Today
I recently attended the wedding of my great Nephew up in the Midlands. We had a lovely time, and the most notably delightful aspect was the sense of family support and love. It was as though they were all holding out their arms to catch each other if needed.
In My Day
I remember a very literal example of this happening when I was younger. It goes back to the great Lake District jaunt of 1967 (or thereabouts). David, Chris, I and a couple of other friends went to the Lakes during the Spring Bank holiday period.
Chris was armed with maps and Wainwright guides and we tramped the hills, regardless of the grim weather. With Chris's help I tackled Jack's Rake ("the easiest climb in the Lake District", he told me "but still a climb, not a walk"). I nerved myself to do striding edge, which was fine so long as I didn't look down and we sensibly avoided going past the snow line.
There's a good rule when you are walking in well-mapped areas: if there isn't a path when it seems obvious there should be, there's probably a good reason.
We took a trip to one of the deeper lakes and, having skirted the higher part of the surrounding hills we took stock of our route home. These walks all had a way of taking longer than we expected and we felt that if we took the official path towards Red Pike we might get caught by darkness. There seemed no logical reason why we couldn't just cut across the front of the slope; it looked straightforward enough.
Once we'd got to the point of no return the reasons why there was no path became clear (see rule above). Firstly, the side of the hill was covered with tiny rills which not only made us wet; they destabilised the ground. Then we encountered a long spit of rock, just about as wide as the span of our arms and legs. One by one the others got across. I was last. By this time their efforts had turned the ground into a mush and as I started to cross, I simply slithered. There was nothing for me to grip.
There I was, spreadeagled on the mountainside. I think there was a moment of dumbfoundedness; then Chris, making his way back below the mush line, found himself some firm footholds, either side of the rock. He spread out his arms, palms upwards. "Walk!" he ordered. And I did, stepping on his hands as though they were made of steel. I can still see his face, concentrating on the effort.
We got back safely and I have always thought that I owed my life to Chris on that occasion.
Whether emotional, spiritual or physical, that's what we are here for; to hold out our hands.
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
Thursday, November 01, 2012
Unaccompanied
Today
Yesterday saw our first Hallow e'en in Oakhill. Despite the lashing rain we had a couple of visits from children who were excruciatingly polite and one tiny lad who seemed to think he should give Paul his treats!
What we have noticed is that the kids are generally accompanied by parents or responsible adults, even in these little close-knit villages.
In My Day
Of course there was no trick-or-treating when we were small but there were other occasions when you had cause to knock on doors.
We all went carol-singing. We were pretty musical and could hold a tune and, with help from choirboy David, some harmony as well. We lived on a main road in South London but as far as I an tell, were permitted to wander off in the dark evenings before Christmas, singing good cheer at strangers' front doors. Many of the houses were large Victorian piles divided into flats and you couldn't be sure who might open the door. I'm sure we met some Scrooges and got to know which doors produced the best pickings.
I think we gave good value and were rewarded with gifts and money. Beatrice took a dim view of gifts, once saying loudly in earshot as we left one house "What, no money?" We hustled her off. In fact, I think it was from that house that we received a beautiful full-colour geography book which I read again and again.
But the point is that there was no suggestion of being accompanied by parents, however much they kept in the shadows.
Was the world safer then? I doubt it. I think it's some other malaise that makes us more over-protective. And I have no idea whether that is better or worse for our children.
Yesterday saw our first Hallow e'en in Oakhill. Despite the lashing rain we had a couple of visits from children who were excruciatingly polite and one tiny lad who seemed to think he should give Paul his treats!
What we have noticed is that the kids are generally accompanied by parents or responsible adults, even in these little close-knit villages.
In My Day
Of course there was no trick-or-treating when we were small but there were other occasions when you had cause to knock on doors.
We all went carol-singing. We were pretty musical and could hold a tune and, with help from choirboy David, some harmony as well. We lived on a main road in South London but as far as I an tell, were permitted to wander off in the dark evenings before Christmas, singing good cheer at strangers' front doors. Many of the houses were large Victorian piles divided into flats and you couldn't be sure who might open the door. I'm sure we met some Scrooges and got to know which doors produced the best pickings.
I think we gave good value and were rewarded with gifts and money. Beatrice took a dim view of gifts, once saying loudly in earshot as we left one house "What, no money?" We hustled her off. In fact, I think it was from that house that we received a beautiful full-colour geography book which I read again and again.
But the point is that there was no suggestion of being accompanied by parents, however much they kept in the shadows.
Was the world safer then? I doubt it. I think it's some other malaise that makes us more over-protective. And I have no idea whether that is better or worse for our children.
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Roaring 40s
Today
It's hard to believe, but Lizzie turned forty yesterday. There's a level at which I don't feel that I can be old enough to have a daughter this age.
In My Day
I was just under twenty-five when Lizzie was born and in many ways I wasn't old enough to have a child. It seemed like a good idea at the time when I chucked away my pills, but as the pregnancy progressed I seemed to understand less and less.
I blithely assumed that I would carry on working full-time after she was born; otherwise we couldn't even have afforded the rent. I didn't factor in the possibility of a: the baby needing some special care b: me being unwell c: being unable to find a childminder. I assumed that I could cope with working full-time and providing breast milk for my baby.
I talked pretty big about the whole thing and read a book about psychoprophylaxis which basically said that childbirth is painless so long as you breathed right - what a lie that was.
In other words, I hadn't a clue.
It didn't help that the dates were all in confusion and the due date came and went without any sign of a birth; Lizzie eventually making her appearance six weeks later. Despite having read all these books, I didn't recognise the classic sign that labour was about to start, which was that I started spring-cleaning the flat and preparing enough food to last Paul six months. When I started to wash the kitchen floor at midnight Paul asserted himself and marched me to bed.
When I awoke later that night with the first contractions, I briefly fell apart, sitting on the edge of the bed and shaking. In some ways my profound ignorance was helpful; otherwise I might have been more anxious about how long the process was taking and questioned the midwife's cheery assurance that the second stage would be over in about six hours.
In fact, I'd say that the first few years of caring for Lizzie, despite my outward assurance, were more based on a wing and a prayer than anything else. We really did our growing up together, Lizzie and I.
At any rate, at the party on Saturday I've absolutely no intention of behaving as though I'm old enough to have a forty-year old daughter.
It's hard to believe, but Lizzie turned forty yesterday. There's a level at which I don't feel that I can be old enough to have a daughter this age.
In My Day
I was just under twenty-five when Lizzie was born and in many ways I wasn't old enough to have a child. It seemed like a good idea at the time when I chucked away my pills, but as the pregnancy progressed I seemed to understand less and less.
I blithely assumed that I would carry on working full-time after she was born; otherwise we couldn't even have afforded the rent. I didn't factor in the possibility of a: the baby needing some special care b: me being unwell c: being unable to find a childminder. I assumed that I could cope with working full-time and providing breast milk for my baby.
I talked pretty big about the whole thing and read a book about psychoprophylaxis which basically said that childbirth is painless so long as you breathed right - what a lie that was.
In other words, I hadn't a clue.
It didn't help that the dates were all in confusion and the due date came and went without any sign of a birth; Lizzie eventually making her appearance six weeks later. Despite having read all these books, I didn't recognise the classic sign that labour was about to start, which was that I started spring-cleaning the flat and preparing enough food to last Paul six months. When I started to wash the kitchen floor at midnight Paul asserted himself and marched me to bed.
When I awoke later that night with the first contractions, I briefly fell apart, sitting on the edge of the bed and shaking. In some ways my profound ignorance was helpful; otherwise I might have been more anxious about how long the process was taking and questioned the midwife's cheery assurance that the second stage would be over in about six hours.
In fact, I'd say that the first few years of caring for Lizzie, despite my outward assurance, were more based on a wing and a prayer than anything else. We really did our growing up together, Lizzie and I.
At any rate, at the party on Saturday I've absolutely no intention of behaving as though I'm old enough to have a forty-year old daughter.
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Diversion
Today
On Tuesday, anxious not to be named and shamed as a late arriver at choir, I set off in plenty of time. Best laid plans, alas! As I approached Havyatt on the Glastonbury road I saw the blue lights ahead. Cars were turning back. What to do? I turned left, taking the turning to Baltonsborough. The lanes were dark and narrow and I lost all sense of direction. Other cars had also gone this way but they all seemed to know where they were going. I didn't know whether I'd end up back in Pilton or in a ploughed field. Eventually, I saw a sign marked Glastonbury and found my way, across the marshes road, to the rehearsal. I was about ten minutes late and slunk into my seat.
In My Day
I remember a similar occasion about fifteen years ago. I set off for choir. This time the road closure was at Steanbow, just west of Pilton. "Easy!" I thought "I can pick up the Wells Road via North Wootton".
I turned right and soon was lost in a maze of dark and tiny lanes. The banks pressed in closer and closer. There was no other traffic and I had no idea where I was. There were no road signs; I suspected that I was going in circles.
I turned another dark corner and suddenly there in front of me was a new born calf. It was lying in the road and didn't get onto its feet as I approached. It was clearly alive, but only just. I sat there for a while. There were no signs of habitation nearby. The road was so narrow that I doubted my ability to turn round in the space.
At last I got nervously out of the car. How hurt was the creature? Suppose I couldn't shift it. Suppose a car came fast round the corner and hit me and the calf! Suppose there was its mother close by, all ready to biff me if I touched her baby. It was such a dark night; I could barely make anything out. Gently I pushed the calf into hedgerow. It let me move it and made no attempt to escape.
Gingerly I squeezed past it. The next house I saw was all in darkness. I had no mobile signal. At last I reached the Wells Road. I stopped when I had a signal and called the police, although I'm not sure how explicit I was able to be about the position of the calf.
I got to choir half an hour late and was roundly told off by the music director, who didn't appear to believe my story.
On Tuesday, anxious not to be named and shamed as a late arriver at choir, I set off in plenty of time. Best laid plans, alas! As I approached Havyatt on the Glastonbury road I saw the blue lights ahead. Cars were turning back. What to do? I turned left, taking the turning to Baltonsborough. The lanes were dark and narrow and I lost all sense of direction. Other cars had also gone this way but they all seemed to know where they were going. I didn't know whether I'd end up back in Pilton or in a ploughed field. Eventually, I saw a sign marked Glastonbury and found my way, across the marshes road, to the rehearsal. I was about ten minutes late and slunk into my seat.
In My Day
I remember a similar occasion about fifteen years ago. I set off for choir. This time the road closure was at Steanbow, just west of Pilton. "Easy!" I thought "I can pick up the Wells Road via North Wootton".
I turned right and soon was lost in a maze of dark and tiny lanes. The banks pressed in closer and closer. There was no other traffic and I had no idea where I was. There were no road signs; I suspected that I was going in circles.
I turned another dark corner and suddenly there in front of me was a new born calf. It was lying in the road and didn't get onto its feet as I approached. It was clearly alive, but only just. I sat there for a while. There were no signs of habitation nearby. The road was so narrow that I doubted my ability to turn round in the space.
At last I got nervously out of the car. How hurt was the creature? Suppose I couldn't shift it. Suppose a car came fast round the corner and hit me and the calf! Suppose there was its mother close by, all ready to biff me if I touched her baby. It was such a dark night; I could barely make anything out. Gently I pushed the calf into hedgerow. It let me move it and made no attempt to escape.
Gingerly I squeezed past it. The next house I saw was all in darkness. I had no mobile signal. At last I reached the Wells Road. I stopped when I had a signal and called the police, although I'm not sure how explicit I was able to be about the position of the calf.
I got to choir half an hour late and was roundly told off by the music director, who didn't appear to believe my story.
Friday, October 12, 2012
Milko-o-oh!
Today
As we now live in a village without a shop, we can no longer just "pop out" to top up on bread or milk. It involves heaving out the car and driving to the next village or to Tesco.
So we were very interested indeed when a chap called a week or so ago offering us a doorstep milk delivery service. Apparently they offer more than just milk. He did emphasise that the milk would again be delivered in "proper" glass bottles but I can't say that altered the attraction for me.
"Will the milkman have a horse?" I joked.
In My Day
When I was a child in London, milk was delivered daily by the Express Dairy, from a man driving a horse and cart. I think that the horse was called George, unless that was the milkman. We were very fond of both milkman and horse. The milkman would signal his arrival with a muezzin-type call - "Milko-o-oh" with a rising cadence at the end.
We would go out and talk to the horse who was very docile and the milk would be brought in.
At that time the milkman delivered milk. the pint bottles were taller than today's more stumpy ones and you could get silver top (the ordinary kind), gold top (Jersey creamy milk) red top (homogenised) and sterilised milk which came in a slightly different design of bottle and which looked slightly brownish, and cream. The days of delivering juices, bread etc were firmly in the future. In fact, I think that Mamma and Daddy saw it as the start of the decline of the great British Milkman, descending into milk delivery anarchy.
We were also fiercely partisan over the delivery company; only Express Dairies were any good; perish the thought of buying milk from United Dairies (now Unigate)!
The demise of our horsedrawn milk delivery system, replaced by milk floats delivering also orange juice and bread seems to be one of those moments, like the end of steam or the trams, that mark our movement out of childhood.
Returning to doorstep deliveries, after years of buying milk in plastic containers from Tesco, is going back in a good way, I feel. And so far, so good, the milkman has successfully delivered milk & juice as requested all week. No horse, though.
As we now live in a village without a shop, we can no longer just "pop out" to top up on bread or milk. It involves heaving out the car and driving to the next village or to Tesco.
So we were very interested indeed when a chap called a week or so ago offering us a doorstep milk delivery service. Apparently they offer more than just milk. He did emphasise that the milk would again be delivered in "proper" glass bottles but I can't say that altered the attraction for me.
"Will the milkman have a horse?" I joked.
In My Day
When I was a child in London, milk was delivered daily by the Express Dairy, from a man driving a horse and cart. I think that the horse was called George, unless that was the milkman. We were very fond of both milkman and horse. The milkman would signal his arrival with a muezzin-type call - "Milko-o-oh" with a rising cadence at the end.
We would go out and talk to the horse who was very docile and the milk would be brought in.At that time the milkman delivered milk. the pint bottles were taller than today's more stumpy ones and you could get silver top (the ordinary kind), gold top (Jersey creamy milk) red top (homogenised) and sterilised milk which came in a slightly different design of bottle and which looked slightly brownish, and cream. The days of delivering juices, bread etc were firmly in the future. In fact, I think that Mamma and Daddy saw it as the start of the decline of the great British Milkman, descending into milk delivery anarchy.
We were also fiercely partisan over the delivery company; only Express Dairies were any good; perish the thought of buying milk from United Dairies (now Unigate)!
The demise of our horsedrawn milk delivery system, replaced by milk floats delivering also orange juice and bread seems to be one of those moments, like the end of steam or the trams, that mark our movement out of childhood.
Returning to doorstep deliveries, after years of buying milk in plastic containers from Tesco, is going back in a good way, I feel. And so far, so good, the milkman has successfully delivered milk & juice as requested all week. No horse, though.
Thursday, October 11, 2012
Overgrowth
Today
The garden at Spencer House is largely a neglected tangle of overgrown trees and spreading laurels. I think that the previous owners were reluctant to prune so much as a twig.
Last week Wesz and I penetrated to the depths behind the new shed and found piles of old prunings, many brambles and dark sodden earth beneath the dense cover of laurels and self-seeded sycamore.
At the front I have planted bulbs around the roots of the beech tree and have all sorts of ideas about what to do with the woodland.
In My Day
This garden is the closest I have had to one resembling that at 4BH. It's not so large, of course.
The entrance to 4BH was via a gate that led into a large drive. on all sides were trees and shrubs, some of which were becoming totteringly elderly and inclined to topple when stressed. At the back was a large lawn, at least as long as the house was tall. And beyond that "The Wilderness" -an overgrown orchard which was eventually compulsorily purchased for housing.
Daddy persuaded the council to put a kink into the fence to allow us to keep our walnut tree, although why I can't imagine, unless it was for the pleasure of seeing squirrels get them before we could.
All around the more managed areas was a raised bank covered with trees. On one side, connecting with next door, this was pretty narrow but 4BH was a corner property so on the other side there was a large and irregular area full of trees and brambles.
I think we played there a fair bit - David tunnelled through the banks to create his marble railway; long after we'd stopped playing with it marbles would turn up if you scuffed the earth. I loved finding those gleaming spheres with their twists of vivid colour.
There was an ivy-covered mulberry tree behind the copper beeches which had a low. nearly horizontal branch. As with the walnut we never enjoyed the fruit much which mainly belonged to the wasps, but I did make myself a den there one summer, with an old mattress and a painted sign reading "Ivy House".
These hidden places appear in my dreams and are often covered with daffodils; a detail about which I'm unsure.
I would like to turn my wilderness into a riot of bluebells and colourful shrubs and I'd dearly love to get rid of most of the damp and dripping laurels.
The garden at Spencer House is largely a neglected tangle of overgrown trees and spreading laurels. I think that the previous owners were reluctant to prune so much as a twig.
Last week Wesz and I penetrated to the depths behind the new shed and found piles of old prunings, many brambles and dark sodden earth beneath the dense cover of laurels and self-seeded sycamore.
At the front I have planted bulbs around the roots of the beech tree and have all sorts of ideas about what to do with the woodland.
In My Day
This garden is the closest I have had to one resembling that at 4BH. It's not so large, of course.
The entrance to 4BH was via a gate that led into a large drive. on all sides were trees and shrubs, some of which were becoming totteringly elderly and inclined to topple when stressed. At the back was a large lawn, at least as long as the house was tall. And beyond that "The Wilderness" -an overgrown orchard which was eventually compulsorily purchased for housing.
Daddy persuaded the council to put a kink into the fence to allow us to keep our walnut tree, although why I can't imagine, unless it was for the pleasure of seeing squirrels get them before we could.
All around the more managed areas was a raised bank covered with trees. On one side, connecting with next door, this was pretty narrow but 4BH was a corner property so on the other side there was a large and irregular area full of trees and brambles.
I think we played there a fair bit - David tunnelled through the banks to create his marble railway; long after we'd stopped playing with it marbles would turn up if you scuffed the earth. I loved finding those gleaming spheres with their twists of vivid colour.
There was an ivy-covered mulberry tree behind the copper beeches which had a low. nearly horizontal branch. As with the walnut we never enjoyed the fruit much which mainly belonged to the wasps, but I did make myself a den there one summer, with an old mattress and a painted sign reading "Ivy House".
These hidden places appear in my dreams and are often covered with daffodils; a detail about which I'm unsure.
I would like to turn my wilderness into a riot of bluebells and colourful shrubs and I'd dearly love to get rid of most of the damp and dripping laurels.
Wednesday, October 03, 2012
Love is in the Air
Today
Becky's wedding on Saturday was lovely. The sun shone and there was love being expressed everywhere you looked. The readings and singing during the ceremony were all about love in its many forms. from "Love Rescue Me" to a whimsical reading in which the writer offers love and asks for tolerance for her many failings.
Of course, Becky & Richard are "in love", but it also seems clear that they love each other which may not be the same thing.
In My Day
During my teens, I found the whole idea of being "in love" rather strange. I didn't really like boys and thought that they didn't really like me.
I had a few boyfriends but, while I enjoyed their company and wasn't immune to sexual feelings, I couldn't empathise with the boys' evident besottedness. In fact, there was something a little bit frightening about their intensity.
I suppose that my relationship with Paul started out in much the same way. We had fun together and much in common, but I wasn't in love.
When did I realise that I loved him and was also "in love"? Was it the time I ran down the hill with wet hair in freezing weather to meet him? That may have been the start. I remember a defining moment. It must have been a Sunday morning and I was with Paul at his parents' flat in Eastbourne. We were curled up together when Paul suddenly looked at me. "Your face is full of love" he said, slightly wonderingly. I burst into tears, overcome by the truth of his statement. And that feeling hasn't changed.
Not having been "in love" more than once, I can't hope to understand those whose feelings of love are constantly in a state of change.
What I do know is that love is a gift and I never lose my sense of privilege when I am on the receiving end.
Becky's wedding on Saturday was lovely. The sun shone and there was love being expressed everywhere you looked. The readings and singing during the ceremony were all about love in its many forms. from "Love Rescue Me" to a whimsical reading in which the writer offers love and asks for tolerance for her many failings. Of course, Becky & Richard are "in love", but it also seems clear that they love each other which may not be the same thing.
In My Day
During my teens, I found the whole idea of being "in love" rather strange. I didn't really like boys and thought that they didn't really like me.
I had a few boyfriends but, while I enjoyed their company and wasn't immune to sexual feelings, I couldn't empathise with the boys' evident besottedness. In fact, there was something a little bit frightening about their intensity.
I suppose that my relationship with Paul started out in much the same way. We had fun together and much in common, but I wasn't in love.
When did I realise that I loved him and was also "in love"? Was it the time I ran down the hill with wet hair in freezing weather to meet him? That may have been the start. I remember a defining moment. It must have been a Sunday morning and I was with Paul at his parents' flat in Eastbourne. We were curled up together when Paul suddenly looked at me. "Your face is full of love" he said, slightly wonderingly. I burst into tears, overcome by the truth of his statement. And that feeling hasn't changed.
Not having been "in love" more than once, I can't hope to understand those whose feelings of love are constantly in a state of change.
What I do know is that love is a gift and I never lose my sense of privilege when I am on the receiving end.
Saturday, September 22, 2012
One Hit Wonder
Today
The world of classical music has its "one-hit wonders" just as much as the pop world. One thinks of Padilla, Bruch, Pachalbel and Dag Wiren.
As I came into the kitchen this morning I heard on the radio the tail end of Dag Wiren's serenade for strings.
"That's Dag Wiren!" I said triumphantly "David used to play me this in my teens."
In My Day
Sometime in the mid '60s, I think, David and I decided that our basement bedrooms were too small and poky to support our desire for student parties and the like. So we were given adjacent bedrooms on the top floor of 4BH. These rather nice rooms had pointed roofed dormers containing rounded windows and had been occupied by Daddy's father-in law, Dawson Large until his death some years earlier. Daddy had used one of them as an office for some time but he cheerfully relinquished them to us.
The rooms were of a decent size and we certainly had more than one party there. David at that time worked as a tester for Decca records and he had a large and evolving collection of "test pressings" - vinyl discs which were precursors to the finished product. He probably wasn't strictly supposed to have them, but I don't suppose there'll be any repercussions at this distance.
He also possessed a record player, radio and reel-to-reel tape player. He rigged up speakers in my room and, with an undoubting faith in his own taste, played me musical selections of his choosing from the moment I woke up. I must say, I didn't doubt his taste either, and listened avidly to most of what he played me (although I never really, if I'm honest, got the hang of Turangalila).
One piece that cropped up regularly was the Dag Wiren serenade which was certainly rather energising to wake up to. We never seemed to hear anything else by this composer and he is indelibly linked in my mind with the jolly little tune with slightly soured harmonies that conclude the work.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Aa7iD4MzaGs
A proper one-hit wonder. It's not that he never wrote anything else; it's just that the rest of his oeuvre never quite made it into the daily musical lexicon.
A few years ago I gave Beatrice a CD called "Pachalbel's Greatest Hit" which contained about 20 versions of his Canon - brass bands, The Swingle Singers, pop and jazz renditions as well as the standard version. If you're only going to have one hit, I suppose you would still want it to have maximum exposure even after 400 years.
The world of classical music has its "one-hit wonders" just as much as the pop world. One thinks of Padilla, Bruch, Pachalbel and Dag Wiren.
As I came into the kitchen this morning I heard on the radio the tail end of Dag Wiren's serenade for strings.
"That's Dag Wiren!" I said triumphantly "David used to play me this in my teens."
In My Day
Sometime in the mid '60s, I think, David and I decided that our basement bedrooms were too small and poky to support our desire for student parties and the like. So we were given adjacent bedrooms on the top floor of 4BH. These rather nice rooms had pointed roofed dormers containing rounded windows and had been occupied by Daddy's father-in law, Dawson Large until his death some years earlier. Daddy had used one of them as an office for some time but he cheerfully relinquished them to us.
The rooms were of a decent size and we certainly had more than one party there. David at that time worked as a tester for Decca records and he had a large and evolving collection of "test pressings" - vinyl discs which were precursors to the finished product. He probably wasn't strictly supposed to have them, but I don't suppose there'll be any repercussions at this distance.
He also possessed a record player, radio and reel-to-reel tape player. He rigged up speakers in my room and, with an undoubting faith in his own taste, played me musical selections of his choosing from the moment I woke up. I must say, I didn't doubt his taste either, and listened avidly to most of what he played me (although I never really, if I'm honest, got the hang of Turangalila).
One piece that cropped up regularly was the Dag Wiren serenade which was certainly rather energising to wake up to. We never seemed to hear anything else by this composer and he is indelibly linked in my mind with the jolly little tune with slightly soured harmonies that conclude the work.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Aa7iD4MzaGs
A proper one-hit wonder. It's not that he never wrote anything else; it's just that the rest of his oeuvre never quite made it into the daily musical lexicon.
A few years ago I gave Beatrice a CD called "Pachalbel's Greatest Hit" which contained about 20 versions of his Canon - brass bands, The Swingle Singers, pop and jazz renditions as well as the standard version. If you're only going to have one hit, I suppose you would still want it to have maximum exposure even after 400 years.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Silver Lining
Today
When you are living through one of the wettest summers since about 1759, it helps to look at the advantages. One of those is that flaws in a building quickly become apparent. So, while we still have builders in the house, we could ask them to check out the damp patch appearing on our newly decorated sitting room wall. The trouble, it seems, is from an ill-fitting seal on the balcony above and will be remedied by our talented builder.
In My Day
In 2000 or thereabouts we decided to extend 7 Mead Close in the only possible way - upwards. We looked around and selected a local builder who came up with an attractive design, including gable, that maximised the available space. That summer was fairly dry, although cold, and work started briskly.
We endured weeks of "radio wars" with several builders all playing their radios simultaneously on different stations, and coped with having scaffolding all round the building. It would all be worth it.
After a while we began to notice that work was slowing down. Unknown workers appeared, brought in from agencies, of very variable quality. The builder began to get twitchy about being paid some money. Clearly his business was in trouble and he couldn't afford to keep on his regular staff or sub-contractors.
Eventually, in October, the final touches were put into place. We went to bed that night, relieved to be rid of bodging carpenters, ill-mannered labourers and skip drivers and the encircling scaffolding. That night the wind got up and the rain teemed down all night. The kitchen faced west and received the full brunt.
In the morning I went downstairs to admire the new kitchen, to find water pouring in through the lintel above the window. The paint hung in hammocks , spilling water freely and there was a large damp patch where the extension joined the house. As I stood there, open-mouthed, the builder rang. "Can I come by and get my final payment?" he asked. "Well, when you've sorted out all this water that's pouring into my kitchen," I replied.
He came over and assessed the problem. It seems that the incompetent jobbing brickies had inserted the lintel porous side out and had not correctly fitted the flashing between the extension and main house. Out came the window and the whole front had to be redone. When the plasterer turned up he said "I only came because I knew it was you - I haven't been paid for the past three jobs I've done for this company."
Eventually building control came and signed off the job and we paid our builder. Without the rain we might never have noticed until he was a distant spot on the horizon.
Even so, I wouldn't mind finding out what might happen after a long dry spell.
When you are living through one of the wettest summers since about 1759, it helps to look at the advantages. One of those is that flaws in a building quickly become apparent. So, while we still have builders in the house, we could ask them to check out the damp patch appearing on our newly decorated sitting room wall. The trouble, it seems, is from an ill-fitting seal on the balcony above and will be remedied by our talented builder.
In My Day
In 2000 or thereabouts we decided to extend 7 Mead Close in the only possible way - upwards. We looked around and selected a local builder who came up with an attractive design, including gable, that maximised the available space. That summer was fairly dry, although cold, and work started briskly.
We endured weeks of "radio wars" with several builders all playing their radios simultaneously on different stations, and coped with having scaffolding all round the building. It would all be worth it.
After a while we began to notice that work was slowing down. Unknown workers appeared, brought in from agencies, of very variable quality. The builder began to get twitchy about being paid some money. Clearly his business was in trouble and he couldn't afford to keep on his regular staff or sub-contractors.
Eventually, in October, the final touches were put into place. We went to bed that night, relieved to be rid of bodging carpenters, ill-mannered labourers and skip drivers and the encircling scaffolding. That night the wind got up and the rain teemed down all night. The kitchen faced west and received the full brunt.
In the morning I went downstairs to admire the new kitchen, to find water pouring in through the lintel above the window. The paint hung in hammocks , spilling water freely and there was a large damp patch where the extension joined the house. As I stood there, open-mouthed, the builder rang. "Can I come by and get my final payment?" he asked. "Well, when you've sorted out all this water that's pouring into my kitchen," I replied.
He came over and assessed the problem. It seems that the incompetent jobbing brickies had inserted the lintel porous side out and had not correctly fitted the flashing between the extension and main house. Out came the window and the whole front had to be redone. When the plasterer turned up he said "I only came because I knew it was you - I haven't been paid for the past three jobs I've done for this company."
Eventually building control came and signed off the job and we paid our builder. Without the rain we might never have noticed until he was a distant spot on the horizon.
Even so, I wouldn't mind finding out what might happen after a long dry spell.
Sunday, August 26, 2012
Changing Places
Today
The other day I received a lovely email from my Honduran cousin Ernesto, in response to my change of address notification. We'd had such a lovely time visiting my cousins in Honduras this Spring and this was the first time I'd met most of them. "Don't leave it another sixty years", said Ernesto.
Now, Honduras is a third world country and isn't exactly a popular destination for European settlers, so how did I come to have first cousins living in Tegucigalpa?
In My Day
My German mother was born in 1913 to an Aryan mother and Jewish father. She had two older brothers, Heinrich (Heine) and Ernst and a much younger sister Maria.
By all accounts she had a comfortable and privileged childhood in a village near Hamburg. Her father no longer lived with them but they had plenty of everything - good food, company, culture and education.
In 1933, at nineteen years' old. my mother stood on the brink of of adulthood. She'd matriculated from school and was preparing to enter university where she hoped to study art history, a choice generally reserved for someone who does not expect to face poverty or difficulty.
Also in 1933 Hitler came to power and almost immediately set about dismantling opportunities for Jews and part-Jews. As a result Mamma was barred from engaging in any kind of higher education and her opportunities quickly dwindled to those of manual labourer or domestic servant.
As the situation became worse, she, her brothers and many other Jews and part-Jews who were able to, left Germany. Mamma was following a boyfriend Heinz (was he a chef? I dimly remember her telling me this) who had escaped to the US. She came to England with her English employers, but never left, probably being trapped by the outbreak of WWII.
Heine and Ernst happened to have friends in Guatemala so going there seemed the easiest thing to do. It must have been a long journey by several boats to arrive in a place so different from Europe where little German was spoken and where all your hard-won skills were useless. There Ernst met a Honduran woman (very beautiful, judging by the pictures) married her and settled in Honduras where he had five children and worked for a pharmaceutical company in Tegucigalpa. It was clear that he relied for quite a while on the international brotherhood of Jews who will help their own.
(Heine, although he, too, married locally, later returned to Berlin where his family still lives).
Mamma never saw Ernst again, although they did write to each other.
Their story is matched in many ways by others in the whole history of humanity who have been forced to leave their home by war, hunger or persecution. For some the result was disastrous, for others the key to success. But for all of them it's a terrifying choice, born of desperation, and we should never forget that when considering the position of newcomers into our own country.
I feel sure that if Mamma and Ernst were alive today they would have been delighted at our cousinly meeting. And, no, Ernesto, I'll try not to leave it another sixty years.
The other day I received a lovely email from my Honduran cousin Ernesto, in response to my change of address notification. We'd had such a lovely time visiting my cousins in Honduras this Spring and this was the first time I'd met most of them. "Don't leave it another sixty years", said Ernesto.
Now, Honduras is a third world country and isn't exactly a popular destination for European settlers, so how did I come to have first cousins living in Tegucigalpa?
In My Day
My German mother was born in 1913 to an Aryan mother and Jewish father. She had two older brothers, Heinrich (Heine) and Ernst and a much younger sister Maria.
By all accounts she had a comfortable and privileged childhood in a village near Hamburg. Her father no longer lived with them but they had plenty of everything - good food, company, culture and education.
In 1933, at nineteen years' old. my mother stood on the brink of of adulthood. She'd matriculated from school and was preparing to enter university where she hoped to study art history, a choice generally reserved for someone who does not expect to face poverty or difficulty.
Also in 1933 Hitler came to power and almost immediately set about dismantling opportunities for Jews and part-Jews. As a result Mamma was barred from engaging in any kind of higher education and her opportunities quickly dwindled to those of manual labourer or domestic servant.
As the situation became worse, she, her brothers and many other Jews and part-Jews who were able to, left Germany. Mamma was following a boyfriend Heinz (was he a chef? I dimly remember her telling me this) who had escaped to the US. She came to England with her English employers, but never left, probably being trapped by the outbreak of WWII.
Heine and Ernst happened to have friends in Guatemala so going there seemed the easiest thing to do. It must have been a long journey by several boats to arrive in a place so different from Europe where little German was spoken and where all your hard-won skills were useless. There Ernst met a Honduran woman (very beautiful, judging by the pictures) married her and settled in Honduras where he had five children and worked for a pharmaceutical company in Tegucigalpa. It was clear that he relied for quite a while on the international brotherhood of Jews who will help their own.
(Heine, although he, too, married locally, later returned to Berlin where his family still lives).
Mamma never saw Ernst again, although they did write to each other.
Their story is matched in many ways by others in the whole history of humanity who have been forced to leave their home by war, hunger or persecution. For some the result was disastrous, for others the key to success. But for all of them it's a terrifying choice, born of desperation, and we should never forget that when considering the position of newcomers into our own country.
I feel sure that if Mamma and Ernst were alive today they would have been delighted at our cousinly meeting. And, no, Ernesto, I'll try not to leave it another sixty years.
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Glory Hole
Today
One of the reasons we bought Spencer House is to be able to bring the Bentley in out of the rain. We can also put the E-Class away.
So we are working very hard, shifting the boxes out of the garage into their right places. When you talk to people or look around you realise that very few folk actually put their cars into their garages; preferring to use them as dumping grounds for everything they haven't the room for indoors or in lieu of a shed.
In My Day
There were, if I remember correctly, two garages at 4BH. they were wooden structures with pitched roofs and double doors. there was one either side of the house, set back well from the road. As we generally didn't have a car (except for our brief fling with Douglas the Daimler), they clearly didn't house motor vehicles. In fact, I can't remember what was in them. Not garden equipment as that was either in the basement "garden room" or the shed.
The shed was also a pitched roof structure, built laterally against the rear of the garage at the top of the slope. This meant that the slope of the roof ended on one side against the wall of the garage.
At some point in our lives we thought that it would be a good idea to play on this roof. You scrambled up onto the shed roof and once up there you could slide down the slope, clamber over the garage, take up a picnic - anything. Mamma and Daddy didn't seem at all worried for our safety and I actually don't think there were any accidents.
Looking st these pictures reminds me how we girls wore dresses to play in and the boys shirt, ties and jackets. the picture was clearly posed as we all seem uncertain as to what act to put on the for the camera. But we did play on the garage and shed roofs pretty often, although I was, as usual, slightly at variance with the prevailing mood, being afraid
a) of the dangers b) of getting my dress dirty.
Anyway, I am looking forward to being the proud owner of a garage that actually houses cars.
One of the reasons we bought Spencer House is to be able to bring the Bentley in out of the rain. We can also put the E-Class away.
So we are working very hard, shifting the boxes out of the garage into their right places. When you talk to people or look around you realise that very few folk actually put their cars into their garages; preferring to use them as dumping grounds for everything they haven't the room for indoors or in lieu of a shed.
In My Day
There were, if I remember correctly, two garages at 4BH. they were wooden structures with pitched roofs and double doors. there was one either side of the house, set back well from the road. As we generally didn't have a car (except for our brief fling with Douglas the Daimler), they clearly didn't house motor vehicles. In fact, I can't remember what was in them. Not garden equipment as that was either in the basement "garden room" or the shed.The shed was also a pitched roof structure, built laterally against the rear of the garage at the top of the slope. This meant that the slope of the roof ended on one side against the wall of the garage.
At some point in our lives we thought that it would be a good idea to play on this roof. You scrambled up onto the shed roof and once up there you could slide down the slope, clamber over the garage, take up a picnic - anything. Mamma and Daddy didn't seem at all worried for our safety and I actually don't think there were any accidents.
Looking st these pictures reminds me how we girls wore dresses to play in and the boys shirt, ties and jackets. the picture was clearly posed as we all seem uncertain as to what act to put on the for the camera. But we did play on the garage and shed roofs pretty often, although I was, as usual, slightly at variance with the prevailing mood, being afraida) of the dangers b) of getting my dress dirty.
Anyway, I am looking forward to being the proud owner of a garage that actually houses cars.
Saturday, August 18, 2012
Ice Music
Today
After a long day, organising yet more stuff at Spencer House, we are relaxing with some Sancerre Rose and Sigur Ros. Lovely, swimmy music which is truly relaxing me.
In My Day
Was it about 2002? We were in London and decided to catch a ballet performance by the Merce Cunningham Dance Company at the Queen Elizabeth Hall. Becky joined us for this (it was only much later that I discovered what an aversion she has to Avant-garde ballet.)
For the second piece, Merce Cunningham came on stage with his lighting, costume and set directors and his choreographer. He announced that they would draw from a hat to determine which combination of two lighting and stage sets, costumes, choreography and music would form the performance, giving quite a random result. Music would either be by Radiohead or Sigur Ros, an Icelandic band. I knew of Radiohead but had never heard of Sigur Ros so had no idea of what kind of sound world would be involved.
The result, which was fabulously beautiful to my and Paul's eyes (altho' not to Becky who was rather bored) included the Sigur Ros music. The dancers managed to be silent on their bare feet and the images of their beautiful shapes against the swirling backdrop and mysterious Sigur Ros music set the bar for fabulous modern dance, as far as I was concerned.
Merce Cunningham died in 2009, a real loss to the art world; but he changed my heart forever.
After a long day, organising yet more stuff at Spencer House, we are relaxing with some Sancerre Rose and Sigur Ros. Lovely, swimmy music which is truly relaxing me.
In My Day
Was it about 2002? We were in London and decided to catch a ballet performance by the Merce Cunningham Dance Company at the Queen Elizabeth Hall. Becky joined us for this (it was only much later that I discovered what an aversion she has to Avant-garde ballet.)
For the second piece, Merce Cunningham came on stage with his lighting, costume and set directors and his choreographer. He announced that they would draw from a hat to determine which combination of two lighting and stage sets, costumes, choreography and music would form the performance, giving quite a random result. Music would either be by Radiohead or Sigur Ros, an Icelandic band. I knew of Radiohead but had never heard of Sigur Ros so had no idea of what kind of sound world would be involved.The result, which was fabulously beautiful to my and Paul's eyes (altho' not to Becky who was rather bored) included the Sigur Ros music. The dancers managed to be silent on their bare feet and the images of their beautiful shapes against the swirling backdrop and mysterious Sigur Ros music set the bar for fabulous modern dance, as far as I was concerned.
Merce Cunningham died in 2009, a real loss to the art world; but he changed my heart forever.
Friday, August 17, 2012
"They've Paved Paradise and Put up a Parking Lot"
Today
There seems to be some kind of law that, having driven past your destination, finding there are no parking spaces, you pay for an hour's parking when you are unlikely to be more than ten minutes and walk back to find that in your absence an enormous parking space has become available right outside.
This happened to me in Wells today and started a train of thought about how we attach significance to the most random occurences.
In My Day
When we lived at Montfort Close, in 1984, one of our neighbours, was an exceedingly large lady named Kate with a daughter about the same age as Becky. Naturally, we became friendly and for a while saw a lot of each other.
She was a very deeply religious person, regularly attending church. Her view of God was personal to an absurd degree and we soon coined a name for this: "The God of the parking space". She seemed genuinely to believe that if she drove into Eastbourne on a crowded Saturday afternoon and prayed very hard, that God would find her a parking space. How this would work if there were more people praying for a space that there were spaces available, was never made clear. Pretty harmless, you might say, but Kate coupled this with a tendency to talk about black South African natives in a tone of disgust as "Kaffirs" and thought nothing of trying cruelly to drive a wedge between Liz and Becky.
Then there was a friend of Paul's Mother who, faced with uncertainty about her accommodation, said that God had visited her and told her to build a loft conversion, which I guess is something anyone could work out with a modicum of common sense.
Now, as far as I'm concerned, the jury's out on whether there's a god or not, but a belief in a God who deals in parking spaces and loft extensions, while ignoring bigger issues such as cruelty or racial discrimination, smacks more of stone-age paganism than well-grounded spiritual understanding.
Although it might be interesting to discover if there is a statistical correlation between their belief and success at parking.
There seems to be some kind of law that, having driven past your destination, finding there are no parking spaces, you pay for an hour's parking when you are unlikely to be more than ten minutes and walk back to find that in your absence an enormous parking space has become available right outside.
This happened to me in Wells today and started a train of thought about how we attach significance to the most random occurences.
In My Day
When we lived at Montfort Close, in 1984, one of our neighbours, was an exceedingly large lady named Kate with a daughter about the same age as Becky. Naturally, we became friendly and for a while saw a lot of each other.
She was a very deeply religious person, regularly attending church. Her view of God was personal to an absurd degree and we soon coined a name for this: "The God of the parking space". She seemed genuinely to believe that if she drove into Eastbourne on a crowded Saturday afternoon and prayed very hard, that God would find her a parking space. How this would work if there were more people praying for a space that there were spaces available, was never made clear. Pretty harmless, you might say, but Kate coupled this with a tendency to talk about black South African natives in a tone of disgust as "Kaffirs" and thought nothing of trying cruelly to drive a wedge between Liz and Becky.
Then there was a friend of Paul's Mother who, faced with uncertainty about her accommodation, said that God had visited her and told her to build a loft conversion, which I guess is something anyone could work out with a modicum of common sense.
Now, as far as I'm concerned, the jury's out on whether there's a god or not, but a belief in a God who deals in parking spaces and loft extensions, while ignoring bigger issues such as cruelty or racial discrimination, smacks more of stone-age paganism than well-grounded spiritual understanding.
Although it might be interesting to discover if there is a statistical correlation between their belief and success at parking.
Friday, August 03, 2012
Itchy and Scratchy
Today
After a dismally cold and wet June and July, last week suddenly perked up, giving us warm and beautiful weather.
Unfortunately, the insects also perked up, deciding to seize the carpe diem and get on with what they do best- multiplying. In Lizzie's four-cat household this unfortunately meant fleas. From forgotten corners these beasts leapt up in their thousands, biting all mortal flesh in their paths.
Liz and Wesz went on the offensive with flea bombs, vacuuming, spraying. The cats were not just given one treatment each; the "Frontline" drops clearly not having been up to the task of stemming the tide. So, the cats were sprayed, squirted, combed and bathed.
"They really show their personalities when confronted with the bathing", said Lizzie.
I bet they do.
In My Day
When we lived at Rowan Avenue, back in 1977, our usual supply of two cats was augmented by another two. Beatrice's marriage break-up had left her with nowhere to house her two cats for the time being. Thus Pickles and Algernon came to join us. The cats seemed to rub along OK, though Pickles was a bit of a loner.
But we ran into the same problem as Lizzie; a massive flea infestation hit the house. There wasn't the same array of sprays, drops and inoculation available and we seemed to be relying on powder. This simply didn't penetrate Pickles' dense orange fluff so the fleas continued. I talked to a friend about it. "Bathe them in vinegar," she advised airily. I was unsure about this and asked the vet. "Well, if you're going to bathe cats," the receptionist said guardedly "we do a special anti-flea shampoo." I bought a large quantity and set off home.
Finally the wily Algernon; he allowed us to pick him up and place him in the water. His plan was clear: he was going to let us drop our guard so he could make a dash for it. Unfortunately for him, he couldn't disguise the slight tensing of his muscles as he prepared for flight. I tightened my grip around his chest and the job was done. The four miserable creatures looked at each other and wandered off. We did clear up the fleas, though.
These days we use the "Program" bi-annual injection system which ensures that fleas can't breed, and we never see one. As I point out to Abby when taking her for her jabs, she's forgotten how being eaten alive by fleas feels or she'd be more grateful.
After a dismally cold and wet June and July, last week suddenly perked up, giving us warm and beautiful weather.
Unfortunately, the insects also perked up, deciding to seize the carpe diem and get on with what they do best- multiplying. In Lizzie's four-cat household this unfortunately meant fleas. From forgotten corners these beasts leapt up in their thousands, biting all mortal flesh in their paths.
Liz and Wesz went on the offensive with flea bombs, vacuuming, spraying. The cats were not just given one treatment each; the "Frontline" drops clearly not having been up to the task of stemming the tide. So, the cats were sprayed, squirted, combed and bathed.
"They really show their personalities when confronted with the bathing", said Lizzie.
I bet they do.
In My Day
When we lived at Rowan Avenue, back in 1977, our usual supply of two cats was augmented by another two. Beatrice's marriage break-up had left her with nowhere to house her two cats for the time being. Thus Pickles and Algernon came to join us. The cats seemed to rub along OK, though Pickles was a bit of a loner.But we ran into the same problem as Lizzie; a massive flea infestation hit the house. There wasn't the same array of sprays, drops and inoculation available and we seemed to be relying on powder. This simply didn't penetrate Pickles' dense orange fluff so the fleas continued. I talked to a friend about it. "Bathe them in vinegar," she advised airily. I was unsure about this and asked the vet. "Well, if you're going to bathe cats," the receptionist said guardedly "we do a special anti-flea shampoo." I bought a large quantity and set off home.
- Rule number one: as it says on the IKEA assembly instructions, it is advisory to be two persons.
- Rule number two: don't let the still unbathed cats see what you're up to, or they'll disappear for a fortnight.
- Rule number three: figure out how you're going to get them dry afterwards - some cats become homidical at the sound of a hairdryer.
- Rule number four: know your cats; that way, you'll be one step ahead.
Finally the wily Algernon; he allowed us to pick him up and place him in the water. His plan was clear: he was going to let us drop our guard so he could make a dash for it. Unfortunately for him, he couldn't disguise the slight tensing of his muscles as he prepared for flight. I tightened my grip around his chest and the job was done. The four miserable creatures looked at each other and wandered off. We did clear up the fleas, though.
These days we use the "Program" bi-annual injection system which ensures that fleas can't breed, and we never see one. As I point out to Abby when taking her for her jabs, she's forgotten how being eaten alive by fleas feels or she'd be more grateful.
Thursday, August 02, 2012
Donner und Blitzen
Today
It seems that the better our weather forecasting technology is, the more the forecast changes. Yesterday's forecast for today in this area showed thunderstorms. Today, there's no sign of this prediction, just more rain. "They're always doing that", I grumbled to Paul. "I haven't had a good thunderstorm for years."
In My Day
As a child I was terrified of thunderstorms and it seemed that we had a good few in 1950s London. Hot and sticky days would reach a climax with heavy mauve clouds filling the sky. Probably my older brothers had filled my head with tales of people being struck by lightning and given me useful advice about not sheltering under trees (how could I avoid it when the entire garden was filled with huge trees?) and wearing (or was it not wearing?) rubber-soled shoes, so I was primed for fear.
Often the storm would start in the middle of the night. I'd wake, transfixed with terror as the first rumble sounded. As it approached our location I would make the decision. Just about the only thing that would induce me to venture out into our ghost-filled house at night was a storm. Straight into my parents' bedroom I'd go and climb into their bed. They slept at that time on 2 beds pushed together and I would crawl into the "crack" in the middle and lie there, still afraid but also comforted, until the last rumble died away. I would watch bolts of lightning strike the lawn and listen, trembling, as the thunder cracked around. Mamma and Daddy offered me no especial attention; they just made room for me and then went on sleeping.
One evening, I guess I was about ten, there was an enormous storm. Daddy was in charge, Mamma being at the Proms, and he decided to switch out the lights and stand with us to watch the storm. He taught us how to estimate the distance of the storm by counting the number of seconds between flash and rumble (five for one mile apparently, and calculated by saying "one, Dulwich College, two Dulwich College" and so on to ensure the second was given full value).
Encircled by my family, I somehow lost my fear and began to enjoy the spectacle.
There is still much rubbish talked about storms; one of my favourite being a remark by Paul's Mum "You mustn't run during a storm; it's the most dangerous thing you can do." As though the storm was a malevolent beast chasing you down the street.
Thunderstorms seem rarer these days and I rather miss them.
It seems that the better our weather forecasting technology is, the more the forecast changes. Yesterday's forecast for today in this area showed thunderstorms. Today, there's no sign of this prediction, just more rain. "They're always doing that", I grumbled to Paul. "I haven't had a good thunderstorm for years."
In My Day
As a child I was terrified of thunderstorms and it seemed that we had a good few in 1950s London. Hot and sticky days would reach a climax with heavy mauve clouds filling the sky. Probably my older brothers had filled my head with tales of people being struck by lightning and given me useful advice about not sheltering under trees (how could I avoid it when the entire garden was filled with huge trees?) and wearing (or was it not wearing?) rubber-soled shoes, so I was primed for fear.
Often the storm would start in the middle of the night. I'd wake, transfixed with terror as the first rumble sounded. As it approached our location I would make the decision. Just about the only thing that would induce me to venture out into our ghost-filled house at night was a storm. Straight into my parents' bedroom I'd go and climb into their bed. They slept at that time on 2 beds pushed together and I would crawl into the "crack" in the middle and lie there, still afraid but also comforted, until the last rumble died away. I would watch bolts of lightning strike the lawn and listen, trembling, as the thunder cracked around. Mamma and Daddy offered me no especial attention; they just made room for me and then went on sleeping.
One evening, I guess I was about ten, there was an enormous storm. Daddy was in charge, Mamma being at the Proms, and he decided to switch out the lights and stand with us to watch the storm. He taught us how to estimate the distance of the storm by counting the number of seconds between flash and rumble (five for one mile apparently, and calculated by saying "one, Dulwich College, two Dulwich College" and so on to ensure the second was given full value).
Encircled by my family, I somehow lost my fear and began to enjoy the spectacle.
There is still much rubbish talked about storms; one of my favourite being a remark by Paul's Mum "You mustn't run during a storm; it's the most dangerous thing you can do." As though the storm was a malevolent beast chasing you down the street.
Thunderstorms seem rarer these days and I rather miss them.
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Heart of the Home
Today
At last I have a definite date for the fitting of my new kitchen. I've a space 3X6m to play with and am looking forward to finding homes for all my kitchen stuff. And I have to find space for the washer-dryer, dishwasher, microwave, fridge-freezer and bread-maker.
Most people with whom I discuss this are full of enthusiasm. "Most important," they say. "The kitchen's the heart of the home."
In My Day
Given that 4Bh was a twenty-roomed four-storey Victorian mansion, I wonder why my parents chose to use as a kitchen a space very little larger than a cupboard.
Access to the front door was up a substantial flight of steps, through a glazed porch into a very graceful octagonal hall. The kitchen was a tiny room to the left. I'm not even sure that it had a door; maybe just a curtain.
There was access to a back porch at the head of precipitous steps leading down to the back garden and another sliding door that gave directly onto a toilet. Daddy was convinced that having a toilet leading straight off the kitchen was illegal in some way and we were charged not to divulge its location to any non-family member.
In between was the kitchen. There was a gas cooker (I seem to remember Mamma acquiring a Cannon cooker later on, which had a very new-fangled "eye-level" grill). This was tucked in to the right of the entrance.
On the other side of the back porch door was a diminutive worktop with open shelves beneath which housed saucepans. Then there was a sink with wooden draining board and some more shelves tucked up on the left.
There was also a small folding table grandly called the "kitchen table" which I suppose it was but no meals were ever taken there.
Hot water was supplied by a gas heater which was rather tricky to use.
There was no fridge, washing machine or dishwasher. All cooking and washing (except of sheets which were washed in the bath or sent to the laundry) was done in this space.
Somehow in this dark, small and inconvenient space Mamma managed to produce daily fresh-cooked meals, roast Sunday lunches, elaborate Christmas dinners, birthday cakes of all kinds, an array of mouth-watering German cakes and biscuits, bottle fruit, make jam and cream cheese.
Much later a washing machine, spin-dryer and fridge were all acquired. Accommodating them necessitated the knocking through of an "alcove" into the octagonal hall.
Now that would be considered illegal nowadays.
At last I have a definite date for the fitting of my new kitchen. I've a space 3X6m to play with and am looking forward to finding homes for all my kitchen stuff. And I have to find space for the washer-dryer, dishwasher, microwave, fridge-freezer and bread-maker.
Most people with whom I discuss this are full of enthusiasm. "Most important," they say. "The kitchen's the heart of the home."
In My Day
Given that 4Bh was a twenty-roomed four-storey Victorian mansion, I wonder why my parents chose to use as a kitchen a space very little larger than a cupboard.
Access to the front door was up a substantial flight of steps, through a glazed porch into a very graceful octagonal hall. The kitchen was a tiny room to the left. I'm not even sure that it had a door; maybe just a curtain.
There was access to a back porch at the head of precipitous steps leading down to the back garden and another sliding door that gave directly onto a toilet. Daddy was convinced that having a toilet leading straight off the kitchen was illegal in some way and we were charged not to divulge its location to any non-family member.
In between was the kitchen. There was a gas cooker (I seem to remember Mamma acquiring a Cannon cooker later on, which had a very new-fangled "eye-level" grill). This was tucked in to the right of the entrance.
On the other side of the back porch door was a diminutive worktop with open shelves beneath which housed saucepans. Then there was a sink with wooden draining board and some more shelves tucked up on the left.
There was also a small folding table grandly called the "kitchen table" which I suppose it was but no meals were ever taken there.
Hot water was supplied by a gas heater which was rather tricky to use.
There was no fridge, washing machine or dishwasher. All cooking and washing (except of sheets which were washed in the bath or sent to the laundry) was done in this space.
Somehow in this dark, small and inconvenient space Mamma managed to produce daily fresh-cooked meals, roast Sunday lunches, elaborate Christmas dinners, birthday cakes of all kinds, an array of mouth-watering German cakes and biscuits, bottle fruit, make jam and cream cheese.
Much later a washing machine, spin-dryer and fridge were all acquired. Accommodating them necessitated the knocking through of an "alcove" into the octagonal hall.
Now that would be considered illegal nowadays.
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
Toadie
Today
Engaged in the somewhat Sisyphean process of digging up the roots of our Bamboo yesterday, Wesz dislodged a toad. The toad tried hard to get back into what it clearly perceived as a safe, cool & moist place to relax. Eventually, Wesz eased it onto the edge of his spade and popped it under the Red Cedar, from where it swam across the stream to find (I hope) a more permanent home.
"Paul thinks that toads are such gentlemen" I said to Wesz.
In My Day
My first experience with what I positively knew to be a toad was in Mead Close back in the hot summer of 1989. The weather had been pretty dry for some weeks and I was in the habit of pottering out into the garden in the gloaming. One evening, enjoying the stillness, I suddenly heard rustling. Investigation showed a small toad perched near the wall. I called Paul and the girls. Paul picked up the toad (how does he do that?) and we all crowded to look. It was a very dull brown and very warty.
Having spent much of that summer waging war on slugs, I greeted the toad's presence in the garden warmly. Lizzie named him Telemachus and he became a more or less permanent addition.
Over the years we have seen many toads in the garden. One year our somewhat flighty neighbour knocked on the door. "Can you tell me," she asked breathlessly "Do toads carry their young on their backs?" "Well", I replied "I think they lay spawn like frogs, but the male of the species is much smaller than the female...."
She was horrified and refused to go back into her garden unless the toads were removed. This Paul did, gently lifting up the couple, who were locked in an embrace and didn't seem to notice they were being moved. So they also became welcome guests in our garden.
So, greetings, Mr Toad. Although your habit of pee-ing on the hands of whoever picks you up is far from gentlemanly, in my opinion.
Engaged in the somewhat Sisyphean process of digging up the roots of our Bamboo yesterday, Wesz dislodged a toad. The toad tried hard to get back into what it clearly perceived as a safe, cool & moist place to relax. Eventually, Wesz eased it onto the edge of his spade and popped it under the Red Cedar, from where it swam across the stream to find (I hope) a more permanent home.
"Paul thinks that toads are such gentlemen" I said to Wesz.
In My Day
My first experience with what I positively knew to be a toad was in Mead Close back in the hot summer of 1989. The weather had been pretty dry for some weeks and I was in the habit of pottering out into the garden in the gloaming. One evening, enjoying the stillness, I suddenly heard rustling. Investigation showed a small toad perched near the wall. I called Paul and the girls. Paul picked up the toad (how does he do that?) and we all crowded to look. It was a very dull brown and very warty.
Having spent much of that summer waging war on slugs, I greeted the toad's presence in the garden warmly. Lizzie named him Telemachus and he became a more or less permanent addition.
Over the years we have seen many toads in the garden. One year our somewhat flighty neighbour knocked on the door. "Can you tell me," she asked breathlessly "Do toads carry their young on their backs?" "Well", I replied "I think they lay spawn like frogs, but the male of the species is much smaller than the female...."
She was horrified and refused to go back into her garden unless the toads were removed. This Paul did, gently lifting up the couple, who were locked in an embrace and didn't seem to notice they were being moved. So they also became welcome guests in our garden.
So, greetings, Mr Toad. Although your habit of pee-ing on the hands of whoever picks you up is far from gentlemanly, in my opinion.
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
War Hero
Today
On Saturday my choir gave a concert of a mixed programme of 17th and 20th century pieces.
Two of the 20th century pieces were setting of poems by, respectively, Edmund Blunden and James Kirkup. There was a curious connection between them. Blunden was a bona fide war poet; he fought in the trenches, knew Siegfried Sassoon and his poetry won much acclaim. Kirkup, by contrast, was a conscientious objector during the First World War.
"Like my Father," I commented to our Music Director.
In My Day
The story of how Daddy was a conscientious objector at the time of conscription during the 1914-18 war was often told in my family. Daddy would describe how he went to court and said "Fight your own bloody war". For which act of defiance he was sent to prison for the duration.
He was imprisoned for about three years, much of it solitary, and he talked about how the experience gave him a lasting difficulty with authority. He told me how he and his fellow-prisoners decided to hold a labour strike one day. When the morning arrived, Daddy refused to work as had been agreed, only discover that every single other prisoner had backed out of the deal. There was a lot of bitterness in the story and he learnt to trust only himself in future.
He said that on the day of release there were soldiers outside who said "they are the real heroes". I don't know how many people at the time would have agreed; many families lost all their male offspring in the war. I also think that, as time went on, Daddy explored more fully his underlying reasons for objecting. Yes, it wasn't a war he could believe in, but he wasn't ever a pacifist and felt strongly that the Second World War needed to be fought. He was a young and vigorous man, just escaping from a dark and dreary past and now he was being asked to throw away all his opportunities and risk a gruesome death for something that seemed to have nothing to do with him.
So he was disinclined to regard himself as a hero; more of a pragmatist, and for many years I hesitated to tell others his story, not being sure whether he would be regarded as a hero or coward and traitor.
Now, of course, with the passage of years, we can take a less extreme view and I can accept his actions with their mixed motives intact.
On Saturday my choir gave a concert of a mixed programme of 17th and 20th century pieces.
Two of the 20th century pieces were setting of poems by, respectively, Edmund Blunden and James Kirkup. There was a curious connection between them. Blunden was a bona fide war poet; he fought in the trenches, knew Siegfried Sassoon and his poetry won much acclaim. Kirkup, by contrast, was a conscientious objector during the First World War.
"Like my Father," I commented to our Music Director.
In My Day
The story of how Daddy was a conscientious objector at the time of conscription during the 1914-18 war was often told in my family. Daddy would describe how he went to court and said "Fight your own bloody war". For which act of defiance he was sent to prison for the duration.
He was imprisoned for about three years, much of it solitary, and he talked about how the experience gave him a lasting difficulty with authority. He told me how he and his fellow-prisoners decided to hold a labour strike one day. When the morning arrived, Daddy refused to work as had been agreed, only discover that every single other prisoner had backed out of the deal. There was a lot of bitterness in the story and he learnt to trust only himself in future.
He said that on the day of release there were soldiers outside who said "they are the real heroes". I don't know how many people at the time would have agreed; many families lost all their male offspring in the war. I also think that, as time went on, Daddy explored more fully his underlying reasons for objecting. Yes, it wasn't a war he could believe in, but he wasn't ever a pacifist and felt strongly that the Second World War needed to be fought. He was a young and vigorous man, just escaping from a dark and dreary past and now he was being asked to throw away all his opportunities and risk a gruesome death for something that seemed to have nothing to do with him.
So he was disinclined to regard himself as a hero; more of a pragmatist, and for many years I hesitated to tell others his story, not being sure whether he would be regarded as a hero or coward and traitor.
Now, of course, with the passage of years, we can take a less extreme view and I can accept his actions with their mixed motives intact.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Ergo
Today
I can quite accept that some people want to paint their walls dull yellow ochre, have a predilection for putting frilly flounces over their blinds or seem to need to put brass picture lights everywhere, even where there were no pictures.
But why anyone would live with a shower screen that's too short and narrow to stop water going over the floor, a kitchen where the sink is placed at the opposite end from the dishwasher or tolerate wardrobe doors whose hinging mechanism obscures over half of the shelf space and whose rail heights are too close together to hang up a jacket or man's shirt is more beyond my comprehension.
"The first is a matter of taste, " I expounded knowledgeably to Paul "the other is ergonomics."
In My Day
7 Mead close was pretty bare when we moved in, back in 1986. There was the rudimentary kitchen that had been put in when the house was built and some half-hearted attempts at wardrobes in the two larger bedrooms.
I surveyed our pile of belongings. How were we going to fit in all our stuff, ourselves, two teenagers, a dog and two cats, let alone find space outside for two cars?
Storage, that was the answer! Over the following years I developed rather a knack of designing really efficient storage. In Becky's tiny room, we dispensed with the door altogether as taking up too much floor space, substituting a curtain, and cannibalised the "Captain's" bed to give her cupboards, a small wardrobe, desk, bed and underbed storage. And this in a room that was barely 2000mm X 2000mm.
Eventually the too small-for-any-car-we-possessed garage had to go, to be replaced with a kitchen that is a miracle of storage. We built a similarly equipped utility room, put fitted wardrobes in the bedrooms and kitted out the upstairs extension as a really functional study/office. By hinging the bathroom door outwards we gained much useful space.
The teapots found a home on some shelves that Paul built high up in the dining room.
Even the dog was tidied away into a kennel which he loved so much we wondered why we hadn't done it years before.
And ergonomics played a big part in the design. I had a shoe cupboard built that was precisely the length of one of Paul's shoes and with shelf heights just right for a pair of high heels. There wasn't a wasted centimetre. Wardrobes had hanging rails exactly designed for trousers, long dresses or jackets.
Unfortunately, even with all this miracle of storage design, we still had too much stuff which is why we had to move. And I now have the challenge of casting my ergonomically trained eye over Spencer House.
But I still can't think where to put the teapots.....
I can quite accept that some people want to paint their walls dull yellow ochre, have a predilection for putting frilly flounces over their blinds or seem to need to put brass picture lights everywhere, even where there were no pictures.
But why anyone would live with a shower screen that's too short and narrow to stop water going over the floor, a kitchen where the sink is placed at the opposite end from the dishwasher or tolerate wardrobe doors whose hinging mechanism obscures over half of the shelf space and whose rail heights are too close together to hang up a jacket or man's shirt is more beyond my comprehension.
"The first is a matter of taste, " I expounded knowledgeably to Paul "the other is ergonomics."
In My Day
7 Mead close was pretty bare when we moved in, back in 1986. There was the rudimentary kitchen that had been put in when the house was built and some half-hearted attempts at wardrobes in the two larger bedrooms.
I surveyed our pile of belongings. How were we going to fit in all our stuff, ourselves, two teenagers, a dog and two cats, let alone find space outside for two cars?
Storage, that was the answer! Over the following years I developed rather a knack of designing really efficient storage. In Becky's tiny room, we dispensed with the door altogether as taking up too much floor space, substituting a curtain, and cannibalised the "Captain's" bed to give her cupboards, a small wardrobe, desk, bed and underbed storage. And this in a room that was barely 2000mm X 2000mm.
Eventually the too small-for-any-car-we-possessed garage had to go, to be replaced with a kitchen that is a miracle of storage. We built a similarly equipped utility room, put fitted wardrobes in the bedrooms and kitted out the upstairs extension as a really functional study/office. By hinging the bathroom door outwards we gained much useful space.
The teapots found a home on some shelves that Paul built high up in the dining room.
Even the dog was tidied away into a kennel which he loved so much we wondered why we hadn't done it years before.
And ergonomics played a big part in the design. I had a shoe cupboard built that was precisely the length of one of Paul's shoes and with shelf heights just right for a pair of high heels. There wasn't a wasted centimetre. Wardrobes had hanging rails exactly designed for trousers, long dresses or jackets.
Unfortunately, even with all this miracle of storage design, we still had too much stuff which is why we had to move. And I now have the challenge of casting my ergonomically trained eye over Spencer House.
But I still can't think where to put the teapots.....
Sunday, July 08, 2012
Pond Life
Today
One of the mixed blessings of Spencer House is the acquisition of an ornamental stream and Victorian lake.We share the lake with our neighbours but both are charged with the duty of preserving its antique loveliness.
Quite how we are supposed to do this with overgrown rhododendrons, ubiquitous duckweed and the unrelenting rain, I'm not sure.
These waters are, of course, full of life; some kind of carp swim around hopelessly and I'm sure I've seen leeches. The barrowloads of duckweed I remove are full of tiny crayfish, water beetles and water boatmen. One insect, I feel sure, was preparing to become a dragonfly.
And there are thousands of tadpoles. A close-up view suggests not only frogs but also newts might emerge from these creatures - we just need some warmer weather to help them along.
In My Day
When I was a child tadpoles were at the heart of learning about how life develops from the egg. Even in London it was fairly easy to find a bit of water, maybe a puddle in a bombed site, that was full of frog spawn.
Teachers just loved this practical lesson, You could see so clearly the eggs in the translucent spawn. As you watched these hatched into tiny, black, wriggling tadpoles. They had long tails to help them wriggle along and no legs.
As the days went by you watched, fascinated, as legs appeared and the tails got shorter. You could see each stage of the progress towards being a frog. Since the similar progress in human development is hidden deep within the body this was very exciting.
Eventually, your tadpoles became frogs and, like all children, embraced their maturity by leaping out of the water into adult life, never to be seen again.
We have been told that there are sometimes also ducklings on the lake, but this year we have only seen two rather lonely-looking drakes.
One of the mixed blessings of Spencer House is the acquisition of an ornamental stream and Victorian lake.We share the lake with our neighbours but both are charged with the duty of preserving its antique loveliness.
Quite how we are supposed to do this with overgrown rhododendrons, ubiquitous duckweed and the unrelenting rain, I'm not sure.
These waters are, of course, full of life; some kind of carp swim around hopelessly and I'm sure I've seen leeches. The barrowloads of duckweed I remove are full of tiny crayfish, water beetles and water boatmen. One insect, I feel sure, was preparing to become a dragonfly.
And there are thousands of tadpoles. A close-up view suggests not only frogs but also newts might emerge from these creatures - we just need some warmer weather to help them along.
In My Day
When I was a child tadpoles were at the heart of learning about how life develops from the egg. Even in London it was fairly easy to find a bit of water, maybe a puddle in a bombed site, that was full of frog spawn.
Teachers just loved this practical lesson, You could see so clearly the eggs in the translucent spawn. As you watched these hatched into tiny, black, wriggling tadpoles. They had long tails to help them wriggle along and no legs.
As the days went by you watched, fascinated, as legs appeared and the tails got shorter. You could see each stage of the progress towards being a frog. Since the similar progress in human development is hidden deep within the body this was very exciting.
Eventually, your tadpoles became frogs and, like all children, embraced their maturity by leaping out of the water into adult life, never to be seen again.
We have been told that there are sometimes also ducklings on the lake, but this year we have only seen two rather lonely-looking drakes.
Saturday, June 23, 2012
Tight
Today
We decided last night to have a proper Friday night. So I set the posh table with posh crockery etc, assembled the wherewithals for champagne cocktails and changed into a dress.
To complete the look, I put on a nice pair of fine tights, it being far too cold to go bare-legged. As I put them on I found myself thinking about these somewhat frivolous garments and how I first came to wear them.
In My Day
Back in the '50s, of course, women wore stockings. "Nylons" they were generally called. They came to about halfway up your thigh and were held in place with a suspender belt. Mamma bought me my first ever pair of stockings for my first ever date with John Medlock, my first ever boyfriend, when I was thirteen.
I felt very grown-up but quickly came to hate the treachery of this particular garment combination. For one, thing, I had very long legs and the length of stockings was very variable, especially those that I could afford. So it often wasn't until the first one was unravelled and halfway up my leg that I realised that it would only come to just over my knee. Then the suspender had to be stretched to meet it. There were three possible outcomes: the suspenders did their job but the garment itself was pulled down to a place uncomfortably beneath my tummy; the little buttons which held the stocking slipped out of their loop, leaving a stocking on the droop and me hastily trying to do it back up so that no-one could see; the suspender actually broke, leaving me a with a stocking on the droop and a suspender dangling sexily down way past my knees. Safety pins became an essential item in one's purse.
On really bad occasions I simply had to slip into a quiet place and remove the entire lot, which then meant that I was carrying around a broken suspender belt and pair of stockings for the rest of the day.....
Even when all this didn't happen there was still the dangerous possibility that a gust of wind or incautious movement would cause the machinery, so to speak, plus a lot of white thigh to be revealed in an embarrassing place.
In the '60s tights (or "pantyhose" as I believe the Americans still call them) came into the shops. I think I first learnt about them talking to another tall girl at a party who was wearing them. Amazing! An unbroken smooth pale coffee colour from toe to hip. I never looked back!
It is true that cheap tights are still sometimes too short, so that I have to hold them up by wearing knickers on top but they generally keep you covered and warm up the whole length of your leg (how I used to hate that chilly gap with stockings!). And they add that chic finish to one's outfit.
What I can't understand is a) why any sane woman would want to wear stockings and b) why men find stockings and suspenders sexually arousing.
We decided last night to have a proper Friday night. So I set the posh table with posh crockery etc, assembled the wherewithals for champagne cocktails and changed into a dress.
To complete the look, I put on a nice pair of fine tights, it being far too cold to go bare-legged. As I put them on I found myself thinking about these somewhat frivolous garments and how I first came to wear them.
In My Day
Back in the '50s, of course, women wore stockings. "Nylons" they were generally called. They came to about halfway up your thigh and were held in place with a suspender belt. Mamma bought me my first ever pair of stockings for my first ever date with John Medlock, my first ever boyfriend, when I was thirteen.
I felt very grown-up but quickly came to hate the treachery of this particular garment combination. For one, thing, I had very long legs and the length of stockings was very variable, especially those that I could afford. So it often wasn't until the first one was unravelled and halfway up my leg that I realised that it would only come to just over my knee. Then the suspender had to be stretched to meet it. There were three possible outcomes: the suspenders did their job but the garment itself was pulled down to a place uncomfortably beneath my tummy; the little buttons which held the stocking slipped out of their loop, leaving a stocking on the droop and me hastily trying to do it back up so that no-one could see; the suspender actually broke, leaving me a with a stocking on the droop and a suspender dangling sexily down way past my knees. Safety pins became an essential item in one's purse.
On really bad occasions I simply had to slip into a quiet place and remove the entire lot, which then meant that I was carrying around a broken suspender belt and pair of stockings for the rest of the day.....
Even when all this didn't happen there was still the dangerous possibility that a gust of wind or incautious movement would cause the machinery, so to speak, plus a lot of white thigh to be revealed in an embarrassing place.
In the '60s tights (or "pantyhose" as I believe the Americans still call them) came into the shops. I think I first learnt about them talking to another tall girl at a party who was wearing them. Amazing! An unbroken smooth pale coffee colour from toe to hip. I never looked back!
It is true that cheap tights are still sometimes too short, so that I have to hold them up by wearing knickers on top but they generally keep you covered and warm up the whole length of your leg (how I used to hate that chilly gap with stockings!). And they add that chic finish to one's outfit.
What I can't understand is a) why any sane woman would want to wear stockings and b) why men find stockings and suspenders sexually arousing.
Saturday, June 16, 2012
Storing it up
Today
Well, at last it's happened; we've made the move to our new home and are having fun learning about it and all its little quirks.
We have had to fit in stuff both from the flat and the house at 7 Mead Close. Co-ordinating a double move seemed pretty nigh impossible so we first had everything from the Brighton flat put into storage until it could be moved here.
We've also had to put a great deal of our stuff from Stoke into storage until we have proper places for it all. I think that there are about two hundred boxes of various sizes holding all Paul's hobby items, our books, CDs and my teapots.
Paul was wondering about how safe they are "Well," I said "I think that they're probably safer than in the garage here." Really, of course, what he would like is to be reunited with his beloved possessions and he is so looking forward to the day when they will have their own new home.
In My Day
In 1985/6. the move from Eastbourne to Southanpton was managed in fits and starts. We sold the house in Westham in the November but had no home to go to. A kind friend offered us temporary accommodation in Crowborough. This was a fully equipped house, so we decided to put everything in store. "I'm not taking any chances," I said "We'll go for the best there is." Which at that time meant Pickfords. Our belongings, other than clothes, were duly stored.
I don't know how much we missed our stuff; my life was extra hectic as I travelled about the South-East training people how to use computers and I guess what Paul really missed (apart from me) was having a settled home.
After a couple of false starts we were able to move in to the house at Broadlands Road in Southampton in February 1986. It was a bitterly cold morning and snow had fallen. The Pickfords truck arrived and our belongings were somehow stuffed into the house. My view of Pickfords being the best was somewhat altered when one of the removal men cheerfully jumped out of the truck with our precious House of Commons drawing, that had been given to Daddy on his retirement, entirely open to the elements, and holding it just by the string. The glass was cracked too; a great curving line. We noticed and commented on it right away and Pickfords replaced the glass. But to my trained eye there is a slight line across the picture where the broken glass had disturbed the pencil.
I'd love to see my teapots again but, right now, can't think where on earth I'm going to put them!
Well, at last it's happened; we've made the move to our new home and are having fun learning about it and all its little quirks.
We have had to fit in stuff both from the flat and the house at 7 Mead Close. Co-ordinating a double move seemed pretty nigh impossible so we first had everything from the Brighton flat put into storage until it could be moved here.
We've also had to put a great deal of our stuff from Stoke into storage until we have proper places for it all. I think that there are about two hundred boxes of various sizes holding all Paul's hobby items, our books, CDs and my teapots.
Paul was wondering about how safe they are "Well," I said "I think that they're probably safer than in the garage here." Really, of course, what he would like is to be reunited with his beloved possessions and he is so looking forward to the day when they will have their own new home.
In My Day
In 1985/6. the move from Eastbourne to Southanpton was managed in fits and starts. We sold the house in Westham in the November but had no home to go to. A kind friend offered us temporary accommodation in Crowborough. This was a fully equipped house, so we decided to put everything in store. "I'm not taking any chances," I said "We'll go for the best there is." Which at that time meant Pickfords. Our belongings, other than clothes, were duly stored.
I don't know how much we missed our stuff; my life was extra hectic as I travelled about the South-East training people how to use computers and I guess what Paul really missed (apart from me) was having a settled home.
After a couple of false starts we were able to move in to the house at Broadlands Road in Southampton in February 1986. It was a bitterly cold morning and snow had fallen. The Pickfords truck arrived and our belongings were somehow stuffed into the house. My view of Pickfords being the best was somewhat altered when one of the removal men cheerfully jumped out of the truck with our precious House of Commons drawing, that had been given to Daddy on his retirement, entirely open to the elements, and holding it just by the string. The glass was cracked too; a great curving line. We noticed and commented on it right away and Pickfords replaced the glass. But to my trained eye there is a slight line across the picture where the broken glass had disturbed the pencil.
I'd love to see my teapots again but, right now, can't think where on earth I'm going to put them!
Saturday, May 12, 2012
Complete
Today
Yesterday the purchase of Spencer House was completed. Much of the process was invisible to us and was managed by our capable solicitor. His fee of £900 seems cheap at the price. We did have to arrange the financial transfer, but even that was a seamless affair dealt with as a virtual transaction at our local bank branch.
In My Day
When we moved from Rowan Avenue to Montfort Close things were very different. The amount that we could borrow was uncomfortably close to the amount we would make on Rowan Avenue. And there was a mortgage to pay off.
If you added lawyer's fees it all seemed too steep. From somewhere I'd got hold of a book called "The Conveyancing Fraud" The premise of the book was that a huge con was being perpetrated by the British legal system which was that buying and selling a house was a matter for experts and could only be carried out with much obfuscation and the payment of huge fees. The book explained that most houses in England were registered with the Land Registry and poo-pooed the concept of old-fashioned "deeds", especially for new estate-built houses. Finally the book gave a step-by-step guide on how to do it, including telling you what forms you needed.
Simples! I could do all this myself and save a shedload of cash! I buckled down to the task. Naively I was unprepared for the hostility displayed by the solicitors involved.
The vendors' lawyers posed a few sharply written questions (including a trick one), all of which I answered correctly and they stepped down. The estate agent was all affability when I asked them if they would hold the contract deposit for us and the building society's lawyer was cool but OK. Rowan Avenue was subject to a mortgage from the Local Council and the legal department was only too happy to help me.
But the purchasers' solicitors were uncivil, to say the least. When I commented that I couldn't read the writing on their amendments to the contract (I always typed our amendments) I received a letter taking deep offence at the suggestion of illegibility "If you had had your matters attended to professionally the issue would not arise" said the unsigned and undated letter.
And we did it! I insisted on a face-to-face completion on the Rowan Avenue sale, partly to embarrass the rude solicitors. The head of the firm was there and actually apologised in front of the council lawyer who congratulated me on a job well done.
The actual transaction was rather a cliff-hanger as we had to go to the bank to collect the banker's draft for Rowan Avenue, run to our building society's lawyers with the draft and our sums. We were then given another draft with which we ran back to our bank to pay in to make 10 Montfort Close ours. Fortunately, the house at Montfort Close was already empty, but the buyers of 33 Rowan Avenue were right on our tails as we moved ourselves out.
Was it worth it? Well, we saved enough to buy a washing machine, tumble dryer, dishwasher and new three-piece suite. And I have always felt pleased that I actually proved the book right!
These days, solicitors are more cagey about charging exorbitant fees and the fact that I've done it myself does ensure that I know what questions to ask and what really matters.
Yesterday the purchase of Spencer House was completed. Much of the process was invisible to us and was managed by our capable solicitor. His fee of £900 seems cheap at the price. We did have to arrange the financial transfer, but even that was a seamless affair dealt with as a virtual transaction at our local bank branch.
In My Day
When we moved from Rowan Avenue to Montfort Close things were very different. The amount that we could borrow was uncomfortably close to the amount we would make on Rowan Avenue. And there was a mortgage to pay off.
If you added lawyer's fees it all seemed too steep. From somewhere I'd got hold of a book called "The Conveyancing Fraud" The premise of the book was that a huge con was being perpetrated by the British legal system which was that buying and selling a house was a matter for experts and could only be carried out with much obfuscation and the payment of huge fees. The book explained that most houses in England were registered with the Land Registry and poo-pooed the concept of old-fashioned "deeds", especially for new estate-built houses. Finally the book gave a step-by-step guide on how to do it, including telling you what forms you needed.
Simples! I could do all this myself and save a shedload of cash! I buckled down to the task. Naively I was unprepared for the hostility displayed by the solicitors involved.
The vendors' lawyers posed a few sharply written questions (including a trick one), all of which I answered correctly and they stepped down. The estate agent was all affability when I asked them if they would hold the contract deposit for us and the building society's lawyer was cool but OK. Rowan Avenue was subject to a mortgage from the Local Council and the legal department was only too happy to help me.
But the purchasers' solicitors were uncivil, to say the least. When I commented that I couldn't read the writing on their amendments to the contract (I always typed our amendments) I received a letter taking deep offence at the suggestion of illegibility "If you had had your matters attended to professionally the issue would not arise" said the unsigned and undated letter.
And we did it! I insisted on a face-to-face completion on the Rowan Avenue sale, partly to embarrass the rude solicitors. The head of the firm was there and actually apologised in front of the council lawyer who congratulated me on a job well done.
The actual transaction was rather a cliff-hanger as we had to go to the bank to collect the banker's draft for Rowan Avenue, run to our building society's lawyers with the draft and our sums. We were then given another draft with which we ran back to our bank to pay in to make 10 Montfort Close ours. Fortunately, the house at Montfort Close was already empty, but the buyers of 33 Rowan Avenue were right on our tails as we moved ourselves out.
Was it worth it? Well, we saved enough to buy a washing machine, tumble dryer, dishwasher and new three-piece suite. And I have always felt pleased that I actually proved the book right!
These days, solicitors are more cagey about charging exorbitant fees and the fact that I've done it myself does ensure that I know what questions to ask and what really matters.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Puncture Wound
Today
My brother David is in the process of de-cluttering, to use a current bit of jargon. This is taking him a good long way down memory lane. Today he shared with us a picture of an ancient Black Magic tin - "in the days when they were magic" enthused David. Izzie commented that it was the old button box and David pointed out that an earlier label said it was his "Bike Box". (Blimey, it's like Time Team at David's place!)
In My Day
"Bike Box" can only mean one thing: it's the essential box you take with you in case you have a puncture.
While I have never learnt to change a car tyre, preferring to rely on my husband or the AA, I did have to learn how to repair a bicycle puncture. I don't think that tyres were as robust in those days - nowadays, what with off-roading bikes and high-tech design, it doesn't seem to be a problem.
The puncture would, of course, occur at the point of no return. Often I didn't have brothers to help me and was impossibly far away from anywhere I could walk to for help.
Let's see if I can remember what I had to do. First make sure that the "bike box" isn't actually still resting on the hall table at home. Next, with the help of a lever (I seem to remember using spoons on occasions) peel off the tyre. The actual puncture would be in the inner tube which was nestling inside the tyre.
Now look hopefully at the inner tube. On very rare occasions you could see the gaping great hole. More often you had to pump up the tube to locate that nasty hissy hole. Was the bicycle pump attached to the bike? Oh good. Now, the most efficient way of locating the actual puncture was to hold the partly pumped inner tube in some water and watch for bubbles. This often meant a fruitless search for puddles; sometime you just had to spit and hope for the best.
Having found the bubble, you marked it with some chalk (essential part of the Bike Box) so that you wouldn't lose the place.
Then you dried the place and smeared some evil-smelling glue over it, followed by a suitably-sized patch cut from some rubberised canvas in your box.
Finally the whole thing was reassembled onto the wheel. Somehow getting the tyre back on was far harder than getting it off and you went round and round, ruining several spoons until the tyre was back. Now to pump it up! Has the valve got lost in the undergrowth? Oh, here it is.
All pumped up and ready to go? If you were lucky there had only been one puncture and you could carry on, now about two hours late, on your way. If not, the tyre deflated as soon as you put any weight on it and the whole process had to be repeated.
You needed to be made of stern stuff to go out on your bike back in those days!
My brother David is in the process of de-cluttering, to use a current bit of jargon. This is taking him a good long way down memory lane. Today he shared with us a picture of an ancient Black Magic tin - "in the days when they were magic" enthused David. Izzie commented that it was the old button box and David pointed out that an earlier label said it was his "Bike Box". (Blimey, it's like Time Team at David's place!)
In My Day
"Bike Box" can only mean one thing: it's the essential box you take with you in case you have a puncture.
While I have never learnt to change a car tyre, preferring to rely on my husband or the AA, I did have to learn how to repair a bicycle puncture. I don't think that tyres were as robust in those days - nowadays, what with off-roading bikes and high-tech design, it doesn't seem to be a problem.
The puncture would, of course, occur at the point of no return. Often I didn't have brothers to help me and was impossibly far away from anywhere I could walk to for help.
Let's see if I can remember what I had to do. First make sure that the "bike box" isn't actually still resting on the hall table at home. Next, with the help of a lever (I seem to remember using spoons on occasions) peel off the tyre. The actual puncture would be in the inner tube which was nestling inside the tyre.
Now look hopefully at the inner tube. On very rare occasions you could see the gaping great hole. More often you had to pump up the tube to locate that nasty hissy hole. Was the bicycle pump attached to the bike? Oh good. Now, the most efficient way of locating the actual puncture was to hold the partly pumped inner tube in some water and watch for bubbles. This often meant a fruitless search for puddles; sometime you just had to spit and hope for the best.
Having found the bubble, you marked it with some chalk (essential part of the Bike Box) so that you wouldn't lose the place.
Then you dried the place and smeared some evil-smelling glue over it, followed by a suitably-sized patch cut from some rubberised canvas in your box.
Finally the whole thing was reassembled onto the wheel. Somehow getting the tyre back on was far harder than getting it off and you went round and round, ruining several spoons until the tyre was back. Now to pump it up! Has the valve got lost in the undergrowth? Oh, here it is.
All pumped up and ready to go? If you were lucky there had only been one puncture and you could carry on, now about two hours late, on your way. If not, the tyre deflated as soon as you put any weight on it and the whole process had to be repeated.
You needed to be made of stern stuff to go out on your bike back in those days!
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Hedge
Today
The survey reports on Spencer House have come back and they show that the property is in a conservation area and that there are at least two trees, a beech and a red cypress, with preservation orders in the garden. Well I wasn't planning to hack them down anyway; just a little pruning, maybe?
The bit I do want to hack down is a thick hedge of Cupressocyparis Leylandii, that obstructs where I want to build the conservatory.
"I'll probably win an award if I cut that down," I joked to Lizzie.
In My Day
How exciting it was, back in 1975, to move into our first proper own house. The fact that it was so newly built that everything reeked of damp plaster and the garden was a sea (a very small sea, admittedly) of mud, didn't matter at all.
I had no idea about gardening and neither did Paul. (In, fact he still proudly knows nothing about gardening.) But the space was small and easy to manage, surely? And the faster things grew and the more "instant" they were, so much the better.
In one way, I was better off than Beverley and John, who'd bought the house on the end. In addition to the pocket handkerchief at the back and grass verge at front, they had a strip that bordered the corner.
Privacy and safety being top priorities, John went out to find what plant he could use to achieve this end and so discovered the Leylandii. He planted about ten, close together. "They grow to about forty feet," he said happily. Never mind that they would obscure the sunlight, put roots out dangerously close to the house's foundations and require acrobatic skills to carry out the pruning, here was privacy that grew almost in an instant.
We only lived at Rowan Avenue (what happened to the rowans? they probably all died under the influence of the Leylandii) for seven years and the hedge was already a rather formidable object, threatening to engulf the pavement totally and consuming much of John's time in attempts to keep it cut back and tidy.
The trouble was, John wasn't the only person to think that these quick-growing conifers were the gardener's dream, All over Britain, Leylandii became ubiquitous, even appearing as hedges in the rural landscape and imparting an incongruous air to our otherwise pleasantly mixed greenery.
Having had our flirtation with instant hedging, we are now busily grubbing up these monstrous plantations as unmanageable eyesores.
I wonder what John's view of Leylandii hedges is now and whether the one he planted at Rowan avenue still survives.
The survey reports on Spencer House have come back and they show that the property is in a conservation area and that there are at least two trees, a beech and a red cypress, with preservation orders in the garden. Well I wasn't planning to hack them down anyway; just a little pruning, maybe?
The bit I do want to hack down is a thick hedge of Cupressocyparis Leylandii, that obstructs where I want to build the conservatory.
"I'll probably win an award if I cut that down," I joked to Lizzie.
In My Day
How exciting it was, back in 1975, to move into our first proper own house. The fact that it was so newly built that everything reeked of damp plaster and the garden was a sea (a very small sea, admittedly) of mud, didn't matter at all.
I had no idea about gardening and neither did Paul. (In, fact he still proudly knows nothing about gardening.) But the space was small and easy to manage, surely? And the faster things grew and the more "instant" they were, so much the better.
In one way, I was better off than Beverley and John, who'd bought the house on the end. In addition to the pocket handkerchief at the back and grass verge at front, they had a strip that bordered the corner.
Privacy and safety being top priorities, John went out to find what plant he could use to achieve this end and so discovered the Leylandii. He planted about ten, close together. "They grow to about forty feet," he said happily. Never mind that they would obscure the sunlight, put roots out dangerously close to the house's foundations and require acrobatic skills to carry out the pruning, here was privacy that grew almost in an instant.
We only lived at Rowan Avenue (what happened to the rowans? they probably all died under the influence of the Leylandii) for seven years and the hedge was already a rather formidable object, threatening to engulf the pavement totally and consuming much of John's time in attempts to keep it cut back and tidy.
The trouble was, John wasn't the only person to think that these quick-growing conifers were the gardener's dream, All over Britain, Leylandii became ubiquitous, even appearing as hedges in the rural landscape and imparting an incongruous air to our otherwise pleasantly mixed greenery.
Having had our flirtation with instant hedging, we are now busily grubbing up these monstrous plantations as unmanageable eyesores.
I wonder what John's view of Leylandii hedges is now and whether the one he planted at Rowan avenue still survives.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)