Today


Decided to go back to the gym this week. The Summer's feasting has taken its toll and I've at least 12lbs to lose if I'm going to fit into that dress for the Christmas bash. So, off to the personal trainer, who put me through various forms of torture. I was pleased to discover that I haven't lost all ground in the last 6 months. I can remember many of the exercises and even do most of them.


Some of them are quite scary; especially those that involve me lying on my back on a Swiss ball - that's the gym equivalent of a Space Hopper (without the ears).


Plus, Paul and I have started playing badminton again after a nearly 2 year gap. I was horrified when Paul absolutely thrashed me last week. That's usually my privilege.


In My Day


Daddy disapproved of sports, especially for girls. He really believed that it was a choice between brawn or brain and he preferred brain any day. He took no exercise himself. My mother occasionally went swimming at the Brockwell Park Lido and tried to teach me, but I was much too scared.


Gym lessons at school were a nightmare. How exactly does one climb up a rope? I never got off the ground. I remember the day I actually managed to vault over the box - that was a fluke as I only did it once. Teachers called me lazy and sloppy; I was just frightened and had no idea how to start.


I was always the last one to be picked when teams were chosen for various games (who'd want sloppy old me in their team?).


In the playground it was even worse; girls did handstands against the school wall, or cartwheels on the field. I didn't seem to have that spring.


Once at secondary school, I developed a liaison with the art mistress, Miss Jones. "I need Julia in the art room" she'd write on a note when it was time for hockey. So I managed to avoid that particularly nasty and ugly game.


I played a passing game of netball, because I was tall and could throw and catch a ball, so I generally found myself as goal shooter because in that position you don't have to do any running.

I managed to get through school without even coming near being in any sort of team. And, once past junior school, avoided sports days altogether.


At least my Becky can still do a cartwheel as she demonstrated this summer; and she's got a degree in linguistics. Just goes to show.

Today

So there we were, on a roundabout on the A36 Warminster bypass, broken down in a Rolls Royce Silver Spirit. The car's not paying its way in Silver Service, so Paul had bunged it on eBay. We had a visit to Sussex planned. "Let's give it one last run," pleaded Paul. "Up to you," says I, "It's your petrol bill." So we set off to Sussex.

Had a lovely weekend, I sang the Verdi Requiem in Alfriston, Paul visited various folks and we went over to Arundel Terrace to look at progress on the flat.

Set off home - I had a business commitment in Bath at 7.30 - we were in good time. As Paul pulled away from the roundabout, hideous graunchings occurred and the beast refused to move away from a compromising position halfway across the roundabout in the outside lane. How the passers-by must have laughed. When they weren't cursing, that is, because we were blocking their visibility.

Paul worked out that it was probably the 1/2 shaft, phoned the AA, asked our regular garage if we could dump the car there, I called for a taxi (thank God Vodafone for the mobile phone) so that I could get home and then off out to my meeting.

In My Day

Broken down cars - where do I start? Well, back in 1972, we were running an old 1960 Humber Hawk. This car, which was a poorly sprayed cream colour, had been known to be used in criminal activities before we bought it.

From the first, it had a whining back axle. I remember drives taken home late from Eastbourne back to Brighton through the silent Peachaven hearing the regular "whop, whop" of the axle. It could be quite reassuring.

In the Summer of 1972 we decided to have a holiday in Exmoor. I'd been longing to show my favourite place to Paul, so we booked B&B at Shilstone Farm near Brendon, deposited the cats at my brothers and set off. I was extremely pregnant with Lizzie.

We arrived safely, if rather late and tired, at Shilstone. In the following days we explored the beautiful Exmoor countryside. We quickly discovered a peculiarity of the Humber - it really didn't take to 1 in 4 hills. I think we chickened out altogether on Porlock and used the Toll road.

Several times we had to try again and take a run at a hill. A Hunter's Inn we just couldn't do it at all. I scanned the map and told Paul that every way out of the valley involved a 1 in 4. Only one thing for it; as the lowest gear was reverse....... Yes, we went up the hill backwards. Remembering that this was Summertime so there were plenty of tourist about......

We'd found a nice little restaurant in Porlock and several evenings had eaten there. Towards the end of our stay we decided to have a last meal there. So off we went. Suddenly Paul said that he was losing power. He turned the car round to try to get us back home, but no good. The car died beside a little farm about 3 miles from Shilstone. We pushed it into the farmyard, scaring the hens. The farmers were extremely sweet about our dumping a car on their land - well, I was very huge and we must have looked so desperate and poverty-stricken.

We walked back to Shilstone and eventually, with the kindest of help from our hosts, took the bus back home from Lynton.

Later that Summer we hired a car and went to arrange for the Humber to be dumped legally.

At least we hadn't already sold the Rolls Royce on eBay

Today

I'm fed up. I managed to fall out of bed last week while staying in Italy. I'm certainly very bruised and am not entirely convinced that I haven't cracked a rib or so. I'm fed up because it hurts a lot and I can't do ordinary things like roll over in bed (even without falling out) and because I feel so stupid.

I have to drive to Grantham on business next Tuesday and I'm not looking forward to it one bit.

In My Day

This wouldn't be the first time I've cracked a rib. Both of the other occurrence involved egg sandwiches and were immediately before holidays.

The first time was the day before our first trip to Italy in 1996. I popped out at lunchtime to buy a sandwich. I passed a beggar sitting on the pavement, but I had no change. So I thought I'd buy the sandwich first, then I'd have some change for the beggar. I came out of the bakers clutching the sandwich and my half open purse. Crash! Straight over something or other. The sandwich went one way, the change another and my skirt flew elegantly over my head. People helped me up and gathered my change. I lost my sandwich and was certainly not in the mood to give any beggar some money. And my rib twinged all the time I was in lovely Verona.

The second was just before a trip to West Cork in 1998. I rushed to finish my work and finally cleared my desk by 2.30. Just time to buy a sandwich and dap up to the bank to get foreign money. Goody, they had nice egg and tomato sandwiches at the bakers. I bought one and hurried up the street, taking a bite as I went. Crash! There I was, on the pavement, face pillowed on the sandwich, my skirt around my waist. I scrambled up as people asked me how I was. "My sandwich!" was all I could cry. "I've lost my sandwich!" I continued up to the bank, pulling bits of egg and tomato pips out of hair. They must have thought I was mad. This time I'd cracked a rib high in my chest and couldn't even lift a cup of tea to my lips.

Do you know, some people go through their whole lives without so much a cracking a little toe?

Today

Returned after a lovely weekend in London, celebrating Becky's birthday. We did a variety of things, including going to Ronnie Scott's. On Sunday, the sun was shining so we decided to take a boat trip from Waterloo to Greenwich, plus a trip around the Thames Barrier.

Lovely trip; we ate crisps and I drank quite a lot of water. There was a cheerful commentator who had a variety of stock jokes and amazing facts about what we could see, delivered in a jaunty manner.

All in all a very nice way of seeing London, especially on a bank holiday weekend.

In My Day

In 1964 I had the excitement of meeting for the first time since I was 1, my Canadian half-sister. She came over to spend most of the summer with us and brought her eldest son, who was about 6, with her. We all got on very well; Daddy was so happy to be with the daughter he hadn't seen for 15 years and mamma was her usual fascinating self.

Although this was back in the '60's Mamma had worked out a good package for seeing Paris in less than 24 hours. Carol was very keen to go, so off they went, very early in the morning, leaving me in charge of 6-year old Mark. (I don't know where everyone else was.)

I decided that a boat trip would be just the thing. So we hopped on bus and train and bus to get to Westminster Pier. We caught the boat and headed off towards Greenwich. We passed the Houses of Parliament, London Bridge and the Tower. So exciting, I thought, until I noticed that Mark was turning green.

I hustled him off, hoping that terra firma would sort him out. The green-ness persisted and I hurried him back home. In West Norwood Station booking office he was horribly sick. Not having much experience with this sort of thing, I had come out with only one paper tissue. I mopped up what I could, but Mark didn't recover for a couple of days and Carol was distraught on her return from Paris and felt very guilty that she'd gone at all.

In fact, it's a mystery how she entrusted her son to me 13 years' later when he lived with us for 6 months as part of his European travelling experience.

Today

Shocking night last night. We climbed into bed at about 11.30, between freshly laundered linen sheets and settled down. I read a bit of my book, turned out the light and turned to my favourite position. For once it wasn't too hot. Soon, Paul started snoring. I tried various techniques to get off to sleep, but no good. Funny noises abounded. Had Abby actually gone downstairs or was she prowling about in the spare room? (Strictly forbidden!) Were those little clicking noises inside the room or outside?

Got up at 1.00 to visit the bathroom. Demanded (and got) a cuddle from the comatose Paul. Tried again, on my left side. Felt hungry. Got up at 2.45 to visit the bathroom. Tried again, on my right side.

Woke up at 6.15 - rather early, considering, but in the end, knowing that I had to leave the house at 8.00, got up bathed etc.

In My Day

Bad nights were a feature of my childhood. I'd read my books until I was dozing over the pages of Hans Christian Andersen. As soon as I put them down and turned out the light, horrors surrounded me. The trees outside waved menacingly against the lurid orange London streetlighting. Cats romped noisily in the area. The house clicked and groaned. A ghost of a little locomotive roamed around the walls of my room.

I tried more HCA - I now knew all the stories off by heart. Tried to sleep with the light on - nasty nightmares presented themselves. Better to be awake. Worst of all was when Daddy decided to go on the prowl - I'd be in big trouble for having my light on.

I can't remember either parent ever asking me why I had my light on at 3.00 am. And in the morning I was so relieved that the dreadful night was over that I didn't want to conjure up images by talking about it. I didn't even mention the train ghost until years later when my sister took over my room and talked about it at breakfast after one night in the room. (At least I wasn't mad - it was really there.)

What is impressive is that it's half past ten and I'm still conscious.

Today

My lovely little cat, Arietty died last night. Yesterday morning she was as right as rain. She'd had her supper the night before, pestered me for a cuddle during the evening as usual. During the morning Paul discovered her, apparently poisoned, having fits in the back garden. The vets did what they could - even gave her dialysis to try to get the toxins to flush away, but no good. They've just phoned with the bad news.

She was only 12 - which is no great age - and she always seemed to me to be a happy cat. She had little to fear and had the run of the field behind the house, where she hunted with great relish, supplementing what she clearly regarded as her meagre diet of Felix. She was extremely gentle, if you weren't a rodent and was the prettiest cat I've had.


In My Day

I suppose you have to get used to the idea of your pets dying before you. The first experience I had of this was when we had gerbils at the house in Rowan Avenue. 2 of them, sisters, I believe. We never tamed them and just cleaning out their little cage was quite a job as those beasts can really jump, And they also bite. Even so, I was sorry when the first one went. This was especially the case because Lizzie, aged 3, was the first to notice that one of the gerbils was stretched out on her side and because, when I went to remove her, I found the the sister, with a "waste not, want not" principle had already started to make a meal of her.

Your expect rodent pets to live a short while - little Mini, the hampster only made 2 years and Harry the Hippie, guinea pig, 3.

But your cats and dogs are really family members. They have such personalities and bring constant amusement into your life.

Arietty, thank you for all the laughter you caused me. I'm going to miss your little fluffy presence.

Today

I'm just about to cut Paul's hair. We've got one of those electric gadgets that enables you to give an all over even finish without having to have much in the way of hairdressing skills.

I'm always astonished at how much hair actually lands on the floor, given Paul's rather scanty locks. And you can't just use the machine; the bits around the ears and on the bald patch needs sorting (it's not entirely bald, you see, there are wispy longish hairs sprouting).

So, over the years I've become quite good at, so that Paul rarely visits a hairdresser.

In My Day

I remember a Byrdian Society rehearsal. We had a concert coming up, but the wife of our conductor complained about him going out yet again (she was a singer herself, but with three children under five, and had had to back off a bit, so maybe there was a little envy there).

So Colin told her that he was going out to the barbers and instead turned up at our house for the practice. A music book was thrust into one of my hands, scissors into the other and I was told to cut Colin's hair while we practised. I think I was chosen because I was the "artistic" one, so ought to be able to cut hair. I certainly had no experience and, anyway, trying to cut Colin's fine, straight, floppy hair while also attempting to sing Allegri's Miserere, was near impossibility. But he didn't dare go back home without his hair looking shorter.

Anyway, Colin's wife was absolutely furious - with the barber, that is, and stated her intention of going round to complain.

These days Colin, remarried, sports a healthy mane of white hair and, having converted to Greek Orthodoxy, has a huge patriach's beard to go with it.

Today

Actually found myself going for a run this morning. Yesterday, out for a walk with my best mates and their 10-year old. I discovered that the best way to stop him whinging was to challenge him to a race. So, for the first time since I fell over the dog in 1999, I ran along the road.

Lovely weather this morning so, at 7.30 I donned shorts and T-shirt and set off at a mixed trot, run and walk. Felt OK as well, although my buttocks ache a bit from yesterday's exertions.

Since I like to go up the lane, whether walking or running, I might just see if I can do it every day.

In My Day

I never was much of a runner - the Dixon family album features a picture of me coming last in a race at sports day with the caption "tis better to have run and lost than never to have run at all..."

Back in the '70s jogging was all the rage, so my best mate, my sister and I decided to get up every morning and jog round the housing estate. We didn't go very fast - we were able to converse, and anyway had to go at the pace of the slowest. I've no idea whether it did us any good, but I guess it was great fun for the neighbours. I do also remember that it was very boring. Endless identical houses are not as interesting as the lanes around here.

With shortish, slim, long-bodied Beverley, tallish, top-heavy, very long-legged me and the spherical Beatrice trotting along the pavements of Willingdon Trees at 6.00, there can't have been any better entertainment in town.

It just remains to be seen whether I've the will power to keep this up for more than a day or two.

Today

Rather surprised to find that I've spent a large chunk of today ironing. Given that I'm having a week off, it's doubly astonishing. Well, my ironing lady, who was never at the top of her profession, blotted her ironing board by giving the ironing to her no doubt well-meaning, but untrained daughter. Which resulted in partially ironed sheets and apparently unironed tablecloths, charged at the full £5.50 PH rate. So I decided that it isn't such a big deal, doing it yourself.

What with Paul's job meaning that he gets through about 15 shirts per week and our having 2 lots of guests last week, resulting in 4 duvet covers, 4 sheets and 12 pillow cases, ironing was rather a chore.

I got through my linen skirts, the bedding and about 8 of Paul's shirts before Paul intervened. "I can't let you iron my shirts. It's a matter of principle", he said.

In My Day

To understand why principle comes into this, we have to go back to 1979. We were living in a tiny 3 bedroomed semi with the girls (aged about 7 & 2), my sister and her soon-to-be husband and my nephew from Canada.

All adults were working full-time and keeping on top of things was quite a headache.

One day, Beatrice and I told the assembled household that we would bung into the washing machine anything that we found in the washing basket, although we would not turn people's knickers and socks inside out and that we thought that we should each take responsibility for our own ironing.

At that, Nick (Beatrice's paramour) stalked up the stairs, remarking "I am not lowering myself to do the ironing". Given that he and I were both civil servants and that I was an executive officer to his clerical officer rank, this was particularly galling.

Not that I had time to be upset. Paul waded in: "Don't you ever do any ironing for that man", he hissed. And he decided then and there that it was perfectly appropriate for a man to iron his own shirts.

So I have to thank Nick that I have got off so lightly over the years with regard to ironing.

In My Day

Spent yesterday slaving over a hot stove. I'd offered myself as cook for all the vegetarian catering for my nephew's wedding which is today.

Becky arrived the night before and Lizzie turned up in the morning. I had discovered that my "mini pimmer" made short work of nuts and breadcrumbs. Becky chopped 12 onions, I grated 9 carrots. The oven was filled with peppers, courgettes, aubergines and red onions. I directed operations while the girls made several nut loaves and cottage cheese loaves. I completed the slimy task of removing the skins from the roasted peppers and made the roasted vegetable terrine.

Later I made 4 different kinds of hummus.

Everything is ready for slicing and presentation. Plus today we must cook the stuff that doesn't keep overnight.

In My Day

On the morning of my wedding day, I could be seen walking along Western Road, Brighton, carting several carrier bags containing the food for the wedding feast. We were seriously broke but I'd splashed out on salads, cold meats, cheese, strawberries, raspberries and cream.

I went home and prepared the food. I did the strawberries and raspberries with lovely cream in individual dishes and set them out in the kitchen.

Then I scrambled into my dress and went off to my shoestring wedding (that's a subject for another blog!).

Back to our house with our family and friends to celebrate. We ate the salads and other savouries. I went out to the kitchen to collect the piece de resistance - the desserts. Our kitchen was in the process of being done up and had no door. As I approached I heard a little thump and saw my cat Ariadne running off down the passage. When I got to the kitchen - there were the desserts, but no sign of cream. All of it was inside Ariadne.

What to do? Nothing for it - I served the dessert without the cream and said nothing. In fact I said nothing for several years until it became apparent that no-one had suffered any ill effects.

Actually I should stop time wasting and get on with making the spinach and cream cheese roulades.

Today

It was my 34th wedding anniversary on Saturday. So we buzzed off to Meare Manor for a very nice dinner. We went with one of my brothers, his wife and youngest boy, my other sister in law and 2 dear friends. We put on our smarties, hired ourselves a minibus and were very jolly.

The location was lovely, a pretty manor (possibly Jacobean), close to the village street, with a pretty garden in which we sat to have pre-dinner drinks. We had a gift of a beautiful plate and matching dishes from Brother David (will go very well in flat 2, no 9) and drank champagne.

The meal was just right, served in a graceful dining room by friendly waitresses. We drank some good Sancerre and a Portuguese red wine. We relaxed at our table after the meal and the conversation flowed fast and freely.

Got home at about 1.30, having felt that we'd truly celebrated.

In My Day

I don't recall our first wedding anniversary, but then I was heavily pregnant with Lizzie and we probably didn't go out. I do remember our 2nd. We got a baby-sitter for 9 month-old Lizzie. We went to a highly recommended restaurant called the Horseshoe in Herstmonceux. It was a heavily faked half-timbered building that got its name from the fact that the entrance was shaped like a horseshoe.

We were ushered straight into a vast barn-like dining room where there were about 3 other diners. Waiters and acolytes rushed up to our table. I don't remember the whole meal, although I do remember one part which involved flambeing something or other at the table.

What I do remember is that the service was so fast we had barely put down our forks when the next stage arrived and we were done and dusted by about 9.00 .

There didn't seem to be a "coffee in the lounge" option, so there we were, on the street, so to speak, with no idea of how we were going to spend the rest of the evening.

Our babysitter got off early, though

Today

Recovering this morning from a cracking evening at Ston Easton Park yesterday. This was our "deal meal" - all the management team and partners. Lovely grub, much champagne and wine were drunk and the conversation veered from the quiet and gentle to the raucous and back again.

Paul took some of us in the Daimler. Definitely felt the part as we swirled up to the door in silver elegance.

On the way back, I succumbed to the combined effects of alcohol, food and a long day, having been in Sheffield earlier. I went to sleep. Much raucous laughter from the occupants of the back seat as I swayed around, probably snoring.

In My Day

I am a master at falling asleep in cars. When I was doing the computerisation of PAYE training, back in 1985, I was still a learner driver. I had to travel to the training centre in Southampton from Eastbourne each week and, when I could, blagged lifts from my Sussex-dwelling colleagues.

My colleague Bill had an Austin Healey Sprite. One of the those ancient cars that some men own and love, and consider very cool. I persuaded Bill to give me a lift back on one occasion. I warned him that I always fall asleep when a passenger in a car. "Not in mine!", he said. "It's far too uncomfortable."

We crammed our luggage into the back of the car where it poked into my back. There wasn't nearly enough room for my exceptionally long legs. And Bill had the top off.

We set off. Next thing I knew we were at Arundel, when Bill had to stop to put the top on because it was raining. Yup! I'd snoozed the whole way. Bill talked about it for months.

Anyway, I regard sleeping in the car as a tribute to the smoothness of the driver.

Today

Over the weekend we went back to Sussex, this time to celebrate the 18th birthday of my best mates' middle daughter. We had a jolly friendly meal at the Tudor House in Alfriston and were priviledged to be the only non-direct-family people there. Well, we do feel like Auntie & Uncle to all those kids!

The following day we agreed to collect our friends' elderly parents from their house in Willingdon so that we could continue feasting at our friends' house.

Tried to remember where the parents lived. "Oh, I'll recognise it," said I "It looks like Little Grey Rabbit's house."

In My Day

How I loved to read Little Grey Rabbit when I was a child. I don't know how old I was when I started, but I know I was still reading them in my teens.

The inner covers, back and front showed the picture of the house with its pointy roof. I never questioned the alternative reality the books showed and somehow the portayal of the characters coloured how I judged these animals to be in reality.

The sensible Rabbit, flighty Squirrel, restless Hare and wise but frightening Owl (he was, after all, a predator). And why should Hedgehog have been the milkman?

RSVP will always mean "Rat shan't visit party" and I often wondered how you made a cowslip ball.

My favourite was Moldy Warp the Mole who took them all on a treasure hunt underground. Most of the animals waited outside in the fields and Alison Uttley gave a truly unsettling description of dusk deepening to night and the fear of the animals.

Anyway, we found the house which was similar, except it has half-timbering.

Today

Panic because Paul couldn't find the Bentley keys. He'd done a wedding with both the Bentley and the Daimler (its first outing), and, when he came to put the keys away, only had those for the Daimler in his hand. Was very hot and bothered, so decided to come home and have another look on Friday.

He phoned me at work - "I can't find the keys anywhere and they're the only ones I've got and I've another wedding on Saturday". Decided not to rail at the fact that he hadn't got around to getting a spare set and started to talk him through the sequence of events of the day before. Had he gone outside the garage after parking the Bentley? How was it that, if he'd parked the Daimler first, that he hadn't already put away the Daimler keys, and so on. Had he gone back to the Daimler after parking the Bentley? Not sure. Nothing in either boot, glove lockers etc.

Occasional seats - they were used, weren't they as there were quite a few bridesmaids? Could keys have got tucked into them when they were folded up?

Certainly could. Genius! There they were! "What would I do without you, you've saved my life, etc, etc, etc"

In My Day

In the days when having a Bentley, even in the way of business, was an impossible dream, Paul ran a frightful Vauxhall Victor estate. He'd hand painted it in white domestic paint in an effort to spruce it up, so it was really smart.

Lost the keys one day. Had no idea where they might be. Looked everywhere. This was before we were married or living together so I couldn't really search through his parent's flat or his underwear drawers.

How were we to drive anywhere? Easy. This was an ancient car, after all. Paul simply hotwired it every time we had to go anywhere. How about getting in and out of the car? Well, although the driver and passenger doors resisted attempts to be forced, the tailgate was much easier. So, in order to go anywhere, Paul first had to crawl into the car from the back end, open the boot catch, crawl back out, hotwire the car, crawl back into the car and we were off!

It rather inhibited our ability to go anywhere looking smart, but then we were a long way before smart. Paul had what was then a wardrobe staple, a black needlecord jacket. Rather ancient and needing much steaming and pressing before it was wearable. He wore it anyway. I attained by means of getting married, the priviledged position of being able to perform this enviable task. What could this be, rattling around in the lining? (The pockets were long since shot to pieces.) Could it be the keys?

Certainly could.

Which kicked off a lifetime together of Paul assuming that I know where everything is. And I have to say, I usually do.

Today

I've been sitting in the garden with Paul, watching the stars come out. Some years we have almost no evenings where we can sit outside at 11.00 pm and not feel chilly. Tonight we watched the first stars appear, the bats fly about removing mosquitoes and craneflies. We gently sipped white wine, talked and generally enjoyed being together.

We're fortunate this summer so far, with a couple of warm weeks in June (regrettably some spent at the TSI conference in Brighton) and some more lovely weather now.

It's something we should really be enjoying. Who knows what's in store?

In My Day

Obviously, I recall lovely weather as a child. I'm not one of those who think that every childhood day was warm and lovely. Too much of a realist, I'm afraid. But I do remember the heatwave of 1959. I recall days when it was hot enough to play under the hosepipe. Days when my skin crackled and peeled with the sun. I remember the walk to Haydon's Ball in baking sun. We were all carrying overcoats just in case, so it was a real trek. I recall the canvas "shelter" which we would erect in the garden to shade us and our tea from the sun and wasps. I recall the teas with sandwiches and cake eaten in the garden.

What I don't recall are any after dark summer experiences. I don't think that Mamma and Daddy sat outside as we do, gazing at the sky or enjoying the warm midnight air. Being in London meant the stars were all but invisible which might have been the reason.

Anyway, I saw 3 stars before deciding to come in.

Today

Finding myself in possession of a sum well in excess of £1 million, with more to come, after the disposal of my company, I find myself reflecting about what such a sum means to me and how it will change my life view. I feel absolutely no different. I'm not inspired to spend vast sums on irrelevant jewellery or a yacht. I don't yearn to mix with footballers' wives or other vacuous celebrities.

I'm thinking with excitement of our lovely Brighton flat, especially after it's been lovingly restored with the help of my friend John. I'm thinking how I can free my Lizzie so that she can do her last year at uni without also working 30 hours a week, and maybe gain that first she so richly deserves. I'm hoping to enjoy the next 30 years, but not arrive at age 90 or so either destitute or still with 2 million in the bank which neither I nor my friends and family have enjoyed.

So not exactly the "spend, spend, spend" mentality.

In My Day

I remember the day when we had twelve and a half pence. I had no money at all and Paul was waiting for his first month's pay as a bus driver (payable in arrears).

In the house we had some butter and an onion. I went to the shop and bought some potatoes, some packet soup and a very small tin of cat food for my cat.

We ate soup and boiled potatoes for lunch. We had baked potato and onion fried in butter for supper. And Ariadne the cat got to eat.

I've absolutely not forgotten those days, nor the way that our friends and family shared what we had. It would be seriously bad manners to let my folk struggle when I can give them a hand.

Today

Back from another Sussex weekend. Initially because our friend Derek was celebrating his 70th birthday and we were invited to the bash. We set off on Friday because we also hoped to take some time to have a another look at our lovely flat.

We met John at the flat and, yes, it was really lovely. The bedrooms & kitchen are places to cook and sleep, but the drawing room with its beautiful mouldings and French doors overlooking the sea.......

We gained access this time to the Kemp Town enclosures, to which we'll be given a key as soon as we become resident and sign up to the annual maintenance. 5 acres of private garden without ever having to lift a pair of secateurs? Rather!

I found the tunnel that goes from the Enclosures under Marine Drive to the Esplanade at Black Rock.

In My Day

Walking along the Undercliff Walk was a standard feature of visits to Brighton. Sometimes we would get the Volks railway, sometimes we walked the whole way from the station, past the Clock Tower and the Old Steine. There was graffiti on the walls in those days, too, largely done with the pieces of chalk that lay about on the path. After seeing a "A loves B" bit of writing, Beatrice, aged about 8, wrote in large letters "I love my Daddy".

Marine Drive was then, as now, shored up with huge walls. Some, at the Madeira Drive end, had arcades and shelters. I was fascinated by the life in those walls. Little shops and businesses like mole's homes. Benches and shelters for those who couldn't cope with the long walk in howling winds. The walls were mostly brick or concrete, but every now and then there were facades with gated entrances.

Only now do I realise that the most ornate of them was the entrance to the enclosures.

Sort of a full circle, really

Today

Still V excited about the new flat. Spoke to my friend John and asked him if he'd be interested in overseeing the restoration project (he's good at that sort of thing) at a local level. He said "I'm your man!" Am going to look at it again on Saturday.

The trouble is, it's easy to get sidetracked into thinking that that lampshade or candleholder would look great. And we don't even know how we're going to decorate it. I do know, having looked up Thomas Kemp on the Internet, that the development dates from the 1820's, so that gives us a clue.

Saw a beautiful bed in a catalogue today. It's intricately carved mahogany, painted white in French chateau style. Very Directoire and I love it! It'll be months before the flat is ready to receive such an item.

In My Day

Eventually, we decided that the iron bedstead and flock mattress had to go. This was after Paul had leapt onto the bed one evening, shouting "Geronimo!" and one corner of the frame gave way entirely. We couldn't afford to pay outright for a new bed, so I ordered one from a friend's catalogue. I chose kingsize because we are biggish chaps.

This item was delivered into the entrance hall of the flats in Belmont in Brighton while I was at work. We were in a top flat, up many steep stairs. If the bed base hadn't divided into two, we'd've had to sleep on the landing. And to manhandle a kingsize mattress up those stairs was an amazing feat. I've an idea I did it alone.

The bed supplied us with unheard-of luxury and we slept on it until the springs began to poke through, twenty years later.

I don't think I'd like to go back to those poverty-stricken days, but it does put things into perspective, remembering them.

Today

The most exciting thing about this week has been the proposed purchase of a flat in Brighton. Not to move into, but as a "pied a mer", so to speak. This dream that we've had for a while has been made possible by the sale of my business. Last week, in the boiling hot weather, we trekked from flat to flat to town house to flat. We've made up our minds to a Kemptown sea front first floor Georgian flat, scruffy, but with plenty of original features to restore and lots of space.

Our offer's been accepted, and, if all is well, the purchase will be completed by the end of July.

We've had the pleasure of being able to be as choosy as we like, and will be able to have heaps of fun selecting just the right furniture etc for it.

In My Day

I remember our first flat together in Brighton. Not a bad place, on a three year lease, near Seven Dials. It was on the top floor and had a large lounge, one enormous bedroom and two smaller ones. There was an OK bathroom and small kitchen.

When we moved in we had:

A very old sofa bed, lent to us by our friends the Levetts, the oak dining table that we still have, an ancient iron bedstead with flock mattress, courtesy of my brother, 4 very assorted chairs, a folding card table and mismatched hi-fi bits. Oh, and a 2-ring Baby Belling cooker.

I had my sewing machine and I made curtains for the lounge sitting at the card table. Later we carpeted the bathroom, using carpet samples. The flat had very old-fashioned night storage heaters, that looked like tanks lined up against the walls. We just about coped with those until the 3-day week, when power cuts at various times of day prevented the booster re-heating the bricks.

When Lizzie was born I put my maternity allowance towards a spin-dryer and we made our first foray into HP, buying a fridge, lounge carpet and gas fire. How we trembled about the repayments! We never raised enough money to carpet the large bedroom.

We lived there for three years and loved Brighton the town.

I'm so excited about the prospect of Brighton second time around!

Today

I've been in Brighton all week at a conference. The weather's been boiling hot and I've had to wear smart suits and try not to look as though I'm sweating freely when visitors came to our stand. People said, "what beautiful weather", and I said, "I haven't seen it yet!"

One the day's work is done, there is the pleasure of being in Brighton with all its lovely cafes and street scene. Partly for this reason and partly because of the proximity of friends and relations, Paul likes to accompany me.

Our bedroom at The Metropole purported to have airconditioning, which at no time purported to be actually working. Our room overlooked the back and was overshadowed by other tall buildings, so not a breath of air ever made it into the room.

So sleep was a fitful affair and taken lying starkers on top of the bed.

In My Day

Which takes me back to the Brighton conference in 1994. Equally hot, maybe more so. Our hotel (The Old Ship) didn't even pretend about the aircon. One night, after a particularly pleasant evening involving a fair amount of alcoholic intake, we went to bed hotter than ever. Middle of the night, I need to use the facilities. So, barely conscious, I stagger, starkers, out of bed and make for what I believed to be the bathroom door. I open the door and find myself staring down a long corridor with a carpet that I don't recognise. A voice from behind me says "What are you doing?" "Going to the loo," says I. "Well, the bathroom's that way!" explains my rather more wide awake spouse. I shut the main bedroom door and do what I have to do.

By the time I got back to bed I was fully awake and running a variety of "Carry On" scenarios through my head. What if the bedroom door had closed behind me? What if Paul hadn't been with me? How would I have got back into the room? Visions of me, naked, carrying a pot plant to hide myself, or ripping down curtains to drape around me while I woke up the night porter horrified me for the rest of night.

Which explains why I like to take Paul with me on these bashes.

Today

Some more about the Silverstone jaunt

Although this June is still beastly chilly, there is at least some sunshine. So on Saturday Becky and I put on summer skirts, both in trendy black and white. I really like my skirt which is a slightly mad affair, cut in a fullish A-line over a white net underskirt.

Felt rather special in our rather special car. Only problem, given that I wasn't wearing tights, was that my legs felt scratchy with sitting on the net and I had little miniature criss-cross lines all over my thighs.

In My Day

I remember the great late '50's fashion for net underskirts. These skirts were separate from the main skirt (so you could have several skirts to one underskirt). They were intended to be visible, especially when you went jiving. Mine was lemon yellow and I loved it. It had several layer of net and some yellow lace, for good measure. I wore it under full-skirted shirtwaister dresses, mainly. There were rather hard to care for and magazines gave all sorts of advice on how to restore that desirable scratchy stiffness after washing. We weren't used as a nation to these sorts of fabrics (stiffness was generally reserved for cotton shirt collars and fronts and involved starch which clearly wasn't going to work here). The most bizarre was the recommendation that you rinse them in sugar. The water would evaporate, leaving behind the crunchy sugar, was the theory.

I didn't dare try that one, for fear of stickiness and of attracting lots of wasps. So I think the underskirt just got greyer and greyer.

They do say that fashion repeats itself.

Today

We went to Silverstone today in the Bentley to mark the 50th anniversary of the launch of the Bentley S series. Our beautiful 1958 (OK, not quite a demi-centagenerian) silver S1 Bentley handled the dual carriageways to the manor born. We gathered alongside other Bentleys, from the "WOs" (meaning, Paul told me, those manufactured under the great man's direction) to a new Phantom. We chatted to other Bentley owners and enjoyed the sunshine.

Gracious beasts, the S class Bentleys, with their lovely voluptuous lines and imposing size. The Rubens of the car world. We all set off sedately around the race track while a scattering of spectators filmed and waved.

After a nice sushi picnic we drove home, this time via A & B roads through delightful Berkshire and Wiltshire towns and villages. We saw 3 white horses - Pewsey, Devizes and Westbury. "Just like motoring was in the '50s" sighed Paul joyfully.

In My Day

I'm not a regular visitor to racetracks and take no interest in the sport on TV. And it's only with the acquisition of the Bentley that I've even become interested in cars as any kind of hobby.

Back in the '60s my boyfriend Bob used to take me to the banger and stock car racing. That used to be some fun. Racing cars, after all, all look much alike. But these cars were as varied as the owners cared to make them and nobody much minded how bashed-up they got as they were all pretty well bashed up before they got there.

So the event was more for the entertainment value than anything else. I remember that the noise and smell were appalling but that I used to feel very jolly after seeing all these otherwise no-hope wrecks deliver their swan-songs on the dirt track.

I really hope that the Bentley doesn't come to such a sticky end.

Today

Took a lovely walk with Paul up the lane last night. I noticed (and photographed) the beautiful campion. The hedgerows were very lush and green (plentiful rain does have some virtues). Everything was especially fragrant: the elderflower, remains of the hawthorn, crushed wild garlic leaves, philadelphus in people's gardens. Regrettably, the farm was also fragrant in its own special way.

Did Paul appreciate this? Not at all; he was too busy sneezing. The hayfever season's started. Each year we say "it's not too bad this year" then off he goes. Anti-histamines seem to give him every possible side-effect and turn him into a homicidal maniac to boot. Even those that claim not to make you sleepy, have him snoozing in seconds and as for tried and trusted Piriton - he passes out for days.

When I'm feeling especially wicked, I think that he somehow enjoys the sneezing. I know this can't be true, but they are certainly a great show. On occasions he even works up to a sneeze and nothing happens! And he's not alone; Lizzie sneezes almost constantly with almost no provocation and Becky does seasonal rhinitis with the best of them.

In My Day

I remember Paul once saying to me, back in about 1974 "I really enjoy a good sneeze." Then came the hot summer of 1976. The one us old 'uns all talk about. Day after day of hot, dry weather. No point in going to bed before 1.00 AM - too hot indoors. We used to lie out on the lawn at 33 Rowan Avenue until the small hours. In Eastbourne, at least, there was also a constant warmish wind - a sort of Khamsin.

When Paul started to sneeze, we assumed that it was a cold, but as time wore on and the sneezing didn't wear off, we realised it was hayfever. As a dutiful wife I tried all kinds of things to help: Spraying the bedroom with a mister, damping the pillows, using an air filter (which roared gently all night), closing windows, opening windows, recommending baths and various forms of treatments.

Over the years Paul has tried: anti-histamines of all flavours, injections of allergens supposed to desensitise you (oh he was bad after that attempt), nasal sprays, drops and oils, herbal treatments, flannels over the face, masks, menthol cigarettes, oxygen inhalation, alternative therapies, homoeopathy, alcohol, ignoring it. Nothing seems to make any difference.

Yet he says he loves the summer; his birthday is in June and he's generally in the thick of the sneezing and sniffling during whatever celebration is on offer. You'd think he'd welcome the trend towards the chillier, damper summers.

Ah well, I told him yesterday that he'll probably be over it by the time he's 100.

Today

I'm hanging about, waiting for my Nephew to arrive for the weekend. I'm also waiting for Liz & Aron who are coming over to say "hello" and have breakfast. Paul is doing a wedding. I've tidied up, made James and Claire's bed. I dashed out when I saw a Ford Focus turning in the close - not them, but my new neighbour, who obviously thought I was a curtain twitcher. It's absolutely bucketing down with rain, which is a good sign. I can't seem to be like those people who just get on with their day and seem slightly surprised, if delighted, to see you when you arrive.

I get to the point where I'm perched on the edge of the sofa, watching the clock. Should I call them to make sure they're OK? No, that seems like nagging; I'm sure they'll be here soon. Now that I've deleted my computer games, I can't so easily pass away a few minutes.

Eventually, Liz & Aron arrive, bearing breakfast. Then, James, Claire and Anna. They've actually stopped for breakfast on the way, but don't seem averse to toast and tea.

In My day

I like inviting people around and it seems that I've spent a fair bit of my life in the waiting limbo. Guests divide into those who are more or less on time, those who are always late and those who are always late but phone to tell you.

Our best mates are masters at late arriving. We have learnt to love them despite this little habit. They have several time entirely failed to arrive (although they usually manage to phone up to apologise roughly at the time they should have got here). Once they arrived a day late. I remember laying bets with Paul as to whether they would actually turn up at all on one occasion.

Once, while visiting them, we gained an insight into why this might be. Something had been said about a trip into town. We got up in comfortable time for the jaunt. Made tea, drank it, ate toast. People began to drift into the kitchen in various not quite dressed states. Paul was already in his coat. More tea was made, breakfast was prepared. Paul took off his coat. We sat and chatted. People wandered off to get dressed. Sometime later (it was already about 1.00pm) people drifted back down. Paul put his coat back on. Music was put on, phone calls were made, some little job on the computer was done. More tea was made. I don't think we ever got out at all.

Once we turned up at their house for dinner. They seemed, as usual, delighted to see us, although, also as usual, didn't seem especially prepared for us. Offered us tea. Later on offered us biscuits. Became clear they'd forgotten about the dinner date. We bought fish & chips on the way home.

Had a lovely weekend with my nephew, though.

Today

Rushed home tonight as there was a meeting of the Police Community Support Officers' Steering Group. Rapidly heated up some home-made cauliflower soup (very good and actually made of cauliflower leaves left over after yesterday's cauliflower cheese) and poured it rapidly down my throat. Grabbed the minutes and agendas I'd taken time to prepare. Quickly checked my emails - meeting cancelled.

Mixture of relief and irritation. All that work to no purpose AND I'll be away on the revised date. My stomach glooped with hastily eaten soup. On the other hand, an evening at home during which I could do important things like watch "The Bill" and start the next issue of the Parish Council Newletter ("The Lychgate") of which I'm rather vain.

From which you will gather that I sit on committees. Not so many as I used to - I've ditched being choir secretary after 15 years ("You can't!", they all cried. To which I replied "Watch me.") and was voted out of being wine circle secretary. But I do sit on the Parish Council and hold the PCSO portfolio.

In My Day

My mother was a great organiser. She and Daddy ran the Henry Wood Gramophone Circle (To raise funds to rebuild the Queen's Hall, but that's another story). This group met every three weeks at our house to listen to music on gramophone records. It was a great day when they migrated from 78's to long play (none of that changing of discs every 4 minutes). Mamma and Daddy would prepare a programme along symphony concert lines, write programme notes, print the programme and present the music.

They ran a chess circle at one time. My main memory of this was the float they put into the local Festival of Britain parade, with live chess players - my father yelling out the moves, with Mamma and ANother playing a real chess game as a centrepiece.

Mamma was an illustrious member of the Townswomen's Guild. She was chairwoman of the local branch and trotted up to AGMs at the Albert Hall most years, where she would frequently make speeches. She was very scathing about the WI (surely just the rural equivalent), especially their adoption of "Jerusalem" as their theme song. I've lost count of the initiatives she started or got involved in. The Croydon Millennium celebrations, fetes and fund-raising events, lecture tours and group holidays abroad. She absolutely loved it. No wonder it was difficult for her to find time to do housework.

Anyway, I had an evening off tonight.

Today

It being a Bank Holiday, Becky and I decided to walk to the village of Kilmersdon where it was their annual village day. The walk took about an hour and a half (we took a slight wrong turn near Lypyeate). Paul drove by and picked us up and we arrived in the village. This is Jack & Jill's village. We walked down the famous hill, passing a well (thoroughly scrubbed up as part of a millennium project) and an inscription. The village is rather a pretty one and was full of the usual cake stands, face-painting stalls and plant collections. There were also a large number of bric-a-brac stalls - where does all this rubbish come from? (well one could start in my loft, I suppose), and an attempt at a classic car display.

There were quite a few bouncy castles so the kids were happy. There were the usual suspect burger and chip vans and actually 2 hog roasts. The stand where you could buy a non-meaty snack was well tucked away. The event was themed around the Wild West with "Wanted" signs up all over the place and a totem pole which the children were helping to paint. The most original display was a creepy-crawly insect show.

We did our duty and took a chance with upturned egg-shells (would mine have a £5 underneath it?), I bought some unidentifiable annuals, and we bought some nice brie, bread and pickles from a coupler of rather classy food stalls. Then back home to feast on the cheese and pickles.

In My Day

Daddy (a true child of London) thought that the way to spend bank holiday was to go somewhere where there would be the maximum number of people. That meant London Zoo, Battersea Funfair or an excursion railway journey to Brighton.

He was perfectly happy as we crowded through the turnstiles into the zoo, and fought our way around the various attractions. Mamma loved the lion's feeding time which was always advertised and at the appointed time we'd crowd into the lion house with 100's of other Londoners and watch while hunks of meat were thrown to the animals. The smell of blood and leonine faeces was absolutelyy vile - was I the only one who thought so? (Perhaps that's where my preference for a vegetarian diet comes from.)

A visit to Battersea was another battle trip. I enjoyed the tree-top walk. It was at Battersea where I became clear about my aversion to heights. I wanted to go on the helter-skelter. Whereas many other attractions were free once you'd paid your entrance, this one cost a whole 6d. In return for this you were given a sort of coconut doormat and you walked up the steep staircase to the top. There was a long line of children. Eventually I got to the top. I looked down the slide and thought "no." I didn't panic; I just pushed my way past all the waiting children , back down the stairs till I got to the bottom. I demanded my 6d back - I think the helter-skelter man didn't want to waste time arguing.

We were allowed to eat all sorts of junk, such as candy floss, honeycombe and toffee apples (honeycomb won hands down as the best).

Journeys home, always on public transport, were tired and sticky affairs.

Still, that's what bank holidays are all about - shared fun.

Today

This week I took the extreme step of deleting all the games off my computer. You know, the freebies - Freecell, Spider Solitare, Solitare, Hearts, Minesweeper. Time-wasters, all the lot of them. I had been doing Freecell & Spider Solitare in 100 game batches, after which I'd clear my scores and start again, always trying to beat my last average. Which says it all, really - I must have played 1000's of games, costing 100's of hours of my valuable life.

It's not as though I'm a great cards player. My sister loves to play internet cards and has made friends worldwide, and my Bridge-playing brother is involved in several Babu rings. More that I would have some chore to do, like writing the Parish Council Newsletter, and instead play several dozen games of solitare. I didn't get any better (about 60% was my best average in Spider) and still had to get the other job done, but with an added burden of guilt and often in a hurry.

Since taking this step I've sorted out the study (Hurrah!) and started to sort out Paul's business filing system. I've sewn buttons and stitched up hems on clothes that sorely needed a bit of TLC and finally re-hemmed the curtains for the 2nd window in the bedroom (after only about 9 months).

In My Day

Although we played games as children, our card games were limited to snap, cheat and pontoon. My parents played Canasta together using little scorecards with dials. My brother experienced an epiphany as a teenager when he learnt how to play bridge - later becoming a player of international stature. He tried to teach me but I was an inept student.

Mamma used to play patience a lot - Demon, Clock, etc, turning the cards over and over for hours. Perhaps this harked back to times when she sat up waiting for Daddy to come home from the House of Commons after a late sitting, with us in bed and only the radio for company. She was good at cards, learning bridge with Chris and playing in local clubs until shortly before her death. Perhaps spending time on patience games was a symptom of her never far away depression, as she was a creative person and there must have been many things she could have been doing. Or maybe they gave her a vacant space in her crowded-with-children life.

I do remember someone even giving her a book of patiences for Christmas once. I think there's a big difference between playing patience and other card games in that it's essentially solitary ("solitare", in fact!) and seems to be rather lonely.

Anyone got a pack of cards?

Today

Not a bad weekend on the whole. Not seething with gay socialising but productive, despite quantities of bucketing rain. This morning, I seized the carpe diem (to use a redundant translation) and did the front garden, rather than idly thinking "I'll do it after lunch" and then finding that it poured down. I really quite like it whenI get down to doing it. I don't even mind weeding. I dug over the bed and pulled out some splendid weeds. I mowed our little patch of grass. Took me all of 2 hours and it looks very nice indeed.

I've learnt that, as a full-time working person with many outside commitments, it's foolishness to commit to doing more gardening than you can do in a very short time. I've many times bought trays of bedding plants, only to see them gradually wither away as I didn't have the time to plant them. So I've now the space to put in some plants and am much more likely actually to plant some if I make the purchase part of another weekend's duties.

In My Day

Gardening at 4 Beulah Hill was much more of a military campaign that anything else. The back garden stretched for about 300 or 400 feet, was surrounded with mature trees and had a shrubby bank to one side. At the front was a gravel sweep with more beds and trees.

Mowing the lawn took the best part of half a day and was done from time to time. Mamma used to attack the flower beds on occasion, yanking out massive weeds and trying to keep at least the most visible tidy. This meant managing the two walled rose borders in front of the house, Looking after "Coronation Corner" and gazing at the rest of the garden in despair.

As Mamma was an experienced nursery gardener, this was simply another case of overload.

The mature trees, were a problem as well as they had a habit of falling over. On one occasion this happened after a heavy fall of snow and a large laburnum felt right across the road, blocking cars, buses and lorries for miles. We just all had to pitch in, carrying away loads of logs as Daddy sawed up the tree.

When Mamma and Daddy retired to Dorking Mamma's garden was a thing of beauty. She loved all sorts of plants and taught me a great deal.

The back garden still needs sorting out, though.

Today

Yesterday Paul's aunt died. She must have been 90 and has spent the last 30 years of her life in an old folk's home, gradually slipping from slightly potty to non-compos. While Paul's Mum was able, she did visit her weekly and took care of many things. Latterly Paul and his sister had taken Mum to visit her and Paul's nephew and cousin occasionally saw her. Her own children, granchildren and great-grandchildren? Not been near her in at least 20 years.

So, I guess, since Mum's death, she'd probably not seen a soul from her family, except possibly our lovely nephew. It makes you wonder about the point of living; about the possibility of dying, not only alone, but without the knowledge that a single other soul loves you.

The funeral will probably make an uncomfortable contrast to Mum's, where the little chapel was full and we'd chosen hymns Mum liked and Becky read her favourite poem and the reverend had known her personally and was able to say some lovely things about her life.

In My Day

I saw many such lonely ends to life when I worked on the old people's homes, first as a student, then as a proper job. My summer job was at Orchard House in Annerly (now, I'm told, a young offenders' unit), which, while being run along workhouse lines, did have the merit of being very communal, with dormitories and dining rooms. This meant that the old geezers did have a lot of company of their own sort even if they never saw a relation.

At the second place, the D'arcy in Hove, residents all had separate rooms and were served meals in their rooms also. There was no communal space. Some of them never saw anyone other than the nurses. I remember having a little time one day and simply taking one old lady to visit other residents who were on the same floor. She was delighted with this social experiment and talked about it for days. Another lady was actually having a visitor; we helped her into corsets and a decent dress and to put on a little makeup. How we were told off for wasting time by the staff nurse!

One old frail lady was just a ripple under the bedclothes; she received no visitors and was months dying, but the nurse who cared for her offered her love; carrying her in her arms and tenderly helping her to eat and drink.

In the end that's what we should all strive for - to nurture and hold the love that's offered you.

Today

Recently I made the acquaintance of a new baby belonging to one of my colleagues. Lovely little thing, but the best thing about her was her name: Alice. The reason? That's my name. "But I thought you were Julia", I hear you cry. And that's quite true, I am Alice Julia. It seems that to be called by a name other than your first given name is not as rare as all that. Quite a lot of people choose for themselves. They say on, for example, their 18th birthday "I'd like you all from now on to call me "Maxine" or "Cosmo"" or something else. If they're lucky, people actually remember to do it.

At my place of work, the HR advisor at one time just got people to use a different variant of their names if there was already someone in the company with the same name. So Tricia, who is called Pat by family and friends outside work, was asked to adopt the name as we already had a Pat and so on. This became more difficult as the company grew - with four Janes, four David's, and so on, what do you do? Anyway, it's rather dubious practice in terms of fostering good employee relations.

In My Day

Mamma's first name was Alice; I was named Alice Julia (Julia for my grandmother) not Julia Alice because Daddy hated glottal stops. Inevitably I was always called Julia as this made practical sense. Now, don't mistake me, I have always rather liked Julia. It's a graceful, elegant name with overtones of snooty-ness, has never been commonplace but doesn't cause people to say "pardon, how do you spell that?" It has caused some people to try to call me "Julie" but I give them short shrift.

It has, however, caused me some identification problems.

On my first day at grammar school I was taken into the great hall (very Mallory Towers, my school was) where there were great big blackboards, one for each class, with all the names listed on it. You were expected to identify your name and then join the appropriate group. Well, I could see no sign of a Julia. This cause administrative chaos while teachers and secretaries ran around with bits of paper. Eventually, I was the only pupil left in the hall. It suddenly occured to me that they might have me down as Alice. I took another look at the board. Still no Alice Dixon. There was an Alice Duncan - could they have made a mistake? No - their lists showed an Alice Duncan and an Alice Dixon and that Alice Dixon had already been shown to her class. We rooted out Alice Duncan (couldn't she read? How did she get into Grammar school anyway?), sorted out the mistaken identity and I was ready. Well, almost - I'd missed being shown around the place and didn't know how to find the cloakroom or toilets and was too shy to ask....

Much later, during my early 20's I experienced similar confusion during a visit to the Family Planning clinic. I was unmarried and in the '70's that meant that you must be in need of counselling and advice. So I was sent to the youth advisory section (I was 23, for heaven's sake!) where they all assumed a partonisingly chatty and familar manner. I was waiting my appoinment, reading or dreaming and quite ingored the voice chirpily called "Alice". I'd expected a "Miss Dixon" or at least"Julia". So I read or dreamed on for some time before realising they meant me.

And then there was the time my boss gave me a bonus cheque made out to "Alice Julia ....." when my building society knew me as "Julia....." They didn't want to accept the money and told me that in future I should carry my passport with me at all times.

So, it's not all that simple - just don't call me "Julie", all right?

Today

Paul's been worrying about the weather all week. This is because on Sunday it's the Mendip Classic Car Run and we're taking the Bentley out for a spin. Last year the weather was beautiful and we had a lovely picnic and enjoyed the final line-up in the evening sun on Wells Cathderal Green.

Frankly, it's chilly. The mornings are frosty and out of the sun you need to keep moving to keep warm. And we can't change it. So I plan to enjoy myself whatever.

I don't worry too much about the weather; it's one of the delights of living in England, after all.

Paul is convinced that the weather was better when he was young, which isn't terribly original.

In My Day

I simply don't have the gene that makes one think that the Summers were always lovely when one was a child. One thing I was rather good at was juggling with 2 or 3 balls against a wall (OK, mainly with 2). I often would go outside early on a sunny Summer morning and practice. I can remember how the first clouds would appear by 8 o'clock, and how the day would become overcast, even rainy by 10. I learnt to mistrust those super-bright 6 ams.

There were Summers when it seemed to rain every day. Winters rarely offered us much in the way of snow.

We did have days when we played under the garden hose, it was so hot. But then those days happen now (look at 2003!). I found my diary entry for the week at Challaborough Bay in Devon in 1957 - we had one nice day - every other day there was rain. And we were in a caravan (rented and 6 berth, but still a squish. And I managed to burn in that one day!

On Sunday, it'll be cardies, then. And the Bentley has picnic tables so we can munch under cover.

Today

Just got back from a spiffing weekend in Eastbourne catching up with family & friends. The weather was gorgeous. We stayed at the Hydro Hotel and, to atone for the amount of eating we'd done, we walked all the way to Paul's Sister's at Roselands. We walked along the seafront and saw the "Magnificent Motors" show get ready. Hordes of old cars - Austin 7's, Jags, Morris Minors, Bond Bugs, even Humbers. Paul was delighted and felt well rewarded for his effort. All along the way there were men saying things like "do you know that's a 1958 Rover blah-blah?"And their female companions were saying "Really, that's nice."

Paul got very cheerful over a white Daimler limousine and some rather nicely preserved Eastbourne buses (were they really that eggyolk yellow?) In fact, since marrying Paul, I've been involved with what seems like more than my fair share of older cars, from the frankly frightful, the possibly useable to the lovely Humber Imperial he's got now. And he's had some kind of car, with only one short intermission in 1977, since he was 15.

In My Day

Cars didn't feature so much in my childhood; living in London they weren't really necessary. My father used to talk about the Morris 8 he'd had in the '40s, and how one enthralled passenger had said with hushed awe to his wife "we are now going at 40 miles an hour."

So when Daddy got an old Daimler, nicknamed "Douglas" we were all very excited. I can't say I have any idea what model it was but it wasn't in the first flush of youth. We made a few trips, but its primary purpose was to pull a 4-berth caravan (Bluebird) that Daddy had also bought.

In the Spring of 1955 we set off to explore Wales. No motorways, so we took 3 days to get there. Each day had its special adventure.

Day 1

Found ourselves at Atherstone, near Birmingham. We decided to park on the common. Did so, then discovered that it was rather muddy and we'd got stuck. The next few hours, well into darkness, were spent sourcing a tractor to haul us out.

Day 2

Arrived near Shrewsbury. Everywhere very hilly. Chocked up the caravan and got some sleep. It must have been very cosy as it was a 4-berth and we were 6. In the morning off to buy breakfast and bits in town. In our absence the chocks gave way. That was bad enough, but the way we were sloping meant that all the cupboard doors flung open and there was washing powder mixed with the cornflakes, cups, saucers, knives, spoons etc.

Day 3

North Wales at last. Mountains, even. In the dark Daddy took a wrong turn and drove us with confidence into a slate quarry. Attempting to reverse out he drove over a railway line and fractured the exhaust and silencer. Eventually turned the caravan round manually, rehitched and resumed our triumphant progress with rattling and smoking exhaust, through sleepy Welsh villages.

Nothing daunted by this experience, Daddy set off again in the Summer with Bluebird and Douglas to explore Berkshire. Caravan seemed to be pulling a bit, but never mind.

In a narrow lonely lane Bluebird's axle gave way, spewing ball bearings all over the road. (Beatrice spent the next week collecting them.) From which you will surmise that we had no choice but to push the caravan into the hedgerow and have the holiday there, until we could get a transporter to take it home.

Douglas never recovered his equilibrium and died quietly and finally in the middle of London that Autumn.

Which set the tone for many years of incident-filled motoring with Paul.

Today

Actually managed to get to choir last night. I found that it was easier to hit the top notes than the bottom ones, which were either missing or squeaky. I don't know why that is. My neighbour (a recent joiner with whom I still have to come to terms) expressed surprise. It might be that my voice naturally lies in the higher register; if I was an alto, perhaps it would be the other way round. Who knows; it just happened that way.

Really find this person hard work. Somehow what she says seems so inappropriate. She complained about being hot - was wearing huge jumper and surely knows by now how hot St John's vestry can become with 30 can beltos carrying on. She asked me at what point we were picking up a piece (or I thought she did). When I told her, she said, very loudly, "Don't be so bossy!" I hold up my hands to being bossy on occasions, but on this one I was genuinely trying to help. And she didn't keep her voice down. So I felt a bit annoyed and found myself thinking "Newcomer! Who does she think she is?"

In My Day

Back at the start of the 80's, my sister Beatrice and I joined a chamber choir in Eastbourne. (What was it called? - I can't remember.) The choir rehearsed each week at Eastbourne College under the direction of a somewhat callow youth. Most of the members were music teachers and had known each other for years on the local circuit. For reasons that I cannot fathom we just joined and were never asked to audition. So this may have put noses out of joint.

Whatever the reason, nobody ever spoke to us. At the break, we discovered that people brought their own refreshments, but we weren't offered so much as a sniff of coffee or told the general drill. Given that it was the sort of choir that generally outnumbered its audience by a factor of 3, it wasn't exactly the creme de la creme.

So what I want to know is, am I merely being territorial with a new member or is she actually truly dreadful?

Today

Another evening with Wine Circle last night. This time it was the Mendip Wine Circle's annual competiton and dance. These frolics were conceived when nobody had any money, neither club nor participants, so the BYOWFKF&S is the norm. Actually that suits Paul & me as we'd rather have a small late supper and the food at a sit down dinner is generally awful, unless you're paying at least £30 per head.

So we flossied ourselves up in our sparkly best, either deliberately or accidentally, (depending on your viewpoint) avoiding the need to dress in Mediaeval costume for the St George's Day theme.

God! We only go about 2 of these doos a year. And an evening like last night reminds you why. 3rd rate performers (at least this gang had backing tapes and were under 65), the best decorations that can be shoved up in a school hall in a couple of hours and some seriously odd people.

Still, we were with friends and danced away to Buddy Holly, Billy Fury and Beatles hits of the 60's and 70's. The band had the wit to realise that the number of people that could actually do a quickstep was limited and getting smaller, heart attack by heart attack.

In My Day

When Paul was at Eastbourne and Lewes ambulance stations we used to be the movers and shakers in getting dance evenings going. I remember begging the remains of foil after the cutting out of yoghurt pot lids from the local dairy so that we could cover the walls in sparkle. We slaved producing buffet food (none of your BYOWFKF&S for us! And got a disco.

It was all right in the 70's to dance to "YMCA" and "Brown Girl in the Ring" or at least it seemed so at the time and there was always "Saturday Night Fever". And nobody seemed to want to dance a quickstep.

I always enjoyed getting up to dance and Paul didn't seem to mind. His dancing style has barely changed - moved to the left, bring your right foot up, move to the right, bring your left foot up, stare into the middle distance. Repeat ad nauseam. That's unless you want to do a bit of air guitar. They don't play much "Status Quo" these days, though.

Actually, I'd love to rekindle my knowledge of the quickstep. Strictly Ballroom, anybody?

Today

You'd think that a little house like mine would only need a little bit of cleaning. Not so. Decided to do a Spring-clean. I asked our lovely cleaning lady, Rebecca, if she'd like to do a whole day, took an afternoon off myself and we got stuck in. It's true that nobody cleans your house as well as you do. By the time I got home the fridge and cooker had been cleaned (inside, out and behind) and about half the kitchen cupboards had been done. Rebecca then took on the unenviable task of dusting the fineline blinds in the lounge and Paul did the bookcases. I blitzed the rest of the kitchen, Paul was raving about some new cleaner that's been advertised on TV. "Don't know about a cleaner with a cilly name", I muttered as I scraped away at the cupboard over the cooker, "this needs hydrochloric acid or maybe sandblasting!"

It's amazing just how much muck we live with.

Rebecca and I washed all my teapots as well. In the end, by dint of much sweaty effort we did the kitchen, lounge and dining room in a total of about 15 person-hours. The rest of the house now holds all the items we didn't know what to do with and I prefer not to go into the utility room just at present.

In My Day

A schoolfriend of mine once said to me, "Your house is the most lived-in I've ever seen." Which just about sums it up. We had a cleaning lady who did the hall, stairs and landings of our rather large Victorian pile. Her name was Tillie Lawrence and she really did wear a scarf over rollered-hair and had varicose veins. The rest of the house sort of relaxed into a huge muddle. My mother did very little housework in terms of tidying, vaccuum cleaning and dusting. She did a lot of ironing - timing exactly how long it took her to do one of Daddy's shirts, and cooking. And until 1959, when we acquired a washing machine, she had to do the washing by hand. Sheets and shirt collars went to the laundry, but the rest she did, no mean task when there are 4 children. I did a lot of washing up, a job I could spin out for hours.

If visitors came, the best one could do was to pile all the junk onto a big armchair, cover it with a throw and hope that no-one tried to sit on it or thought that you were concealing Grandma's corpse. When I visited other houses I was always amazed by the effortlessly spotless look that they had. They probably shoved everything into cupboards.

Every now and then I would tackle the gargantuan task of tidying up. The method I used was to put all inappropriate items onto the big dining table, clean everything else, then work through the pile, putting things away, a system I still use today.

Interestingly, once my parents had retired to their little bungalow in Dorking, my mother kept it beautifully. So perhaps it was just the pressure of managing the vast house, 4 children and a myriad of outside interests that prevented her from doing the same by our place, rather than innate untidyness.

It does look nice and shiny downstairs, though!

Today

Photos. What a wonderful invention. It allowed people a wholly new opportunity to record history. I've been going through all our photos. It's been about fours years since my last big album update and there are about 2,000 photos at least that require cataloguing. I really enjoy doing it. I've got a system; Photos with us, family, friends and significant locations related to events (such as snow in the Close) go in the big family album - now on volume 5. I cut up quite a lot of them and paste them into collages representing various occasions. The Family albums are big, black paged, glue 'em in jobbies. I use a silver pen to write appropriate comments.

For other holiday pics I simply slip them into wallet-style albums with suitable labelling. I have 3 albums devoted to our 30th wedding anniversary; one uncritically has all the pictures taken on the disposable cameras that we left lying about. The other two were lovingly compiled by my half-brother Keir who used Paul's SLR to take them. We also have some albums that we put together for Paul's Mum when she got to the point of being very likely to forget within minutes that she'd just been to a Christmas party or something. These have narrative as well.

I also don't chuck out pictures just because they don't show me in a good light or something. Even if I look 20stone and drunk, in they go!

So it's quite a labour, not made easier by the fact that Paul owns an SLR, a digital camera, a digital camcorder and camera phone and I own a digital camera.

In My Day

We also had family albums. My father was a keen photographer and had a darkroom, I remember being allowed in there with him sometimes. There were dim red-toned lights that wouldn't fog the film. He would have dishes of developer and fixative. I used to love watching the pictures emerge. Timing was all - leave it too long and the picture would be too dark, too short and a pallid photo would be the result. No-one was allowed to disturb him on his darkroom sessions and once in the room with him you couldn't go out, not even to the bathroom.

He used photos to make our annual Christmas card; once even playing with effects - choirboy (David in his St Paul's rig) in a bottle. There was an exciting series of pictures taken when they knocked down two houses opposite with great big iron balls on chains and there were the usual family photos.

Daddy made the albums, using his bookbinding skills, and put in the photos much as I do today. They were all black and white, of course.

Much later came the cine camera, colour and my Mother's twin-lens reflex which was used to produce slides.

I loved them, and love them still. The family album is shared out amongst us siblings and I just love to look at it.

In fact, I wonder who's got it at present? I think it's time I borrowed it.

Today

Weekends are funny things. Even if you've been off work all week you still think that the weekend's a failure if you haven't got your social life sorted. On Friday was wine circle. We met at Gill's house. She's relatively new to the circle and doesn't have much wine-making knowhow or many wines on the go. Instead she had gone through the somewhat eclectic and miscellaneous wine & liqueur collection that her late husband had stashed in the garage. Half of the labels had come off in the damp and she was vague as to when they had been bought.

Would a 25-year old Spatleser be drinkable? And how about Austrian red? So, over a very nice and leisurely supper, we tried some of this, some of that. The Spatleser was rather nice, if a trifle oxidised. And Austrian red a pleasant surprise. In fact, her husband had obviously had a predeliction for Germanic wines. These days with German wines rather out of favour since the days of Blue Nun and Black Tower it was good to rediscover them.

Once we were tucking into the cheeses (we had more disagreement about the Brie than the wine - being divided between those who reckon that it should be running all over the plate and those who think that it should just be bulging a tiny bit.), Gill then heaved out the liqueurs. Wild orange Grand Marnier, Benedictine (better than Benylin for my throat, although Benylin tastes better), Ancient brandy, Bols melon liqueur, Anisette, Creme de Menthe. And so on. And I wasn't driving that night.

So a very jolly and interesting evening - none of us got drunk, we all got very cheerful and learned something more about the amazing world of alcohol.

In My Day

My father's attitude to alcohol was very different. Being the son of an habitual drunkard, who had seen his mother being reduced to doing menial tasks because her husband, who had a perfectly respectable trade as a bookbinder, drank away his wages, he was at best very cautious about drink. He hated whisky because that had been what his father used to drink. And, in fact, spirits made a very late appearance in our household. He himself drank very little; a sherry and some wine at Christmas.

My mother was more relaxed. She did love her German wines. When the whole family gathered each year at their retirement bungalow in Dorking to celebrate Mamma's birthday in October, Mamma would have laid in stocks of Goldener Oktober wine; I can still taste that autumnal, generous flavour. She would even drink Liebfraumilch (this was before the days when nasty northen pubs offered it on tap to hen night groups).

Wine was strictly for celebrations; Birthdays, Christmas and the like. I was always allowed a taste but didn't like it much. One reason was that wine was relatively more expensive than it is now and much less easily available. You couldn't just pop down the supermarket any time of day or night and pick up a few or email The Sunday Times Wine Club for a case of Claret. And, although my father earned a good salary at Hansard, we were never rich.

I didn't really start drinking until I went to college and then we drank cider and the most apalling cheap wines.

So I've come on a long way since then. Or have I?

Today

Still off sick, so spent some time yesterday sorting out picture disks. These covered photos taken on Paul's SLR between 2001 and 2003. I decided to check the contents of each disk so that I could reliably label them.

Never, never again will I let myself get to that size! I looked at the 2001 and 2002 pictures with horror. Did I really have that extra chin? Massive front? Huge rear? I remember now why "Diet Trials" was such a life-saver. I have always been a careful dresser and it's not that the pictures show me wearing frightful clothes that should never have rolled off a production line, let alone be bought and worn. (You know like those "before" pictures that show the now successful slimmer wearing some shorts and a T-shirt on holiday that show they weren'tonly fat but certifiable.)

No, it's the pictures of me in my smarties that make me shudder even more. I didn't at the time feel especially ugly; there were enough indications that I was even considered by quite a few chaps to be attractive, but I was truly large. Chins! Uggh!

It is a continual struggle to maintain the weight I achieved 2 years ago; in fact, I'm a little over it at the moment (not for much longer, though!). People who organise these diet plans (WW included, it must be said) forget to mention that it's a lifelong thing. Losing the weight's only a quarter of the battle.

It's not a new thing for me; since I was 18 I've continually struggled to keep to a reasonable size. It's only thanks to that effort that I haven't got even bigger. It would have been so easy.

In My Day

According to my Mother I had fat everywhere it was possible to have fat when I was born, at 10lbs. I was born a few days' late, being suspicious about what privations might await me in the outside world, I'd obviously been stocking up. So far, so good. But I continued as a fat child (as did my sister; my brothers were both skinny streaks). I can remember how uncomfortable it made me, certainly from the time I started school. It attracted adverse comments, not just from my peers (and I never developed equipment to deal with their taunts), but also from the teachers when I could'nt keep up with the simplest sports or exercise.

My mother used to weigh herself regularly at the chemists; she would report a weight of around 15st with no apparent concern. Certainly she never mentioned dieting and I can't remember any restraint being advised at our generously loaded dinner tables. We didn't eat badly; we had fresh, home cooked meals with lots of veg and there was always a fruit bowl. However, I also remember being permitted to eat suger sandwiches and crisp sandwiches!

We children bought sweets once a week with our sixpence pocket money; the trick there was to buy as much for the money as possible, which meant halfpenny chews, sherbert dip, liquorice strings. Chocolate was far too expensive. Sweets were also bought on occasions when we sat down to play family games (Monopoly could last for hours). Either Daddy or one of the boys would walk up to the Cinema (the only place open on a Sunday afternoon that had sweets) and buy toffees. This would keep you going as you watched your older brother buy up all the hotels and fleece everybody that passed through.

Add to this the fact that exercise was positively discouraged and you have it.

So, the bandwaggon rolls on with me still counting points and battling to stay at size 12. Summer's coming and the loft's full of clothes that I could wear 2 years ago. I will wear them this year!

Today

The Laryngitis got the better of me today. Yesterday I soldiered on. Went into work, emailed staff to say that phoning was off and got on with a busy day. Rather croaky and some people thought that to pretend to use sign language was funny. "No, I'm not deaf - I just can't actually speak." Funny thing; when your voice's all funny you can't control your intonation or expressiveness. I realise that I sounded more than usually aggresive because it was such an effort to say anything at all, and my laugh came out as a frightful high-pitched squeak.

Still I spent some extra time in bed this morning, after a night spent coughing. (There's only so much a Meggezone can do.) Eventually the sunshine and sounds of the outside world beckoned and I got up at about 11.00.

After my bath I mooched for a bit, then spent time sorting out the receipts for Paul's business, which have been piling up in a box labelled "receipts" which is great, but you are expected to sort then eventually.

I got loads of washing sorted, cooked a nice lunch and went out for a walk in the later afternoon sunshine. So quite a useful day, despite the laryngitis

In My Day

As I think I've said before, as a child, I was hardly ever ill, which meant that I never got to stay off school. How I envied those who did and planned all sorts of things to do if ever I was off sick. Eventually the time came - I had a rather nasty bug that involved a high temperature and a lot of vomiting. What I hadn't reckoned on was, that if you're too ill to go school, you probably feel like shit. So you might have many ideas about exciting ways to spend your day, but what really happens is that you lie in bed saying "I don't feel very well", are sick a lot and have those horrible nightmare/visions that come with a fever.

I remember being given a book which described a fever driven vision of a sick child all based around a very rich life based on the counterpane on the bed of said child. I wonder what it was called....

My Mother didn't especially reward illness; she doled out medicine, mopped up vomit without comment and kept out of the way. I tend to the same method of mothering myself - the girls had to be practically dead before I'd let them off school.

So, none of this whimpishness, Mrs Barrett! You've a business to run!