's baby stuff. Soon a £50 Mothercare voucher (£50 was a fair bit) arrived from my sweet and generous brother.
Christmas was approaching and we went to Portsmouth to pay an Xmas visit to friends of ours. As part of the festivities we were invited to join them at the local college bash where barn-dancing was on offer. Great! I did my fair share of dosey-doing and had a good time.
In the morning. I awoke to a puddle of blood. I stayed where I was while Paul sorted out our stuff and got me into the car and whizzed back home as soon as possible.
But it was too late. I called Chris "Thank you so much for the voucher, but there isn't going to be a baby", I told him. "Go spend it on Xmas pressies for the girls", he kindly said. Which I did with Paul, that very same day, buying a little trike for Becky and a dressing gown and duvet for Lizzie, the busy-ness of the shopping taking my mind off the pain.
Some time afterwards, Paul asked me whether I'd like to have a baby anyway. I said no, not having really changed my mind about 2 children and full-time working being enough, and he went and made the final sacrifice.
Every once in a while I wonder about number 3; son, or daughter? and what changes that would have brought to our life.
Right now, however, I'm fairly certain that it's a few short nights and some Cloudy Bay that are responsible for the twirly tummy.
Woke up feeling a little bit queasy this morning. We'd been to visit friends the evening before, all of whom over the past couple of weeks, have had a version of a rather enduring tummy bug. Just hope I haven't caught it.
I'm not very often subject to bouts of tummy problems and since we don't have small children or much contact with them, we aren't usually affected by circulating infections.
However, I drank some tea and water and ate some toast and feel rather better now.
"There's usually only one explanation when a piece of toast makes you feel better!" I said to Paul.
In My Day
Working full-time as well as bringing up 2 children was quite a struggle. While, in my fantasies I always imagined having 5 daughters, rather like Mrs Bennett, I knew that would put me under absurd pressure.
So I was determined to stick at 2, so had been fitted with a "copper 7" IUD.
In the autumn of 1978, Beatrice was living with us at Rowan Avenue, following her Canadian adventure. Liz was 6 and Becky about 15 months old.
Paul must have been on earlies that Sunday morning; certainly he wasn't in the house when Beatrice brought in my morning tea. "Ooh!" said I, as I sat up "I feel a bit sick." I drank my tea and nibbled on a Rich Tea biscuit. "I feel better now", I said and clapped my hand to my mouth, unwilling to believe the most likely explanation for this phenomenon.
But it was true. A quick jaunt to the doctor made it clear that baby number 3 was on the way. The doctor, in all serious kindness, said that, as the contraception offered by the NHS had failed me, the NHS would also provide an abortion if I so wished. I considered and decided that, although it would be a struggle, I could manage and find the love for number 3.
The midwife told me many cheery tales of beautiful babies born clutching the IUDs in their fists, the queasiness wore off and we told people the news. I told Chris and lamented the fact that I'd just sold a lot of Becky's baby stuff. Soon a £50 Mothercare voucher (£50 was a fair bit) arrived from my sweet and generous brother.
Christmas was approaching and we went to Portsmouth to pay an Xmas visit to friends of ours. As part of the festivities we were invited to join them at the local college bash where barn-dancing was on offer. Great! I did my fair share of dosey-doing and had a good time.
In the morning. I awoke to a puddle of blood. I stayed where I was while Paul sorted out our stuff and got me into the car and whizzed back home as soon as possible.
But it was too late. I called Chris "Thank you so much for the voucher, but there isn't going to be a baby", I told him. "Go spend it on Xmas pressies for the girls", he kindly said. Which I did with Paul, that very same day, buying a little trike for Becky and a dressing gown and duvet for Lizzie, the busy-ness of the shopping taking my mind off the pain.
Some time afterwards, Paul asked me whether I'd like to have a baby anyway. I said no, not having really changed my mind about 2 children and full-time working being enough, and he went and made the final sacrifice.
Every once in a while I wonder about number 3; son, or daughter? and what changes that would have brought to our life.
Right now, however, I'm fairly certain that it's a few short nights and some Cloudy Bay that are responsible for the twirly tummy.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Stockpile
Today
Went shopping at the supermarket today. It was a mixture of the usual essential top-up and getting in food for tonight's dinner with my brother and wife.
"Karen likes her G&Ts," I said to Paul "We're alright for tonic, aren't we?" "Well, I opened one during the week," he said "so I'm not sure". I said that I thought I'd seen some bottles lined up in the utility room, but decided not to interfere.
Later, in the pharmacy aisle I saw Paul clutching a pack of Paracetamol. "You are joking, aren't you?" I said "we've enough packets in the bathroom to sink the proverbial." Again I didn't argue and they were duly bought.
The fact is, I should know by now, that when Paul tells me we're a bit short on something, I'll return home to discover a bulging cupboard of this particular item. We even have a name for it "The glass cleaner syndrome" relating to a time when Paul seemed to find it necessary to top on this item until we had approximately ten bottles of the stuff.
Paul says that his anxiety dates back to the great toilet roll shortage of 1974-5, but I think that's just an excuse.
In My Day
I do like a nice full store cupboard, it's true. When I was a child, nearly all of the shopping was done locally, with Mamma walking up to the shops about a mile away and walking back with three or four laden carrier bags. These bags were made of paper with string handles and I can remember Mamma showing us the weals on her hands from the weight of the bags when she got home. Greengroceries were delivered, I believe. Sometimes we'd go on the bus to Crystal Palace to buy items or to the Surrey Street market in Croydon (I remember the cabbage leaves lying in the gutters).
So it must have been quite hard to set up and maintain a store cupboard. However, we did, with things like flour, cocoa, dried and crystallised fruit, packet soup mix, tinned fruit, salad cream and luncheon meat. I often wonder how it differs from mine, with its sun dried tomatoes, tins of dolmades, olive oils and balsamic vinegars, packets of pasta, several types of rice and a full range of Indian spices.
Somethings are truly not the same today as they were then; the crystallised fruits that Mamma bought were great slices of citrus peel with lumps of faintly orangey sugar stuck to them (which we'd eat if we could get our hands on them). I only ever see ready-chopped peel these days and it looks so unappetisingly mingy that I often avoid it in recipes altogether.
After we got home with the shopping I checked and told Paul that we have enough Paracetamol in the bathroom, not counting what we'd bought today or what might be in other rooms or handbags, to cure 28 headaches or level one hangovers.
Went shopping at the supermarket today. It was a mixture of the usual essential top-up and getting in food for tonight's dinner with my brother and wife.
"Karen likes her G&Ts," I said to Paul "We're alright for tonic, aren't we?" "Well, I opened one during the week," he said "so I'm not sure". I said that I thought I'd seen some bottles lined up in the utility room, but decided not to interfere.
Later, in the pharmacy aisle I saw Paul clutching a pack of Paracetamol. "You are joking, aren't you?" I said "we've enough packets in the bathroom to sink the proverbial." Again I didn't argue and they were duly bought.
The fact is, I should know by now, that when Paul tells me we're a bit short on something, I'll return home to discover a bulging cupboard of this particular item. We even have a name for it "The glass cleaner syndrome" relating to a time when Paul seemed to find it necessary to top on this item until we had approximately ten bottles of the stuff.
Paul says that his anxiety dates back to the great toilet roll shortage of 1974-5, but I think that's just an excuse.
In My Day
I do like a nice full store cupboard, it's true. When I was a child, nearly all of the shopping was done locally, with Mamma walking up to the shops about a mile away and walking back with three or four laden carrier bags. These bags were made of paper with string handles and I can remember Mamma showing us the weals on her hands from the weight of the bags when she got home. Greengroceries were delivered, I believe. Sometimes we'd go on the bus to Crystal Palace to buy items or to the Surrey Street market in Croydon (I remember the cabbage leaves lying in the gutters).
So it must have been quite hard to set up and maintain a store cupboard. However, we did, with things like flour, cocoa, dried and crystallised fruit, packet soup mix, tinned fruit, salad cream and luncheon meat. I often wonder how it differs from mine, with its sun dried tomatoes, tins of dolmades, olive oils and balsamic vinegars, packets of pasta, several types of rice and a full range of Indian spices.
Somethings are truly not the same today as they were then; the crystallised fruits that Mamma bought were great slices of citrus peel with lumps of faintly orangey sugar stuck to them (which we'd eat if we could get our hands on them). I only ever see ready-chopped peel these days and it looks so unappetisingly mingy that I often avoid it in recipes altogether.
After we got home with the shopping I checked and told Paul that we have enough Paracetamol in the bathroom, not counting what we'd bought today or what might be in other rooms or handbags, to cure 28 headaches or level one hangovers.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Blue Twist
Today
Had a very nice lunch at the City Arms in Wells with the girls, nephew and friend. Having kidded the waitress about the origins of the steel bolts in the dining tables we then updated her on the new Walkers Crisp flavours.
Becky had come fresh from organising the PR event at which these were revealed and arrived with a bin-liner full of packets of the new-flavoured crisps. Apparently, in credit-starved Britain we are all desperate for new crisp sensations. Salt 'n' vinegar, BBQ'd beef and prawn cocktail flavours are just not enough for our sated senses.
No, we need Builder's Breakfast flavour (with or without black pudding, we wanted to know) or Onion Bhaji flavour (fully endorsed by the Indian Restaurant confederation).
While I'm sceptical about the value of Chili 'n' Chocolate, Cajun Squirrel does at least have the merit of originality.
In My day
I've talked before in this blog about whether we have too much in the way of choice and crisps are a case in point. When I was a child I simply remember Smith's Crisps. The
y came in a white bag with a very nice diamond-shaped design on the front in red and blue.
There were two flavours of crisp; all contained in the one bag. The crisps were plain, unsalted and had the skins still on. Inside the bag was another smaller bag. Well, actually, it was a little screw of blue paper. This contained salt and you could (if you wanted) untwist it and shake exactly as much salt as you wanted over your crisps. I'm told by those in the know, that, no matter how careful you were, it was impossible to get the salt evenly distributed; there always being a residue of oversalted crisps at the bottom.
I preferred mine au naturel and never undid those little screws of paper.
I remember making crisp sandwiches, a nutritious snack of white bread, butter and crisps. Delicious!
Only later was this purity polluted by other brands of crisps and such taste travesties as ready salted (extra salted in pubs so you would drink more beer) cheese and onion, crinkle cut crisps and, the final horror, low-fat crisps. Well, the whole point of a crisp is its golden fried quality and low-fat crisps taste like cardboard.
Anyway, Becky has promised us a blind crisp tasting this evening. Crispy duck and Hoi-sin sauce, anyone?
Had a very nice lunch at the City Arms in Wells with the girls, nephew and friend. Having kidded the waitress about the origins of the steel bolts in the dining tables we then updated her on the new Walkers Crisp flavours.
Becky had come fresh from organising the PR event at which these were revealed and arrived with a bin-liner full of packets of the new-flavoured crisps. Apparently, in credit-starved Britain we are all desperate for new crisp sensations. Salt 'n' vinegar, BBQ'd beef and prawn cocktail flavours are just not enough for our sated senses.
No, we need Builder's Breakfast flavour (with or without black pudding, we wanted to know) or Onion Bhaji flavour (fully endorsed by the Indian Restaurant confederation).
While I'm sceptical about the value of Chili 'n' Chocolate, Cajun Squirrel does at least have the merit of originality.
In My day
I've talked before in this blog about whether we have too much in the way of choice and crisps are a case in point. When I was a child I simply remember Smith's Crisps. The
y came in a white bag with a very nice diamond-shaped design on the front in red and blue.There were two flavours of crisp; all contained in the one bag. The crisps were plain, unsalted and had the skins still on. Inside the bag was another smaller bag. Well, actually, it was a little screw of blue paper. This contained salt and you could (if you wanted) untwist it and shake exactly as much salt as you wanted over your crisps. I'm told by those in the know, that, no matter how careful you were, it was impossible to get the salt evenly distributed; there always being a residue of oversalted crisps at the bottom.
I preferred mine au naturel and never undid those little screws of paper.
I remember making crisp sandwiches, a nutritious snack of white bread, butter and crisps. Delicious!
Only later was this purity polluted by other brands of crisps and such taste travesties as ready salted (extra salted in pubs so you would drink more beer) cheese and onion, crinkle cut crisps and, the final horror, low-fat crisps. Well, the whole point of a crisp is its golden fried quality and low-fat crisps taste like cardboard.
Anyway, Becky has promised us a blind crisp tasting this evening. Crispy duck and Hoi-sin sauce, anyone?
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Here's looking at you
Today
It's no good; I've reached that point where I need spectacles to look for my spectacles. The other day I'd put them down while applying my makeup and was actually driving up the Close before I realised I hadn't got them. And it was quite a job searching for them among my makeup brushes and other debris.
I wear varifocals which are great for almost everything except walking downstairs. Then the focal lengths are the wrong way round so I either walk down peering at my feet like an old lady (which I guess I am) or I take them off, which necessitates another search for them.
I'm not a candidate for varifocal contact lenses (apparently one lens is close and one distance) because my two eyes are so different.
Paul surprised an old friend of ours the other day by telling him that I barely see out of the left eye. I suppose I have to be glad that it isn't obvious.
In My Day
I have what is known as a "lazy eye". I'm not certain that I like this morally-laden way of describing it as though it could see better if only it just stopped lazing around, sipping margaritas. It affects my left eye only. Mamma always thought that it was as a result of my having an infection in my eyelashes on that side when I was very little, although various ophthalmic experts have disagreed with this.
What it means is that my brain simply doesn't respond to signals from the eye, which is quite OK in itself.
When I was little the first solution suggested by the NHS was that I wear an eye patch over the good eye and a very smart pair of pink wire-framed glasses (I've an idea they eventually became considered quite cool by certain people during the sartorially challenged '70s). The plan was that this therapy would force the only available eye to get off its backside and do some work.
Perhaps this might have worked if I hadn't pulled the eyepatch off whenever no-one was looking and succeeded in "accidentally" breaking those oh-so-cool glasses at an early stage. Somehow Mamma, who was fairly laissez-faire in some matters, never took me back to be prescribed more. (What would be the point? I'd only lose them again.)
What was curable, suggested the medics, was my squint. It was actually only a slight cast to the left, but we were all agreed that it detracted from my undeniable beauty. The cause, we were told, was a tightening of the muscle to the left of the eye. Cut that and give it a chance to grow back straight and all would be well.
So, when I was ten, I was booked into King's College Hospital in Camberwell for the operation. I remember being on a normal surgical ward and being rather a mascot among the other, adult patients. I remember coming round after the op and being very sick, bringing up some orange juice. Mamma came to visit and brought me a new and cute nightie which had a pattern of alarm clocks on it. My eye felt very sore and I was taught how to make and given the responsibility for administering a saline solution.
The eye soon recovered, as did the squint,and those that love me even today know when I'm feeling tired or stressed as my eye wanders off portside.
At one time Beatrice and I performed a folk-song together _ "The Drummer and the One-eyed Cook". Strange that it was Beatrice who played the cook!
Anyway, I hate wearing specs and not even the classiest fashion mags in the world will ever convince me that glasses look stylish.
It's no good; I've reached that point where I need spectacles to look for my spectacles. The other day I'd put them down while applying my makeup and was actually driving up the Close before I realised I hadn't got them. And it was quite a job searching for them among my makeup brushes and other debris.
I wear varifocals which are great for almost everything except walking downstairs. Then the focal lengths are the wrong way round so I either walk down peering at my feet like an old lady (which I guess I am) or I take them off, which necessitates another search for them.
I'm not a candidate for varifocal contact lenses (apparently one lens is close and one distance) because my two eyes are so different.
Paul surprised an old friend of ours the other day by telling him that I barely see out of the left eye. I suppose I have to be glad that it isn't obvious.
In My Day
I have what is known as a "lazy eye". I'm not certain that I like this morally-laden way of describing it as though it could see better if only it just stopped lazing around, sipping margaritas. It affects my left eye only. Mamma always thought that it was as a result of my having an infection in my eyelashes on that side when I was very little, although various ophthalmic experts have disagreed with this.
What it means is that my brain simply doesn't respond to signals from the eye, which is quite OK in itself.
When I was little the first solution suggested by the NHS was that I wear an eye patch over the good eye and a very smart pair of pink wire-framed glasses (I've an idea they eventually became considered quite cool by certain people during the sartorially challenged '70s). The plan was that this therapy would force the only available eye to get off its backside and do some work.
Perhaps this might have worked if I hadn't pulled the eyepatch off whenever no-one was looking and succeeded in "accidentally" breaking those oh-so-cool glasses at an early stage. Somehow Mamma, who was fairly laissez-faire in some matters, never took me back to be prescribed more. (What would be the point? I'd only lose them again.)
What was curable, suggested the medics, was my squint. It was actually only a slight cast to the left, but we were all agreed that it detracted from my undeniable beauty. The cause, we were told, was a tightening of the muscle to the left of the eye. Cut that and give it a chance to grow back straight and all would be well.
So, when I was ten, I was booked into King's College Hospital in Camberwell for the operation. I remember being on a normal surgical ward and being rather a mascot among the other, adult patients. I remember coming round after the op and being very sick, bringing up some orange juice. Mamma came to visit and brought me a new and cute nightie which had a pattern of alarm clocks on it. My eye felt very sore and I was taught how to make and given the responsibility for administering a saline solution.
The eye soon recovered, as did the squint,and those that love me even today know when I'm feeling tired or stressed as my eye wanders off portside.
At one time Beatrice and I performed a folk-song together _ "The Drummer and the One-eyed Cook". Strange that it was Beatrice who played the cook!
Anyway, I hate wearing specs and not even the classiest fashion mags in the world will ever convince me that glasses look stylish.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Fa la la la la, Fa la la la
Today
When I told David that I was singing madrigals he press-ganged me (fairly willing I was) into joining a group with the catchy title of The Byrdian Society. This was a tiny madrigal group that he and his friend Gregory had created in an attempt to raise funds for the local preservation society. In fact, it was so small that I was the third member. We found a second soprano and alto and were all set.
It's not really surprising that I'm feeling croaky. I've just returned from my annual weekend at Halsway Manor in the Quantocks. Each year, The Laetare Singers, a group of about 60 like-minded singers, get together with a conductor for a weekend of singing and socialising. 
This weekend our conductors David and Libby took us from the lush passion of the Cardosa Requiem through Parry's Songs of Farewell to arrangements of African singing.
As if that wasn't enough, each evening after supper we gathered in the lounge bar with its beautiful fire and sang together informally. sacred motets, songs, anthems and, of course, madrigals.
A lot of the time we were rather Can Belto but occasionally we managed to tap into the breathtaking beauty of the works, despite, or maybe because of having a book in one hand and glass of wine in the other.
In My Day
The first proper madrigal I ever sang was "April is in my Mistress' Face". Beatrice and I can still sing our parts without music. Earlier blogs will show how amazed I was to discover madrigals when I first went to grammar school. From the 5th form onwards I was a member of the madrigal group and really enjoyed our singing.
When I told David that I was singing madrigals he press-ganged me (fairly willing I was) into joining a group with the catchy title of The Byrdian Society. This was a tiny madrigal group that he and his friend Gregory had created in an attempt to raise funds for the local preservation society. In fact, it was so small that I was the third member. We found a second soprano and alto and were all set.
We sang a wide range of madrigals and as the only voice on my part for most of the time it was an initiation into sight reading of the most drastic kind. I don't think our marketing was very good and we often performed to audiences of fewer than ten. A high spot was a Christmas concert given at 4 Beulah. We sang medieval carols and Mamma served mulled wine, mince pies and turkey sandwiches. And we had a full house of about twenty five.
Gregory also was choirmaster at a small Catholic church in West Norwood. The church itself looked like a warehouse and the congregation was mostly Italian and Irish immigrants. But every week they had a full polyphonic mass. We once gave a concert to a skeleton audience in which I sang Allegri's Miserere, complete with top C's.
Thanks to my school and Gregory, I am able to sight-read complex polyphonic works without a scrap of more than the most basic musical knowledge.
But I do think it's a hot drink and early night tonight.
Sunday, January 04, 2009
Blast Off
Today
We all had sparklers which we loved to whirl around to write our names in the air.
More on our New Year adventures in Amalfi. The trip wasn't just confined to wine-tastings, of course. There was also much feasting and enjoyment of the beautiful coast which the Italians, even with their tendency to overdevelop their assets, can't spoil.
We were let into the secrets of Limoncello production, saw a bookbinding demonstration and went by boat to Positano where we none of us got further than the sea front restaurants. We ate all kinds of meals from the fantastic to the mundane and enjoyed an appallingly badly organised concert at the Duomo. We wondered at the frequent but apparently random firing of guns or cannons in Amalfi.
Of course, New Year's Eve was the high spot. We celebrated this at our hotel, the Luna Convento, a former convent perched on the cliffs to the West of Amalfi.
We put on our glad rags and joined the rest for a fair-to-middling dinner. There was plenty of good wine, however, champagne, and good company.
As midnight sounded we gathered on the terrace as the fireworks started. Not confined to Amalfi; the hillsides spluttered, glowed and exploded with all types of fireworks. The ground rocked. Fireworks careered heavenwards out of the sea (how did they do that?) and the harbour wall was a constant flurry of rockets and displays of all types. And there were bangs emanating from everywhere.
I'm a complete sucker for this kind of thing and go "ooh" and "aah" with no embarrassment at all.
In My Day
When we were children, we always celebrated Guy Fawkes night. Our huge untamed Victorian garden was just p
erfect for this. The fire would be built up over the preceding weeks and a Guy made out of old shirts, trousers and socks and stuffed with newspaper. I don't think that our Guys would ever have earned us many pennies as I don't think this was an area in which our creativity shone.
erfect for this. The fire would be built up over the preceding weeks and a Guy made out of old shirts, trousers and socks and stuffed with newspaper. I don't think that our Guys would ever have earned us many pennies as I don't think this was an area in which our creativity shone. Daddy always bought plenty of fireworks; selection boxes and extra rockets. Chris seemed to have a preference for bangers and firecrackers which leapt about unpredictably around your feet.
We all had sparklers which we loved to whirl around to write our names in the air.
Idon't think that I was ever allowed to light the fireworks themselves; that seemed to be a boy-thing. I'm sure that reasonable safety was observed, but Daddy certainly didn't make a big thing out of it. Rockets were placed in milk bottles and whirred and hissed around our heads, releasing sparks, coloured stars and spangles. Roman Candles gave us deliciously unexpected pops of colour; I couldn't decide whether I preferred the Golden or silver rain and "traffic lights" were fun with their red, green and amber. Daddy never quite got the knack of Catherine Wheels (whoever thought up that cruel name?), which only occasionally spun round when they should. We sent up a cheer when they succeeded.
The event was utterly satisfying, celebrating Winter and darkness and giving us a splendid stepping stone to Christmas.
We decided to have a few home fireworks at home on Christmas Day last year. Were they really not as good as they used to be, or were my expectations too rooted in childhood fantasy?
The event was utterly satisfying, celebrating Winter and darkness and giving us a splendid stepping stone to Christmas.
We decided to have a few home fireworks at home on Christmas Day last year. Were they really not as good as they used to be, or were my expectations too rooted in childhood fantasy?
Hitch-hiker
Today
As usual, Christmas and New Year have flashed past. Paul and I decided to spend New Year (including, of course, my birthday) with Arblaster & Clarke in Amalfi.
We and about 25 other like-minded people visited Campanian wineries, sampled wines from unfamiliar grapes such as Fiano and Aglianico, and learnt that the vine stock in Campania, alone out of almost all Europe is not susceptible to Phylloxera, which wiped out the rest of our wine stock.
The wineries were quite modern with much stainless steel and computerised temperature control, which contrasted with the craggy mountain scenery. We were taken by coach (driven by the imperturbable Grazziano) from Amalfi to Furore. This was only 20 kilometres but, along the twisty roads, the drive took well over an hour.
The hills stretched above and below us. Every inch, in true Italian fashion, was utilised, with vines, olives, vegetables, tennis courts, hotels and dwellings. We were told that there were also sheep on the hills although I didn't see any, and that many people planted beans and potatoes in the soil beneath their vines, thus maximising the use of each bit of soil and preventing the soil from becoming depleted.
"Only the Italians could name a place Furore, meaning "frenzy", " I said to Paul. "But I remember this road."
In My Day
In 1969 my friend Angela and I decided that the way to spend the Summer was to hitch-hike our way around Europe. The rest of the world's young people were doing it and what could possibly go wrong?
We set off, with backpacks, £40 each, a map of Europe and high hopes. In our studenty and egalitarian innocence we had simply not reckoned with the view that many European males would have of two girls on the road without protection.
As we worked our way through France and Italy we had to fend off all kinds of approaches, from the furtive to the dangerous and outrageous. The man who offered us a lift a little way from Florence on the way to Rome offered to take us the whole way if I'd have sex with him. When I refused he simply threw us both out onto the Autostrada.
So, by the time we were preparing to leave Rome, heading for Naples, we were prickly with suspicion. Outside the Hostel at Rome another student was offering lifts to Naples. We decided to accept, sizing him up as harmless and, anyway, much smaller than us.
We hopped into the car. Our driver didn't speak much English and I had only pidgin Italian. We both had reasonably good French. Angela refused to try anything but English so I got into the front and chatted about this and that in an amicable fashion as we sped along the autostrada.
As we approached Naples there was a division in the road "Napoli" one way, "Bari" the other. Our driver confidently took the Bari exit. Now, Bari is an East Coast port, nowhere near Naples. I asked the driver what the hell he was doing.
He protested "I'm just popping home to pick up a few clothes and see my Mama. Then I'll take you wherever you wish." Was he one of the stealth seducers? I suggested he pull the other one and said I was fed up with stupid men who thought we were for up for anything and couldn't keep their trousers on. I called him every name I could think of in every language I could muster.
Angela, squirmed in the back seat. "DO something, Julia"! she said. I said that a) there was one of him, two of us, b) we were a good deal larger than he, c) we were on the autostrada.
Soon after, the driver turned off up a side roads and twisted and turned up the mountainside till he reached a small hilltop town. He stopped outside a shop, got out of the car and entered, calling out, "Mama!". I began to blush with embarrassment.
But it was true. He took us into the shop and introduced us to his mother, a typical Italian "potato" lady, dressed in black. We were made welcome and taken into a vast dining room that looked like a furniture store (perhaps it was; our marble table was covered in plastic). There a huge meal was prepared and put in front of us. Angela looked at it in horror. "I can't eat all that!" she said. "You eat every mouthful", I hissed, "You don't know the names I've called her son!"
When we had finished and said our thanks and farewells, we got back in the car and were treated to the most amazing drive along the Amalfi coast, all the way to Sorrento. There was less traffic then than there is now and I expect the road was less good, too. I gazed enraptured and appalled at the vertiginous mountain, covered with vineyards, olive and lemon trees. I apologised to our driver, explaining that we had had some rather funny times and he was very gracious.
We stopped at Sorrento and decided that this was as good as it got and never made it to Naples.
Our patient driver, a medical student in Rome, was called Dante and it did seem churlish, as we sat in the harbour overlooking the hazy sea toward Capri, not at least to reward him with a kiss.
As usual, Christmas and New Year have flashed past. Paul and I decided to spend New Year (including, of course, my birthday) with Arblaster & Clarke in Amalfi.
We and about 25 other like-minded people visited Campanian wineries, sampled wines from unfamiliar grapes such as Fiano and Aglianico, and learnt that the vine stock in Campania, alone out of almost all Europe is not susceptible to Phylloxera, which wiped out the rest of our wine stock.
The wineries were quite modern with much stainless steel and computerised temperature control, which contrasted with the craggy mountain scenery. We were taken by coach (driven by the imperturbable Grazziano) from Amalfi to Furore. This was only 20 kilometres but, along the twisty roads, the drive took well over an hour.
The hills stretched above and below us. Every inch, in true Italian fashion, was utilised, with vines, olives, vegetables, tennis courts, hotels and dwellings. We were told that there were also sheep on the hills although I didn't see any, and that many people planted beans and potatoes in the soil beneath their vines, thus maximising the use of each bit of soil and preventing the soil from becoming depleted.
"Only the Italians could name a place Furore, meaning "frenzy", " I said to Paul. "But I remember this road."
In My Day
In 1969 my friend Angela and I decided that the way to spend the Summer was to hitch-hike our way around Europe. The rest of the world's young people were doing it and what could possibly go wrong?
We set off, with backpacks, £40 each, a map of Europe and high hopes. In our studenty and egalitarian innocence we had simply not reckoned with the view that many European males would have of two girls on the road without protection.
As we worked our way through France and Italy we had to fend off all kinds of approaches, from the furtive to the dangerous and outrageous. The man who offered us a lift a little way from Florence on the way to Rome offered to take us the whole way if I'd have sex with him. When I refused he simply threw us both out onto the Autostrada.
So, by the time we were preparing to leave Rome, heading for Naples, we were prickly with suspicion. Outside the Hostel at Rome another student was offering lifts to Naples. We decided to accept, sizing him up as harmless and, anyway, much smaller than us.
We hopped into the car. Our driver didn't speak much English and I had only pidgin Italian. We both had reasonably good French. Angela refused to try anything but English so I got into the front and chatted about this and that in an amicable fashion as we sped along the autostrada.
As we approached Naples there was a division in the road "Napoli" one way, "Bari" the other. Our driver confidently took the Bari exit. Now, Bari is an East Coast port, nowhere near Naples. I asked the driver what the hell he was doing.
He protested "I'm just popping home to pick up a few clothes and see my Mama. Then I'll take you wherever you wish." Was he one of the stealth seducers? I suggested he pull the other one and said I was fed up with stupid men who thought we were for up for anything and couldn't keep their trousers on. I called him every name I could think of in every language I could muster.
Angela, squirmed in the back seat. "DO something, Julia"! she said. I said that a) there was one of him, two of us, b) we were a good deal larger than he, c) we were on the autostrada.
Soon after, the driver turned off up a side roads and twisted and turned up the mountainside till he reached a small hilltop town. He stopped outside a shop, got out of the car and entered, calling out, "Mama!". I began to blush with embarrassment.
But it was true. He took us into the shop and introduced us to his mother, a typical Italian "potato" lady, dressed in black. We were made welcome and taken into a vast dining room that looked like a furniture store (perhaps it was; our marble table was covered in plastic). There a huge meal was prepared and put in front of us. Angela looked at it in horror. "I can't eat all that!" she said. "You eat every mouthful", I hissed, "You don't know the names I've called her son!"
When we had finished and said our thanks and farewells, we got back in the car and were treated to the most amazing drive along the Amalfi coast, all the way to Sorrento. There was less traffic then than there is now and I expect the road was less good, too. I gazed enraptured and appalled at the vertiginous mountain, covered with vineyards, olive and lemon trees. I apologised to our driver, explaining that we had had some rather funny times and he was very gracious.
We stopped at Sorrento and decided that this was as good as it got and never made it to Naples.
Our patient driver, a medical student in Rome, was called Dante and it did seem churlish, as we sat in the harbour overlooking the hazy sea toward Capri, not at least to reward him with a kiss.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Winter Wonderland
Today
It's Christmas day. While Paul gets over his hangover, Becky catches up on sleep and Liz is off feeding her cats, I potter out to greet the day.
It's dry and dull and the temperature is probably just into double figures. On "The Weakest Link" the other day the question was "what is more likely on Christmas Day in England, rain or snow?" The obvious correct answer is rain.
In fact, I'm not at all certain where this white Christmas fantasy came from.
In My Day
We certainly didn't have white Christmases in London when I was a child. Snow in April was more likely than in December. Usually snow fell in January or February. Even the great cold winter of 62/63 started with snow on Boxing Day.
The weather here in the village is colder than in other parts of Somerset, being situated on the top of the hill, but it's much the same.
On Christmas Morning 1993, Paul was on the early shift, which meant he had to leave the house by 6.15 am. The girls got up early and went down to make the tea so that we could all open stockings together in comfort.
Suddenly Becky comes leaping up the stairs. "Look out of the window" she croaked in excitement. Expecting to see heavenly hosts gathered in the pre-dawn sky, I went and opened the curtains. The world was sheathed in thick snow.
Reluctantly, Paul heaved himself out of bed and got ready for the drive to Weston-Super-Mare. He nudged the car along the virgin snow lying across the Mendips. As he carefully drove down Burrington Coombe, he had his reward. There, casually walking across the road, was a whole herd of deer.
The girls and I went for a walk with the dog up to Cranmore Wood. Our neighbours at Yellow Marsh Farm were all playing rounders in the snowy fields, and in the wood itself, roe deer stepped majestically out into the path before us.
I heard a little boy in the Close this morning, enjoying his new bike, telling his dad how glad he was that there's no snow, because otherwise he wouldn't be able to ride it.
It's Christmas day. While Paul gets over his hangover, Becky catches up on sleep and Liz is off feeding her cats, I potter out to greet the day.
It's dry and dull and the temperature is probably just into double figures. On "The Weakest Link" the other day the question was "what is more likely on Christmas Day in England, rain or snow?" The obvious correct answer is rain.
In fact, I'm not at all certain where this white Christmas fantasy came from.
In My Day
We certainly didn't have white Christmases in London when I was a child. Snow in April was more likely than in December. Usually snow fell in January or February. Even the great cold winter of 62/63 started with snow on Boxing Day.
The weather here in the village is colder than in other parts of Somerset, being situated on the top of the hill, but it's much the same.
On Christmas Morning 1993, Paul was on the early shift, which meant he had to leave the house by 6.15 am. The girls got up early and went down to make the tea so that we could all open stockings together in comfort.
Suddenly Becky comes leaping up the stairs. "Look out of the window" she croaked in excitement. Expecting to see heavenly hosts gathered in the pre-dawn sky, I went and opened the curtains. The world was sheathed in thick snow.
Reluctantly, Paul heaved himself out of bed and got ready for the drive to Weston-Super-Mare. He nudged the car along the virgin snow lying across the Mendips. As he carefully drove down Burrington Coombe, he had his reward. There, casually walking across the road, was a whole herd of deer.
The girls and I went for a walk with the dog up to Cranmore Wood. Our neighbours at Yellow Marsh Farm were all playing rounders in the snowy fields, and in the wood itself, roe deer stepped majestically out into the path before us.
I heard a little boy in the Close this morning, enjoying his new bike, telling his dad how glad he was that there's no snow, because otherwise he wouldn't be able to ride it.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Away in a Manger
Today
As another Christmas approaches we've been catching up with family and friends. We popped over to see Chris who told us about the nativity play in which his four-year old grandson had played a starring role as a lamb. He described the little playlet which the teachers had written and was clearly pleased and proud to have been there.
Down at the flat we had our usual drinks party and various relatives and friends arrived. Paul's cousin had also been to see a grandson in the school play. He had an even more starring role as a dog. "Why a dog?" his grandfather asked. Apparently because the other choice, that of being a shepherd, was altogether too much responsibility. One teacher friend arrived fresh from having been the director, producer and crew for such an event. She said how tired she was, having spent the time pushing one child onto the stage, pulling another off at the right moments.
"I just love nativity plays," I said. "I never know whether to laugh or cry."
In My Day
The laughing and crying bit comes, of course, from small children's unselfconsciousness in these situations.
In 1954 I was a pupil at Cypress Road Infants School in South Norwood. For the nativity play that year I was chosen to play the part of the Angel Gabriel. I remember the excitement about the costumes. I had four acolyte angels, so to speak (the heavenly host, I guess) who wore what looked like floaty white nighties, with gold bands crossed over their chests and halos of tinsel.
Mamma and Daddy laboured over my somewhat grander, if more austere costume. I had a long gown made from a sheet with gold at neck, waist and hem. With much ingenuity they made me a halo from gold paper and wire
that actually stood away from my head. The final glory was a pair of wonderful wings made from cardboard and crepe paper.
On the big day, my costume was got ready for me. Gown, halo, wings were all laid out. Now for some white socks. With a predictability that all families will understand, Mamma was unable to find any white socks that were even slightly clean. Finally she dug out a pair of grey, knee-length, schoolboy socks (they probably belonged to Chris) and, with a gay (and misplaced) confidence, assumed that they would be unseen under the long gown. Sent me off on the bus to school.
The story concocted for the play involved children at bedtime being told the Christmas story, when lo! the Angel of the Lord (that's me, folks!) appears and takes them to the stable. I was word and action-perfect. I led them off the stage on one side then up the steps at the other side where the scene had changed into the classic nativity scene. As I approached the steps with due majesty, I felt my overlarge socks slipping down. As I ascended the steps, in full view, I simply reached down, yanked up my gown and pulled the offending sock back up again. I proceeded on my way with marvellous indifference.
Laugh or cry indeed.
As another Christmas approaches we've been catching up with family and friends. We popped over to see Chris who told us about the nativity play in which his four-year old grandson had played a starring role as a lamb. He described the little playlet which the teachers had written and was clearly pleased and proud to have been there.
Down at the flat we had our usual drinks party and various relatives and friends arrived. Paul's cousin had also been to see a grandson in the school play. He had an even more starring role as a dog. "Why a dog?" his grandfather asked. Apparently because the other choice, that of being a shepherd, was altogether too much responsibility. One teacher friend arrived fresh from having been the director, producer and crew for such an event. She said how tired she was, having spent the time pushing one child onto the stage, pulling another off at the right moments.
"I just love nativity plays," I said. "I never know whether to laugh or cry."
In My Day
The laughing and crying bit comes, of course, from small children's unselfconsciousness in these situations.
In 1954 I was a pupil at Cypress Road Infants School in South Norwood. For the nativity play that year I was chosen to play the part of the Angel Gabriel. I remember the excitement about the costumes. I had four acolyte angels, so to speak (the heavenly host, I guess) who wore what looked like floaty white nighties, with gold bands crossed over their chests and halos of tinsel.
Mamma and Daddy laboured over my somewhat grander, if more austere costume. I had a long gown made from a sheet with gold at neck, waist and hem. With much ingenuity they made me a halo from gold paper and wire
that actually stood away from my head. The final glory was a pair of wonderful wings made from cardboard and crepe paper.On the big day, my costume was got ready for me. Gown, halo, wings were all laid out. Now for some white socks. With a predictability that all families will understand, Mamma was unable to find any white socks that were even slightly clean. Finally she dug out a pair of grey, knee-length, schoolboy socks (they probably belonged to Chris) and, with a gay (and misplaced) confidence, assumed that they would be unseen under the long gown. Sent me off on the bus to school.
The story concocted for the play involved children at bedtime being told the Christmas story, when lo! the Angel of the Lord (that's me, folks!) appears and takes them to the stable. I was word and action-perfect. I led them off the stage on one side then up the steps at the other side where the scene had changed into the classic nativity scene. As I approached the steps with due majesty, I felt my overlarge socks slipping down. As I ascended the steps, in full view, I simply reached down, yanked up my gown and pulled the offending sock back up again. I proceeded on my way with marvellous indifference.
Laugh or cry indeed.
Monday, December 08, 2008
Call me
Today
Where would we be without our phones? My niece is staying with me for a few days and her phone never leaves her side. The signal here is weak and all her children and, it seems, friends also have our landline number in case they can't call her mobile. There's a feeling that a loss of instant contact would engender some kind of panic.
During breakfast the landline rang twice. First the eldest boy to say he had a cold. Andie told him where to find the 'flu' remedy and then launched into a detailed set of instructions involving the washing and ironing of some clothes.
Later the youngest boy, clearly in a moving car, rang to tell her about a job opportunity and to check a dental appointment. Andie talked to him also about the washing.
Later, while we were out, she received more calls and had a long and lively text conversation with someone whose number she didn't recognise.
In My Day
When Paul and I married in 1971, having a phone was simply too costly and not to have one wasn't then seen as an eccentric decision. There was a phone box which we could use about half a mile away at Seven Dials, wasn't there? What was so urgent that we should pay line rental on the offchance that we'd have to make a call?
Telling the family about our wedding plans had all been conducted in call boxes. Sometimes one even waited outside a call box to receive a call, although that was a chancy business.
Sometime at the end of 1971, Paul was suddenly afflicted with sickness and appalling dizziness. He couldn't stand or even sit up; when he did, he just vomited. This occurred at about one am. After trying to deal with it in a variety of ways, I decided that there was nothing for it; I'd have to call the doctor.
So, at three am, I hastily donned some clothes and walked alone, in Seven Dials, Brighton, to the public call box and called the doctor. I don't think I thought about the dangers (and Brighton was a much less salubrious place in those days than it is now) until I got back.
We finally installed a phone at the expense of Hannington's Funeral Directors, so that Paul could receive out of hours (again usually at three am) calls concerning sudden deaths. This was something we probably would have been happy to live without.
Somehow we got by in those days, but I guess it's just a question of what you become accustomed to expecting.
Where would we be without our phones? My niece is staying with me for a few days and her phone never leaves her side. The signal here is weak and all her children and, it seems, friends also have our landline number in case they can't call her mobile. There's a feeling that a loss of instant contact would engender some kind of panic.
During breakfast the landline rang twice. First the eldest boy to say he had a cold. Andie told him where to find the 'flu' remedy and then launched into a detailed set of instructions involving the washing and ironing of some clothes.
Later the youngest boy, clearly in a moving car, rang to tell her about a job opportunity and to check a dental appointment. Andie talked to him also about the washing.
Later, while we were out, she received more calls and had a long and lively text conversation with someone whose number she didn't recognise.
In My Day
When Paul and I married in 1971, having a phone was simply too costly and not to have one wasn't then seen as an eccentric decision. There was a phone box which we could use about half a mile away at Seven Dials, wasn't there? What was so urgent that we should pay line rental on the offchance that we'd have to make a call?
Telling the family about our wedding plans had all been conducted in call boxes. Sometimes one even waited outside a call box to receive a call, although that was a chancy business.
Sometime at the end of 1971, Paul was suddenly afflicted with sickness and appalling dizziness. He couldn't stand or even sit up; when he did, he just vomited. This occurred at about one am. After trying to deal with it in a variety of ways, I decided that there was nothing for it; I'd have to call the doctor.
So, at three am, I hastily donned some clothes and walked alone, in Seven Dials, Brighton, to the public call box and called the doctor. I don't think I thought about the dangers (and Brighton was a much less salubrious place in those days than it is now) until I got back.
We finally installed a phone at the expense of Hannington's Funeral Directors, so that Paul could receive out of hours (again usually at three am) calls concerning sudden deaths. This was something we probably would have been happy to live without.
Somehow we got by in those days, but I guess it's just a question of what you become accustomed to expecting.
Sunday, December 07, 2008
Potty
Today
Today has been a day of moderate success with regard to pot plants. Paul's orchid is flowering for the second time this year and my poinsettia is putting out a few red leaves. The poinsettia was a gift from a friend of Liz's last year, but, while we were on our wwt, it dried to a crisp. I rescued it and and it's slowly coming back to life. It won't have those huge red leaves like the shop-bought ones, but I feel pleased to have helped a teeny bit of life to recover.
We don't really have many indoor plants; somehow the house and our lifestyle don't seem to encourage them.
Paul gives his orchid tough love, watering it sporadically when he happens to remember. We also have a very hardy succulent which I won in a raffle a few years ago. It sits on the downstairs toilet windowsill and I water it about once every six months, a treatment on which it thrives.
I did notice that Paul had been rather too enthusiastic with watering the basil plant and poinsettia, to the extent that water had dripped onto the floor and they were looking sodden. I explained the error of his ways.
In My Day
When we lived at Rowan Avenue we had a fair number of plants. I was very happy to take cuttings of other people's plants - Spider plants, Tradescantia, Christmas Cactus and Mother of Thousands etc and I owned Peace Lilies, Sansevaria and many more. They, too, were loved sporadically and I could hardly ever bear to throw any out, however spindly they became, preferring to take cuttings and nurture them. Every now and then I had to recognise that I had failed with one and the crisp, brown object would be binned. Somehow I never achieved that lush, hothouse look, so beloved by magazines on interior decor, in our living space.
Something of all this must have rubbed off on Becky, Back in 1981, when she was three years' old she came to me on the Saturday before mother's day with a very long face. She explained to me that her nursery school had worked with the children to decorate little yogurt pots and plant them with Tradescantia and Spider Plants as Mother's Day gifts. Term had broken up a week earlier and the teachers had sent the children home with their plants with an exhortation to take care of and to water them. They were obviously relying on the plants' innate toughness and ability to withstand neglect.
They had, however, reckoned without Becky. After a week Becky looked at her plants and knew something was wrong. She also knew that her father would probably not know what the answer was. She brought to me two little yogurt pots containing the most miserable-looking plants. "I watered them every day!" cried Becky in despair. Indeed she had, and these poor plants were drowning.
I took the plants gently out and, together we found some dry soil and replanted. They actually recovered very well and lasted some time.
A coupled of years' ago, when she went on her big Greek adventure, Beatrice entrusted me with a huge Sansevaria, which was a child of one belonging to Mamma. I confess I put it out in the back garden temporarily, where I forgot it, and it rotted away over the Somerset winter. I'm not sure whether Beatrice ever forgave me.
Today has been a day of moderate success with regard to pot plants. Paul's orchid is flowering for the second time this year and my poinsettia is putting out a few red leaves. The poinsettia was a gift from a friend of Liz's last year, but, while we were on our wwt, it dried to a crisp. I rescued it and and it's slowly coming back to life. It won't have those huge red leaves like the shop-bought ones, but I feel pleased to have helped a teeny bit of life to recover.
We don't really have many indoor plants; somehow the house and our lifestyle don't seem to encourage them.
Paul gives his orchid tough love, watering it sporadically when he happens to remember. We also have a very hardy succulent which I won in a raffle a few years ago. It sits on the downstairs toilet windowsill and I water it about once every six months, a treatment on which it thrives.
I did notice that Paul had been rather too enthusiastic with watering the basil plant and poinsettia, to the extent that water had dripped onto the floor and they were looking sodden. I explained the error of his ways.
In My Day
When we lived at Rowan Avenue we had a fair number of plants. I was very happy to take cuttings of other people's plants - Spider plants, Tradescantia, Christmas Cactus and Mother of Thousands etc and I owned Peace Lilies, Sansevaria and many more. They, too, were loved sporadically and I could hardly ever bear to throw any out, however spindly they became, preferring to take cuttings and nurture them. Every now and then I had to recognise that I had failed with one and the crisp, brown object would be binned. Somehow I never achieved that lush, hothouse look, so beloved by magazines on interior decor, in our living space.
Something of all this must have rubbed off on Becky, Back in 1981, when she was three years' old she came to me on the Saturday before mother's day with a very long face. She explained to me that her nursery school had worked with the children to decorate little yogurt pots and plant them with Tradescantia and Spider Plants as Mother's Day gifts. Term had broken up a week earlier and the teachers had sent the children home with their plants with an exhortation to take care of and to water them. They were obviously relying on the plants' innate toughness and ability to withstand neglect.
They had, however, reckoned without Becky. After a week Becky looked at her plants and knew something was wrong. She also knew that her father would probably not know what the answer was. She brought to me two little yogurt pots containing the most miserable-looking plants. "I watered them every day!" cried Becky in despair. Indeed she had, and these poor plants were drowning.
I took the plants gently out and, together we found some dry soil and replanted. They actually recovered very well and lasted some time.
A coupled of years' ago, when she went on her big Greek adventure, Beatrice entrusted me with a huge Sansevaria, which was a child of one belonging to Mamma. I confess I put it out in the back garden temporarily, where I forgot it, and it rotted away over the Somerset winter. I'm not sure whether Beatrice ever forgave me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)