Today
Raining hard in Brighton today after a beautiful weekend. Looking at the forecast I see that the weather this week is day on/day off with regard to rain and sun.
"I remember my holiday in Devon & Cornwall with Ann Bryant", I said to Paul "That's exactly what we had."
In My Day
When I was in my teens the best way to have an affordable holiday was to join the Youth Hostels Association. It was very cheap and offered accommodation throughout Europe where you were likely to be pretty safe, if not always comfortable. In England at that time there were fairly strict rules about getting to the hostels under your own steam and driving or hitch-hiking was much frowned upon. I wasn't a sporty girl but I did like my holidays to be active.
In 1965 I and my friend Ann Bryant decided that a cycling holiday around Devon and Cornwall would be just the thing. We booked accommodation in advance, staying at each coastal hostel between Plymouth and Exeter, heading westwards. We caught the train from Paddington to Plymouth where our adventures began.
Our bikes weren't especially top of the range; my bike had no gears and Ann's was a little Moulton. Given the hilly nature of the terrain, you can see that we spent a fair bit of time walking.
The hostels were extremely varied from elegant houses to tumbledown cottages that appeared to get their water from the well. Some of them offered breakfasts (a very few even offered supper) and we took advantage of this when we could. But often we found ourselves heating up beans over ancient stoves that ought to have been condemned and wrestling with recalcitrant toasters.
Our decision to stay at each hostel meant a very varied programme of distances to travel. Ideally, in an ideal summer, this should have given us some easy days during which we could potter about, take a scenic detour or catch up on our tans.
Unfortunately, the weather opted for a day on-day off approach to sunshine and showers. There were days when we seemed to make no headway against the Atlantic gales, peddling frantically and apparently staying still.
When you had fifty miles to go, this was rather discouraging. On one occasion - between Newquay and Padstow, the going was so rough and our headway was so slow that we gave in and caught a train which creaked its was across the moors taking probably longer that we would have done by bike, but at least we were dry. Between Tintagel (a rickety stony hostel clinging to the cliff edge and Boscastle was only six miles and we were looking forward to a day scrambling over rocks and exploring the coastline. Instead, force ten gales kept us indoors where we were probably the record holders for spending time at the Boscastle witch museum.
We did have some lovely days too - discovering the Minack Theatre by accident and watching a rehearsal for King Lear as the sun set over the sea, and cycling in sparkling weather from Minehead to Exeter along the beautiful Exe valley.
It was on this holiday that Ann shocked the locals by wearing very short shorts and causing one ancient to call out as we went by:"Yoo'm better pull yoom skirrt down; yooom paaants is showin!" as he cackled with laughter.
What the holiday taught me was to be self reliant and that the weather is not all that makes a holiday. And I remember just about every detail after over forty years.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Cap and gown
Today
My sister graduated today with a BA in Eng lit and phil from the Open University. It's taken her seven years of hard work, concentration and commitment to get there and I'm just so proud of her.
There was a lovely ceremony at the Dome and we were reminded that the OU stands not just for social inclusion but also social justice. The honorary doctorate was awarded to Dame Stephanie Shirley whose life story was an example of triumph over adversity.
"You're the second Dixon of our generation to get a degree," I told her. Later there was a discussion about the benefits a degree can bring and Lizzie pointed out that Chris and I achieved a great deal and we neither have degrees. "It doesn't mean that you're totally handicapped if you don't have one," I said "And having a degree is an achievement in itself. After all, I'm finding studying for an NVQ hard enough!"
In My Day
Daddy couldn't have achieved what he did without the education he received from the Society of Friends. Thereafter, everything he did was as the result of his own initiative and hard graft. He found it hard to see what additional benefits a degree could bring. So, while he was an enthusiastic supporter of a good grammar school education, he felt that anything past the age of sixteen (at a pinch eighteen) was really time wasted that could be better spent at the school of life and hard knocks.
When you look at his life and how much he really did achieve it can be hard to argue with his viewpoint. As neither Chris nor I have a degree and yet have achieved a fair amount in commercial terms, the modern emphasis on higher education seems still more questionable. Especially as he and I are also not particularly backward in the area of intellectual and cultural knowledge and understanding. But I also think that Daddy's quite aggressive stance against higher education was not helpful. A university education would hardly have hampered us and might have opened a few doors sooner. I did spend four years at art school where I failed to gain a degree and the skills I learnt (such as corset making and how to construct a model out of balsa wood) have been very little use to me.
I can only find it in my heart to feel so proud of those members of my family who have worked against difficulties to achieve so much and I know that we all, whatever our education, learn much of what we need from life's lessons and hard knocks.
My sister graduated today with a BA in Eng lit and phil from the Open University. It's taken her seven years of hard work, concentration and commitment to get there and I'm just so proud of her.
There was a lovely ceremony at the Dome and we were reminded that the OU stands not just for social inclusion but also social justice. The honorary doctorate was awarded to Dame Stephanie Shirley whose life story was an example of triumph over adversity.
"You're the second Dixon of our generation to get a degree," I told her. Later there was a discussion about the benefits a degree can bring and Lizzie pointed out that Chris and I achieved a great deal and we neither have degrees. "It doesn't mean that you're totally handicapped if you don't have one," I said "And having a degree is an achievement in itself. After all, I'm finding studying for an NVQ hard enough!"
In My Day
Daddy couldn't have achieved what he did without the education he received from the Society of Friends. Thereafter, everything he did was as the result of his own initiative and hard graft. He found it hard to see what additional benefits a degree could bring. So, while he was an enthusiastic supporter of a good grammar school education, he felt that anything past the age of sixteen (at a pinch eighteen) was really time wasted that could be better spent at the school of life and hard knocks.
When you look at his life and how much he really did achieve it can be hard to argue with his viewpoint. As neither Chris nor I have a degree and yet have achieved a fair amount in commercial terms, the modern emphasis on higher education seems still more questionable. Especially as he and I are also not particularly backward in the area of intellectual and cultural knowledge and understanding. But I also think that Daddy's quite aggressive stance against higher education was not helpful. A university education would hardly have hampered us and might have opened a few doors sooner. I did spend four years at art school where I failed to gain a degree and the skills I learnt (such as corset making and how to construct a model out of balsa wood) have been very little use to me.
I can only find it in my heart to feel so proud of those members of my family who have worked against difficulties to achieve so much and I know that we all, whatever our education, learn much of what we need from life's lessons and hard knocks.
Friday, April 17, 2009
New Look
Today
Yesterday Paul heaved out his old camcorder - the one with tapes - and hooked it up to the telly to play old videos. With horror I watched the videos of me in Ireland 2002. Not only was I very large, I didn't seem to be taking any trouble. I wore awful jumpers and my hair, as often as not, looked as though I hadn't used a brush on it for a fortnight. My face looked raddled and old and fat. My view of things wasn't helped by the (intentional) emphasis on just how much and how often I was filling my face.
Now, I have generally regarded myself as one who does take trouble, so this video was a shock to my perception of myself.
I was talking to someone at last week's christening whose special area of study is how the digital age changes perception and changes memory. "Do you think", I asked "that photography radically changed how our memories are shaped?" "Most certainly." replied my companion.
In My Day
Mamma, as I have said many times, was German. She became fully naturalised after the end of the war and always regarded England as her home. She had little patience for immigrant Germans who wanted to join ex-pat groups of one kind or another. This wasn't so surprising; England had accepted her without comment at a time when her people were being slaughtered by Hitler.
One of the first things she did was to perfect her English. She spoke language idiomatically and fluently and many people told her that they wouldn't have guessed that she was German. She kept a diary, written in English, and said that she dreamt in English. Although she always had a little trouble with "th" and "s" in conjuction - according to her we lived in "souse east" London and Elizabeth always came out "Elizabez".
She died in 1981, before the advent of camcorders, so I was delighted when I happened upon an audio tape recorded by Paul on the event of Mamma's 63rd birthday. I listened with great amusement to four-year old Lizzie's appalling Sussex accent and to the general chit-chat. "Who", I said to Paul, "is that German woman whose voice I keep hearing?" "Why, Mamma", He said. "Did she always have that very strong accent?" I asked. "Certainly."
I was very shocked; my entire perception of my mother, not just in childhood, but in my life to that point was being overturned. And now, how do I remember Mamma's voice speaking to me? The truth is, I just don't know any more.
It's not just what we see, but what we hear, that changes our memories and I fear that, unless we totally cut ourselves off, there's nothing we can do about it.
Yesterday Paul heaved out his old camcorder - the one with tapes - and hooked it up to the telly to play old videos. With horror I watched the videos of me in Ireland 2002. Not only was I very large, I didn't seem to be taking any trouble. I wore awful jumpers and my hair, as often as not, looked as though I hadn't used a brush on it for a fortnight. My face looked raddled and old and fat. My view of things wasn't helped by the (intentional) emphasis on just how much and how often I was filling my face.
Now, I have generally regarded myself as one who does take trouble, so this video was a shock to my perception of myself.
I was talking to someone at last week's christening whose special area of study is how the digital age changes perception and changes memory. "Do you think", I asked "that photography radically changed how our memories are shaped?" "Most certainly." replied my companion.
In My Day
Mamma, as I have said many times, was German. She became fully naturalised after the end of the war and always regarded England as her home. She had little patience for immigrant Germans who wanted to join ex-pat groups of one kind or another. This wasn't so surprising; England had accepted her without comment at a time when her people were being slaughtered by Hitler.
One of the first things she did was to perfect her English. She spoke language idiomatically and fluently and many people told her that they wouldn't have guessed that she was German. She kept a diary, written in English, and said that she dreamt in English. Although she always had a little trouble with "th" and "s" in conjuction - according to her we lived in "souse east" London and Elizabeth always came out "Elizabez".
She died in 1981, before the advent of camcorders, so I was delighted when I happened upon an audio tape recorded by Paul on the event of Mamma's 63rd birthday. I listened with great amusement to four-year old Lizzie's appalling Sussex accent and to the general chit-chat. "Who", I said to Paul, "is that German woman whose voice I keep hearing?" "Why, Mamma", He said. "Did she always have that very strong accent?" I asked. "Certainly."
I was very shocked; my entire perception of my mother, not just in childhood, but in my life to that point was being overturned. And now, how do I remember Mamma's voice speaking to me? The truth is, I just don't know any more.
It's not just what we see, but what we hear, that changes our memories and I fear that, unless we totally cut ourselves off, there's nothing we can do about it.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Hairdo
Today
Fashions do go in circles, they say. At the weekend, Becky was sporting a little Aliceband in her hair. "Well, my boyfriend says he likes me in an Aliceband", she explained, somewhat defensively. No reason; Alicebands are pretty trendy at the moment, after all.
"I used to wear an Aliceband, generally made out of ribbon", I said.
In My Day
The trouble with the circular nature of fashion is that it can be hard to forget the connotations of the first time you experienced it. In fact Alicebands are really connected in my mind with childhood hair management, rather than fashion, so I tend to see it as an intrinsically childlike style.
I had long hair until I was about thirteen. For day to day wear, I had two plaits. Mamma always put a side parting at the front, which resulted in the parting doing a little wiggle to get to the centre at the back and in slightly uneven plaits. The plaits were tied up with ribbons. Mamma always bought nylon ribbon in bright colours. The ribbon was first wrapped twice around the end of the plait and then knotted and tied into a bow. The knot and bow did all the work; no elastic bands or anything.
On special occasions, my hair was released from its bonds and tied up with a ribbon in Aliceband style.
Mamma generally put a big bow at the top and secured the whole thing with a plentiful supply of hairgrips. I remember reciting some poetry at a Townswomen's guild event when I was not quite five years old. The poem started "I love to wear my party frock that Auntie bought in town...". Mamma made me a pink taffeta frock with blue scalloped ribbons and tied my hair up in a large satin ribbon to match. I felt so beautiful wearing it.
Mamma generally put a big bow at the top and secured the whole thing with a plentiful supply of hairgrips. I remember reciting some poetry at a Townswomen's guild event when I was not quite five years old. The poem started "I love to wear my party frock that Auntie bought in town...". Mamma made me a pink taffeta frock with blue scalloped ribbons and tied my hair up in a large satin ribbon to match. I felt so beautiful wearing it.Later, plaits gave way to pony tails, either flowing loose or plaited with a ribbon top and bottom. At one time I used little clips ornamented with butterflies top and bottom. This so amused the third year girls at Grammar school that they used to chase me around the playground yelling "Flutter by, butterfly!" This was more intimidating than it might at first seem and is probably why I nagged to have my hair cut.
My ribbons did at one time offer some drama, providing a somewhat strange snack for a goat at London Zoo, as he pulled at my bright red ribbon. We watched in horror as the whole lot went down his throat.
So, while I do like to be on-trend, I also think that Alicebands won't feature in my wardrobe this Spring.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Tumbledown
Today
Once again, silly "getting to know you" questionnaires have been circulating on the Internet. I can't resist them and tackle them with enthusiasm. Becky commented on my answer to "What are you most afraid of?", which was: "Apart from dying? Stairs." "Aw", said Becky, "that made me want to give you a hug. Is it true?"
"Oh yes," I said. And it is. When the girls were small and had to be carried downstairs, I regularly had visions of falling down with them in my arms. I often used to say to Paul, "That's one less time I have to do this."
I negotiate stairs with caution and often wonder if I'll meet my end falling downstairs.
In My Day
Our huge Victorian house had a rather grand staircase from the first to the ground floor. There was a slight curve starting from the top and another curve at the bottom as they turned to the lower passageway. There were beautiful cast iron banisters, depicting angel heads, and the whole was overlooked by a stained glass window that cast pools of jewel-like colour onto the hall whenever the sun shone.
It may be one of those memories that gain flesh by being recounted many times, but one day, when I was about three years old, I fell down this flight of stairs. Mamma heard the crash and came running. She knew that she wouldn't reach me before I smashed into the wall before the final turn. She called out to me to grab the banisters. Somehow, I had the presence of mind to do this and my fall towards concussion was halted as I swung to a standstill.
Later, Beatrice, aged about two, fell down the stairs to the basement. These, too, had a curve at the bottom and she crashed into the wall and broke a collar bone. This I remember most clearly, being a witness, and don't know whether it contributed to her epilepsy.
Maybe the memory of these events drives my adult anxiety and visions, but what I don't understand is why I've never seriously considered living in a bungalow.
Once again, silly "getting to know you" questionnaires have been circulating on the Internet. I can't resist them and tackle them with enthusiasm. Becky commented on my answer to "What are you most afraid of?", which was: "Apart from dying? Stairs." "Aw", said Becky, "that made me want to give you a hug. Is it true?"
"Oh yes," I said. And it is. When the girls were small and had to be carried downstairs, I regularly had visions of falling down with them in my arms. I often used to say to Paul, "That's one less time I have to do this."
I negotiate stairs with caution and often wonder if I'll meet my end falling downstairs.
In My Day
Our huge Victorian house had a rather grand staircase from the first to the ground floor. There was a slight curve starting from the top and another curve at the bottom as they turned to the lower passageway. There were beautiful cast iron banisters, depicting angel heads, and the whole was overlooked by a stained glass window that cast pools of jewel-like colour onto the hall whenever the sun shone.
It may be one of those memories that gain flesh by being recounted many times, but one day, when I was about three years old, I fell down this flight of stairs. Mamma heard the crash and came running. She knew that she wouldn't reach me before I smashed into the wall before the final turn. She called out to me to grab the banisters. Somehow, I had the presence of mind to do this and my fall towards concussion was halted as I swung to a standstill.
Later, Beatrice, aged about two, fell down the stairs to the basement. These, too, had a curve at the bottom and she crashed into the wall and broke a collar bone. This I remember most clearly, being a witness, and don't know whether it contributed to her epilepsy.
Maybe the memory of these events drives my adult anxiety and visions, but what I don't understand is why I've never seriously considered living in a bungalow.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
Thumper
Today
Just recovered from a corker of a migraine which took out pretty well all of yesterday. It may be that the very moderate amount of alcohol I consumed the night before, having not drunk any for three weeks, was the triggering factor. Who knows? I do know that the pain and vomiting destroyed my day and I had no choice but to ride it out.
In My Day
Mamma used to talk about migraines when I was a child, but I don't think I really knew what she was talking about. I probably thought (as so many people still do) that they were just bad headaches.
I started having migraines when I was about seventeen. They were always associated with the first day of my period, although I didn't get one every month. I quickly discovered that regular pain-killers were of no use (partly because I would vomit them up within ten minutes). I never thought of consulting a doctor and just used to ride them out as I did yesterday.
I did once consult one of David's girlfriends who was training to be a doctor. She advised that I drink some sweet tea and I found that, if I did this after the vomiting phase was over, I felt better sooner.
The worst migraine was the last for many years. This was the last period before I conceived Lizzy. We were at the flat at Belmont and had invited a friend over for supper. I spent the day in bed, staggering from bed to bathroom. Paul was also in some discomfort. having just had a steroid injection for some condition. Why we didn't just contact the friend and say we couldn't see him I don't know - probably it was before we got our phone and we were neither of us in a fit state to walk down the road to the phone box. The time of arrival of said friend drew nearer and I forced myself to get up and dressed. My head hurt so much that I couldn't bring myself to brush my hair, so I just left it in its rumpled state. I've no idea how we got through the evening but Neil, who wasn't a sensitive chap at the best of times. didn't seem to notice anything.
There used to be doctors who dismissed just about every surgery visit from young women with a "Don't worry, it'll clear up when you start having babies". Which was all very well. Except in this case it was really true. I didn't have another migraine until I approached the menopause, twenty-five years later, so had to assume that hormone fluctuations were the trigger.
Now that I don't have any hormones any more, I'll have to look for another reason. The good news is that, having effectively eaten nothing for a day and a half, I've lost 5lbs...
Just recovered from a corker of a migraine which took out pretty well all of yesterday. It may be that the very moderate amount of alcohol I consumed the night before, having not drunk any for three weeks, was the triggering factor. Who knows? I do know that the pain and vomiting destroyed my day and I had no choice but to ride it out.
In My Day
Mamma used to talk about migraines when I was a child, but I don't think I really knew what she was talking about. I probably thought (as so many people still do) that they were just bad headaches.
I started having migraines when I was about seventeen. They were always associated with the first day of my period, although I didn't get one every month. I quickly discovered that regular pain-killers were of no use (partly because I would vomit them up within ten minutes). I never thought of consulting a doctor and just used to ride them out as I did yesterday.
I did once consult one of David's girlfriends who was training to be a doctor. She advised that I drink some sweet tea and I found that, if I did this after the vomiting phase was over, I felt better sooner.
The worst migraine was the last for many years. This was the last period before I conceived Lizzy. We were at the flat at Belmont and had invited a friend over for supper. I spent the day in bed, staggering from bed to bathroom. Paul was also in some discomfort. having just had a steroid injection for some condition. Why we didn't just contact the friend and say we couldn't see him I don't know - probably it was before we got our phone and we were neither of us in a fit state to walk down the road to the phone box. The time of arrival of said friend drew nearer and I forced myself to get up and dressed. My head hurt so much that I couldn't bring myself to brush my hair, so I just left it in its rumpled state. I've no idea how we got through the evening but Neil, who wasn't a sensitive chap at the best of times. didn't seem to notice anything.
There used to be doctors who dismissed just about every surgery visit from young women with a "Don't worry, it'll clear up when you start having babies". Which was all very well. Except in this case it was really true. I didn't have another migraine until I approached the menopause, twenty-five years later, so had to assume that hormone fluctuations were the trigger.
Now that I don't have any hormones any more, I'll have to look for another reason. The good news is that, having effectively eaten nothing for a day and a half, I've lost 5lbs...
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