Immune

Today

In strange times it can be hard to avoid behaving strangely. What does this time require of us? Can we trust those whom we have entrusted to lead us? There has been so much shameless lying by world leaders in recent years; why should we believe anything they say?

This year has been the year of COVID-19. As a world we are now no longer content to lift up our hands and shrug when someone dies. Even people who are near death anyway are treated as though every minute of their lives is precious.

The idea of dying from infectious disease is so foreign to our thoughts in the developed world that we flail about, turning to one answer or another. And the science is so complex that one can't be surprised that people turn to simple explanations and instant solutions. 

At the front of this is many people's fear of the vaccinations that are now being rolled out. The science, whether it's the RNA-based (What is RNA, I hear you ask) ones or those produced more traditionally, is beyond many people so fear triumphs again. It's much easier to believe it's all a plot (although with what purpose seems unclear) than to try to get your head around how a jab with a tiny strand of COVID RNA isn't going to give you the disease.

In My Day

I don't remember my first vaccination . I was certainly a baby when I was given my smallpox vaccination. Some sort of protection from Smallpox has been around for about four hundred years, usually involving treatment with dead infected tissue. Most people of my age have a slightly pitted oval scar on their upper arm as evidence. This programme of vaccination was so absolute and successful that smallpox does not now exist in the population.

Next came polio. This was mainly a disease of childhood, causing death and muscle wastage among other things. Daddy invented the "polio-wash" and insisted that we washed our hands whenever we came home after being on public transport.

When the vaccination was developed it was greeted with unalloyed joy. I think I was about eight and at Cypress Road Junior school. The vaccination team to came to us and we all lined up to have it done. This library picture gives you an idea.

I don't think anybody objected on grounds of personal freedom, or declared that it was all a plot to render men sterile (which is one thing that delayed Polio going the way of smallpox until 2020).

At the age of twelve along came the BCG vaccination against TB. For this you first had to prove that you weren't carrying antibodies already, so there was a preliminary jab, followed up a few weeks later. Again, this was carried out in school and did leave a rather sore lump for a few days. Comparing our sore arms became a sort of badge of honour.

As a result of this these diseases more or less vanished from our lives. This was followed with the next generation, by jabs for measles, mumps, rubella, diphtheria (more or less unheard of these days).

The point is that we have become so used to the benefits that these treatments conferred, with healthier, longer lives, that we have lost sight of how we came to be so healthy. People talk about freedom of choice. What about my freedom of choice not to want to live in a world where a disease that can be controlled is still mowing down millions of people?

Home

Today

Lately I've been been thinking about the things that are the most important to me and found that "home featured large in my mind for many reasons.

I think that I have always felt that it was important that, not only should wherever we live should feel like home, but that other people should also feel the same way.

We may have carried this idea to an absurd level as several friends and family have at times used our home as theirs, living with us for various lengths of time, without, I think, ever paying any rent!

In My Day


The most extreme of these was when we invited a complete stranger to share our home.

I think it was back in 1971 or 72, before Lizzie was born, and when we were living at Belmont in Brighton. We were very poor and the flat had no carpets and hardly any furniture.

One day Paul was leaving the flat when he saw two women in tears outside one of the other buildings in Belmont. They were a mother and daughter who had, it seemed, been evicted and had nowhere to go. At least the daughter didn't. I've an idea that the mother was able to go to her other daughter who lived some way away, but the daughter with her had a job in Brighton and couldn't travel so far.

"Come and live with us!" said Paul without any hesitation. He brought them up to the flat and presented me with this fait accompli. 

I don't think that I so much as blinked and Leslie Clay became part of our lives, bringing with her her bed, a cooker, some armchairs and some strips of carpet.

Leslie, was a small, dark, somewhat anxious woman. She was, if I remember correctly, a teacher and was engaged to be married to a Steve. She told us harrowing tales of her father's unkindness to her mother and his meanness. She was a real sun-worshipper, spending every spare moment in Summer on the beach turning herself a deep shade of glistening mahogany. I used to express concern about possible damage to her skin, but she was deaf to all comments.

I remember her as a part of our lives for about six months (I was probably pregnant with Lizzie for part of this time) and don't recall any quarrels or difficulties. I also can't remember her paying any rent!

Eventually she left to marry her Steve (we went to the wedding which was somewhere in the Wokingham area), leaving behind the cooker, bed, carpet and chairs, all of which were very useful.

I think that we lost touch almost immediately, I don't know why. Maybe I was too embroiled in having Lizzie and being a new mother. But I do slightly regret that.

I hope you've had a wonderful life, Leslie, wherever you are, and that you hold a tiny warm spot in your heart for us.

Kitted out

Today

More on my memory lane trip to Chichester. I found, to my delight, that Clothkits had a shop in the City Centre. I decided that I wanted to make one of their classic garments (which is still available) for Carmen.

So Cherie and I set off to find this place, which had such fond memories for me. I have to confess that I was disappointed. Now a small, mainly haberdashery and sewing machine shop, there was just a handful of kits, all very basic. There was fabric, mostly of the overpriced Liberty print category and not a bargain in sight.

In My Day

The home of Clothkits used to be in Lewes, where I also worked for a number of years. There was a shop in the high street and its window display indicated quite clearly that this was a clothes shop. There was a very wide range of charming clothes for children and adults. Most of them were available in kit form, although there were some knitted items and ranges of tights etc to co-ordinate with the kits as well. I used to look at the items with longing, but they did all seem rather expensive, given that you had to sew them as well. I have for many years been a fan of remnants, reluctant to pay full price for fabrics.

Every now and then there would be a Clothkits factory sale and I would trot down to the factory to see what they had. There would be bundles of notions: zips, buckles, buttons and tape and I would gleefully stock up. 


The real bargains would be the bundles of damaged kits. The kits would have maybe a flaw in the layout, a slight hole or similar, and there would be no instructions or notions. The bundles would contain three or fours kits and would cost £1. That's right £1. I would buy as many as I could carry and would either make up the kits anyway, using the bargain bin notions, or use the kits to make other things. 

Here are some pictures of the girls wearing Clothkits outfits, one a ready-made knitted dress, the other dresses I made for a friend's wedding.

Given the renewed enthusiasm for stitching, could Clothkits be missing a trick here? 

The designs, with their emphasis on border prints, may be a little old-fashioned nowadays, but many people who mistrust their ability to follow a pattern, might love it!

Anyway, I bought the quilted jacket at the exorbitant price of £35.00 and just hope that Carmen loves it.

Best Laid Plans

Today

I've just come home from a weekend in Chichester. It's a pleasant easy-going city with a very interesting cathedral.

"I haven't been here for forty years", I commented to my companion. "Not since I was at art college."

In My Day

Between 1967 and 1970 I was a theatre design student at the Worthing College of Art and Design. Part of our training was in the making of scale models.

In late 1969 we were given a project to design a set for "Everyman" using the main aisle of Chichester Cathedral as a backdrop.

To do this we travelled over to Chichester and set about taking measurements of the aisle, the pillars, the steps up to the choir and through to the reredos.

We sketched the carvings and ornamentations. Then back to college to turn the measurements into accurate plans using the whole panoply of technical instruments. 

Then we were expected to produce a balsa wood and card scale model and add our set, also in scale, in its right place on the model. I doubt whether I came up with a breathtaking new insight into "Everyman". However, always one to do things at the last minute, I set about making my model in an exhausting all-night sitting the day before the deadline. At last I was done! I glued the final piece into place and stood back to admire my work. A quick check with my original drawing revealed the horrid truth: I'd done the whole thing back to front. Was this the insight I was looking for?

It was much to late to do anything; the glue was well stuck and I had about an hour to get into college and present my work. I think I carried the model on the bus and can't now remember whether anyone at college noticed my error or, indeed, what mark I received for it. 

It was a very accurate and neat mirror image model though, and I still know how to make a scale plan. I haven't found that this hard-won skill has stood  me in much stead through my adult life.

Janet and John

Today

Carmen is learning to read, sometimes with confidence, sometimes stumbling. It's very exciting to see how she is making sense of what is a very difficult skill. It's not something that comes naturally, like walking and talking, and it needs constant practice. In addition Carmen is learning to read in Spanish and English at the same time. "When you stay with me over the Summer", I told her "We'll do a little bit of school each day before having fun. That way you won't forget what you've learnt."

In My Day

Many people say that that they can't remember learning to read, but I can remember my first steps very clearly.

Mamma had refused to send me to the nearest primary school because of the over-crowding and was holding out for a place in a school slightly out of our catchment area. In the meantime, however, my education was not to be neglected.

Daddy erected a large blackboard and easel in the living room and sat me on the dining table opposite. He then wrote various letters, words and sentences on the board. He didn't ignore the rules of grammar and made no allowances for my age in explaining them. I well remember him explaining to me why "dinner" is pronounce one way and "diner" another. Because the following double consonant shortens the vowel, that's why.

I might have been the only child in South London that went to school (after the truant officer had caught up with me) fully conversant with vowels, consonants and parts of speech.

There I was exposed to the  joys of Janet and John, whose banal adventures did not, fortunately, put me off my love of reading and literature.

Keep going, Carmen, there such an exciting world waiting for you!

Parky

Today

For some time now we have been living with Paul's diagnosis of Parkinson's disease. It's the commonest form of neurological degenerative disease after Alzheimer's. Sometimes a diagnosis for a disease is a death sentence. In this case, since it doesn't kill you, it's more of a life sentence.

In My Day

I first met someone with Parkinson's when I worked at Orchard Lodge back in 1969. Ostensibly, I was a cleaner but I was soon asked to assist in the men's sick bay. I cleaned, helped old geezers to the toilet and helped to serve meals.

Many of them were in the last stages of dementia or type 2 diabetes but there was one old gentleman who had Parkinson's. This was explained to me by the nurse in charge, a burly man who managed to combine brooking no nonsense with a tender care for his charges.

The gentleman in question was a gentleman: unfailingly polite and very apologetic about his condition, as though he could help it. He was skeletally thin and shook from head to foot. He was given the same meals as everyone else and most of the food seemed to land at his feet or down his trousers. I would wrap him in a large napkin and help his hold his soup bowl steady and guide the spoon to his mouth, hoping that at least some food would get into his body.

"I'm sorry, girl", he would say, over and over again, as though he was just being difficult. I rather liked him and was always willing to give him what help I could, steering him to the toilet when he needed it and letting him tell me about his life.

Then, as now, there was no cure and there were not even palliative treatments. There was also what would seem now to be a rather lax approach to self- help. Physiotherapists, these days at the heart of treatment, were unheard of and, in the midst of all the bustle of men's sick bay he was slowly shaking himself to pieces.

I am very glad to live a a time when there are effective treatments to manage the symptoms and constant support from Neurologists and physiotherapists to ensure maximum independence. This ensures a reasonable quality of life for much of the duration of the sentence. And I will be there for the duration.

Extra Hour

Today

Last week, while we were in Spain, the clocks went back. This meant a merciful moment when the morning weren't so dark, but that won't really last.

In My Day

I never forget when the clocks go back as, one year, the event occurred while I was in hospital after the birth of Lizzie. Last weekend in October is seared into my brain.

I'm not sure that I see the point of it in the modern world. "Daylight saving" was introduced during WW1 to help the farmers, it seems. Maybe, with dawn at 3.00 in June, it was better to make that 4.00 and have more daylight at the end of the day.

Paul's Mum used to worry about this a great deal, calling us to remind us, as though our brains were numb without her help. I remember one year when she got it all wrong and advanced her clocks when she should have retarded them. I don't now remember how many days it was before she realised her error, but the lovely light mornings must have been a joy!

I have never seen the need for all this shifting about; and there are some countries questioning it. Morocco is among them and, quite frankly, for countries near to the equator the effect must be minimal.

So I'm getting used to dark evenings, once again. What I can't seem to do is find any benefit from that "extra hour".

All washed up

Today

This week my sister has been bemoaning that fact that she's run out of washing up liquid so the dishes have been stacking in her sink. "Try shampoo", I suggested. "Would some hand washing powder do the trick?" she responded.

"Do you remember Dreft?" I asked her. 

In My Day

As I may have before mentioned, washing up was a major feature in our lives as children. There were six family members, three meals a day and no labour saving devices. The big vitreous enamel sink was at the end of our teensy-weensy kitchen. We had an enamel washing up bowl. Hot water was supplied by a gas-fired Ascot heater which was very temperamental and of which I was rather frightened.

I much preferred washing to drying and could dream away a fair bit of time with my hands in the suds. Here I am, at the age of four, engaged in this activity (Chris is, apparently, making cakes).

The suds were provided by Dreft washing powder. Actually this was a delicates and woollens washing powder, so I'm not entirely sure why we used it for washing up. It can't have been cheap. It came in green boxes with the name "Dreft" stylishly slung across the packet. I think that Daddy had some idea that if we used soap we'd need to rinse everything whereas, he said, we didn't have to do this with Dreft. I don't know if this is true; certainly, if you left the drying up too long, the china developed streaks, so maybe this was just rubbish. Maybe we just got used to everything having a slightly soapy taste, and thought it was normal.

I can't remember when washing-up liquids took over.

Anyway, as I pointed out to Beatrice, she has a Tesco Express about a hundred paces from her front door which is open early and late and which offers a wide range of cleaning products, although I don't know about Dreft, so she really has no excuse!

Salad Days

Today

A debate was sparked off on Facebook recently, when 2 bowls of chopped up veg were displayed. Both salad-type veg, one with the items in large chunks and separate, the other more finely chopped and mixed up. Were they both salads?

The answer seemed to be "yes" with much of the discussion centring on whether a salad needs to be mixed up or not.

In My Day

When I was a child, salads took two forms. In summer time plates of entirely separate items were arranged on the table and you took what you wanted. Included would be: round or cos lettuce, tomatoes, cucumber, spring onions, cooked, pickled beetroot. There might also be a potato salad. made with salad cream, or taken out of a Heinz tin. To accompany this would be ham or pork pie, tinned salmon or luncheon meat. In no way were these items mixed up until they reached your plate, but was always referred to a salad.

In winter Mamma would make "winter salad". This was most definitely mixed. The groundwork always included celery, onions, beetroot, grated carrot and white cabbage. To this Mamma would add a range of other veg and fruit. Sometimes apple or oranges, maybe nuts; she often would add a mystery ingredient which might be raisins or some other vegetable. Everything was strictly seasonal. The whole salad was put into the big mixing bowl, then thoroughly mixed with salad cream, making the whole thing slightly pink on account of the beetroot. This would be served with corned beef and, on occasion, a baked potato. I think we used to wolf this down,

It seems that the word salad has a variety of meanings, depending on your standpoint; the main criteria these days seeming to include raw vegetables of some kind. 

Long Distance

Today

Today is my 47th Wedding anniversary. These days, long marriages don't just happen by virtue of simply living long enough. I think that it's a combination of love, knowing the rules and generally embracing the experience. And I think that it resembles a long journey; in fact, I wrote about this some years ago, and am reproducing it here.

In My Day

The Marriage Train

Getting married is like travelling on the Penzance-Aberdeen express

Preparation

You should buy your ticket in plenty of time and check the details carefully. Make sure that you have enough luggage packed. Don’t burden yourself with too much or you may not be able to get on. If you buy your ticket at the last minute you may not have time to pack and find yourself starting the journey with not enough to see you through. You might also find that you haven’t understood clearly the terms of your ticket. 

The Ticket

These are the terms of your ticket:

1. You must complete the journey

2. The ticket is one-way only

3. The ticket is joint with one other holder

4. You may not break your journey

5. You may share your space on the train with an unlimited number of fellow travellers, provided that:

a. No more than the agreed space is taken up

b. They share your refreshment allowance

Departure Times

Allow enough time to catch the train

If you allow too much time, you may be heartily bored by the time the train arrives and start your journey in the wrong frame of mind

If you rush onto the platform at the last minute you might have forgotten something or even jump on the wrong train.
 
The journey

You climb onto the train and settle into the best seat you can find. You wave good bye to your friends and family and see that your luggage is safely stowed. The view is lovely; you can see the moors and glimpses of the sea. It’s very exciting and you eagerly look out from one side to the other and can’t stop chattering to your companion about how lovely it all is.
Soon you get used to the motion of the train and you get out a book or listen to music on your personal stereo, occasionally talking to your companion or pointing out the more interesting views.

You stretch out your legs, only to find that they are doing the same. You may need to tuck your legs in from time to time and they will have to do the same for you.

Sometimes the train passes through tunnels. The lights in the compartment go dim and every noise is unpleasantly loud. You can hardly see your companion’s face. Before you know it the tunnel’s passed. Now, another one. You get used to these short tunnels and learn how to deal with them. When you go through the next one you are confident that you can cope. Just as you think the tunnel is going to end, it doesn’t. You begin to panic slightly, although you might not wish to show it. Eventually you flash out into the light again.

At Gloucester, the train stops. When it leaves again, to your horror, you realise that the train is going backwards! Should you ring the communication cord? Should you jump off the train? After a while you see that this has been necessary so that the train can get onto another set of rails in order to continue toward Aberdeen.

The motion of the train is very steady as it rushes on at 125mph. You fall asleep. Beware you don’t sleep for the rest of the journey or that you are always asleep when your companion is awake and vice versa. Your companion and fellow travellers may decide to leave the train, or you may reach your journey’s end without having noticed any of the exciting and beautiful things on the way.

Stations

The train will pass through stations. At many of these it won’t stop; you catch a glimpse of pretty, sleepy, wayside stations. All you will have time to say is, “How pretty, what was the name? I didn’t catch it?”

At others it will. It will be very tempting to get out at these stations and take a look around. After the steadiness of the journey, a change of pace may seem exciting. However, the terms of your ticket are that you may not break your journey at any point. If the temptation is very strong you may decide to get off anyway. You don’t mention it to the guard - they are likely to refuse. So you slip off, hoping that you can just nip back on again, unseen. What could go wrong? A good deal, believe me.

While you are having a refreshing cup of coffee the train may leave without you. All your luggage, your chosen travelling companion and fellow travellers are still on the train. You run after it, calling. But it’s gone, and when you return to your cup of coffee, it’s cold, or doesn’t taste so good, or the waitress has cleared it away.
 
You may decide to catch another train. To begin with it seems just as exciting as the first. But you’ve left so much luggage behind on the other train. Your new companion has a good deal of their own, plus a number of fellow-travellers whom you don’t know. They take up a good deal of space and resent you having the best seat, and you have no idea whether you will like each other better as the journey progresses.

Or you may nip back onto the train. But not, alas, unseen. Your travelling companion sees you and calls the guard. The guard draws your attention to the terms of the ticket and advises you that your action has invalidated it. You may be thrown off the train. If your travelling companion is willing, the company may concessionally allow you to continue, but you will be under surveillance from now on.

You might find that your companion had seen you get off and decided to find another companion. So, when you get back to your seat it’s occupied.

You might be lucky and slip back into your seat while your companion is sleeping. But you have had an experience without them. You would like to share it with them, but, if you do, they may call the guard. Also the taste of that coffee is still with you. So you find ways of expressing yourself by criticising the amenities of the train, the quality of the coffee or the slowness of the journey. This puzzles your companion whose pleasure in the journey is now diminished and who hesitates to tell you about the view in case you criticise that, too. They may give more attention to your fellow-travellers so that you feel left out.

Delays, Points & Derailments

During the journey there may be delays. The train mysteriously grinds to a halt. There is not a station in sight and a heavy silence descends. No explanation for the delay is given. You discuss this with your companion, but they tell you to be patient; we’ll soon get going again. Their composure infuriates you. You threaten to get off the train and walk. This is never wise. The train will start again and soon be speeding northwards.

When approaching a big junction, you will go over points. They are noisy and uncomfortable. The train slows down and you wonder if the bumping will ever stop. In fact, this is one of the things that may tempt you to get off at the next stop to have a look around. But, of course, once you’re through Birmingham New Street or Sheffield, the train will pick up speed and you’ll be congratulating yourself on having stayed put.

Occasionally, the train breaks down completely. It is shunted into a siding and you are told that you will be bussed to the nearest station. If this happens you will just have to make the best of it. You will not improve your chances of getting to your journey’s end by making a fuss.

The worst disaster that can happen is a derailment. This happens when there is something on the track, if one train hits another or the track is not properly laid. You will almost certainly suffer an injury and will have to leave your travelling companion. Allow anyone who is able to help through this time; you’re going to need them.
 
Fellow Travellers

You may remember that your ticket allows you an unlimited number of fellow travellers. However, you have to share your seat and refreshments with them. At the beginning of the journey, you and your companion luxuriously stretched out your legs and spread your luggage about as you wished. As each fellow traveller joins you, you have to contract your space a bit more. They are noisy and inclined for conversation, especially, it seems when you want to have a bit of a doze or talk to your companion. They are bad at managing their luggage too, and are always asking you to help them add or discard some or move it to another place. When you take time to listen to their conversation, though, you find that it’s very interesting and that each fellow-traveller has a specific charm. You laugh a lot and feel thoroughly woken up. In fact, if you choose to take no fellow travellers, you may find it hard to stay awake.

Beware of giving too much attention to one fellow traveller - the others may take offence or the one may start to take up too much room. On the other hand, don’t ignore them. If you do, when you get to Aberdeen, you may find that they left the train while you were asleep and didn’t even say goodbye.

As the journey progresses these travellers will want to get out at each station. As you know that they are not coming all the way with you, you will have to allow this. At first, each excursion will be made with either you or your companion. Soon they will be nipping out briefly at little wayside stops and halts. At some point they will get off the train to commence their own journeys. If all has gone well they will wish you a loving farewell and make sure that you are kept informed of progress.

Now you and your companion can stretch out again. The seats feel twice as big as when you started your journey. If the journey is going according to plan, you will both enjoy this very much and take a renewed interest in the scenery. Be sympathetic, though, if your companion takes a little time to adjust to the extra space.

Travelling without a ticket

Some people try to make the journey without a ticket. This may seem like a good idea at the time. You are not bound by any terms and conditions and can leave the train whenever you like. What you haven’t bargained for is that your companion can do the same. It’s no good complaining to the guard; as you haven’t a ticket there’s nothing they can do. They may feel sorry for you but will explain that the train is not bound to carry you and will put you off at the next stop.

Journey’s end

Eventually you approach your journey’s end. For some time the train has been slowing down; each sight of the mountains seems more beautiful and precious than before.

Sometimes your companion has to leave the train before you. This may leave you feeling very lonely. Don’t be tempted to jump off the train after them. This only causes a great deal of trouble, both for the officials of the railway company and for your fellow travellers. Instead, if you can, help your companion’s descent from the train to be as smooth as possible. If they were forced to leave the train without saying goodbye, you might spend rather a lot of time looking for them out of the window. You might eventually find another travelling companion. Remember that your first companion’s luggage will still be on the train and their seat is still reserved.

If you are the first to leave the train, remember to say goodbye properly. Your fellow travellers should also be there; they will help you get off the train and see that you haven’t forgotten anything. You will want to feel secure that your luggage has passed into safe hands and that your companion will not be alone for the rest of the journey.

Bon Voyage!

Going for the Burn

Today

We've had a run of warm and sticky weather lately with some sudden downpours. Here on the Mendips that has resulted in some morning mists which the sun takes a while to burn off.

In My Day

Back in 1993, Paul and I and an assortment of Levetts decided to take a holiday in Ireland. We chose a cottage just outside the Connemara town of Oughterard. That holiday supplies many tales which I feel sure I'll explore in this blog. Every morning started out dull and misty and we would wonder what we could do to get through the day. But, by about midday, the sun would have burnt through, giving us wonderful weather. And the twilights were so long that we still had many hours in which to do things.

On one occasion, Paul and I decided that we would like to visit Innishmore. Off we set in the gloomy morning to catch the ferry from Rossaveal. This necessitated a lengthy drive along pot-holed and rutty roads, passing ruinous farms where raggedy children, dogs and donkeys would stand in the road as though they'd never seen a car before.

Rossaveal is a tiny run-down town on the Galway coast from which ferries to the Aran islands (mostly Innishmore) ran regularly. Having driven all this way we decided to go through with it, despite the dull overcast skies, and climbed on board. As we crossed the water the sun began to break through and, by the time we'd landed, there was glorious sunshine.

There are no cars, to speak of,  on Aran and we thought that the thing to do would be to hire bikes to explore. This we duly did, paying about £10.00 for the hire and £2.00 for the deposit. We couldn't see the logic of such a small deposit at the time, but shrugged and got on with our day.

The land on Aran is split into smallholdings each of which roughly contains some rocky soil, some fertile and a stretch of beach from which there is a valuable harvest of Carrageen moss seaweed. Cattle roamed freely. The lanes were all between high limestone walls and we pedalled happily along. The skies were blue, the fields were green and the beaches like whipped cream. "I'm going down to the beach", I called out to Paul. Did I just say that cattle roamed freely? Just as my wheel touched the sand, there was a roar and a cow turned to chase me away. I cycled madly back up the lane, the cow gaining on me, wondering how I could get myself and bike over the high walls before I was gored. Paul, with gales of laughter, caught the moment on camera and I made it to a gate as the creature thundered past.

But we had a wonderful day, full of sunshine and laughter, and finally got back to the harbour in comfortable time for the ferry. We returned our bikes and received our risible deposits back. As we sat in the sunshine having a Guinness we suddenly realised the wisdom of the deposit. You couldn't steal the bikes - there's no way to get them off the Island, but plenty of people simply found them too much like hard work and abandoned them. The bike company had a little flat-bed truck which they used to go and pick up the bikes, the deposits paying for that nicely!

We finally arrived back at the cottage, so pleased that we'd trusted the sun's ability to burn through. Paul, who'd neglected the factor 50, was less pleased with its ability to burn through his thighs, but, hey-ho! it was worth it it.

Spiral

Today

Our new little pet, Lucy the Bichon Frise, has settled in well. With a rescue dog, history is often unknown, but what we do know is that her grooming was left so long neglected that she was shaved. Her curls are now growing back beautifully. I met another Bichon in the village who has the full monty, so to speak, with a full coat of five-inch long spiral curls.

I plan to let Lucy's grow that long before deciding on the right trim for her.

"I remember when the spiral perm was fashionable for humans" I said to the dog's owner

In My Day

The spiral perm fashion came in in about 1987 or so. How Lizzie longed for this look! It was  terrifyingly expensive and, over a long period,  she scraped up money from her part-time jobs until she had enough. She trotted off to a salon in Bath and they put her hair through the complicated processes involved. When all was done they told her not to touch the hair for twenty-four hours and then, voila! she would have her dream look.

The results were more like a nightmare. Her hair looked woolly, rather than in silky spirals and when Lizzie awoke in the morning, she found large chunks of it remaining on the pillow. This continued for a few weeks. We spoke to the salon and all they would offer was a conditioning treatment, which was hardly going to help.

We planned to take action but well-meaning interference by a relative who whisked Lizzie off to her hairdresser to trim and salvage meant that we didn't really have the evidence that we wanted, except a basket of dead hair. 

It was all pretty distressing, especially for a teenager when it's so important to look and feel good. It took quite a long time for her hair to regain its natural silky waviness. And Lizzie took a long time to trust hairdressers in general after that.

Since Lucy's spiral perm is entirely natural I hope we won't go through any trauma with her.

Sticky

Today

I am very much looking forward to our next trip to Spain. Becky sent me a message: "We can visit the museum of natural sciences " she enthused. Among other things, they have a stick insect tank.

In My Day

When I worked for the Tax Office, back in 1983 or so, one of my colleagues told me that his brother was involved in the development of Moon craft. He said that they had studied stick insects and how they deal with uneven terrain. I assume he wasn't having a bubble, but what was true was that he had inherited a lot of stick insects.

"Perfect!" I thought "Lizzie would love  a couple of stick insects!" We bought a fish tank and two stick insects were duly delivered. It seemed that they thrived on brambles and we had much enjoyments watching these strange creatures. Every now and then we would clean out the tank.

On one occasion, cleaning out the tank collided with making tea. Lizzie was absorbed in the watching an insect walk on her arm at the same moment as a cup of tea appeared. The stick insect nosed-dived into the hot tea. I dashed the tea into the sink as fast as I could but I think that the insect was scalded to death. Lizzie was distraught and, when the other one dies of natural causes, we put the tank away as a monument to failed endeavour.

Some months later, when I had to find a new home for the tank, I found a couple of baby stick insects, whose fate I cannot now recall. 

Lizzie never kept stick insects again and refused to drink from the mug, which I rather insensitively called "The Stick Mug".

But Lizzie does now have a "no kill" policy for all insects other than those that are trying to eat or kill her, so I guess the stick insect didn't entirely die in vain.

Desert Rats

Today

My Canadian nephew is enjoying his travels through Western USA in his trusty "Airstream" camper.

"We are often puzzled with ourselves. Why do we love the desert so? " he posted on his latest update.

I suppose the first thing you have to do is define desert. The dictionary defines it as a "waterless, desolate area of land with little or no vegetation, typically one covered with sand."

I also researched the average rainfall in the Mojave desert, the driest in North America, and it's typically less that 330mm PA, as opposed to London's 580 mm. By contrast, the Nazca Desert in Peru has an average rainfall of 4mm PA.

In My Day

I have visited two deserts in my travels. One was the region of Mendoza in Argentina. This huddles under the rainshadow of the Andes and it looks like a very fertile place. I found that, over the past 7 centuries or so, people have slowly been planting this desert so that it now supports a very active wine industry and can grow a range of crops and support a reasonable population. It struck me as a very lovely place. 

It does all this on 234mm of rainfall PA.

The other desert was a very different matter. This was the Nazca desert in Peru. The West coast of Peru has virtually no rainfall and the Nazca desert is the second driest in the world, with 4mm of rain PA

We drove along the Pan American highway for what seemed to be endless miles, through an endless dirty ochre landscape. Along the roadside were little woven reed roofless huts in which people attempted to live.

The only water is underground, from the melting snows on the Andes. The Nazca people actually learnt how to bring this water under the desert to where they needed it, and then to store it.

Again, I found myself full of awe for the people who managed, not just to survive in this horrible place, but to have a complex society and to have drawn the wonderful "lines" in the gravel which survive to this day.

But I do have to say that I found this place inexpressibly dreary; it was monochrome, there's almost weather as such, no winds or storms. No grandeur.  The only time there is water is in the unpredictable "El Nino" years when tsunamis swamp the coastal desert.

So loving or loathing the desert all really goes back to what kind of desert you're in and, maybe, how tamed and accessible it is. 

Made to Measure

Today

Much of my sewing activity focuses on clothes for children or for family members. Recently, though, I've been wanting to make some clothes for myself.

It's much harder, in that you have to do the measuring and fitting on yourself, which is awkward at the best of times and sometimes impossible.

In My Day

When I was at college, at Worthing and Eastbourne, we were all involved in making clothes. We'd all received the same training about how and where to measure, how to fit and adjust. 

So when anyone wanted to make something, there was always someone on hand to take the vital measurements. When you are also going to make the pattern from scratch there are a lot of them, and it's impossible to measure your own back of neck to waist length or back shoulder width. And even things like waist to ankle or inside leg are likely to be unreliable when you are squinting at a tape measure dangling down your leg.

Once you'd got to the trying on stage, there was another expert who could make the adjustments while you stood as straight and still as you could, nipping and tucking seams at the side and back. They could easily make sure that the shoulder seams were sitting straight and that the trousers didn't bulge around your bottom.

One solution to the problem is the adjustable dress form. The idea is that you can enlarge or shrink it to replicate your own shape. Mamma and Daddy bought me one, made out of cardboard. This had two disadvantages. Firstly, when you made an adjustment to, say, the bust, there were always angles where the pieces of paper overlapped, so it wasn't exactly realistic. Secondly, it was unwilling to accept pins, so it was hard to pin fabric in place. I don't think I used it much, preferring to rely on my colleagues. I think I managed to train Mamma how to take measurements and adjust.

The lady pictured is very like Mavis who lives in my sewing room and she's certainly useful for checking shoulder seams and the like. But I don't think that her figure will ever be quite like mine and I just have to hope that the trousers I'm making will be the business.

Maybe I'll have to teach Paul the art of measuring and fitting. 

In the Doghouse

Today

My niece posted a picture a couple of days ago, showing her Cockerpoo sticking her nose through the newly installed catflap. She commented that perhaps the dog thought it was a window just for her.

In My Day

Eventually, we outgrew the house at Mead Close and decided to turn the garage into a kitchen. This left us with the problem of a place for the dog to sleep. Suddenly we had a "lightbulb" moment. A kennel!

We went to the DIY and bought four fencing panels and some corrugated plastic sheeting. Then to the petshop where we bought a dogflap of a suitable size. At home we found an old pallet and an offcut of vinyl flooring. 

Paul set to work and constructed a bijou residence. The pallet floor, covered with underlay, kept it clear of damp. The fence panels made the walls, one of which entirely hinged outwards, like a dolls' house. The dogflap was inserted into the front panels and a pitched roof of corrugated plastic was added. Perfect! A ventilated home with natural lighting and easy access.

We popped the dog bed in. When the evening meal came round we put Cas's food into the kennel and he eagerly followed through the dogflap. The water bowl we left outside because the dog walked into it on a regular basis and we didn't want the inside of the kennel to get wet. We left Cas to it and went indoors.

In the morning I went out to greet the dog and give him his breakfast. He was whining and whimpering inside the kennel. "Well come on, Cas" I called "I've your breakfast here"! He carried on whimpering. The silly mutt had not worked out that the flap worked both ways, so had spent the entire night stuck inside. He was desperate for a drink of water and a pee.

I released him and commenced on dogflap training. It took him over a week to figure it out - cats understand the principle in moments - after which he was very happy in his little house and often asked to go out to it. He wasn't so keen when the cats chose to join him, as they managed to take up the entire bed while he hunched in a corner!

So maybe the solution, Helena, is a personal house for your Cockerpoo. Just be prepared for the person-hours spent on training!

Tooled Up

Today

This morning, while Paul tested the mudguard lights on the model radio-controlled truck he is making, I talked about some modifications I want to make to my workspace to give me easier access to things like ribbons and spools of thread.

"You know", I said "some of the people we know will have fully stocked tool, hobby, craft and sewing kits while others are hard put to it to produce a needle or screwdriver."

In My Day

Mamma and Daddy were definitely of the former variety. While Daddy didn't do any crafts, as such, he did carry out much of the maintenance and repair work at 4BH and his other properties. At the foot of the basement stairs, and partly tucked under them, was his tool cupboard. This sported a dazzling array of paintbrushes, old cans of paint, hammers, screwdrivers, saws of every type, planes, sandpaper and tins and boxes of nails and screws. He had a blowtorch, fuse wire, and pieces and offcuts of metal and wood. He put up wallpaper using a paste made out of plain flour and water. He had trestle tables for laying out the paper and bottles of turps and meths (I rather liked meths beautiful shade of mauve which, I later learnt, was added to put alcoholics off drinking it). In the garage would be sand and cement used for a whole range of garden improvements and repairs. 

In the living room was his desk which housed a Remington typewriter and was a treasure house of paper, card, paperclips, pencils, rubbers, inks, rulers, rubber bands and other treasures. I think we children raided this fairly freely.

Mamma had a sewing machine, a sewing box full of threads, buttons and other notions. She had knitting needles and balls of wool as well as fabric scraps and other bits.

Her kitchen, apart from the usual saucepans, had various mincers and graters, cake and baking tins of every shape and size, cake icing equipment, biscuit cutters, sieves and colanders. And there was a fully stocked larder.

All this suggests a very busy and creative life, and I personally love to look at and use my well-stocked workspace and kitchen. How are you ever to replace a button if the only needle you have resembles a rusty poker and the only thread you have came out of a free sewing kit from a hotel, or hang up a picture if you can't lay your hands on a tack hammer and picture hook?