Snail Mail

Today

The past was threatening to overwhelm the present, in that I had several large and totally unorganised boxes of cards, letters and other memorabilia going back to 1964 cluttering up the study.

So I've spent the last three days trying to get them all into some sort of order before the lot is popped into the loft.

There are greetings cards, Christmas cards, some with nice little notes, thank yous, invitations, baby arrival notes, pieces of work, certificates and school reports belonging to the girls. And letters.

In My Day

Once upon a time we actually used to write letters. Postcards from holiday, letters of congratulations, commiseration or just to say "hello".

Tricia, it seems, used to write to Paul regularly, on all sorts of topics. Her letters rarely give the full date so the year has to be surmised from content. We have the minutiae of her life; catching the bus, cleaning her flat, caring for her great-grand-daughter. She apologises about being tiresome or grumbling and sends meticulous thanks, remembering that the girls would share a room so that there was somewhere for her to sleep or that I had driven a long journey to collect her.

I have a letter written by Daddy after his stroke, struggling to get down a few shaky lines. "What you didn't see" wrote Mamma "is the sheet on which he practised writing 'Dear Julia'". And when I broke my ankle in 1977, he just had to write, but couldn't get the whole phrase down before his co-ordination gave way. I have a letter from Mamma from the Westminster hospital where her lungs were being drained to give her, literally, breathing space before succumbing to lung-cancer.

I wrote postcards from various locations on my great European hitch-hiking tour, mainly, I think, to reassure the folks that I was still alive. And people have sent me postcards from all over the world, although the who & when are pretty random.

There is much correspondence between me & Beatrice; I wonder if she's kept my letters? If she has, the parts can be put together, jigsaw-style. Once we had computers, I wrote many letters on the word-processor. It's true that such letters lack the personality of handwriting, but on the other hand, it enabled me to keep a copy. So many letters to the girls, enclosing cheques and the letter to Becky enclosing the infamous refried beans recipe!

There are those that think that letter-writing had the effect of undermining social interaction because distance is a pre-requisite. But letters also give you time to reflect and order your thoughts and are a lasting reminder of the care that someone else pays to you.

I very much like the lively exchanges that take place of Facebook and MSN, but they are utterly ephemeral and will never be there in the future to revisit and cause one a smile or tear.

In fact, I think I'm going to get my pen out today.

Ashes

Today

Yesterday was Paul's 60th birthday and a day for which he'd been saving a special treat for twenty years. A bottle of Eldridge Pope Hardy's Ale. According to the brewery it can be kept of 25 years.

I wasn't there when the moment occurred. "How was the beer?" I asked Paul. "Flat as a pancake and smelling of old men's socks," he replied.

Not good then.

In My Day

Beatrice was married, at the age of 18. Mamma made her a traditional rich fruit cake in two layers, one for the wedding and one for the first christening. She made the hardest sort of royal icing, designed to last for ever and sealed both cakes. I can't remember what the cake eaten at the wedding tasted like. The other cake was carefully wrapped and put away in a box in one of Mamma's cupboards.

The christening never came round and, after about eight bad years of marriage, Beatrice's decree absolute came through.

The best way to celebrate, we decided, was to eat the christening cake as a divorce cake. Mamma took the cake out of its wrappings, covered it with fresh icing and sent it to us .

With great ceremony this cake was lifted out of its box and cut. We each took a bite. It tasted dreadful; all that lovely fruit had turned into a dry substance that tasted like ash. A fitting metaphor for the marriage, maybe, but no cause for celebration.

This story reminds us that deferred pleasure doesn't always live up to expectations and can turn to ash in our mouths.

At least Paul had a more recently purchased bottle of Hardy's to enjoy,

Bed in Summer

Today

After a jolly week in which we celebrated at several parties, including Paul's 60th, I just about ran out of steam yesterday. I settled down last night to watch CSI and realised that I'd reached an end.

So, after a bath, during which I dozed off twice, I was in bed and snuggling down by 9.00. Outside the sun was still shining, the birds were singing and the normal noises of the evening went on.

Despite that, I fell asleep and, with only a couple of wakeful periods, surfaced at about 8.00 this morning.

In My Day

When I was small bedtime was fairly sacrosanct. In Summertime this meant trotting off to bed by about 7.00 when the day still seemed to be in full swing. Older members of the family were still moving about; outside buses and cars roared up and down the road. I don't remember protesting much about this; it seemed simply to be the natural order of things.

My bedroom curtains weren't particularly light-excluding and I found that I could read my books quite well in the half-light. This I would do until the words were faintly visible and started to jump about in front of my eyes as the dusk deepened.

At the other end of the night, I would often be awake at 5.00 as the first sunshine seeped between the gap in the curtains. I sometime used to get up and go into the garden to play at skipping or playing ball, before the rest of the household awoke.

Of course, in winter, the opposite happened. I'd be rudely jerked out of sleep while it was still dark and dressed in layer upon layer of clothing to keep out the cold. The sleep stuck to my eyes, I shivered in the cold bedroom and was most reluctant to wash.

Learning about people of earlier time, before there was artificial lighting, I realised that we've lost the diurnal rhythms which should govern our sleep. If you can't see a thing, there's no point in staying up; if the light is too bright, there's no point in trying to sleep. This point seems entirely lost on parents.

There's a poem from Robert Louis Stephenson's "Child's Garden of Verses" which I read as a child and entirely understood. "Bed in Summer". "In winter I get up by night/ and dress by yellow candlelight/ In summer quite the other way/ I have to go to bed by day". Quite.

Although I do still feel a little bit tired this morning.

Apple pie order

Today

Back to the flat today via the London-Brighton Classic car run. Becky had been to the flat the previous week and I'd asked her to make our bed up for us.

With some instruction from me "cotton beneath and linen above"  she did - "I don't know if it's right, Madre", she said "I'll never make a chambermaid."

"So long as you haven't made an apple pie bed," joked Paul. Becky and Richard looked puzzled. "The trouble is," I said "is that this generation's been brought up with duvets rather than sheets and blankets".

In My Day

We were brought up with sheets and blankets - top, bottom, two blankets and an "eiderdown". This last conformed to a standard design of paisley patterned quilted covering with frilled edges and was quite weighty.

Apple-pie beds were a normal part of having an older brother. You trot off to bed, looking forward to snuggling down with your Hans Christian Andersen book. You fail to notice that the bed looks suspiciously well-made or that the blankets seem very well-tucked in. You climb into bed, slide your feet down and come up short against the doubled-back sheet. Sometimes you accidentally tear the sheet in the struggle.

Knowing that your mother will just ignore your protests and possibly be annoyed with you for having damaged the sheet, you groan, get up and remake the bed. By which time you're wide-awake.

Your only recourse is to try to visit the same kind of horror on your younger sister, but you'll probably get caught in the act, and  anyway Beatrice has by now become suspicious and will turn back the covers to check. So in the end you don't bother.

Just think what fun the younger generation have been missing.

Practise, practise

Today

Paul & I idled away some time watching "Voyager" last night. Neelix is leaving to become a Starfleet ambassador and Mr Tuvok gives him the traditional Vulcan farewell "Live Long & Prosper".

"I rather like that," I said to Paul "It's a very graceful thing to say. We should adopt it" "Ah!" he replied "but can you do the gesture?" "Of course!" I said, demonstrating.

In My Day

It's astonishing just how much time we spend, as children, practising a whole range of actions for no real reason. If you have older brothers, as I did, you have some catching up to do, but I expect most children are the same.

I used to practise turning round and round as fast as I could to see at which point falling over became inevitable. I practised hopping, standing on one leg, and whistling. (I am now unable to whistle, having originally learnt how at about six years of age). I'm not talking about the things that you have to learn, like reading & writing, nor about those things that come naturally such as walking & talking, but completely unnecessary things just to prove you can. How many times you can repeat some foolish rhyme on a single intake of breath. Rubbing your stomach and patting your head simultaneously. Juggling two or more tennis balls. Trying to imitate the silly smile that Daddy used to do (I can still do that too, much to Paul's annoyance).

And practising all sorts of things with your fingers "Church and Steeple" which I practised and practised until my fingers were nimble. And I used to practise splaying my fingers. Just why it's very easy to splay them out unevenly (and it doesn't seem to matter whether it's the little or index that's splayed), while splaying them two-by-two is so hard and takes so much practice and concentration I really don't know.

And I don't know why I worked so hard to achieve it, but I did and can still do it.

Although it does make my elderly joints ache a bit!

Fruits of the earth

Today

A gorgeous picture of my great-nephew Isaac on Facebook today holding an upside-down spoon (why do all children do that?) and filling his face with apfelmus.

He was obviously enjoying the taste! I commented: "I remember apfelmus, I used to make that with Mamma!"

In My Day

Apfelmus was a seasonal treat when I was a child. First, apples had to be garnered. This happened in a number of ways. Sometimes we would go up to Grandma Richardson's house just up the road. Mamma had been a domestic servant to the Richardsons before the war and we kept up a friendly relationship until she died. We'd use huge apple-pickers - great jaws on sticks to pull down the branches and take the apples. There were wind-falls as well. In this way, Grandma R had her crop harvested and we got to take home lots of apples ourselves.

Sometimes the apples came from our garden; but that was before half of the land (the bit containing our raggedy orchard) was compulsorily purchased for housing). We used much the same method to collect our apples. In later years, Bramleys were simply bought from the greengrocer.

First, the apples had to be cored and cut up. Often the insides would reveal maggots or other nasties. I became adept at spotting those apples whose tell-tale little holes and marks gave this away. Cores and stems were discarded but we left the skins on.

Next they were cooked. Mamma used little or no water, allowing the apples to stew in their juices. Bramleys soften up pretty fast and when they were done, batches were put into a large, rather insanitary wooden framed sieve over a large mixing bowl. Using a wooden spoon, the pulp was forced through the mesh. We watched as the puree gradually transferred into the bowl; its colour anything from white through pink to green.

When the last fragment of apple had been pushed through, Mamma would add sugar to the right taste (tart but not too tart) and then add raisins. and left the whole thing until the raisins had plumped up and the mixture cooled.

This was then eaten in big bowlfuls, just as it was. A bowlful probably contained the pulp of about 6 apples and was very filling. I remember loving the contrast of the very sweet raisins with the tartness of the pulp. We always called it by its German name "apfelmus" to the extent that I thought that that was what everyone called it, not realising just what an unusual treat we were having in post-war Britain.

Lizzie used to have a spoon called a "Tommy Tippee" that didn't twist over when she picked it up, thus ensuring a  full helping of apfelmus every time. I wonder if they still make them?

Pinkie

Today

My nephew reported on Facebook today that his  two-year had been to casualty, having caught her finger in a hinge with an injury requiring stitches.

He was very proud of the way she's coping and I'm sure his pride is justified. I just have some thoughts whether our pride in our children's stoicism (especially at age two) could cause them to suppress their real feelings. Poor little scrap, I hope she mends soon.

In My Day

Becky was two years old and sitting in the middle of our cramped sitting room floor playing "Christmas". This game entailed her placing one of her favourite toys on a big blanket spread on her lap and wrapping it up. I walked through with a tray of coffee mugs for some visitors and trod right on her little finger that was concealed under the blanket.

I managed not to drop the tray and picked up the crying child. Her little finger nail had pulled right out of the base and the finger was turning blue.

Off to casualty where they took a look and said that they would try to replace the nail. To do this involved giving Becky a "ring-block" of 4 injections at the base of the finger to numb it after which they would try to slide in the nail and repair the finger. "If you wouldn't mind waiting outside, Mrs Barrett", they said and took my baby into the curtained booth in the middle of casualty. There was silence from within the booth.

About half an hour later the nurse and doctor emerged with Becky and bandaged finger. "She was so good," they told me "not a peep!" I looked at Becky - she was only two, after all, not an age at which children are renowned for their ability to keep a check on her emotions. Her face was strange, trance-like, as though she'd entirely absented herself from the situation. I asked her if she was alright. "Did it hurt?" "Yes" "Did you want to cry?" "Yes" "Well, you can cry now if you want" "But it doesn't hurt any more"

Thinking about how she coped without me in that strange place made me want to cry and I hugged her all the way home.

I had to have a "ring-block" a couple of years later when I was having a whitlow removed. It hurt like hell.

Patter

Today

Yesterday we met my sister-in-law in Tesco, busy buying baby necessities for her daughter. My niece is fast approaching the time when her second baby will be born. Pregnancy hasn't been an easy experience for her, but that doesn't seem to dim her joy.

In fact, this is a fecund season for the family, with three more babies due this year.  My only regret is that the dilution down the generations and geographic distance mean that I don't see as much of my great-nieces and nephews as I'd like. I try not to forget them, however, and make cards and little gifts to send them.

All the grandparents are very much involved with the day-to-day lives of these babies; much more so than when I had my children.

In My Day

Daddy actually had 21 grandchildren if you count the child from Keir's first marriage and those born after he died; if you exclude those he still had fourteen. The age range covers thirty-three years, a whole generation in itself. Daddy was immensely proud of them. When David and Chris both had two children and I still had one he told me to buck up or I'd lose my place in the race. "It's not a competition, Daddy," I said "I'll do this when I'm good and ready."

What I'm not so sure about is how close he felt to these grandchildren. He was very happy to sit surrounded by small people when we went to Dorking to celebrate birthdays, like a familial Buddha, but I don't remember him playing with or talking to them much. Mamma was more likely to get intimately involved, knitting jumpers for the children, cooking with them and telling stories. Certainly Lizzie always felt close to her Grandma and, I think, still misses her.

On the other hand I do remember how Daddy interacted with three month-old Becky when I was caring for him in Dorking while Mamma was in hospital. He talked to her, stimulating her to her first forays into verbal communication and holding her tightly on his lap while I tried to manoeuvre his wheelchair around the hospital corridors, attracting many "oohs" & "aahs!" from passing folk.

Paul and I were discussing quantum theory this morning and the possibility of multiverses. "In another one I might be surrounded by ten grandchildren," he said. "And, who knows, you might hate it!" I replied. I don't think so.

Mulling it over

Today

Being rather hesitant about hacking straight into my beautiful piece of sari silk, I decided to do a mock up of the jacket I'm making in plain fabric first. I persuaded Paul to check my measurements (my back neck-waist measurement is a whole three inches shorter than the average for my size!) before cutting out the paper pattern.

"Do you know", I said to Paul "when I was learning cutting we used to make a basic "body"out of calico which we then used as the template for all patterns. It was called a "mull"".

In My Day

I didn't start out knowing how to do all this. Back in the '60's I used to measure myself then cut out the fabric to the shape I wanted. I became very observant of how clothes were constructed, but had no idea about allowances and easing and other technical terms. Somehow the clothes I put together hung together - perhaps because dress shapes then were just straight shift and I never attempted jackets or anything clever.

When I went to the West Sussex College of Art to learn theatre design, I began to learn more about how to turn an idea into a beautifully fitting work of art. For this we went to the fashion department, where a very precise and helpful woman taught me the right way to take measurements, how to allow for the movement of the body and how to respect and use the grain and weave of the cloth. "Dressmaking" she told us "is all about how to make a flat piece of fabric fit the curved shape of the body."

I learnt that, for a hem to hang straight, it must be cut curved, and how to allow for the slope of the shoulders at the back so that the garment didn't rise up. I was fascinated - this is what I'd been missing all those years ago, when I'd just made it up as I went along,

When that part of the training was considered over for the more generalised theatre design students, I went back and begged to be taught some tailoring. So the teacher patiently showed me how to steam, stretch and shape heavy wool and canvas interfacings to give the perfect jacket or coat. I made a coat, too, using an old army blanket that came from God knows where, which I wore for some years. I learnt how to make a bound buttonholes (I was not so good at worked ones and have been grateful for the automation that my sewing machine gave me).

I never entered the world of theatre design but have lost count of the number of garments I have made since, for myself, children, family, friends and others, sometimes for payment, sometimes for love. My greatest reward is to see people actually wearing the clothes I've made them.

I've just remembered the name of that teacher; it was Mrs Mull!

What I have now is a hankering for a proper adjustable dressmakers' dummy. Anyone got one hanging about?

Stitch up

Today

I had a happy hour today, pottering round "Rose Crafts" in Midsomer Norton. It's a proper old-fashioned fabric shop - what I use to call a "draper" It has a shop window full of artistically draped bolts of cloth.

Inside are two floors crammed with fabrics, dress patterns, buttons, cords, lace, tassels and notions. Notions are all the other bits - snap fasteners, eyelets, bias binding, tapes etc. There's also plenty of stuff if you knit or embroider.

Of course, the shop, also carries lines of self-adhesive twiddly bits to satisfy the current fashion for sticking said bits onto cards and calling them hand-made greetings cards.... If they didn't, they'd be out of business.

The point of this is that I had to travel to Norton for this. There's nothing in Bath, Wells or Frome. "Where have all the drapers gone?" I asked Paul. "Once upon a time every tiny town had a shop carrying this sort of stuff."

In My Day

As a child I was taught needlework. I can't say I enjoyed it much at the time; only later seeing the relevance to real life and discovering the creative joy of turning flat fabric into garments that flattered the body.

But I don't think I ever questioned that it was an important skill. A sewing machine was a normal piece of household equipment, equivalent to an iron, kettle or cooker. When I designed the costumes for "A Midsummer Night's Dream" at Selhurst and knew I wouldn't have time to stitch them all myself, it didn't seem unreasonable to cut the costumes out and send them home for mothers to do the making up. Generally, one could assume that they had the skills.

Mamma made clothes for me and Beatrice when we were small, as well as costumes for us all for many occasions. She also knitted jumpers and suchlike, although I'm not sure that her knitting skills were great; something to do with the tension, I believe.

The advent of cheap clothes is killing the skill of practical dressmaking just as surely as convenience foods are killing basic cookery skills (not to be confused with the sort of stuff you see on TV - I mean of the boiling an egg variety). I can see why it happens, but, come the revolution, where will we all be if we can't stitch on a button?

About forty years ago, when she lived at South Norwood, Beatrice gave me a needle book. This I still use and have just topped it up with fresh supplies, including two new bodkins.

Since Beatrice is completely challenged in this department I can only assume that the giving of such gifts ensures my continuing availability to make and repair for her for the foreseeeable future.

Necessity

Today

Necessity, they say is the mother of invention. That depends on what you regard as necessary, of course.

I was trying to finish the dungarees I'm stitching for my little great-nephew who's two in a couple of weeks. Just doing the front waistband and realised, after a tricky bit of manoeuvring, that the bobbin had run out and I'd been working away achieving absolutely nothing.

"Humph!" I grumbled "you'd think by this time they'd have invented a method of warning you that it's about to run out...."

In My Day

Daddy was constantly having ideas for inventions. It seemed that he dreamt them and he'd then excitedly tell us of his latest plan. Mostly that's as far as they got, if you don't count his invention for helping him to breathe at night with a cold, which consisted of two little tubes of cardboard stuck into each nostril....  Even so, it was probably a patentable idea.

Often he'd awake after such a dream only to find those brilliant thoughts just slipping away from him. So he kept a little notebook beside the bed so that he could jot down the details of what was to bring him lasting fame and fortune before he forgot. All of his jottings, without exception, when read over a morning cuppa were complete gibberish, like automatic writing in an unknown tongue.

Hearing us describe the throwing of streamers at the last night of the Proms, he dreamt about making a streamer gun. Now there was an idea. Only he never developed it and so we are not now the heirs to the party popper king fortune, somebody else is!

Interesting to think that there was clearly more necessity giving birth to that invention than to the idea of a bobbin warning system.

Night Light

Today

I've just returned from a weekend in Barcelona. Our city-centre hotel bedroom had a complicated set of window coverings. On the outside, traditional slatted wooden shutters. Then sliding glass doors onto the tiny balcony. Next, another sliding glass door which was mirrored on the inside. Finally some gauze curtains which appeared to have little function, even decorative.

There were three effects of this arrangement, all based on exclusion: air, sound and light. The inner door meant that you had no idea what time of day or night it was. Waking up, I had no natural clues as to what time it could possibly be. I must say, I found this disconcerting.

In My Day

Being brought up in London meant the continual presence of street lights at night time. The lights of London cast an orange glow, so much so that I was sometimes surprised when visiting other cities to see white or even greenish lights.

Our bedrooms had curtains, of course, but they did a sketchy job of excluding these lights. Add to that the fact that our rooms were in the basement so we were looking up and you have a lurid effect. (Actually, thinking about this, I realise that the boys, whose bedrooms overlooked the garden, probably had a quite different experience.)

Even now, I'm not sure of the extent to which I found the lights frightening or reassuring, the latter on balance, I guess as total darkness would have been completely impossible to deal with. On dark stormy nights the trees in the front garden would wave about menacingly; their monstrous shapes exaggerated by the hellish orange lights.  Primed for terror by too much reading of fairy stories and seeing "Snow-White", I wondered if those huge waving arms could grab and crush me. Did they conceal giants or wicked witches? Maybe tigers or lions.

The nights could seem interminable; but at least the daylight would eventually squeeze out the night horrors and I could watch for the sun or grey dawn, knowing that I had a reprieve. I don't think I talked much about this, being only too happy that it was daytime; certainly there was no suggestion of nightlights or leaving lights on.

I must say, since the Council replaced our streetlight, which has so far failed to come on, that Paul and I have found our nights somewhat improved!

Deadly Dandelion

Today

The sun's been shining for a week; time to add instant colour to the garden and hold back the weeds. I'd just yanked out my first weed (a large dandelion) when Paul announced tea. Feeling peckish I made myself a snack. I debated on washing my hands but as I'd only touched a single plant I didn't bother. "I doubt I'll poison myself" I reasoned.

In My Day

Things are so much more frightening when you're a child. There were many tales about the dangers of poisonous plants designed to put terror into your heart, Quite apart from Deadly Nightshade (the name gave you the shivers) there was the glorious Laburnum (why did people plant them in gardens where there were children? At least Deadly Nightshade was wild and couldn't help itself) and a host of attractive and lethal berries come autumn. I just about dared to pick and eat blackberries.

I remember one spring, entranced by the beauty of the Hawthorn, picking some sprays to perfume 4BH. When I told another child she looked horrified and trotted out some pre-druidical cant about "May" blossom in the house bringing bad luck. Sick with fear in case the house had collapsed or unimaginable disaster had hit my family I could hardly wait to get home from school and throw out every last fragment of the dangerous plant as Mamma looked on in bemusement.

Dandelions grew in every crevice in post-war London and we all held in fear the thick milky liquid that came out of the stems. One touch of it on your lips and you'd die in agonies, apparently. I believed it all and scrubbed away before I'd go near food.

Actually, it appears that all parts of the Dandelion are edible and that the sap has many beneficial properties. And my garden's looking beautiful while I'm feeling fine.

There's a Place for Us

Today

There's a widely held fallacy which is that cats are more connected to places than people. As Agnes & Albinoni (Liz will call him "Albers" and I suppose I can't object as he belongs to her now) are comfortably settled in now, being more attached to each other and their feeding bowls than anything else.

And Abby successfully travelled with us to Brighton, taking only a couple of hours to find some favoured places (Under the chaise long where she imagines she's hidden but doesn't realise her tail's sticking out, and by the sitting room radiator). Having us there to cuddle her is clearly what matters most and a total absence of other cats.

In My Day

I've had a few travelling cats. Ariadne travelled home with me nearly every weekend, came on holiday to Blue Anchor bay and home with her kitten Algernon at the end of one summer term. She came with me to Eastbourne where she so upset the resident tortoiseshell cat that I had to ask Mamma to look after her at 4BH. She lived with me at the Gatehouse, Wilmington, happily hunting in the meadows, at Cromwell Road, Hove and Belmont. She never seemed to require settling in; if she could smell my scent and hear my voice she was fine.

Annalise and Ajax used to travel in the car, attached only by harnesses and leads. We took them with us, much like one takes a dog; they were happy anywhere. It was only when they were at the gatehouse without us that they ran off, never to be seen again.

I rather like to feel that it's me that makes the difference, unless it's just a full feeding bowl!

Cat Brain

Today

After much agonising we decided that the kitties had to go. We love them dearly, despite their naughtiness, but Abby just couldn't get used to them.

Lizzie, bless her, has added them to her cat menagerie and it's turning out OK. Agnes has surprised us all with her insouciant way of exploring her new environment, the way in which she intimidated Klaus in his own front room and the fact that she has worked out how to unlock the catflap!

There have been many discussions about the intelligence of cats; unmeasurable, it seems. My experience suggests an enormous variability in the style of their intelligence. Some know just how to please their owners; others how to maximise their standing in the neighbourhood. Some can see themselves in mirrors; others can recognise images on TV or sounds on the radio. All my cats have learnt their names (or approximations - Albinoni looks up if you call him "Al Capone") but Liz doesn't think that Klaus or Stevesie really know their names. I think it's down to a sort of feline cost-benefit analysis.

In My Day

In terms of intelligence that humans can appreciate, I guess that Agamemnon was the tops. He was the only cat I ever had who had worked out the relationship between the door handle and the door opening. He once got the fridge door open and ate his entire next three days' food in one go. He used to hurl himself against the hatch door at Rowan Avenue until the flimsy magnet catch gave way and we were forced to put a bolt on it.

Once at Mead Close he learnt to hang onto the door handle trying with all his strength to open the door. He succeeded once or twice too; if he had been a little weightier he'd have opened it regularly, thus obliging us to fit more bolts. The door handle was covered in scratches where he'd hung unto it trying to depress it.

It seems that, if your animals are clever, we forgive them any naughtiness that transpires.

There's an old story about a cat, pig and dog who'd been trained to expect food after a particular door set into a large wall was opened. The wall was removed and it took the pig and the dog very little time to work out that they could now get to the food whenever they wanted. The cat, however, continued to sit beside the door in the middle of nowhere until it was opened.

Just a stupid cat, I guess, and clearly no equal to my Agamemnon or Agnes.

Poor Kitty

Today

So sorry for my great niece whose little cat was killed yesterday, I assume in an accident. She's doubly upset because the cat was left lying where she was killed and she's angry at the implication of callousness. Of course, it may be that the perpetrator wasn't even aware of what had happened; cats can move very quickly. But either way, it's very distressing for her.

In My Day

Agamemnon was perhaps the most handsome cat I've ever owned. He was very aware of his regal good looks but this didn't stop him from being very affectionate; he just loved to sit on my lap!

The time was about half-past midnight, the date 5 May 1993. I was awoken by a horrible yowling under my window. "Oh, Agamemnon!" I thought "go and make this noise somewhere else!" I was quite accustomed to his territorial noisy gestures, designed to warn other cats off. I opened the window and there he was, crouching on the front lawn. I told him to stop his noise.

As soon as he saw me he started to come toward the house. Only he couldn't. He used his front legs to pull himself forward but was clearly severely hurt. I ran downstairs and picked him up. I couldn't see any blood but his back legs had simply stopped working. How he had dragged himself all the way home I've no idea.

In the morning, I had an appointment with Daddy's memorial but Paul agreed to take the cat to the vet. Later that afternoon I called Paul who told me that the vet had said that Agamemnon had suffered damage to his spine, probably from a glancing blow from a car. He'd been given a steroid injection but the vet wasn't too hopeful.

Home I dashed to take my beloved cat on my lap. I'm not sure that he knew who I was. His lips were curled backwards and soon he was having fits. I just held him tight, unable to do anything but watch as he died in great distress. I suppose this didn't take very long but it seemed long to me. Although he was eighteen years old, he had till then been in excellent health and I felt upset at having him snatched away from me.

I can only hope that the driver of the car that eventually dispatched him had not been aware of this happening and am glad that at least Agamemnon came home to die. Natasha, I know just how much you will miss little Bella.

Caretaker

Today

I'm always a little suspicious of "friend" requests from people I don't know. But when Sabine Bartosch not only asked to be my friend but also sent me an email reminding me that she'd been a student guest in my house back in 1981 I just had to accept. "I remember you!" I replied " you were so mannerly and went to the Catholic Church each Sunday so beautifully dressed."

In My Day

Having foreign students to share your house in summer was a standard part of life in Eastbourne. It was how you managed to afford a holiday or to furnish another room. Our houses were pretty small and we'd cram the children into the box room to give the best guest room to the students.

The experience ranged from the truly dreadful to the rewarding. Our first visitor was a German called Peter. After we'd got used to the German inability to add "please" to a remark we enjoyed his company. Next was Elmach, a genial young man with huge muscles, who ate just about all his rent in food; we just couldn't fill him. He was very embarrassed by the arrival of a compatriot, aged about 50, named Mrs Blank. This woman marched into out home, demanded tea, grumbled about the existence of cats in the house and stripped the sheets to check they were clean, Hang on, I thought they were our guests, not the hotel inspector! In the end we complained to the language school and they agreed that she had really come along for a cheap holiday and relieved us of her presence. At least it ensured the perfect mannerliness of Elmach from then on!

But, mostly, we had Austrian girls. So beautifully brought up. The first, Barbara, was a lively girl who was constantly falling in love with other (usually Italian) students she met in town. I've no idea how her parents coped with her. There was the red-haired Regina, the girl who wouldn't eat and the girl, whose sister was staying just up the road, who was the only person in the world afraid of Caspian the dog. Sabine I remember as a quiet oasis in our hectic lives. She remembers us as caring and kind, so we both benefited.

At least we never had to suffer the dreadful experience of our best friends, whose Spanish student simply looked the wrong way when crossing a road and was killed.

There are so many ways to discover and remember old friends and I'm always touched and delighted. Sabine, I hope your life has been rewarding; with four children it's certainly been busy! Perhaps we can find a way to meet again.

Toothmug

Today

Paul's having some difficulty with his meals at the moment. As part of his ongoing dental work (see Feb 17th 2010 entry http://in-my-day.blogspot.com/2010/02/positive-ageing.html), all the redundant teeth have been removed so that he has to eat his dinners with, effectively, just his incisors.

His dentist gave him the choice of implants or dentures. Thankfully, he chose the former. It would be a bit strange being married to a man who puts his teeth in a glass at night.

In My Day

Removable teeth can present many hazards. When Paul first joined the ambulance service in 1976 he was taught early on to remove the dentures of unconscious elderly patients. The ambulanceman responsible for his on the road training time and time again reminded him "teeth"!

On one occasion he was attending to a semi-conscious patient. He attempted to remove the teeth but the patient put up a surprising amount of resistance."Paul tried to persuade her "Come on, love, I've got to take them out; it's for your own safety." He continued to struggle while the patient clamped her mouth down on his hand.

Suddenly Paul noticed that his colleague was doubled up with laughter. "It's not funny", said Paul "can't you help me?" "I don't think so" replied Brian "I don't think those are dentures; I think they are her real teeth!" In great embarrassment Paul took his hand out of the patient's mouth.

And then there was the case of Fiona who, one night, removed all the dentures at the old folks' home where she worked and put the whole lot into a single large washing up bowl of disinfectant....I think some residents never got their own teeth back and there were some chomping away on two lots of uppers or lowers for some weeks.

Brian drove home the point by presenting Paul with a huge set of teeth made out of Eastbourne rock.

So, once Paul can actually chew his food, at least there won't be a toothmug by the bedside.

Decor

Today

Although the flat in Brighton is Regency in origin, Paul & I (more especially Paul) have rather a hankering for the Art Deco. We do have Art Deco style uplighters in the hall but that's about it. Or was until yesterday. Paul has been longing for an Art Deco "Lady Lamp" for ages, but all that we looked at were naff or the wrong colour or shape. Yesterday we wandered into the Snoopers' Paradise in Kensington Gardens, ostensibly so that I could try to find some nice handbag clasps and there she was: 7ft tall, white porcelain, holding aloft the torch! At half-price, bargainaceous as well. "Shall we go and have a cup of tea and think about it?" I asked Paul. "There's nothing to think about", he said.

And so Aphrodite came into our lives, a "lady lamp" with a difference.

In My Day

Fashions in home decor come and go much like everything else and when I was a child anything from the '20s or '30s would just have been seen as hopelessly dowdy and old-fashioned, although I believe we had a steel-framed couch inspired by the Bauhaus. In fact, none of our furniture was at all stylish and had mostly been acquired with economy and child-resistance in mind.

In the early days of our marriage, Paul introduced me to his Auntie Norah. She had recently inherited a house, fully furnished, from an elderly relative. The house was perched on Telscome Tye and was absolutely crammed with art deco. There was any number of lady-lamps, little wall-planters shaped like picture hats and completely meaningless plaster wall plaques of ladies with attenuated necks gazing into the distance,

There were mirrors whose perimeters were gently stepped in traditional Art Deco fashion and coloured a light salmon pink and cupboards with equally sloping shoulders and little fan-like decorations on their fronts. Paul and I thought it was all hideous and were surprised that Norah gave it house room.

Of course it would all be worth a fortune today and I can't track the moment when our tastes changed.

But Aphrodite looks absolutely wonderful and I'm totally in love. I hope that those who come after us will take good care of her.

Rough Justice

Today

A big fuss today because of the news that John Venables, one of the killers of James Bulger, may have to stand trial for another crime. The hounds of vengeance are baying for blood. Given that he was ten years old at the time and has served the sentence laid down for him, I agree totally with the judge that his anonymity is crucial because there are those out there who would take the law into their own hands.

In My Day

This is really Becky's story but it sheds a light on cases such as these. When Becky lived in Wimbledon she was in the shopping centre one day. She heard a child's voice saying "Mummy?" Looking around she saw a child of about two, clearly lost. Other shoppers were ignoring the child and there was no sign of the mother or a responsible adult.

Becky approached the child and asked if he was lost. She then took him into a shop and asked if they could contact security and put out a page to locate the mother.

This was duly done and the mother turned up. Without a word of thanks to Becky the mother went off with her child.

A few minutes later, Becky saw the mother, deep in conversation with a friend, paying no attention as the child wandered off again. This time she didn't intervene.

When she told me the story I gasped "But that's James Bulger all over again!" It's my belief that if just one person had paid attention to this unattended two year old, he might still be alive and his killers may be living normal lives.

I am so sorry for his death, but every adult in that shopping centre that day, and his mother must take some responsibility for the fact that he was able to wander alone to meet his killers.

Mutt

Today

We spent a charming evening on Friday with a new friend of Paul's and his very creative and fascinating parents.

During the evening they talked about some county sporting event during which a friend's very unpedigree dog had his wicked way with the Duchess of Norfolk's dog whose pedigree went back to the Conquest. The results, apparently, were some unidentifiable and officially useless pups for whose support the Duchess sportingly refused to accept payment.

"Of course," said our host "most pedigree animals have much shorter lives than mixed breeds."

In My Day

Back in 1984, when we were living at Montfort Close, we decided that a dog would be just the thing. We chose a rescue dog, being unwilling to devote the necessary time to training a puppy, and also knowing just how many unwanted animals there are who need homes.

In this way Caspian came into our lives, He was such a jolly dog, full of zest for living, and he gave us much. He was very handsome, despite being of inextricably mixed parentage, with clean, tall lines, an alert well-proportioned head, smart tan and white markings and a cheerful tail that looked like pampas grass.

Sometimes we found ourselves in the company of people whom I would describe as "breed snobs". They invariably had excruciating accents and would ask about Cas's breed as though it was the only important thing about him.

This set Paul's teeth on edge. He would reply in a very good imitation of their county accents: "Oh, he's a Sussex Downlander" His interlocutor would admit that this breed was new to them and ask what the significant breeding points were. "Well," Paul would continue "the breed isn't yet recognised by the Kennel Club.... but the main characteristic is that the dog has to have been conceived somewhere on the Sussex Downs!" His voice would abruptly return to normal and the snob would turn away, vaguely suspicious that they'd been laughed at.

Cas, true to his mutt origins, lived a long and healthy life, dying at the advanced age of seventeen after a stroke carried him off. And I still miss him.

Needles & Pins

Today

I don't usually bring drinks into the room where I do my sewing; instead my glass of water resides on the bookcase on the landing and I take a sip while I'm passing by. And tea is taken downstairs. What happened this morning is one of the reasons why. I was stitching away at the little handbag that I'm making for my great-niece, pulling out pins as I went. In an attempt to prevent the floor becoming totally covered in pins I pop them into my pin tin as I go. Except that, for reasons that are mysterious, I'd decided to put my glass in that location and was merrily popping pins into the water instead.

In My Day

I made the intimate acquaintance of Mamma's Singer Sewing machine when I was about eighteen. Dresses in those days rarely reached more than half-way down the thigh and generally took a mere three yards of fabric. I ran up many a dress.

One I remember clearly, it was in lime green georgette with an empire waistline and little black cube-shaped buttons on the bodice. The fabric was so sheer that I decided that I needed to make an under-dress to go with it. For this I bought the finest white lawn that I could find. Cut and pinned and sat down to stitch.

Perhaps Daddy felt sorry for me, working away in the other room so hard or maybe he'd made a pot of tea for the whole family and thought I'd like a cup. He tiptoed in (at any rate I didn't hear him) and placed the cup just on the other side of the sewing machine. With dedicated precision, I fed the entire under-dress into the cup of tea before I noticed what was happening. I had to wash the still-partly pinned garment, dry and iron it before I could continue.

Which is why drinks in the craft/sewing area have been banned ever since, until today.

At least I noticed what I'd done before attempting to take a drink or there might have been quite a different end to this story.

Down in the Dumps

Today

What with his aching back, increasing deafness and the continuing dreary weather, Paul's been feeling a bit depressed. It's been making him rather grumpy which is difficult to live with.

"There are two difficulties for loved ones when someone has depression," I said. "Firstly, you feel somehow responsible as though it's up to you to put things right. Secondly, the depressed person often doesn't simply say "I'm sad, help me"; they are withdrawn, grumpy or snipe at people so that one reacts to the behaviour, not the underlying cause."

We talked about the different types of depression - the type that is a result of external difficulties and the depression that descends without warning like a cloud and disappears in much the same way.

In My Day

When Lizzie was born, safe and beautiful after a long and difficult labour I should have been euphoric. Once the initial flurry of relations and congratulations was over, I found myself engulfed by lethargy and inactivity. Getting up in the morning was often only achieved because I knew that the midwife was due or some other external factor. On many days, if Paul's job hadn't meant that he could come home for lunch, I might not have got up until evening.

Paul would clear up the breakfast things, get himself some lunch and go back to work without comment. By evening I would at least have managed to get dressed. I must have looked so unutterably sad that Paul would sometimes ask me what was the matter. This would simply trigger unstoppable tears. I lost all interest in the physical side of our marriage and have lost count of the nights when I pretended to be asleep.

It wasn't as though Lizzie was a problem. After the first ten days or so she slept all night and was pretty placid during the daytime. I managed to feed her and keep her clean but that was about all.

Poor Paul! We were so young and had no idea what was going on. We didn't think to ask for help and simply soldiered on. I confused my experience with the "baby blues" - a tearful state that occurs when the baby's about three days old and is gone within another three - and had no idea that I had proper post-natal depression and maybe could have received some help.

Suddenly, one day, when Lizzie was about twenty months old, the cloud lifted and the sun came back out, prompting me to ask "what was all that about?" The experience prompted me to offer counselling to sufferers with PND because it's got nothing to do with one's own actions or external difficulties; it just arrives, then goes, without warning.

These days, with the medicalisation of everything, it's easy to confuse conditions that are actually an illness and those which are part of the normal feelings associated with life's difficulties.

Dolly Mixture

Today

On facebook today such a lovely picture of my great niece Amelia lying down next a range of dolls in diminishing sizes. She looked very cute and complacent, obviously enjoying herself.

I made a comment "I remember the day that Becky went to bed with 16 dollies".

In My Day

Becky just loved her dolls. She had "Tiny Tears" "Cheekaboo" "Sindy" in just about all possible configurations. She had all sorts of other dolls, her favourite being "Reecham-Beecham" a black dolly dressed in rompers hand-knitted by Mennonites in Kitchener, Canada. Add to that "My Little Pony" and you can imagine the storage problems.

She early learnt that dolls' arms and legs could be removed, but not so easily how to put them back on again, so her room occasionally resembled the aftermath of a dolly-chainsaw massacre, littered with limbs and torsoes.

When we lived at Montfort Close in Westham, Becky had a rather magnificent hand-made "Captain's" bed to take full advantage of the small space. There were raised sides to stop her falling out; just a gentle dip in the middle so that she could climb in and out.

Becky was a sound sleeper, but one night we were awoken by a resounding crash from her room. We rushed in - Becky was still asleep, but on the floor, wrapped up in her duvet. How could it have happened that she had wriggled far enough down the bed to reach the only unprotected few inches? Easy. She taken all her dollies to bed with her. There they were, straddled across the entire width of the top of the bed, pushing Becky effectively down the bed till she's fallen out. We counted sixteen.

We had to make some hasty rules regarding the number of dollies she had in her bed and check at bedtime.

Personally I think it's just another example of the pure malice exhibited by dolls when we're not looking.

Public Laughter

Today

A very jolly evening last night at the Theatre Royal, Bath at a performance of Private Lives by Noel Coward. It's always fresh and the dilemma still has relevance for today. It must have been quite shocking when it was written.

We took Lizzie who's very fond of Noel Coward.

"This calls for a Blog", I said to Lizzie. "Oh, everyone knows that story," she said. maybe, but it's still fun to tell.

In My Day

Theatre treats were fairly rare back in the 70's and early 80's as we had little cash and generally needed a babysitter. For some reason, we'd acquired tickets to see Private Lives at the Devonshire Park theatre in Eastbourne. I think it must have been in about 1982. We took Lizzie with us and went off to the theatre in great excitement.

It was a matinee and the place was full of genteel ladies who lunch. They'd probably popped in from the backwaters of East Sussex for shopping and thought they'd take in a little culture.

The play started. Our seats, if I remember, were quite high up and we were practically at eye level with the actors on their hotel balconies. As the play progressed the audience occasionally tittered in a polite, English drawing room kind of way. All except Lizzie, who was fully alive to the humour and guffawed without restraint. The actors just loved her, eventually turning her way as though she was the only person in this God-forsaken provincial dive worth the trouble of acting for. We laughed too, as much at Lizzie's evident enjoyment as at the play.

Experiences like that colour our feeling about certain things for the rest of our lives. Although last night's audience laughed heartily in all the right places so that Lizzie didn't stand out quite so much.

Positive Ageing

Today

We've been tackling a couple of health issues lately. I've been signed off by my podiatrist. He commented that it had been helpful that I'd sought advice so early. "Some people put up with things until they can hardly move" he said "and that makes treatment so much harder."

Paul, on the other hand, belongs to the grin until you can't bear it school of thought. He was getting used to his back teeth falling out and thought the loss of a crown simply meant that he would have to have it screwed back in on the NHS. Not so, the tooth and crown loss turned out to be a symptom of a deep-seated infection leading to bone loss in the jaw and to a £3K+ bill for implants.

He's also become so used to dizziness and intermittent hearing loss that he thought it was just part of the ageing process. I nagged him "You shouldn't have to put up with this, go and ask for help." Having made sure he avoided the GP at the practice who attributes all ills to Paul's supersize, he saw a locum who told him that he had a deep-seated infection in one ear. Paul's bunging in the drops and hoping for an improvement.

In My Day

One of my less pleasant, but certainly educational, jobs was a stint as a nursing auxiliary at the D'Arcy Nursing Home in Hove. A group of impecunious and very elderly ladies (mostly - I think we had one gentleman) spent the remnants of their pensions for the privilege of a room at this place. Quite frankly, the standard of care was just about adequate and depended much on the skill and attitude of individual staff members. There was no attempt to rehabilitate residents after injuries and care was really limited to keeping them clean and fed. We hardly ever saw a doctor or physio.

Two of the ladies suffered very badly from arthritis. the way they dealt with this complaint was driven by their personalities and again the home made no efforts to encourage independence. In a little room near the office was a sweet old dear - let's call her Gladys. She was resigned and smiling and as a result was totally bedridden, requiring a high level of care by the nurses who had to lift her on and off commodes, and feed and clean her. One day it was my turn. I had to cut her nails. Inactivity and arthritis meant that her hands were in a permanently clenched position. I prised open these hands so that I could cut the overlong nails and clean the palms of her hands which were smelly and covered with unsloughed dead skin cells.

Let's call lady number two Ethel. She was a cantankerous woman who was obliged to share a room with a willfully demented old dear. Ethel bossed this person about, refusing to accept that she was as helpless as she made out. Ethel refused all help-struggling up on arthritic legs every day to get to the washroom to have a good wash, taking herself to the toilet and so on. This meant that she remained much more independent than Gladys. She was unpopular with the nurses because of the cantankerous ways, but I rather admired her energy and independence. When she unfortunately fell out of bed one night so that she really was confined to bed for a couple of days I was only too happy to give her blanket baths, knowing how important cleanliness was to her. And she was soon back up again.

I can't see the point of just putting up with things if I don't have to. Who knows, I guess my cantankerous days are something to look forward to.

Green eyed monster

Today

I'm very happy that Abby is OK and arrives daily, cannon-ball style, for her supper. What I don't really understand is why she's still so jealous of the kitties. They pay her little attention but she seems entirely unable to assert her place in the household, which has never been withheld from her. Actually, I think all her hissing and growling is a sign of her weakness as she has never actually tried facing the kitties down.

In My Day

When I told people that I was expecting another baby, nearly five years after the first, I was given many dire warnings about the awful consequences of such a large gap and the terrible jealousy that my first born would experience and express and with which I'd have to cope. Parenting magazines were full of articles on how to manage this destructive threat to our family peace and there were many armchair child psychologists lined up with horror stories designed to unnerve me further.

In my unsubtle way, I simply spoke to four-year old Lizzie about the problem. "Are you worried about the new baby?" I asked. Liz admitted to a little uncertainty, so I quickly invented something which actually turns out to be true. "No need to worry", I said "Each baby is born with its own love wrapped up with it." Quite so.

Liz seemed delighted with her new sister and, what's more, her sister seemed delighted with her. When Becky was one, a couple of people, assuming jealousy, gave Lizzie a present too. She was genuinely puzzled; it wasn't her day and, anyway, she'd had lots of fun with me, preparing for the party.

In a recent Facebook entry Beatrice asked whether resentment grows or diminishes with time. The answer, of course, depends on whether you starve or feed the beast. And the same goes for jealousy. Just trust me, Abby, I will never alter my love for you.

Raincheck

Today

Another dump of about 6 inches of snow fell last night on top of the last lot which is largely untouched. We cleared and salted the steps and path and helped our neighbour get his car up the close.

"It's raining in Oakhill" he told us later. Oakhill is about two miles away. Apparently the temperature in Dorchester is 5 degrees.

Later the Somerset Podiatry Service rang to ask me if I could make it to an appointment tomorrow. The caller stopped herself "I've just seen your address," she said "of course you can't." I asked her what is was like in Frome. "Well, actually, I'm calling from Wells," she answered "and it's not too bad here."

In My Day

Which takes me back to a weekend in, I think, 1989 or 1990. Becky was about twelve and some of her friends were staying for the weekend. There was Sarah from Cranmore, Tuesday from Shepton and Emma (was that her name - I may have made it up) from Pilton.

We had a pleasant evening - they were a mannerly bunch - although they were probably awake half the night watching videos and chatting.

In the morning when I got up I saw that the Close was covered in snow and it was still falling fast. I woke up the girls. "Sorry to cut your weekend short," I said "But you'd better call your parents to tell them to pick you up now while they can still get through."

Sarah first. Her brother answered. "Oh, Mum's already left," he said "As soon as she saw the weather."

Next Tuesday. Her Mum answered. "Snow?" she asked doubtfully "It's raining rather hard here in Shepton, but if you say so. I'll get going."

When Emma called, her mother simply thought she was pulling her leg. "The sun's shining here," she said "What are you on about? I wasn't going to pick you up until lunchtime." She was clearly annoyed at losing her child-free lie-in. Emma pleaded and eventually her mother came to collect her. Much astonishment at the differences in the weather, comments about how hard it can be to get down the Close, and Emma was forgiven.

It's surprising how much colder it can be when you live on top of the heap, so to speak.

Uniquely You

Today

I really should stop wasting time on silly Facebook Quizzes. The latest took my name and DOB and ranked my parents' originality on the basis of how popular my name was in 1947. 116th, that's what and my parents only got a B+ for originality. What's more, the quiz told me that the equivalent name today (ranking 116th, that is) is "Rylee". What kind of a name is that?

It seems to me that people these days are not given "real" names, just collections of letters that sound nice. But then, I may be old-fashioned to think that names should have some meaning or carry ancestral weight.

In a recent article I read an idea that name-giving can be ranked as though they were sandwiches, from the dull (cheese & pickle - "John" or "Ann") to the adventurous (honey & anchovy paste on pumpernickel - "Mylene" or "Tatum"). At least the first is palatable and digestible.

In My Day

The names that Mamma and Daddy gave us were a mixture of the safe and ancestral. I may have mentioned elsewhere the family legend that David, due on Feb 14th, was to be called "Valentine" until he delayed his birth by a day. I don't know what Daddy thought of this, but Mamma used to say that he vetoed "Oliver" for Chris as being way too outlandish (today Oliver would rank only a bit above the cheese and pickle). Second names for both were familial - "Lawrence" for David, carrying on Daddy's 2nd name and "Paul" for Mamma's father.

I copped the ancestral principle big-time, "Alice" for Mamma and "Julia" for my grandmother Hedwig Eva Julia). Mamma had named Beatrice before she was born, being certain that she was carrying a girl. (She had a slight proviso that if she was wrong "Benedict" would be the name but fortunately she and Daddy didn't have to argue that one out.)

The only one of us whose name was shortened was Chris - "Xopher" or "Xpher", although Beatrice later tried out a variety of shortened forms, settling on Beaty or Bea which I guess is better than "Trixie".

At school names were a sort of burden of varying weights from the outlandish (we had a Norwegian girl at school named Solveig who patiently explained again and again that the "G" was silent) to the dull - Susan - and the fashionable -Sandras and Brendas abounded back in 1950's England.

In Germany recently I talked to my cousins about our names - the eldest, also Julia for the same reason as me and Wiebke who was given this Danish name after an old friend of her mother's who is still alive and living in Minnesota. "Did you know," said Wiebke "that Grandmother was known as "Julia"?" She showed me several documents with "Julia" followed by "Hedwig" in brackets. No, I didn't, and was somehow comforted to know that she, too, carried this burden of using day-to-day a name other than her first given name.

We touch hands across the generations, Grandmother.

Slippery Slope

Today

Snow; quite a lot of it. Although I don't trust those panic-stricken news reports which mainly exist to pander to newsreaders' self-importance, it's true that it's been very cold.

The snow has been fine and powdery, so not very slidey where it hasn't been driven on. Yesterday I persuaded Paul to come out for a walk up the lane.He agreed, although he then grumbled about being cold for half the walk. "You just need to get your metabolism working" I said knowledgeably "then you'll warm up. The trouble is you don't exercise enough. Crikey!" I added "I sound like my Mother!" I was very snug inside my down-filled body-warmer which may have had something to do with my patronising attitude.

As we walked back down the steep bit of Susannah's lane, Paul assisted me. "It's not really slippery," I said "But I lack physical confidence. I don't know which of my parents had the worst attitude: Daddy who thought that all exercise for girls was wrong or Mamma with her "stuff and nonsense" attitude."

In My Day

We quite often had snow, post-Christmas, when I was a child. The album shows many a picture with 4BH swathed in white. Mamma would frequently shoo us all out with an instruction to play in the snow. Chris would make slides and abandon himself to the dangerous pleasures of whizzing downhill unstoppably. I was more scared than excited by this and would never trust myself to follow suit.

Making and throwing snowballs was safer but could get a bit dull and, anyway, as our gloves were always woollen, our hands quickly became wet and cold. Little ice balls would entwine around the fibres of the wool before soaking uncomfortably inwards.

And I don't remember any snowmen, although I'm sure some were made.

In fact, as soon as I could, I'd be back indoors by the fire with a book, hoping Mamma wouldn't find me and shoo me out again. All of which makes my attitude to Paul even more absurd.

I tried cross-country ski-ing a couple of years ago and found that I was very good at one part of it - falling over.

Spectator

Today

The family's all gathered at the flat for Christmas. Lizzie got here last night and Becky & Richard arrived this morning. As we sat in the sitting room and chatted Liz said "Where's the Christmassy music, then?" "Oh, sorry," I said and whacked on the Waitresses and Abba.

Liz asked me if I'd remembered to bring "Phil Spector's Christmas Album" from home. "No", I said "But I'm sure we can download it from Napster." Which I did and am now listening to.

In My Day

Every family has its own Christmas traditions, I'm sure, including the sort of entertainment. When we lived at Rowan Avenue the Christmas ritual always involved popping next door to the Levetts for a morning drink before we separated to celebrate in our own ways.

John would have put up a small, dense tree, hung with lights in the form of old-fashioned coaches. He always preferred to cut this tree himself, trudging through Friston Forest with little Matthew trailing behind disconsolately in the mud, wailing about being wet and cold. As our tree wasn't lit until we could light the candles (magical enough), Lizzie would be enchanted by this softly glowing tree.

In the background, barely audible, Phil Spector's Christmas album would be playing. As we grown-ups chatted and drank wine, ignoring the music, Liz would be drinking in the music. No wonder it's an indelible part of her list of Christmas rituals.

When the album was re-released a few years ago, we really had no option but to buy one for Liz. Shame she'd already snapped up about five copies herself.

Stuck

Today

Before leaving for Brighton we popped over to my brother Chris's with the family Christmas presents. "So sorry I haven't any for you," said Chris "I'm planning to buy them next week." He then explained that he was driving over via the Euro Tunnel to the Christmas market in Achen and was hoping to get loads of lovely German Christmas goodies for everyone.

Only he didn't, because the trains all broke down being unable to cope with the sudden change in temperature from cold France to hot tunnel. 1000's of passengers were stranded and it's taken days to get things moving again. At least he wasn't stranded at the wrong end.

In My Day

Snow before Christmas is always a shocker in Britain, it's true; most snow falling in January or February. In 1967 I was a student in Worthing in Sussex. I'd planned to go home for the weekend - it must have been early December. I wanted to save money and had booked myself home on the bus.

We were still in class when we saw the first flakes of snow begin to fall. By the time I'd got my bags and was ready to go, there was a full-scale blizzard. Clearly the buses weren't going to run. I struggled down to the seafront where the bus station was to reclaim my fare. I could hardly walk for the wind and couldn't see for the driving snow.

I then struggled up to the train station - the trains still appeared to be running so I hopped on. I think it was about one pm. And, indeed the train did run, taking a mere nine hours to get to East Croydon. We stopped at every station to take on fugitives and crawled along as the snow worsened. Huge flashes from the train's electrics as they touched the often obscured third rail lit up the snowy embankments. I learnt later that this was the last train that got through that day.

I don't remember how I made the final lap from East Croydon to home; maybe things weren't so bad in London.

It's OK, Chris. I fully understand and sympathise if I don't get any pressies this year.

Needles

Today

I popped over to my neighbour's yesterday to drop off a couple of pressies for the children. She showed me her half-decorated tree, explaining that said children had quarrelled so much over the job that she'd told them that it would stay that way if they didn't buck their ideas up. Seeing me notice that it's a fake she excused herself by saying that their two great dogs would damage a real one. She also complained that the Christmas tree at her place of work had dropped its needles within a day of being put up.

"I saw a good idea today," I said "Rent-a-living-tree. Brilliant! you have a live Xmas tree that doesn't shed and you return it at the end of the period, so don't have the problem of whether, after all, to chuck it out rather than start a mini-forest in your tiny back garden."

In My Day

Choosing the right tree, managing it and then disposing of it have always been issues. When I was a child our enormous tree was called by my parents a "fir". I don't think it was kept moist and, having started out rather sparse (deliberately chosen to make candle-management safer), it quickly became sparser as the needles dropped in showers. If you reached up to touch the tree needles became embedded in your clothing. The blasted things got all over the house, even sometimes into the beds.

Once the tree came down, the heaps of needles were vacuumed up, clogging up our elderly Hoover in seconds. The tree itself was usually taken into the garden where we would attempt to burn it. This wasn't as easy as it sounds; with practically no oil-filled needles to catch the flame and with wide spread branches which hindered the passage of the flames up and down, the tree could be surprisingly resistant. We often had to stuff newspaper between the branches all the way up to get it to stay alight.

So this potentially exciting event was often a little bit disappointing.

I think I might try the "rent-a-tree" idea myself next year.

Shrimp

Today

Why is it that people think that vegetarians eat fish? The whole point of being veggie is that you don't consume flesh. At our choir social last night our kind and generous hosts provided a vegetarian risotto that was full of prawns. That the hostess tried to rummage around to find a prawnless bit was missing the point. Instead I had a very nice couscous with apricots and almonds, drank plenty of Pinot Grigio and decided that I was fine.

In My Day

My dislike of seafood, even when I was otherwise willing to eat fish, probably stems from those childhood visits to Brighton when the first thing Daddy would do was buy us each a pint of shrimps. These creatures had to be taken out of a greasy paper bag, then their shells, heads and legs had to be removed before you were able to find that tiny morsel of pink, salty, rubbery flesh. What was there to like about this experience?

When I was doing the COP training, back in 1986, the computer liaison officer at the Bexhill Tax Office where I was carrying out the training, very kindly invited me to her home for supper.

She and her husband were just starting out and were clearly not especially well off. But they'd cooked me a wonderful, expensive meal, starting with the biggest prawn cocktail I'd ever seen. Prawns were an expensive luxury then so I could hardly refuse.

"Oh, .....," I said "You have gone to a lot of trouble!" and proceeded to swallow each one whole so as to minimise the taste and avoid that dreadful rubbery texture. With some difficulty I avoided seconds. And the rest of the meal was fine.

The worst thing about prawns and shrimps is the way their little beady eyes look at you while you're unpeeling them.

Highest Bidder

Today

Rather jolly lunch with my relations from the Midlands today. We went to one of those pubs that relies on a massively fast throughput on Sunday but after 45 minutes they found us a table.

Maybe it was the wait that brought on the hysteria or that preponderance of fried "combo" dishes and chips. When my tea arrived with a little gold-wrapped chocolate mint I decided to put the mint up for auction. Bids came thick and fast; after I'd rejected my niece's husband's car keys on the grounds that it wasn't that kind of party, the clear winner was Jo with a bid of £3.75. her uncle tried to slip under the wire with £4.00, but Jo got the choccy.

In My Day

When I was small, there were no TV programmes showing you how to flog your heirlooms and the idea of an auction was rather foreign to me. Mamma and Daddy certainly didn't haunt auction rooms and generally didn't take chances. There was one notable annual exception to this.

Every year we used to go to the local Vicar's garden party. Given our urban location it was rather strange to find oneself in an idyllic well-groomed garden that wouldn't have been out of place in Midsomer Worthy. There were the usual stalls and stands. The most exciting event was the "Dutch Auction" There would be a series of (probably donated) gifts. A large sheet was held out and people chucked money in. At a given signal the chucking would stop and the last person to have chucked would get the prize, even if they'd only put in half a crown.

In this way Mamma once bagged a beautiful porcelain Chinese tea set in gold and translucent white for about a shilling. Each paper-fine cup had the face of a chinese girl in relief in the base. Mamma loved it and used it for ages. I believe David still has it.

Chris once bid £5.00 at Christies for three bottles of genuine Napolean brandy. He got the brandy and I helped him discover how good it was one Christmas back in Cricklewood.

Jo, having won the bid, gave her Uncle the chocolate anyway and got to keep the money.

Scatty-cat

Today

On facebook today, my niece wondered how long it would be before her kitten got bored with attacking the Christmas tree baubles. It's interesting; much of the charm of kittens is their enthusiasm for chasing and attacking dangly things. Then we get upset when they can't resist a huge source of dangly things which we have created.

In My Day

When Abby was a kitten she just loved to attack the Christmas tree. She raced round and round, smacking every bauble within reach. I made sure that the bottom row, so to speak, wasn't made of glass and tried to relax. Paul had other ideas and kept trying to stop her. Eventually she pulled a bauble right off the tree. It was a tiny cylindrical painted wooden Santa. Paul expressed exasperation.

"Let her keep it," I said to Paul "She's broken the string anyway." Abby loved this toy and played with it much over the next few months.

At that time, she was rather the dominant cat; Arietty kept out of the way as much as possible and often had to be coaxed indoors. On one occasion Abby was playing with the father Christmas across the floor while Arietty looked on from a perch on the arm of the sofa. When Abby lost interest, Arietty got down and began to bat this toy about. Boy! Did she know what she was doing! She smacked and jumped and clawed at this rodent substitute. She gave us a virtuoso display of vicious merciless killing. It was like a kung-fu master showing a child how it was done.

Abby watched, appalled and fascinated, and never again dared to challenge Arietty's authority. Arietty became number one cat from that day on. And Abby has ignored every Christmas tree since, perhaps because it reminds her of her humiliation.

Actually I blame Phillipa for having put the Christmas tree up so early.

Stocking Fillers

Today

Very successful couple of days, getting the Christmas shopping under way. We were buying items for stockings in one shop - the cashier said, "That'll be £43.00, please. "How much?" said Paul. "Remember," I reminded him "the days when we could fill a sticking for a fiver are long since past."

In My Day

We didn't have stockings as children, for many reasons, but I was more than happy to introduce the custom into our children's Christmas experience. With the help of a mail order toy shop called !Tridias! I was able to fill their stockings with a collection of unusual and dirt cheap toys. Add a fluffy toy, satsuma and mince pie and the job was done.

I suppose for most parents there comes a moment when you know you've done your job properly. 1986 was a grim year for us with no settled home and uncertain job prospects. We came to Somerset so that I could take up the offer of the job with Flare. We were living with Chris and I explained to the girls that there'd be no stockings because that wasn't how Chris and his family celebrated.

To our great joy we found that we were able to move into our home in Stoke St Michael two days before Christmas. I explained to my sister-in-law Marilu that we would still love to celebrate Christmas with them but would move straight away into our new home.

Seeing that we would be waking in our own home on Christmas morning, Paul and I set about buying stocking gifts for the girls. On Christmas Eve they hung up their stockings and we all went off to bed.

Christmas morning arrived. "Good morning, girls!" we said "Happy Christmas! Have you opened your stockings?" "Well," they said "have you opened yours?" Ours? We hadn't hung up stockings - but there they were, hung up by Becky at four in the morning and lovingly filled with the sort of trivial gifts that two children could afford out of their pocket money.

And we've hung up our stockings every year since.

What I've never quite understood is how, in less than two days, they got into Shepton Mallet to buy this lot without our knowledge.

To Infinity & Beyond

Today

Started our Christmas shopping today in Brighton. We walked through North Laine enjoying the bustle and trying to find Cyber Candy. On the corner of Gardner Street is "Infinity Foods", a rather posh-looking wholefood shop. "Workers' co-operative, established 1971" was proudly written above the door.

In My Day

Exactly how we became involved with Infinity Foods back in 1971 I'm not sure. We were living at Belmont near Seven Dials at the time. I've an idea we saw a poster - or were we approached? - for a new vegetable co-operative. We walked down to the shop which was a small, somewhat scrubby and joss-sticky place. We sat at mis-matched tables, freezing cold, and drank coffee and met other people who were also interested.

The idea seemed to be that, if we pooled our resources, we could get good organic vegetables very cheaply. So, each week off we trotted and placed our order for fruit and veg, at the same time collecting the items ordered the previous week. I've an idea that we took away a huge boxful for about £3.00. It certainly kept us healthy at a time when we had no money.

We made a few friends there - the unwashed Jan & Steve with their little boy Adam, Ian & Val who were lecturers and social workers, also with a baby - a girl called Lara and a big jolly girl whose name I can't remember but who was convinced that washing vegetables reduced their nutritional value. I wonder what happened to them all.

It was all very hippy and new age and full of good intentions. It's good to see that the ideals have prospered and that the place is flourishing like the green bay tree. I wonder if I'm entitled to a long service award?

Butterfly

Today

Becky's Facebook status today bemoans the fact that, not only does she not have stacks of invitations, those that she has are all on one day. David suggested that this allows her to appear to be a terrific social butterfly with little effort.

In My Day

I remember the day we went to three parties, all on Easter Saturday, I think in 1979. We had a babysitter, in the form of Beatrice, so why not party the night away? The first was the 18th birthday party of a friend that Paul had met through the ambulance service. Her name was Fiona and she was a nursing auxiliary at a residential care home. She was drop-dead posh and famous for the incident with the false teeth and for her large number of concurrent boyfriends of a range of ages and marital status whose presence in the house at all times of day or night was tolerated by her easy-going mother. The guests at the party seemed to be either family or said boyfriends, which made Paul and me feel a little bit out of it. After I'd broken the cheese knife on the huge Stilton and then been embarrassed by fond references to her baby days, we decided that it was time to go on to the next do.

With two more parties to go to we had to plan which would be the best place to end up the night. There were a number of issues to consider; driving, eating and the general party-ishness of the event. While Fiona's was reasonably close to home, it certainly didn't promise to be a frolic. And there was that matter of the broken Stilton knife.

Priding myself on my memory as I do, I regret to say that I don't really remember the second one - I think that we more or less put our heads around the door before buzzing off to the final one at Lynda's. Lynda was also a friend of Paul's from the hospital and also had a cut-glass accent although it was inclined to slip when she became drunk.

She was fond of partying, despite or maybe because of her husband's long absences on business in Qatar, and we could be sure of lively company, plenty of food, drink and dancing. I was feeling pretty jolly, having lost my post-Becky weight, and treated myself to some new clothes and I accepted compliments and invitations to dance with equal readiness.

Like Fiona's party, quite a number of the guests were Lynda's boyfriends past and present. But there was a better balance of age and the sexes and generally more sense that they were there for the fun.

How did we get home? I don't remember and didn't have to do the driving, but we got back with a sense of duty and pleasure both satisfied. And we've never had this delightful dilemma, since so go for it, Becky!