Today
This morning Becky mentioned that she was taking Carmen to an osteopath. I asked her if this was cranial osteopathy, but she said no.
"In my experience", I said "osteopaths are charlatans".
In My Day
So where did this sweeping opinion come from? When I worked for the Inland Revenue, much of my day was spent sitting at a desk and I found that my neck and upper back could become very stiff and sore. Somebody told me that the Civil Service encouraged staff to use osteopaths by having some on an approved list who carried out the treatment at reduced rates for civil servants
I found one in Eastbourne and trotted along. The therapist was a dour middle-aged man who said hardly anything during the sessions, didn't describe what he was doing and gave me no advice as to follow-up, posture, exercise and so on.
My sessions were twice-weekly and consisted of what appeared as brutal attacks on my skeleton. One of the few things he said, after an especially bone-crunching moment was that he had re-aligned some vertebrae.
I left his sessions in considerable pain which would take a couple of days to clear up. Eventually, when the pain hadn't ceased by the time I went to the next session, I stopped going. This was worse than the stiffness!
A couple of weeks later I did what I should have done in the first place: I went to see my doctor. I confessed to what I'd been doing and he wasn't particularly complimentary. He told me to strip my top half and he examined my back. "Well", he said "I can see that there are a couple of misaligned vertebrae....." He gave me some advice about posture and the best sleeping positions and packed me off to a physiotherapist who was very helpful indeed.
I found some facts about osteopaths which suggest that what they offer is rooted in philosophy, not science.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Osteopathy
But many people swear by their osteopaths, claiming that it's only through their help that they can stand upright, and whom am I to say they're wrong?
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
Friday, September 20, 2013
Waddle
Today
Following the birth of Carmen, Becky has been watching her own weight decrease. Many of her clothes are now much too large and we were talking about the need for some interim clothing.
"I remember the excitement of buying normal-sized clothes when you were about 6 months old" I said.
In My Day
When I had Becky, back in 1977, I was working at the Inland Revenue. The Civil Service maternity arrangements were far ahead of their time and the deal was that I could have three months fully paid maternity leave, but they withheld the third months' pay until I had been back full time for at least three months.
The effect of this was that I received a whole extra month's pay just when Becky and I needed a new set of clothes - hers larger, mine a lot smaller.
I popped to the shops, very happy with my new size 14 figure, and bought skinny tops, dresses and fabric to make hip-hugging skirts. I was so glad to ditch those maternity and baggy clothes and waltzed into work in tight jeans and t-shirts. My anorexic friend Hazel rather tactlessly said to people (in my hearing) "you remember my fat friend Julia? Well, this is my slim friend Julia!" I guess she meant well.
Shortly afterwards, Paul and I were invited to a party. I enjoyed dancing and a good deal of male attention. This was a massive boost to my sense of personal attractiveness and I remember lapping it up!
Birth and early motherhood are very physical experiences with the emphasis on bodily functions. Getting ones figure back, however partially, is a wonderful way of reclaiming ones balance. It also makes you feel less, well, waddly which has to be a good thing.
Following the birth of Carmen, Becky has been watching her own weight decrease. Many of her clothes are now much too large and we were talking about the need for some interim clothing."I remember the excitement of buying normal-sized clothes when you were about 6 months old" I said.
In My Day
When I had Becky, back in 1977, I was working at the Inland Revenue. The Civil Service maternity arrangements were far ahead of their time and the deal was that I could have three months fully paid maternity leave, but they withheld the third months' pay until I had been back full time for at least three months.
The effect of this was that I received a whole extra month's pay just when Becky and I needed a new set of clothes - hers larger, mine a lot smaller.
I popped to the shops, very happy with my new size 14 figure, and bought skinny tops, dresses and fabric to make hip-hugging skirts. I was so glad to ditch those maternity and baggy clothes and waltzed into work in tight jeans and t-shirts. My anorexic friend Hazel rather tactlessly said to people (in my hearing) "you remember my fat friend Julia? Well, this is my slim friend Julia!" I guess she meant well.
Shortly afterwards, Paul and I were invited to a party. I enjoyed dancing and a good deal of male attention. This was a massive boost to my sense of personal attractiveness and I remember lapping it up!
Birth and early motherhood are very physical experiences with the emphasis on bodily functions. Getting ones figure back, however partially, is a wonderful way of reclaiming ones balance. It also makes you feel less, well, waddly which has to be a good thing.
Monday, August 26, 2013
Faggot
Today
My nephew Jacob posted a picture on Facebook today showing a supermarket offer on faggots. He seemed to be very cheerful about this which I thought surprising, in view of the following story.
In My Day
It must have been late 1984 or early 1985 and Beatrice and Jacob (who was then about three) were coming to lunch. Knowing that they ate meat I'd bought some faggots.
I served these up all hot with gravy and vegetables. Jacob took one look and refused to eat them, throwing a fairly huge tantrum to make his point clear. "Well, " I said, when I could make myself heard, "I haven't anything else, but if you don't want them I'll give them to the dog." Caspian the dog was cruising hopefully around the table in case anything fell on the floor.
Jacob screamed a bit more to ensure that we hadn't misunderstood him first time around. "OK" I put the plate on the floor and called Cas, who clearly thought that Christmas had come early, since he was never fed from the table. The faggots disappeared without touching the sides and Jacob watched his dinner vanish.
Now it was pudding time, Jacob would eat any pud, so long as it was oranges and I'd laid in a stock of really nice, juicy ones. "No dinner, no pudding," said Beatrice firmly, so Jacob had to watch while we all tucked in to his favourite dessert. He tried sucking up to me with poorly disguised attempts to wheedle a orange - even a segment of orange out of me, but I was obdurate and he had to go hungry.
I have no idea whether this made any improvement in his manners, eating habits or moral understanding (I seem to remember a later episode over some fish & chips, so maybe not) nor whether Jacob now has a rooted aversion to or passionate liking for faggots. But he doesn't seem to bear me any sort of a grudge, for which I'm grateful.
My nephew Jacob posted a picture on Facebook today showing a supermarket offer on faggots. He seemed to be very cheerful about this which I thought surprising, in view of the following story.
In My Day
It must have been late 1984 or early 1985 and Beatrice and Jacob (who was then about three) were coming to lunch. Knowing that they ate meat I'd bought some faggots.
I served these up all hot with gravy and vegetables. Jacob took one look and refused to eat them, throwing a fairly huge tantrum to make his point clear. "Well, " I said, when I could make myself heard, "I haven't anything else, but if you don't want them I'll give them to the dog." Caspian the dog was cruising hopefully around the table in case anything fell on the floor.
Jacob screamed a bit more to ensure that we hadn't misunderstood him first time around. "OK" I put the plate on the floor and called Cas, who clearly thought that Christmas had come early, since he was never fed from the table. The faggots disappeared without touching the sides and Jacob watched his dinner vanish.
Now it was pudding time, Jacob would eat any pud, so long as it was oranges and I'd laid in a stock of really nice, juicy ones. "No dinner, no pudding," said Beatrice firmly, so Jacob had to watch while we all tucked in to his favourite dessert. He tried sucking up to me with poorly disguised attempts to wheedle a orange - even a segment of orange out of me, but I was obdurate and he had to go hungry.
I have no idea whether this made any improvement in his manners, eating habits or moral understanding (I seem to remember a later episode over some fish & chips, so maybe not) nor whether Jacob now has a rooted aversion to or passionate liking for faggots. But he doesn't seem to bear me any sort of a grudge, for which I'm grateful.
Sunday, July 28, 2013
Bright Lights
Today
I have just returned from a few days spent with Becky in London. On the last day we met at The Crusting Pipe in Covent Garden for lunch. There was a charming Cypriot waitress and we chatted about this and that. I told her that I was a Londoner by birth and she asked me whether I missed London.
Well, there's a question; I do and I don't.
In My Day
Being brought up in London would be meaningless if all it meant was knowing the few streets around your home and I suspect that has always been the case for many people. But, even as children, our London life included many of the amazing cultural, educational and entertainment opportunities.
We went to London Zoo, Battersea Park and Funfair. We visited all the museums in the Brompton Road many times (my especial favourite was the natural history museum) as well as the British Museum, Horniman's and, once, the National Maritime Museum. We had tea on the roof garden at Derry and Toms and at Lyon's Corner House on the Strand.
We were taken to shows, films, the theatre, operas and concerts. We went to Madame Tussaud's, the Planetarium, The Tower of London, the Monument, Trafalgar Square. I remember once going on an open-topped tour bus where a genial Cockney guide sent Daddy into uncontrollable guffaws with his commentary about St Martin-in-the Fields - "Coming up in the middle of the road..." as though the church were a giant Wurlitzer. We visited the parks, commons and gardens. St Paul's Cathedral and the Houses of Parliament were almost natural habitats.
This ease and familiarity with London spilled over into adulthood. By the age of twelve I was a regular Promenader and was spending my Saturdays and paper round money going to West End matinees. I used to visit all the art galleries., both public, such as the Tate, and private ones in Bond Street with my friend Lynda. With a youthful certainty about our cultural superiority we used to call such excursions "gallery crawls". David and I bought "Red Rover" tickets and travelled randomly on buses to more obscure corners of the city.
I bought student standing-room only tickets for the Old Vic and joined the Aldwych student group, going to see all that the Royal Shakespeare company could offer as well as the astonishing World Theatre seasons. I saw Shakespeare in the open at Regent's Park and at the George in Southwark. I haunted the V&A and grew fond of the Science Museum where I would draw the great Victorian beam engines and other machinery.
This was in addition to familiarity with all the great stores and the amazing specialist shops. There was less of a cafe and club culture than there is today, so there wasn't much of that and, anyway, we probably couldn't afford it.
So, do I miss it? Clearly, even with all of that, there was much I didn't experience. But you could live all your life in London and not see it all. And there are many other aspects to life. I have lived in the suburbs, by the sea and in a small country village and have learnt about what drives life in these places.
When I am in London, I feel energised by the bustle and the sheer variety of the place, but I think that a rounded life is one where there has been a breadth of experience and, right now, I love my wooded garden in a quiet village with woodland walks on my doorstep.
So the answer is, not really, not now.
I have just returned from a few days spent with Becky in London. On the last day we met at The Crusting Pipe in Covent Garden for lunch. There was a charming Cypriot waitress and we chatted about this and that. I told her that I was a Londoner by birth and she asked me whether I missed London.Well, there's a question; I do and I don't.
In My Day
Being brought up in London would be meaningless if all it meant was knowing the few streets around your home and I suspect that has always been the case for many people. But, even as children, our London life included many of the amazing cultural, educational and entertainment opportunities.
We went to London Zoo, Battersea Park and Funfair. We visited all the museums in the Brompton Road many times (my especial favourite was the natural history museum) as well as the British Museum, Horniman's and, once, the National Maritime Museum. We had tea on the roof garden at Derry and Toms and at Lyon's Corner House on the Strand.
We were taken to shows, films, the theatre, operas and concerts. We went to Madame Tussaud's, the Planetarium, The Tower of London, the Monument, Trafalgar Square. I remember once going on an open-topped tour bus where a genial Cockney guide sent Daddy into uncontrollable guffaws with his commentary about St Martin-in-the Fields - "Coming up in the middle of the road..." as though the church were a giant Wurlitzer. We visited the parks, commons and gardens. St Paul's Cathedral and the Houses of Parliament were almost natural habitats.
This ease and familiarity with London spilled over into adulthood. By the age of twelve I was a regular Promenader and was spending my Saturdays and paper round money going to West End matinees. I used to visit all the art galleries., both public, such as the Tate, and private ones in Bond Street with my friend Lynda. With a youthful certainty about our cultural superiority we used to call such excursions "gallery crawls". David and I bought "Red Rover" tickets and travelled randomly on buses to more obscure corners of the city.
I bought student standing-room only tickets for the Old Vic and joined the Aldwych student group, going to see all that the Royal Shakespeare company could offer as well as the astonishing World Theatre seasons. I saw Shakespeare in the open at Regent's Park and at the George in Southwark. I haunted the V&A and grew fond of the Science Museum where I would draw the great Victorian beam engines and other machinery.
This was in addition to familiarity with all the great stores and the amazing specialist shops. There was less of a cafe and club culture than there is today, so there wasn't much of that and, anyway, we probably couldn't afford it.
So, do I miss it? Clearly, even with all of that, there was much I didn't experience. But you could live all your life in London and not see it all. And there are many other aspects to life. I have lived in the suburbs, by the sea and in a small country village and have learnt about what drives life in these places.
When I am in London, I feel energised by the bustle and the sheer variety of the place, but I think that a rounded life is one where there has been a breadth of experience and, right now, I love my wooded garden in a quiet village with woodland walks on my doorstep.
So the answer is, not really, not now.
Saturday, July 27, 2013
Homeless
Today
Yesterday I received a somewhat peremptory text from Beatrice, "when and for how long did you live in Crowborough? I told her and promised to remind her of the full story later. So here goes.
In My Day
It was late 1985 and we were in a muddle. Paul's "Barretronics" business venture had failed and he was finding it hard to get a job in Eastbourne. I was away in Southampton doing the computerisation of PAYE training. I had an inspiration. "Why don't we move to Southampton? Unemployment is low and there are plenty of properties for sale."
Selling 10 Montfort Close was easy, we found a charming house in Swaythling in Southampton, enrolled the girls in schools and were all set.
Then came the bombshell. The vendors pulled out, blandly saying that they had just wanted to find what they could get for the house and had no intention of selling. By this time we had a completion date for the sale of no 10 so we felt some panic.
At the last minute some friends came to the rescue. "Our parents live and work in Malawi", they told us "but they have an English pied a terre in Crowborough. You're welcome to live there rent-free - just pay for your utility bills." We jumped at the chance, put our furniture in store, packed up the girls, cats, dog and tortoises and moved in to what was a perfectly acceptable three-bed semi.
How unhappy we were! I was away much of the time and Paul was left alone with the girls to care for and without knowing a soul. The town seemed to exist in the cloud layer and a damp, foggy gloom settled over everything. Paul felt so lonely that he sometimes walked up to the shop to buy a packet of biscuits just so that he could talk to a friendly face. Initially we thought we would only be there a matter of three or four weeks so didn't enrol the girls in schools. But as time dragged on we had to find them some schooling. Rebecca, especially, felt victimised and unhappy at her new school.
The experience nearly broke us apart as I desperately tried to do my job in Southampton, keep house-hunting and give attention to my floundering family.
There were some lighter moments. Caspian, feeling aggrieved one day about some lack of attention, ripped open his foam-filled cushion. and was found by us, standing ear-deep in foam chippings, looking very foolish. Chippings popped up all over the house for weeks afterwards. Another time he escaped and spent the night feasting at the local chippy, arriving home dirty, fat and smelling of salt and vinegar. Paul took the girls to see "Back to the Future" and Lizzie spent many hours producing a detailed biog of Michael J Fox - it was a work of hight calibre.
With relief we moved to Southampton in February 1986, only to find that we didn't fare much better. One tortoise came off worst as the temperature at the Crowborough house was too high for him to hibernate properly and he then died when frosts came to Southampton. It took the move to Somerset to enable us to start rebuilding ourselves effectively.
We made so many false starts that I feel especially fortunate to have arrived where I am today, in a beautiful place with my family intact.
Yesterday I received a somewhat peremptory text from Beatrice, "when and for how long did you live in Crowborough? I told her and promised to remind her of the full story later. So here goes.
In My Day
It was late 1985 and we were in a muddle. Paul's "Barretronics" business venture had failed and he was finding it hard to get a job in Eastbourne. I was away in Southampton doing the computerisation of PAYE training. I had an inspiration. "Why don't we move to Southampton? Unemployment is low and there are plenty of properties for sale."
Selling 10 Montfort Close was easy, we found a charming house in Swaythling in Southampton, enrolled the girls in schools and were all set.
Then came the bombshell. The vendors pulled out, blandly saying that they had just wanted to find what they could get for the house and had no intention of selling. By this time we had a completion date for the sale of no 10 so we felt some panic.
At the last minute some friends came to the rescue. "Our parents live and work in Malawi", they told us "but they have an English pied a terre in Crowborough. You're welcome to live there rent-free - just pay for your utility bills." We jumped at the chance, put our furniture in store, packed up the girls, cats, dog and tortoises and moved in to what was a perfectly acceptable three-bed semi.
How unhappy we were! I was away much of the time and Paul was left alone with the girls to care for and without knowing a soul. The town seemed to exist in the cloud layer and a damp, foggy gloom settled over everything. Paul felt so lonely that he sometimes walked up to the shop to buy a packet of biscuits just so that he could talk to a friendly face. Initially we thought we would only be there a matter of three or four weeks so didn't enrol the girls in schools. But as time dragged on we had to find them some schooling. Rebecca, especially, felt victimised and unhappy at her new school.
The experience nearly broke us apart as I desperately tried to do my job in Southampton, keep house-hunting and give attention to my floundering family.
There were some lighter moments. Caspian, feeling aggrieved one day about some lack of attention, ripped open his foam-filled cushion. and was found by us, standing ear-deep in foam chippings, looking very foolish. Chippings popped up all over the house for weeks afterwards. Another time he escaped and spent the night feasting at the local chippy, arriving home dirty, fat and smelling of salt and vinegar. Paul took the girls to see "Back to the Future" and Lizzie spent many hours producing a detailed biog of Michael J Fox - it was a work of hight calibre.
With relief we moved to Southampton in February 1986, only to find that we didn't fare much better. One tortoise came off worst as the temperature at the Crowborough house was too high for him to hibernate properly and he then died when frosts came to Southampton. It took the move to Somerset to enable us to start rebuilding ourselves effectively.
We made so many false starts that I feel especially fortunate to have arrived where I am today, in a beautiful place with my family intact.
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
Shower
Today
There seem to be a large number of babies arriving among family and friends right now and I notice that some people have even adopted the American custom of "baby showers". In some ways it's a lovely idea with the baby being celebrated even before birth and the parents receiving some delightful and useful items.
In My Day
I have already said in another blog how little I bought before Lizzie was born. This was partly down to poverty and a general tendency to leave things till the last minute, but I have to admit to a superstitious feeling about too much preparation.
My logical side tells me that whether the contents of Mothercare have been been bought or whether you have nothing this will not affect the outcome. I suppose I felt, and still feel a little bit, how sad it must be to have a fully-kitted out nursery if something then goes wrong.
I think that this is the real reason why I started out life with Lizzie with half-a-dozen nappies and a single babygro.
I still don't start on making my famous Baby ball and I don't buy or make a congratulations card until I hear of the safe arrival .
Of course, scan technology has taken a good deal of uncertainty out of this particular event, and anyway, I have already made two Moses basket linings and cut out a babygro in "Happy Houses" print. And in Ireland last week Wesz said that if I bought any more stuff Baby Donnelly would only get to wear each item once!
So much for superstition!
There seem to be a large number of babies arriving among family and friends right now and I notice that some people have even adopted the American custom of "baby showers". In some ways it's a lovely idea with the baby being celebrated even before birth and the parents receiving some delightful and useful items.
In My Day
I have already said in another blog how little I bought before Lizzie was born. This was partly down to poverty and a general tendency to leave things till the last minute, but I have to admit to a superstitious feeling about too much preparation.
My logical side tells me that whether the contents of Mothercare have been been bought or whether you have nothing this will not affect the outcome. I suppose I felt, and still feel a little bit, how sad it must be to have a fully-kitted out nursery if something then goes wrong.
I think that this is the real reason why I started out life with Lizzie with half-a-dozen nappies and a single babygro.
I still don't start on making my famous Baby ball and I don't buy or make a congratulations card until I hear of the safe arrival .
Of course, scan technology has taken a good deal of uncertainty out of this particular event, and anyway, I have already made two Moses basket linings and cut out a babygro in "Happy Houses" print. And in Ireland last week Wesz said that if I bought any more stuff Baby Donnelly would only get to wear each item once!
So much for superstition!
Monday, July 15, 2013
Corny
Today
Last Saturday, after a long and hot day we relaxed over a meal at Cafe Piano in Wells. Among the vegetables served with our dinner were some tasty little mini sweet corns. "I remember when I first ate mini sweet corn," I said to Paul "Do you?"
In My Day
In 1980 we took up a kind invitation to visit Canada to stay with my sister Carol.
One memorable day we visited Ohsweken, an Indian reservation dedicated to the Canadian Six Indian nations. There was a festival of dance, drama and song and we took our places to watch the description of Indian life.
Later we joined the Indians in dances to celebrate rain and friendship. As the skies darkened to evening we linked arms and chugged sweatily around the stadium just celebrating being there.
This was hard work and when all was over we were ready for some refreshments. There were many stalls, manned by Six Nations people. One of these simply offered sweet corn. Succulent mini corns were bubbling in a cauldron and they were just ladled into cardboard containers and offered to us. Delicious! I thought so then and think so still and am very glad they they are now readily available in our supermarkets.
I don't know how staged this event was or how much it was a representation of the reality of Canadian Indian life, but I've always relished the memory of that joyous evening and the ways in which it enriched my life.
Last Saturday, after a long and hot day we relaxed over a meal at Cafe Piano in Wells. Among the vegetables served with our dinner were some tasty little mini sweet corns. "I remember when I first ate mini sweet corn," I said to Paul "Do you?"
In My Day
In 1980 we took up a kind invitation to visit Canada to stay with my sister Carol.
One memorable day we visited Ohsweken, an Indian reservation dedicated to the Canadian Six Indian nations. There was a festival of dance, drama and song and we took our places to watch the description of Indian life.
Later we joined the Indians in dances to celebrate rain and friendship. As the skies darkened to evening we linked arms and chugged sweatily around the stadium just celebrating being there.
This was hard work and when all was over we were ready for some refreshments. There were many stalls, manned by Six Nations people. One of these simply offered sweet corn. Succulent mini corns were bubbling in a cauldron and they were just ladled into cardboard containers and offered to us. Delicious! I thought so then and think so still and am very glad they they are now readily available in our supermarkets.
I don't know how staged this event was or how much it was a representation of the reality of Canadian Indian life, but I've always relished the memory of that joyous evening and the ways in which it enriched my life.
Saturday, July 13, 2013
Cantaloupe
Today
One of the pleasures of the hot weather is the abundance of fresh fruit. This morning I enjoyed a salad of banana and Cantaloupe melon.
In My Day
On our great hitch-hiking tour of 1969 my friend Angela and I decided to take in a few days at Avignon in France. The weather was glorious and the youth hostel overlooked the Rhone.
We made friends with other hostellers and one day went for a drive into the parched countryside with two French boys.
Late in the afternoon one of them said "I'm thirsty - I need melon!" When we asked where he was going to get it he declared that we had just passed a farm "They will have melons!" he asserted and walked down the track to the farmhouse.
After a little while he staggered back to the car, arms full of Cantaloupe melons. Roaring with laughter he went back to the farm, re-appearing with more - and more.
Apparently the canny farmer didn't do retail, only wholesale, and had insisted that he buy a minimum order of two dozen. We took them back to the hostel where we discovered that they are very nice sliced crossways and filled with red wine.
The following day we were setting off for Italy, so we packed our share of melons into our backpacks, so as not to waste them. After a difficult and long day getting to Grenoble we feasted on more melon, but eventually the smell of over-ripe melon and their weight in the backpacks was too much for us and we ditched the remaining few somewhere by the Autoroute.
I'd forgotten until this morning that they are the kings of melons, in terms of flavour and sweetness.
One of the pleasures of the hot weather is the abundance of fresh fruit. This morning I enjoyed a salad of banana and Cantaloupe melon.
In My Day
On our great hitch-hiking tour of 1969 my friend Angela and I decided to take in a few days at Avignon in France. The weather was glorious and the youth hostel overlooked the Rhone.
We made friends with other hostellers and one day went for a drive into the parched countryside with two French boys.
Late in the afternoon one of them said "I'm thirsty - I need melon!" When we asked where he was going to get it he declared that we had just passed a farm "They will have melons!" he asserted and walked down the track to the farmhouse.
After a little while he staggered back to the car, arms full of Cantaloupe melons. Roaring with laughter he went back to the farm, re-appearing with more - and more.
Apparently the canny farmer didn't do retail, only wholesale, and had insisted that he buy a minimum order of two dozen. We took them back to the hostel where we discovered that they are very nice sliced crossways and filled with red wine.
The following day we were setting off for Italy, so we packed our share of melons into our backpacks, so as not to waste them. After a difficult and long day getting to Grenoble we feasted on more melon, but eventually the smell of over-ripe melon and their weight in the backpacks was too much for us and we ditched the remaining few somewhere by the Autoroute.
I'd forgotten until this morning that they are the kings of melons, in terms of flavour and sweetness.
Tuesday, July 09, 2013
Cooped Up
Today
At last, after many months of anxiety, I can enjoy my beautiful pond and stream. All kinds of life leap and lurk within it: toads, frogs, newts, caddis flies, dragonflies, water beetles and heaps more.
We've added to the variety with about fifty fish - grass carp, shubunkin, rudd, orfe and golden tench. The tench stay firmly on the bottom, but the others swim around in various groupings, clearly loving the sun-warmed water. Some people ask me if I feed the fish to make them tame, but I say "no", because there's plenty of food and I like them to be shy so that they dash for cover at the smallest noise or sign of a bird overhead. That way they have a better chance of avoiding any herons that pass by.
When we were in Kilcrohane last week we visited a local shop which had a large goldfish bowl in which were a goldfish and a very large shubunkin which swam in a perpetual circular motion, practically meeting its own tail, having no choice. Not a patch on my lovely "posse" of darting and diving free fish.
In My Day
It took a single visit to the circus when I was about eight to convince me that to coerce, restrain and encage animals purely for our enjoyment is wrong. At the circus, I didn't mind the clowns and was suitably impressed by the high-wire artistes. But to make horses gallop around on their hind legs (sometimes ridden by dogs also on their hind legs), beat and terrify lions and tigers into submission and persuade that most noble of creatures, the elephant, to stand on its back legs and catch balls, was ridiculous and humiliating to all concerned.
Add the fact that they spent the rest of their time in cramped cages that were driven all over the country and I lost all interest in circuses that use animals.
My favourite zoo as a child was Whipsnade in which at least some of animals roamed freely. It was a precursor of safari parks, which I very much enjoy visiting. London Zoo with its smelly, endlessly pacing big cats in tiny cages and other locked-up animals I always visited with mixed feelings. Only the penguins on their outdoor Mappin Terraces seemed have any sort of space in which to be comfortable.
I don't think its wrong to own animals and to have the pleasure of watching their antics, but this should be on their terms, not purely ours.
At last, after many months of anxiety, I can enjoy my beautiful pond and stream. All kinds of life leap and lurk within it: toads, frogs, newts, caddis flies, dragonflies, water beetles and heaps more.
We've added to the variety with about fifty fish - grass carp, shubunkin, rudd, orfe and golden tench. The tench stay firmly on the bottom, but the others swim around in various groupings, clearly loving the sun-warmed water. Some people ask me if I feed the fish to make them tame, but I say "no", because there's plenty of food and I like them to be shy so that they dash for cover at the smallest noise or sign of a bird overhead. That way they have a better chance of avoiding any herons that pass by.When we were in Kilcrohane last week we visited a local shop which had a large goldfish bowl in which were a goldfish and a very large shubunkin which swam in a perpetual circular motion, practically meeting its own tail, having no choice. Not a patch on my lovely "posse" of darting and diving free fish.
In My Day
It took a single visit to the circus when I was about eight to convince me that to coerce, restrain and encage animals purely for our enjoyment is wrong. At the circus, I didn't mind the clowns and was suitably impressed by the high-wire artistes. But to make horses gallop around on their hind legs (sometimes ridden by dogs also on their hind legs), beat and terrify lions and tigers into submission and persuade that most noble of creatures, the elephant, to stand on its back legs and catch balls, was ridiculous and humiliating to all concerned.
Add the fact that they spent the rest of their time in cramped cages that were driven all over the country and I lost all interest in circuses that use animals.
My favourite zoo as a child was Whipsnade in which at least some of animals roamed freely. It was a precursor of safari parks, which I very much enjoy visiting. London Zoo with its smelly, endlessly pacing big cats in tiny cages and other locked-up animals I always visited with mixed feelings. Only the penguins on their outdoor Mappin Terraces seemed have any sort of space in which to be comfortable.
I don't think its wrong to own animals and to have the pleasure of watching their antics, but this should be on their terms, not purely ours.
Saturday, June 08, 2013
Hop, Skip & Jump
Today
The broken slabs on the patio and steps at Spencer House have now been repaired. The builder left strict instructions about which ones we can walk on for the next twenty-fours hours.
"Like playing Hopscotch" we said.
In My Day
In 1955, as has been previously blogged, Daddy took us on our near-disastrous caravan journey to North Wales. As the car had broken its silencer on a slate quarry railway line, we couldn't go on any trips anywhere until it was repaired. We were parked up in the tiny village of Talysarn, in the heart of Snowdonia.
That first morning we children peeked out the of the caravan to find that a bunch of local children were peeking at us. In 1955 Snowdonia wasn't so developed for tourism and these children must have been surprised by the sight of a caravan with its ancient car.
We stepped out to greet them and discovered, a little to our consternation, that they spoke foreign. They did also speak some English, but continued to speak Welsh amongst themselves which I, for one, found rather intimidating.
But they were children and we played together as the week progressed. And they taught us their version of Hopscotch. They used slate (there was plenty of that lying around) to mark out the pavement thus:
You threw another piece of slate onto the diagram and had to hop and jump to pick it up, moving up the pattern. Where there was only one square you had to stand on one leg; where there were two you could use both legs. This made the final three fiendishly hard for seven-year old me. although Chris quickly mastered the game, as he mastered everything. The Welsh kids were all experts.
We took this version home with us, marking the back garden paths with chalk and practising over and over again.
It was only much later that I discovered that there are other, easier forms of Hopscotch, but we clung tenaciously to our version, pouring scorn on all others.
I'm less confident about my abilities to hop these days, but have managed to traverse the steps so far without incident.
The broken slabs on the patio and steps at Spencer House have now been repaired. The builder left strict instructions about which ones we can walk on for the next twenty-fours hours.
"Like playing Hopscotch" we said.
In My Day
In 1955, as has been previously blogged, Daddy took us on our near-disastrous caravan journey to North Wales. As the car had broken its silencer on a slate quarry railway line, we couldn't go on any trips anywhere until it was repaired. We were parked up in the tiny village of Talysarn, in the heart of Snowdonia.
That first morning we children peeked out the of the caravan to find that a bunch of local children were peeking at us. In 1955 Snowdonia wasn't so developed for tourism and these children must have been surprised by the sight of a caravan with its ancient car.
We stepped out to greet them and discovered, a little to our consternation, that they spoke foreign. They did also speak some English, but continued to speak Welsh amongst themselves which I, for one, found rather intimidating.
But they were children and we played together as the week progressed. And they taught us their version of Hopscotch. They used slate (there was plenty of that lying around) to mark out the pavement thus:You threw another piece of slate onto the diagram and had to hop and jump to pick it up, moving up the pattern. Where there was only one square you had to stand on one leg; where there were two you could use both legs. This made the final three fiendishly hard for seven-year old me. although Chris quickly mastered the game, as he mastered everything. The Welsh kids were all experts.
We took this version home with us, marking the back garden paths with chalk and practising over and over again.
It was only much later that I discovered that there are other, easier forms of Hopscotch, but we clung tenaciously to our version, pouring scorn on all others.
I'm less confident about my abilities to hop these days, but have managed to traverse the steps so far without incident.
Wednesday, June 05, 2013
Hard Graft
Today
I was reading an article which talked about the lazy work culture of Britain today and how much harder immigrant employees often work and how much "lazy" Brits resent this.
While I think that this view is exaggerated, I do think that there are many British people who are reluctant to put in the hours and cavil at the success of those who do.
In My Day
I never really imagined that I would be a stay-at-home wife and mother. When we wanted to start a family, I said to Paul "If we wait until we can afford it we'll wait the rest of our lives". So we went ahead and had Lizzie, followed five years later by Becky, at a time when having children seemed right for us.
There was no reasonable choice, so it seemed to me, but to continue working. We found a child minder we could trust and learnt how to balance tiredness, work demands and family life.
Many people simply didn't understand or accept that it was OK for both me and Paul to work hard and threatened the collapse of family life and predicted estrangement from and dire ends for the girls.
When I joined Flare in 1986, the grumbles got worse in proportion to how well the company was doing. The fact that I drove thousands of miles every year flogging the product, set up effective support and training operations and was instrumental in growing the company to over ninety staff, was no justification.
When I eventually sold the company people's attitude to me was often grudging. Someone even said to Paul "Now that Julia's come into all that money..." "She didn't come into it," replied Paul with some heat "She earned every penny."
Now, I understand that many people work hard all their lives and end up with barely a pension and others really, really try and can't get work. But to treat me as though I have had some outlandish luck which will surely spell disaster is mean-minded to say the least. What's more, I don't think that this attitude is prevalent in other countries. And my family is just fine with two daughters who work hard and love and support each other and their parents.
People would generally, I think, be less outraged if I won the lottery, because it's a level playing field and doesn't involve taking risks, missing out on leisure and pleasure. If immigrants do a better job than we do, good luck to them, I say, and shame on us for not following the example.
I was reading an article which talked about the lazy work culture of Britain today and how much harder immigrant employees often work and how much "lazy" Brits resent this.
While I think that this view is exaggerated, I do think that there are many British people who are reluctant to put in the hours and cavil at the success of those who do.
In My Day
I never really imagined that I would be a stay-at-home wife and mother. When we wanted to start a family, I said to Paul "If we wait until we can afford it we'll wait the rest of our lives". So we went ahead and had Lizzie, followed five years later by Becky, at a time when having children seemed right for us.
There was no reasonable choice, so it seemed to me, but to continue working. We found a child minder we could trust and learnt how to balance tiredness, work demands and family life.
Many people simply didn't understand or accept that it was OK for both me and Paul to work hard and threatened the collapse of family life and predicted estrangement from and dire ends for the girls.
When I joined Flare in 1986, the grumbles got worse in proportion to how well the company was doing. The fact that I drove thousands of miles every year flogging the product, set up effective support and training operations and was instrumental in growing the company to over ninety staff, was no justification.
When I eventually sold the company people's attitude to me was often grudging. Someone even said to Paul "Now that Julia's come into all that money..." "She didn't come into it," replied Paul with some heat "She earned every penny."
Now, I understand that many people work hard all their lives and end up with barely a pension and others really, really try and can't get work. But to treat me as though I have had some outlandish luck which will surely spell disaster is mean-minded to say the least. What's more, I don't think that this attitude is prevalent in other countries. And my family is just fine with two daughters who work hard and love and support each other and their parents.
People would generally, I think, be less outraged if I won the lottery, because it's a level playing field and doesn't involve taking risks, missing out on leisure and pleasure. If immigrants do a better job than we do, good luck to them, I say, and shame on us for not following the example.
Friday, May 31, 2013
Wakey-wakey
Today
This morning a shared Facebook video came my way showing people trying to heave other people out of bed using mousetraps on the ears (honestly), upending beds into baths and setting Chinese cracker booby-traps,
Pretty nasty, really.
In My Day
Any mother knows the difficulties involved in trying to get their family out of bed in the morning, but I do think that, at some point, responsibility has to be passed on.
In 1983 when we lived at Montfort Close this was the set-up: Paul was working for himself as "Barretronics", I was working full-time and both girls went to the local school.
One morning I heaved myself out of bed and went to wake up my family. Without exception they were grumpy, bad-tempered and even gave me some verbal abuse.
I thought about this during the day. When I got home I summoned a council meeting. "Listen up," I said with some force, "I don't have to get you guys up in the morning; you're quite capable of getting yourselves up and you all have alarm clocks. If you can't treat me with some manners in future I shall get myself up and off to work in the morning and you can sort yourselves out." There was a shuffling silence.
The following morning when I got up, ready to carry out my threat, I was greeted by a chorus most mannerly: "Good morning, Darling", "Hello, Mummy" etc, etc , delivered with delightful smiles. I even think there was a cup of tea. And they've never given me a bad tempered word on waking since.
As Lizzie likes to point out, it didn't make her any better at getting out of bed, but at least she smiled when refusing to get up.
This morning a shared Facebook video came my way showing people trying to heave other people out of bed using mousetraps on the ears (honestly), upending beds into baths and setting Chinese cracker booby-traps,
Pretty nasty, really.
In My Day
Any mother knows the difficulties involved in trying to get their family out of bed in the morning, but I do think that, at some point, responsibility has to be passed on.
In 1983 when we lived at Montfort Close this was the set-up: Paul was working for himself as "Barretronics", I was working full-time and both girls went to the local school.
One morning I heaved myself out of bed and went to wake up my family. Without exception they were grumpy, bad-tempered and even gave me some verbal abuse.
I thought about this during the day. When I got home I summoned a council meeting. "Listen up," I said with some force, "I don't have to get you guys up in the morning; you're quite capable of getting yourselves up and you all have alarm clocks. If you can't treat me with some manners in future I shall get myself up and off to work in the morning and you can sort yourselves out." There was a shuffling silence.
The following morning when I got up, ready to carry out my threat, I was greeted by a chorus most mannerly: "Good morning, Darling", "Hello, Mummy" etc, etc , delivered with delightful smiles. I even think there was a cup of tea. And they've never given me a bad tempered word on waking since.
As Lizzie likes to point out, it didn't make her any better at getting out of bed, but at least she smiled when refusing to get up.
Thursday, May 23, 2013
Basket Case
Today
Preparations for baby Donnelly are well under way. She already has one babygro and one hand-knitted cardie and I couldn't resist buying some cute little vests in Tesco the other day.
I've bought the Moses basket and am engaged in making a suitable lining or two for it. I find myself with an absurd feeling that if I don't stitch away night and day my grand-daughter will come into the world with nothing ready.
In My Day
So how prepared was I, when expecting Lizzie? To start with, I had a sort of superstitious feeling that to have a full layette, decorated nursery et al would somehow bring bad luck. Another thing was an almost total lack of money. When I brought Lizzie home from hospital I had: one babygro (Paul had to go out and hastily buy some more), nappies of the towelling variety, a carry cot with stand and wheels, a baby bath that shared the cot stand and some Playtex bottles. My Italian sister-in-law's mother knitted me some beautiful white blankets which stretched in a snuggly cocoon-like way around Lizzie. Later came the oversized leggings knitted by Jenny and a lovely crocheted floor blanket from Mamma.
I'm not sure I'd even heard of a Moses basket, outside the Bible, and nobody seemed to be stitching day and night on Lizzie's account. The bath soon became a useless relic as I discovered that Lizzie and I had a shared horror of using it, and that washing worked just as well.
And the other necessities? Well.we gradually bought what we could, as and when. My maternity allowance went on a spin-dryer, my month's back pay arrived just as Lizzie was outgrowing her first set of clothes. I didn't have a washing machine, and remember those nauseating buckets full of Napisan. I used to put the previous day's clothes into soak before going to work, rinsing and spinning them when I got home.
Well, she went neither naked nor dirty and gradually things eased up a bit.
The problem is, I saved those blankets for my first grandchild for forty years and now can't seem to find them; maybe I lent them to somebody.........
Preparations for baby Donnelly are well under way. She already has one babygro and one hand-knitted cardie and I couldn't resist buying some cute little vests in Tesco the other day.
I've bought the Moses basket and am engaged in making a suitable lining or two for it. I find myself with an absurd feeling that if I don't stitch away night and day my grand-daughter will come into the world with nothing ready.
In My Day
So how prepared was I, when expecting Lizzie? To start with, I had a sort of superstitious feeling that to have a full layette, decorated nursery et al would somehow bring bad luck. Another thing was an almost total lack of money. When I brought Lizzie home from hospital I had: one babygro (Paul had to go out and hastily buy some more), nappies of the towelling variety, a carry cot with stand and wheels, a baby bath that shared the cot stand and some Playtex bottles. My Italian sister-in-law's mother knitted me some beautiful white blankets which stretched in a snuggly cocoon-like way around Lizzie. Later came the oversized leggings knitted by Jenny and a lovely crocheted floor blanket from Mamma.
I'm not sure I'd even heard of a Moses basket, outside the Bible, and nobody seemed to be stitching day and night on Lizzie's account. The bath soon became a useless relic as I discovered that Lizzie and I had a shared horror of using it, and that washing worked just as well.
And the other necessities? Well.we gradually bought what we could, as and when. My maternity allowance went on a spin-dryer, my month's back pay arrived just as Lizzie was outgrowing her first set of clothes. I didn't have a washing machine, and remember those nauseating buckets full of Napisan. I used to put the previous day's clothes into soak before going to work, rinsing and spinning them when I got home.
Well, she went neither naked nor dirty and gradually things eased up a bit.
The problem is, I saved those blankets for my first grandchild for forty years and now can't seem to find them; maybe I lent them to somebody.........
Wednesday, May 01, 2013
Cloistered
Today
A couple of days ago, driving past Downside Abbey, I found myself thinking about monasteries, the kind of life monks lead and what induces someone to become a monk.
In My Day
To my knowledge I only ever knew one person who'd been a monk. His name was Tony White and we both worked for the Inland Revenue while I was at Lewes in 1977. He was a stocky man of about fifty, with a grey beard and uncompromising expression. It was he who dubbed the unborn Becky the "Sprog" after his naval days. As we got to know each other he told me firstly about his seafarings days and then about his life as a monk. I think he'd been at Buckfast, although I have to say that my memory is hazy on this. He was no singer of plainsong or meekly devout man and, by the time I knew him, seemed to have forgotten what took him into the cloistered life.
By nature a man of action, he eventually decided that he could live a devoutly Catholic life without shutting himself away, so he left. He married late in life and had one son, Jonathan, who gave him great delight and who seemed to be lots of fun.
The question of having a second child arose. He confided in me. "My wife is already in her late forties", he said "and the chances are that not only would a second pregnancy be difficult for her but she would also have a very high chance of having a Down's Syndrome baby." His solution was for them to adopt a Down's Syndrome baby instead, thus removing the physical risk to his wife, while augmenting his family and doing good for an unwanted child.
The child was a girl and he described how happy Jonathan was, how his wife was taking pains to give the girl as much mental stimulus as possible and how they hoped at least to be able to give her a good and happy childhood, even if she needed to be transferred into care after her teens. (Knowing Tony, I doubt whether he would have had the heart ever to do this last thing.)
Tony proved to me that there are many ways of devoting yourself to the ideals of your religion other than shutting yourself away from human joy, need and interaction.
I wonder if he is still alive, but I hope that both his children are and living the life that his generous and large spirit made possible.
A couple of days ago, driving past Downside Abbey, I found myself thinking about monasteries, the kind of life monks lead and what induces someone to become a monk.
In My Day
To my knowledge I only ever knew one person who'd been a monk. His name was Tony White and we both worked for the Inland Revenue while I was at Lewes in 1977. He was a stocky man of about fifty, with a grey beard and uncompromising expression. It was he who dubbed the unborn Becky the "Sprog" after his naval days. As we got to know each other he told me firstly about his seafarings days and then about his life as a monk. I think he'd been at Buckfast, although I have to say that my memory is hazy on this. He was no singer of plainsong or meekly devout man and, by the time I knew him, seemed to have forgotten what took him into the cloistered life.
By nature a man of action, he eventually decided that he could live a devoutly Catholic life without shutting himself away, so he left. He married late in life and had one son, Jonathan, who gave him great delight and who seemed to be lots of fun.
The question of having a second child arose. He confided in me. "My wife is already in her late forties", he said "and the chances are that not only would a second pregnancy be difficult for her but she would also have a very high chance of having a Down's Syndrome baby." His solution was for them to adopt a Down's Syndrome baby instead, thus removing the physical risk to his wife, while augmenting his family and doing good for an unwanted child.
The child was a girl and he described how happy Jonathan was, how his wife was taking pains to give the girl as much mental stimulus as possible and how they hoped at least to be able to give her a good and happy childhood, even if she needed to be transferred into care after her teens. (Knowing Tony, I doubt whether he would have had the heart ever to do this last thing.)
Tony proved to me that there are many ways of devoting yourself to the ideals of your religion other than shutting yourself away from human joy, need and interaction.
I wonder if he is still alive, but I hope that both his children are and living the life that his generous and large spirit made possible.
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Terms of Endearment
Today
Cold callers, whether they are selling double-glazing or trying to persuade you that you unwittingly bought PPI against an unspecified loan and they are here to help you, like to time their calls just when you've finished your day's work and are settling down with a cuppa and "pointless" on TV.
This is what happened yesterday - the phone went at about five-fifteen. "It's for you", said Paul, handing over the phone.
A chappie with an unidentifiable Northern accent started up his spiel: "It's nothing to worry about, my love," he began "I'm calling from a public safety company; not trying to sell anything." "Was I expecting this call?" I asked, suspiciously "Which public safety company?" "Well, my love, we're just a public safety company and what it is, my love..." continued the caller. "Do I know you?" I countered. "Well, you see, my love...". "I wish you'd stop calling me "your love", I said "I am not your love and very unlikely ever to be so." "And I'll stop this conversation," was the tetchy response.
Now, I understand that these people are just trying to earn a paltry living selling unsaleable products, but I resent being addressed in a patronising and, dare I say it, covertly misogynistic, way by a complete stranger. What is wrong with "Mrs Barrett"?
In My Day
It was late 1989 and we decided that 7 Mead Close urgently needed decorating and recarpeting. The floors were bare and the furniture piled up an an unusable way. The new carpet was ordered, the delivery date whizzed closer and closer and we were still not finished. Work was interrupted for our annual Christmas Eastbourne visits, thus further reducing the available time.
Add to this that we hate decorating and aren't good at it, and you will understand that tempers were a little fractious. While Paul attempted to paint the artexed ceiling over the stairwell I started to varnish the banister rails. The doorbell rang.
I went to open it and was confronted by a very young door-to-door salesman. He looked about seventeen and his supervisor appeared to be in a car parked in the Close. Clutching the pot of varnish I looked grimly at this young man.
He twitched nervously, looked anxiously over his shoulder at the supervisor and decided he'd better get started. "Hello, my love..." He got no further. "I am not your love; how dare you address me in that way when you have never met me? Show some respect..." I went on in this vein for a time while he looked as if he was about to be engulfed in flames.
Eventually he shuffled off and I shut the door firmly. I stomped back up the uncarpeted stairs in my socks and grasped the paint brush. In my fury, I missed my footing and slipped down the stairs, narrowly missing the glazed front door. (Becky always says that she saved me from serious injury by catching me before I went through the glass.)
The pot of varnish flew through the air, describing an elegant arc, and came to rest upside-down on the floor, having managed to miss the three-piece suite. And I threw a genuine tantrum and refused to pick up a paintbrush again.
I love it when my friends and family use endearments, but when it comes to strangers I like to set my own terms.
Cold callers, whether they are selling double-glazing or trying to persuade you that you unwittingly bought PPI against an unspecified loan and they are here to help you, like to time their calls just when you've finished your day's work and are settling down with a cuppa and "pointless" on TV.
This is what happened yesterday - the phone went at about five-fifteen. "It's for you", said Paul, handing over the phone.
A chappie with an unidentifiable Northern accent started up his spiel: "It's nothing to worry about, my love," he began "I'm calling from a public safety company; not trying to sell anything." "Was I expecting this call?" I asked, suspiciously "Which public safety company?" "Well, my love, we're just a public safety company and what it is, my love..." continued the caller. "Do I know you?" I countered. "Well, you see, my love...". "I wish you'd stop calling me "your love", I said "I am not your love and very unlikely ever to be so." "And I'll stop this conversation," was the tetchy response.
Now, I understand that these people are just trying to earn a paltry living selling unsaleable products, but I resent being addressed in a patronising and, dare I say it, covertly misogynistic, way by a complete stranger. What is wrong with "Mrs Barrett"?
In My Day
It was late 1989 and we decided that 7 Mead Close urgently needed decorating and recarpeting. The floors were bare and the furniture piled up an an unusable way. The new carpet was ordered, the delivery date whizzed closer and closer and we were still not finished. Work was interrupted for our annual Christmas Eastbourne visits, thus further reducing the available time.
Add to this that we hate decorating and aren't good at it, and you will understand that tempers were a little fractious. While Paul attempted to paint the artexed ceiling over the stairwell I started to varnish the banister rails. The doorbell rang.
I went to open it and was confronted by a very young door-to-door salesman. He looked about seventeen and his supervisor appeared to be in a car parked in the Close. Clutching the pot of varnish I looked grimly at this young man.
He twitched nervously, looked anxiously over his shoulder at the supervisor and decided he'd better get started. "Hello, my love..." He got no further. "I am not your love; how dare you address me in that way when you have never met me? Show some respect..." I went on in this vein for a time while he looked as if he was about to be engulfed in flames.
Eventually he shuffled off and I shut the door firmly. I stomped back up the uncarpeted stairs in my socks and grasped the paint brush. In my fury, I missed my footing and slipped down the stairs, narrowly missing the glazed front door. (Becky always says that she saved me from serious injury by catching me before I went through the glass.)
The pot of varnish flew through the air, describing an elegant arc, and came to rest upside-down on the floor, having managed to miss the three-piece suite. And I threw a genuine tantrum and refused to pick up a paintbrush again.
I love it when my friends and family use endearments, but when it comes to strangers I like to set my own terms.
Sunday, March 17, 2013
The Game of the Name
Today
Of course baby clothes aren't the only subject of conversation; there is also the question of baby names. Becky and Richard have two lists (strictly confidential) set up on their I-pads. They range from the hilarious to the dull and I'm sure they'll come up with the perfect name. Of course, with modern scans, they'll be able to ditch one list entirely in a week or two.
In My Day
Naming the baby is always a matter for debate, unless you are just repeating mother or father's names. When we were expecting Lizzie, the sex of the baby wouldn't be known until the birth so we had to keep both lists open.
I had long thought that Elizabeth is the loveliest girl's name, so there was no discussion there. For some time we used to fantasise about having five girls, Bennett-fashion, and I had names for them all, How strange it is that I can now only remember three: eldest Elizabeth, next Rebecca, youngest Selena.
Boy's names seemed altogether more full of pitfalls. We had thought of Geoffrey after a family friend of Paul's "Uncle Geoffrey", but any other names produced the following type of response: "Timothy! Oh no; we had one at school and he was such a bully, Sebastian - that's so effeminate, Richard, heavens no, it'll be abbreviated to Dick." There didn't seem to be name in the entire male lexicon that didn't carry some unfortunate association. I also had difficulty envisaging myself with a boy so was little help in these one-sided discussions.
Then there was the whole question of second names, Here Paul showed himself adept at choosing elegant combinations: Elizabeth Alice and, later, Rebecca Louise.
It's easy to feel bullied by other people's opinions and Rebecca and Richard are probably right to keep their ideas to themselves for the time being. They don't seem to have a predilection for the absurd, and I feel sure that they'll steer clear from offending anybody.
I know that I will love Baby Donnelly, whatever the name (though I might have difficulty getting used to "Bugless" or "Isembard").
Of course baby clothes aren't the only subject of conversation; there is also the question of baby names. Becky and Richard have two lists (strictly confidential) set up on their I-pads. They range from the hilarious to the dull and I'm sure they'll come up with the perfect name. Of course, with modern scans, they'll be able to ditch one list entirely in a week or two.
In My Day
Naming the baby is always a matter for debate, unless you are just repeating mother or father's names. When we were expecting Lizzie, the sex of the baby wouldn't be known until the birth so we had to keep both lists open.
I had long thought that Elizabeth is the loveliest girl's name, so there was no discussion there. For some time we used to fantasise about having five girls, Bennett-fashion, and I had names for them all, How strange it is that I can now only remember three: eldest Elizabeth, next Rebecca, youngest Selena.
Boy's names seemed altogether more full of pitfalls. We had thought of Geoffrey after a family friend of Paul's "Uncle Geoffrey", but any other names produced the following type of response: "Timothy! Oh no; we had one at school and he was such a bully, Sebastian - that's so effeminate, Richard, heavens no, it'll be abbreviated to Dick." There didn't seem to be name in the entire male lexicon that didn't carry some unfortunate association. I also had difficulty envisaging myself with a boy so was little help in these one-sided discussions.
Then there was the whole question of second names, Here Paul showed himself adept at choosing elegant combinations: Elizabeth Alice and, later, Rebecca Louise.
It's easy to feel bullied by other people's opinions and Rebecca and Richard are probably right to keep their ideas to themselves for the time being. They don't seem to have a predilection for the absurd, and I feel sure that they'll steer clear from offending anybody.
I know that I will love Baby Donnelly, whatever the name (though I might have difficulty getting used to "Bugless" or "Isembard").
Saturday, March 16, 2013
Suited and Bootee'ed
Today
Becky is visiting this weekend and the talk turned, not surprisingly, to the subject of baby clothes. Her mother in law, Poppy, likes to knit; I like to sew, so between us we have it covered.
In My Day
When Lizzie was born, back in 1972 we were given some knitted gifts; two beautiful receiving blankets knitted by my Italian sister-in-law's mother and a floor blanket made by Mamma. Paul's sister had knitted two pairs of white leggings for Lizzie. "Just the job," I thought "with winter coming on and all."
"I washed them very carefully," Mum said as he handed me the package. Well, either she hadn't been careful enough or Jenny's tension was all over the shop. These leggings would have been loose on a six-year old.
I thanked Jenny and put the leggings away, wondering what to do with them, but feeling that it would be rude just to chuck them out.
Lizzie's cousin Katherine was born six months later with a congenital deformity in her hips. When she was about nine months old the decision was made to operate on the hips. Her little legs were plastered and splinted at a 180 degree angle, knees bent.
"She doesn't seem bothered by it,"said Chris "but it's winter and we have no idea what to dress her in." "Ah!" I said "I have the perfect thing!" Out came the leggings which stretched easily over Katherine's splayed and plastered legs. She wore these until the plasters came off, round about her birthday, by which time they were completely worn out and had given sterling service.
I don't think that leggings will be needed, Poppy, but if Becky and Richard's baby isn't the best dressed in Wandsworth, it won't be for want of trying. And I still have the blankets, after forty years and will shortly be resurrecting them for Baby Donnelly.
Becky is visiting this weekend and the talk turned, not surprisingly, to the subject of baby clothes. Her mother in law, Poppy, likes to knit; I like to sew, so between us we have it covered.
In My Day
When Lizzie was born, back in 1972 we were given some knitted gifts; two beautiful receiving blankets knitted by my Italian sister-in-law's mother and a floor blanket made by Mamma. Paul's sister had knitted two pairs of white leggings for Lizzie. "Just the job," I thought "with winter coming on and all."
"I washed them very carefully," Mum said as he handed me the package. Well, either she hadn't been careful enough or Jenny's tension was all over the shop. These leggings would have been loose on a six-year old.
I thanked Jenny and put the leggings away, wondering what to do with them, but feeling that it would be rude just to chuck them out.
Lizzie's cousin Katherine was born six months later with a congenital deformity in her hips. When she was about nine months old the decision was made to operate on the hips. Her little legs were plastered and splinted at a 180 degree angle, knees bent.
"She doesn't seem bothered by it,"said Chris "but it's winter and we have no idea what to dress her in." "Ah!" I said "I have the perfect thing!" Out came the leggings which stretched easily over Katherine's splayed and plastered legs. She wore these until the plasters came off, round about her birthday, by which time they were completely worn out and had given sterling service.
I don't think that leggings will be needed, Poppy, but if Becky and Richard's baby isn't the best dressed in Wandsworth, it won't be for want of trying. And I still have the blankets, after forty years and will shortly be resurrecting them for Baby Donnelly.
Friday, March 08, 2013
Second Best
Today
Last week my brother's mother-in-law died. She was ninety and had managed to live independently with her brother until a stroke carried her off rapidly.
I have many memories of Peggy who was an ever-smiling presence at many family events.
The family conducted the funeral service entirely themselves: Joan conducting the proceedings, David giving the address, Matthew leading prayers and another granddaughter giving the reading.
I spoke to Joan afterwards, "Well done - that can't have been easy." "Was it all right?" she asked anxiously "We couldn't get anyone so did it ourselves. Did it matter, having second-best?" "Second best!" I exclaimed "It was how it should be, the family saying goodbye."
In My Day
This made me think of the funeral of Paul's Auntie Joyce in 2005. She had led a grim life, starting with having her left-handedness beaten out of her at school which left her withdrawn and with a persistent stammer. She was married to abusive and drunken husbands. Her son had to be snatched away from the beatings given him by his stepfather and Paul's Mum cared for him on more than one occasion. Finally, totally adrift, she was admitted to care when she was fifty-nine and slowly dissolved into dementia. Her own children paid her less and less attention and she didn't see her grandchildren or great-grandchildren.
So when the funeral came round we went along in some anxiety, wondering who would be there and how the service would be conducted.
Although Joyce's son had refused to attend, her daughter was there and clearly in the role of host. We sat down to the service. The official began his address:
"There's no point in celebrating the life of Joyce," he said "there's not a lot to celebrate; she had a rough deal for most of her time. Instead I would like us to use this as an opportunity to learn about forgiveness; for Joyce's children to forgive her any wrong they may have felt she did them and for the rest of you to forgive those children for what you saw as neglect and to welcome them back fully into the family."
The daughter sat with the tears streaming and we all felt a lessening of a family burden. And Joyce, in death, had become a force for good as she had unable to be in her life.
I felt touched and impressed with the honesty and humanity of the officiating priest so that Joyce's funeral was as far from second-best as possible.
But, if, when I die, I have half as lovingly a delivered service as Peggy, I shall feel first-class.
Last week my brother's mother-in-law died. She was ninety and had managed to live independently with her brother until a stroke carried her off rapidly.
I have many memories of Peggy who was an ever-smiling presence at many family events.
The family conducted the funeral service entirely themselves: Joan conducting the proceedings, David giving the address, Matthew leading prayers and another granddaughter giving the reading.
I spoke to Joan afterwards, "Well done - that can't have been easy." "Was it all right?" she asked anxiously "We couldn't get anyone so did it ourselves. Did it matter, having second-best?" "Second best!" I exclaimed "It was how it should be, the family saying goodbye."
In My Day
This made me think of the funeral of Paul's Auntie Joyce in 2005. She had led a grim life, starting with having her left-handedness beaten out of her at school which left her withdrawn and with a persistent stammer. She was married to abusive and drunken husbands. Her son had to be snatched away from the beatings given him by his stepfather and Paul's Mum cared for him on more than one occasion. Finally, totally adrift, she was admitted to care when she was fifty-nine and slowly dissolved into dementia. Her own children paid her less and less attention and she didn't see her grandchildren or great-grandchildren.
So when the funeral came round we went along in some anxiety, wondering who would be there and how the service would be conducted.
Although Joyce's son had refused to attend, her daughter was there and clearly in the role of host. We sat down to the service. The official began his address:
"There's no point in celebrating the life of Joyce," he said "there's not a lot to celebrate; she had a rough deal for most of her time. Instead I would like us to use this as an opportunity to learn about forgiveness; for Joyce's children to forgive her any wrong they may have felt she did them and for the rest of you to forgive those children for what you saw as neglect and to welcome them back fully into the family."
The daughter sat with the tears streaming and we all felt a lessening of a family burden. And Joyce, in death, had become a force for good as she had unable to be in her life.
I felt touched and impressed with the honesty and humanity of the officiating priest so that Joyce's funeral was as far from second-best as possible.
But, if, when I die, I have half as lovingly a delivered service as Peggy, I shall feel first-class.
Thursday, February 28, 2013
Dangle
Today
For some reason today I found myself reading an article extolling the Scandinavian virtues of leaving baby outside in a pram in all weathers. Apparently this toughens them up nicely and helps them get a teensy-weensy dose of wintry sun to top up their vitamin D. Hmmm.
This triggered an avalanche of emails and one women described with great admiration how her mother shoved her outside for hours, only bringing her in when there was a freezing fog, because this gave her time to do the chores and settled the baby into a "routine".
In My Day
In the '40s and '50s the rule was that babies were fed and watered by the clock. In the intervening four hours they were to be left strictly alone, no matter how much they cried. I wonder who decreed the four hours rule and how they settled on this being the right time between feeds. I don't know how much heartbreak this caused new mothers who had to listen to their babies screaming; many of them parked the prams at the bottom of the garden so that they couldn't hear them.
At 4BH we had a "garden room". This room was at basement level but, the house being built on a slope, it opened directly onto the back garden. It held deckchairs and garden equipment and all the kinds of junk that people today shove into their garages.
I think I must have been about three years old. Mamma had parked Beatrice in her pram in the garden room. You certainly wouldn't have been able to hear Beatrice cry from there, unless you were in the garden. Beatrice was old enough to roll over and was fastened into the pram with a leather harness (you can see from this picture what an ill-fit it was). Mamma asked me to go down and check that Beatrice was OK.
It's a miracle that I remembered my errand all the way down to the garden room. Even more of a miracle that, when I saw Beatrice, hopelessly tangled with the harness around her neck, dangling out of the pram, I realised that this was an emergency and had enough savvy to go upstairs as fast as my little legs would take me to summon help.
Although I think that we are a little inclined to over-protect our children these days, I sometimes wonder what my parents were thinking and feel a little surprised that we all made it to adulthood intact.
For some reason today I found myself reading an article extolling the Scandinavian virtues of leaving baby outside in a pram in all weathers. Apparently this toughens them up nicely and helps them get a teensy-weensy dose of wintry sun to top up their vitamin D. Hmmm.
This triggered an avalanche of emails and one women described with great admiration how her mother shoved her outside for hours, only bringing her in when there was a freezing fog, because this gave her time to do the chores and settled the baby into a "routine".
In My Day
In the '40s and '50s the rule was that babies were fed and watered by the clock. In the intervening four hours they were to be left strictly alone, no matter how much they cried. I wonder who decreed the four hours rule and how they settled on this being the right time between feeds. I don't know how much heartbreak this caused new mothers who had to listen to their babies screaming; many of them parked the prams at the bottom of the garden so that they couldn't hear them.
At 4BH we had a "garden room". This room was at basement level but, the house being built on a slope, it opened directly onto the back garden. It held deckchairs and garden equipment and all the kinds of junk that people today shove into their garages.I think I must have been about three years old. Mamma had parked Beatrice in her pram in the garden room. You certainly wouldn't have been able to hear Beatrice cry from there, unless you were in the garden. Beatrice was old enough to roll over and was fastened into the pram with a leather harness (you can see from this picture what an ill-fit it was). Mamma asked me to go down and check that Beatrice was OK.
It's a miracle that I remembered my errand all the way down to the garden room. Even more of a miracle that, when I saw Beatrice, hopelessly tangled with the harness around her neck, dangling out of the pram, I realised that this was an emergency and had enough savvy to go upstairs as fast as my little legs would take me to summon help.
Although I think that we are a little inclined to over-protect our children these days, I sometimes wonder what my parents were thinking and feel a little surprised that we all made it to adulthood intact.
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
Combo
Today
I've just finished my lunch which was toasted crumpets with melted cheese. "Do you know," I remarked to Paul "when I was a child crumpets were always eaten with butter and golden syrup."
In My Day
As children we had a varied and fresh diet, but I think that many foods were served in strict combinations, almost as if it were the law.
The thought that I might put cheese or marmalade or Marmite on my crumpet was unimaginable.
Other regular unvarying food combinations were:
Sauerkraut with frankfurters and sauté potatoes, boiled ham and pease pudding, rissoles with mashed potatoes, carrots and frozen peas, rice pudding and tinned apricots, baked potatoes with winter salad, jelly and blancmange, tinned pears with chocolate custard, liver (always lamb's) and bacon. Even foods like cornflakes were only ever served with milk and sugar, Mamma being very scathing about the serving suggestions that showed fresh or dried fruit being added. I wonder what she would make of pouring yoghurt.
There were probably more and I expect my siblings can add to the list. The food combinations were all perfectly tasty (although David hated apricots and rice pudding and I was, and remain, unconvinced about sauerkraut) and nutritionally sound, but there was a deadly predictability about those meals. The only one on the list that varied was the winter salad to which Mamma liked to add a mystery ingredient - maybe walnuts or oranges.
The results of experiments could be strange, as when Weetabix were eaten with marmalade, resulting in a horribly dry, crumbly and sticky alternative to breakfast.
Maybe it was because we were more restricted by seasonal availability and a generally smaller range of foodstuffs or maybe we children demanded the safety of tried and tested combinations. Perhaps Mamma's busy life meant that it was easier to rely on the well-known meals that could be put together quickly. She was a good cook and I can't think that the whole thing was down to a lack of imagination on her part.
Cooking is easier these days, with microwaves, induction hobs and freezers. Crumpets can just be bunged under the grill, making the addition of cheese an easy option, rather than having to be toasted over the fire. And there's a huge range of fresh and interesting ingredients at the local supermarket which makes cooking predictable meals almost criminal.
Paul did suggest we put baked beans on the crumpets next time, but I'm not sure whether that won't be a step too far.
I've just finished my lunch which was toasted crumpets with melted cheese. "Do you know," I remarked to Paul "when I was a child crumpets were always eaten with butter and golden syrup."In My Day
As children we had a varied and fresh diet, but I think that many foods were served in strict combinations, almost as if it were the law.
The thought that I might put cheese or marmalade or Marmite on my crumpet was unimaginable.
Other regular unvarying food combinations were:
Sauerkraut with frankfurters and sauté potatoes, boiled ham and pease pudding, rissoles with mashed potatoes, carrots and frozen peas, rice pudding and tinned apricots, baked potatoes with winter salad, jelly and blancmange, tinned pears with chocolate custard, liver (always lamb's) and bacon. Even foods like cornflakes were only ever served with milk and sugar, Mamma being very scathing about the serving suggestions that showed fresh or dried fruit being added. I wonder what she would make of pouring yoghurt.
There were probably more and I expect my siblings can add to the list. The food combinations were all perfectly tasty (although David hated apricots and rice pudding and I was, and remain, unconvinced about sauerkraut) and nutritionally sound, but there was a deadly predictability about those meals. The only one on the list that varied was the winter salad to which Mamma liked to add a mystery ingredient - maybe walnuts or oranges.
The results of experiments could be strange, as when Weetabix were eaten with marmalade, resulting in a horribly dry, crumbly and sticky alternative to breakfast.
Maybe it was because we were more restricted by seasonal availability and a generally smaller range of foodstuffs or maybe we children demanded the safety of tried and tested combinations. Perhaps Mamma's busy life meant that it was easier to rely on the well-known meals that could be put together quickly. She was a good cook and I can't think that the whole thing was down to a lack of imagination on her part.
Cooking is easier these days, with microwaves, induction hobs and freezers. Crumpets can just be bunged under the grill, making the addition of cheese an easy option, rather than having to be toasted over the fire. And there's a huge range of fresh and interesting ingredients at the local supermarket which makes cooking predictable meals almost criminal.
Paul did suggest we put baked beans on the crumpets next time, but I'm not sure whether that won't be a step too far.
Monday, February 25, 2013
Helping Hand
Today
Recently a report stated that the standard of care given by home helps was poor, with many not taking time to communicate properly with their clients or understand their physical or emotional needs. Some turned up late, on the wrong day or failed entirely to turn up without notice.
http://www.cqc.org.uk/public/news/issues-affecting-delivery-good-home-care-services
When Paul's Mum had a home help a few years ago, we were invoiced for "cleaning and companionship". And, indeed, the sweet cleaning lady talked to Mum, even taking her out for a drive in the car if her other work was done.
"You know", I said to Paul "I used to be a home help".
In My Day
This was back in my Eastbourne teacher-training days in about 1970. I didn't have much money and was looking for a way to supplement it. How did I become aware that the home help service was looking for staff? Maybe there was a notice in the college common room or, more likely, information was passed around by the college jungle telegraph.
Anyway I turned up for this work and was allocated a few houses in Polegate. There was no mention of a care plan or any suggestion that I was anything other than a cleaner provided by the council.
At one place there was an elderly, slightly disabled, lady living with her bachelor son. I have an idea that this lady kept her house pretty immaculate and there wasn't much to do in the main house. What I was expected to do was clean the son's bedroom. He wasn't disabled in any way and I don't know why he couldn't clean his own room. It was a nasty bachelor muddle. There was a heap of undifferentiated objects clustered on his sticky and dusty bedside table. I'm sure, aside from the obvious coins and pens, that there were broken ink cartridges, unclean combs and nail-care equipment, congealing rubber bands and the like. There were probably also toenail clippings. I faced every cleaners' dilemma which is whether simply to clean underneath and put back the objects, including toenail clippings, or to take a view on stuff that should be saved. Thinking more of mum than son I took a draconian view and chucked out everything that was broken or simply disgusting. There were discarded clothes and smelly bedding to deal with and the whole room had a fusty, long-unwashed-underclothes kind of smell.
Another place was unusual in that the client no longer lived there. They had moved into smaller accommodation and couldn't handle sorting out the old place. This was not normally the council's job, my boss explained, but they'd made an exception. So I was given the keys to this old Victorian house and swabbed and cleaned and cleared away debris.
There were some homes, however, where companionship was by far the most important part of my job. The houses were often small and I suspect that some of the old people cleaned up in readiness for my visit. What they wanted to do was to talk and talk about their lives and their history. As I often had little to do, I would make tea and sit with them for the designated couple of hours. And I somehow forgot to mention to my bosses that no cleaning really needed to be done, so that visits could continue.
Sometimes, when I read reports about slapdash nursing or neglected patients and old folk, I wonder what happened to simple humanity. Targeted care plans are all very well but can never replace, only supplement, the kindness and respect with which we should treat other humans.
Recently a report stated that the standard of care given by home helps was poor, with many not taking time to communicate properly with their clients or understand their physical or emotional needs. Some turned up late, on the wrong day or failed entirely to turn up without notice.
http://www.cqc.org.uk/public/news/issues-affecting-delivery-good-home-care-services
When Paul's Mum had a home help a few years ago, we were invoiced for "cleaning and companionship". And, indeed, the sweet cleaning lady talked to Mum, even taking her out for a drive in the car if her other work was done.
"You know", I said to Paul "I used to be a home help".
In My Day
This was back in my Eastbourne teacher-training days in about 1970. I didn't have much money and was looking for a way to supplement it. How did I become aware that the home help service was looking for staff? Maybe there was a notice in the college common room or, more likely, information was passed around by the college jungle telegraph.
Anyway I turned up for this work and was allocated a few houses in Polegate. There was no mention of a care plan or any suggestion that I was anything other than a cleaner provided by the council.
At one place there was an elderly, slightly disabled, lady living with her bachelor son. I have an idea that this lady kept her house pretty immaculate and there wasn't much to do in the main house. What I was expected to do was clean the son's bedroom. He wasn't disabled in any way and I don't know why he couldn't clean his own room. It was a nasty bachelor muddle. There was a heap of undifferentiated objects clustered on his sticky and dusty bedside table. I'm sure, aside from the obvious coins and pens, that there were broken ink cartridges, unclean combs and nail-care equipment, congealing rubber bands and the like. There were probably also toenail clippings. I faced every cleaners' dilemma which is whether simply to clean underneath and put back the objects, including toenail clippings, or to take a view on stuff that should be saved. Thinking more of mum than son I took a draconian view and chucked out everything that was broken or simply disgusting. There were discarded clothes and smelly bedding to deal with and the whole room had a fusty, long-unwashed-underclothes kind of smell.
Another place was unusual in that the client no longer lived there. They had moved into smaller accommodation and couldn't handle sorting out the old place. This was not normally the council's job, my boss explained, but they'd made an exception. So I was given the keys to this old Victorian house and swabbed and cleaned and cleared away debris.
There were some homes, however, where companionship was by far the most important part of my job. The houses were often small and I suspect that some of the old people cleaned up in readiness for my visit. What they wanted to do was to talk and talk about their lives and their history. As I often had little to do, I would make tea and sit with them for the designated couple of hours. And I somehow forgot to mention to my bosses that no cleaning really needed to be done, so that visits could continue.
Sometimes, when I read reports about slapdash nursing or neglected patients and old folk, I wonder what happened to simple humanity. Targeted care plans are all very well but can never replace, only supplement, the kindness and respect with which we should treat other humans.
Sunday, February 24, 2013
Besetting Sin
Today
I've recently been having conversations with my brother about the nature of sin. I mentioned the idea of the "besetting sin" - the flaw that tracks your every action and how to recognise and tame it.
I said that I thought that mine is vanity. David wanted to know how this is defined - here we go then:
Vanity, Noun. Excessive pride in or admiration of one's own appearance or achievements
The question, as with many other "sins", is the extent to which it is bad or harmful and the extent to which it is empowering. "One element of vanity", I said to David "is self-respect; what makes you put your best self forward because of how you'll appear to others. That's a good thing, surely." I never slob around in a dressing gown or PJs, always being bathed and fully dressed before breakfast; after all you never know who might see you with your hair uncombed and without proper supporting underwear...
My mother frequently said "Julia, thy name is vanity". What drove her to make this unhelpful remark and why was I singled out for this? Do I have this tendency to think too well of myself? Looking back, I see that I was very aware of the external layers, the presentation layer. I loved to dress up and to feel that I looked pretty.
I can remember many of my dresses and how much I loved them and the way I felt wearing them. I was very conscious of how I appeared and by extension, conscious of how others appeared.
It was a delight to twirl around, gazing at the effect. I loved to act, provided that the part I played was capable of being made to look good - if I was a witch, it had to be a glamorous witch.
This near-obsession with my appearance came from pride in, rather than admiration of myself, I think. I don't know to what extent it was "excessive". There was always a dichotomy between how I felt inside and how I believed I looked to other people.
Mamma made it clear that Beatrice was the pretty one and that I, at best, could be called "handsome" - not an epithet to thrill a girl. So I think that the vanity came from trying to reconcile these two differences. The surface layer was a sort of disguise to fool the world into thinking that I was better-looking than I really was. I certainly identified with the Ugly Duckling but somewhere deep inside feel that I am still waiting for that swan moment.
I'm not sure that all this fooling of others really fooled anybody or gave me any real underlying confidence to match my exterior ebullience.
It's taken me a long time to see that I was actually rather a cute child and not a bad-looking teenager and to understand that external prettiness evens out as you get older.
Not that any of this stops me wishing that I was drop-dead gorgeous, buying too many clothes and shoes and dyeing my hair.
What I am not now sure of is whether this quality of mine is really vanity at all but some other unnamed sin.
I've recently been having conversations with my brother about the nature of sin. I mentioned the idea of the "besetting sin" - the flaw that tracks your every action and how to recognise and tame it.
I said that I thought that mine is vanity. David wanted to know how this is defined - here we go then:
Vanity, Noun. Excessive pride in or admiration of one's own appearance or achievements
The question, as with many other "sins", is the extent to which it is bad or harmful and the extent to which it is empowering. "One element of vanity", I said to David "is self-respect; what makes you put your best self forward because of how you'll appear to others. That's a good thing, surely." I never slob around in a dressing gown or PJs, always being bathed and fully dressed before breakfast; after all you never know who might see you with your hair uncombed and without proper supporting underwear...
In My Day
I can remember many of my dresses and how much I loved them and the way I felt wearing them. I was very conscious of how I appeared and by extension, conscious of how others appeared.
It was a delight to twirl around, gazing at the effect. I loved to act, provided that the part I played was capable of being made to look good - if I was a witch, it had to be a glamorous witch.
This near-obsession with my appearance came from pride in, rather than admiration of myself, I think. I don't know to what extent it was "excessive". There was always a dichotomy between how I felt inside and how I believed I looked to other people.
Mamma made it clear that Beatrice was the pretty one and that I, at best, could be called "handsome" - not an epithet to thrill a girl. So I think that the vanity came from trying to reconcile these two differences. The surface layer was a sort of disguise to fool the world into thinking that I was better-looking than I really was. I certainly identified with the Ugly Duckling but somewhere deep inside feel that I am still waiting for that swan moment.
I'm not sure that all this fooling of others really fooled anybody or gave me any real underlying confidence to match my exterior ebullience.
It's taken me a long time to see that I was actually rather a cute child and not a bad-looking teenager and to understand that external prettiness evens out as you get older.
Not that any of this stops me wishing that I was drop-dead gorgeous, buying too many clothes and shoes and dyeing my hair.
What I am not now sure of is whether this quality of mine is really vanity at all but some other unnamed sin.
Thursday, February 14, 2013
I've got my love to keep me warm
Today
It's Valentine's day and the clouds have parted long enough to give us a chilly, watery glimpse of sun. For this we are grateful and for the chance that the temperature might heave itself up above 5 degrees. The Met Office loves to offer comparisons against the norm, but there doesn't seem to be one for Valentine's Day.
In My Day
I am put in mind of two examples. Valentine's 1994; Paul was on late shift which meant that I could expect him home by about 11.45 pm. I bought a half bottle of champagne, thinking that we could toast the day before bedtime. Sometime during the evening, I noticed that snow was falling heavily. Paul called from the ambulance station at about 11.15 to say he was on his way. "It's snowing hard here, " I told him "take care..." The snow kept falling. I climbed into bed and kept warm with my book, placing the champagne & glasses by the beside. The time ticked by.I thought of Paul's journey home from Weston Super-Mare, up Burrington Combe. The snow thickened. The champagne warmed up. I repeatedly imagined that I heard the car in the drive. Eventually at 1.15 am Paul arrived home, having taken a longer route to avoid Burrington Combe and almost coming a cropper at Oakhill. "I've got some champagne," I said "but it's a bit warm; you probably won't want it." "Give it here!" he replied, snuggling into the warm bed where we toasted Valentine and Paul's safe arrival.
Moving swiftly on to 1998. February was warm. My diary records daffodils out by mid-month. On 14th the day dawned clear and warm with a temperature in the upper teens. I packed a picnic and we set off for the Swannery at Abbotsbury in Dorset. The weather stayed glorious and became warmer and warmer as we drove south. Eventually we arrived at the Swannery and ate our picnic in the car park (including champagne) and headed off towards the entrance. Alas for warm weather! The hot sun had brought in a sea mist.We stumbled around the Swannery, cold and damp, laughing our heads off.
All of which goes to show how irrelevant the weather is for the really important celebrations.
It's Valentine's day and the clouds have parted long enough to give us a chilly, watery glimpse of sun. For this we are grateful and for the chance that the temperature might heave itself up above 5 degrees. The Met Office loves to offer comparisons against the norm, but there doesn't seem to be one for Valentine's Day.In My Day
I am put in mind of two examples. Valentine's 1994; Paul was on late shift which meant that I could expect him home by about 11.45 pm. I bought a half bottle of champagne, thinking that we could toast the day before bedtime. Sometime during the evening, I noticed that snow was falling heavily. Paul called from the ambulance station at about 11.15 to say he was on his way. "It's snowing hard here, " I told him "take care..." The snow kept falling. I climbed into bed and kept warm with my book, placing the champagne & glasses by the beside. The time ticked by.I thought of Paul's journey home from Weston Super-Mare, up Burrington Combe. The snow thickened. The champagne warmed up. I repeatedly imagined that I heard the car in the drive. Eventually at 1.15 am Paul arrived home, having taken a longer route to avoid Burrington Combe and almost coming a cropper at Oakhill. "I've got some champagne," I said "but it's a bit warm; you probably won't want it." "Give it here!" he replied, snuggling into the warm bed where we toasted Valentine and Paul's safe arrival.
Moving swiftly on to 1998. February was warm. My diary records daffodils out by mid-month. On 14th the day dawned clear and warm with a temperature in the upper teens. I packed a picnic and we set off for the Swannery at Abbotsbury in Dorset. The weather stayed glorious and became warmer and warmer as we drove south. Eventually we arrived at the Swannery and ate our picnic in the car park (including champagne) and headed off towards the entrance. Alas for warm weather! The hot sun had brought in a sea mist.We stumbled around the Swannery, cold and damp, laughing our heads off.
All of which goes to show how irrelevant the weather is for the really important celebrations.
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
Clear Out
Today
My best friend has been recently struggling with the task of clearing her mother's house, following her move into residential care. Stuff that looks in good condition and has given sterling service is no good to anybody and some of it contravenes modern safety regulations. Other things trigger memories and are hard to part with, even when you know they'll probably end up in the loft or garage and never be looked at again.
Dealing with the detritus of a long life is always somewhere between heart-breaking and touching. What makes it doubly hard in this case is that my friend is an only child, so there are no siblings with whom to share both the emotions and responsibility in an equal way.
In My Day
I've had to do this task twice, once after Mamma died and once when Paul's Mum went into residential care. After Mamma died we made an immediate disposal of items and agreed to meet up a couple of weeks later for a thorough sort-out. What made getting through that day possible was that we four siblings somehow managed to turn the event into a jamboree, with laughter and silly family jokes and a decent lunch out. So the weight of the task was lifted by being shared.
And as for the stuff itself, there have been some strange relics. I took all Mamma's baking trays, but eventually realised that they were wonky and grimy beyond redemption and that new ones would cost about 75p each from the supermarket. And I still have and have used her wooden darning "mushrooms". For years David used the old "double saucepan" that Mamma used for making porridge. This bottom section of the object was never washed and was encrusted with forty years' worth of lime deposits. When David eventually announced he was throwing it out there was a family outcry and I think Beatrice took it to plant pansies in.
When Tricia went into residential care, the job was shared with Paul's sister and nephew. Paul and I had carried out a huge sort-out about a year previously, so that there was less pure junk than there might have been. On the other hand we had to decide what Mum might like to have in her tiny room and as she had been in a council flat we didn't have the luxury of much time.
Mum had absolutely loads of clothes - some of them representing chic purchases made in the '60s or '70s, others dating from her post-retirement scavenging forays into charity shops. Once we'd selected items suitable for Mum's new life we bagged up the rest to take to the charity shop. Jenny and I drove to the Langney Shopping Centre to dispose of the stuff. The carpark was fairly full and we had to park well away from the centre and at the top of a slope. I suggested to Jenny that we use a shopping trolley to transport the stuff. Jenny got a trolley and we started loading up. As I turned to close the boot of the car, the full trolley escaped and careered down the slope toward to centre entrance. The sight of Jenny (who's not especially fleet of foot) dashing after this trolley, trying to grab it before it smashed into a car or person was silly enough to make us both laugh and get companionably on with the rest of the task.
After this kind of experience, you swear that you won't allow your house to harbour useless clutter to save your children from this heartbreak job, but I suspect that for many of us it will be another thing that we never quite get round to. And your children will have to decide what goes and what is dumped and you won't be able to do anything about it.
My best friend has been recently struggling with the task of clearing her mother's house, following her move into residential care. Stuff that looks in good condition and has given sterling service is no good to anybody and some of it contravenes modern safety regulations. Other things trigger memories and are hard to part with, even when you know they'll probably end up in the loft or garage and never be looked at again.
Dealing with the detritus of a long life is always somewhere between heart-breaking and touching. What makes it doubly hard in this case is that my friend is an only child, so there are no siblings with whom to share both the emotions and responsibility in an equal way.
In My Day
I've had to do this task twice, once after Mamma died and once when Paul's Mum went into residential care. After Mamma died we made an immediate disposal of items and agreed to meet up a couple of weeks later for a thorough sort-out. What made getting through that day possible was that we four siblings somehow managed to turn the event into a jamboree, with laughter and silly family jokes and a decent lunch out. So the weight of the task was lifted by being shared.
And as for the stuff itself, there have been some strange relics. I took all Mamma's baking trays, but eventually realised that they were wonky and grimy beyond redemption and that new ones would cost about 75p each from the supermarket. And I still have and have used her wooden darning "mushrooms". For years David used the old "double saucepan" that Mamma used for making porridge. This bottom section of the object was never washed and was encrusted with forty years' worth of lime deposits. When David eventually announced he was throwing it out there was a family outcry and I think Beatrice took it to plant pansies in.
When Tricia went into residential care, the job was shared with Paul's sister and nephew. Paul and I had carried out a huge sort-out about a year previously, so that there was less pure junk than there might have been. On the other hand we had to decide what Mum might like to have in her tiny room and as she had been in a council flat we didn't have the luxury of much time.
Mum had absolutely loads of clothes - some of them representing chic purchases made in the '60s or '70s, others dating from her post-retirement scavenging forays into charity shops. Once we'd selected items suitable for Mum's new life we bagged up the rest to take to the charity shop. Jenny and I drove to the Langney Shopping Centre to dispose of the stuff. The carpark was fairly full and we had to park well away from the centre and at the top of a slope. I suggested to Jenny that we use a shopping trolley to transport the stuff. Jenny got a trolley and we started loading up. As I turned to close the boot of the car, the full trolley escaped and careered down the slope toward to centre entrance. The sight of Jenny (who's not especially fleet of foot) dashing after this trolley, trying to grab it before it smashed into a car or person was silly enough to make us both laugh and get companionably on with the rest of the task.
After this kind of experience, you swear that you won't allow your house to harbour useless clutter to save your children from this heartbreak job, but I suspect that for many of us it will be another thing that we never quite get round to. And your children will have to decide what goes and what is dumped and you won't be able to do anything about it.
Saturday, February 09, 2013
Unforgettable
Today
Last week I was in Paris for the day with Becky. In the Marche de St Orgueille we passed a bookshop which had a stand outside with Mr Men and Little Miss books, all in French.
With much amusement we browsed, eventually buying M Etourdi (Mr Forgetful) because we wanted to know how the transition between "There's a sheep loose in the lane" and "there's a goose asleep in the rain" was managed in French. Not rhymingly, we found, with "Un Mouton s'est echappe" becoming "Votre moineau s'est envole". (your sparrow has flown away). I guess you have to be a French child to see the connection.
In My Day
As a small child Becky absolutely loved her Mr Men books which started with the innocuous Mr Happy. Special favourites were Mr Noisy (when Becky brought her play-school volume voice into the kitchen all we had to yell was "Speak up, I can't hear you!" and she would immediately quieten down), Mr Messy, Mr Fussy (nephew Mark would read this to Becky, guffawing over Mr Fussy's cutting the lawn with nail scissors), and Mr Worry. Mr Bump was always useful when she'd had a tumble or knock (you can buy Mr Bump sticking plasters) and we all laughed at the solution to Mr Small's problem - lead boots.
But the incorrigible Mr Forgetful was far and away the favourite. We never tired of "There's a goose asleep in the rain" and it's got into our lexicon of daily phrases when messages are mis-heard or wrongly delivered. Becky would tuck Mr Forgetful under her pillow at night and was always happy to have it read to her.
Actually, Etourdi really means scatterbrained or feather-brained which isn't quite the same thing as being forgetful, but I hope to have the chance to enjoy these books in French or English with the next generation of young 'uns.
Last week I was in Paris for the day with Becky. In the Marche de St Orgueille we passed a bookshop which had a stand outside with Mr Men and Little Miss books, all in French.
In My Day
As a small child Becky absolutely loved her Mr Men books which started with the innocuous Mr Happy. Special favourites were Mr Noisy (when Becky brought her play-school volume voice into the kitchen all we had to yell was "Speak up, I can't hear you!" and she would immediately quieten down), Mr Messy, Mr Fussy (nephew Mark would read this to Becky, guffawing over Mr Fussy's cutting the lawn with nail scissors), and Mr Worry. Mr Bump was always useful when she'd had a tumble or knock (you can buy Mr Bump sticking plasters) and we all laughed at the solution to Mr Small's problem - lead boots.
But the incorrigible Mr Forgetful was far and away the favourite. We never tired of "There's a goose asleep in the rain" and it's got into our lexicon of daily phrases when messages are mis-heard or wrongly delivered. Becky would tuck Mr Forgetful under her pillow at night and was always happy to have it read to her.
Actually, Etourdi really means scatterbrained or feather-brained which isn't quite the same thing as being forgetful, but I hope to have the chance to enjoy these books in French or English with the next generation of young 'uns.
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