I love Christmas and this year it is going to be even more fun than usual. All twenty-one of us are going away together for a few days. A chance to have satisfying conversations with every member of the family instead of the usual fragmented snatches, usually interrupted by the urgent needs of small impatient children.
Present giving has become easy, since we adopted the practice of having everyone give just one good present to one other family member. Just one to give and one to receive. Children are, of course, excluded from this paring down and they still end up with many more presents than is good for them.
It is Christmas cards, that I am fed up with. My heart really isn't in it anymore. The whole business takes far too long , postage stamps cost more than the cards and I am trying to summon up the courage to stop once and for all. As it is, I only send cards to people who live abroad or whom I never see. Or I send e-cards, which people loathe! Next year then, finito! But will I stick to it?
Sunday, 11 December 2011
Tuesday, 15 November 2011
Tell me who I am
If you are a man, your choice of what you wear is more restricted than if you are a woman. Still, sometimes one might wonder whether that holds true any longer since the dividing line is sometimes rather blurred. But if we are talking shirts, then there seem to be some very interesting statements being made. Like: Look at me - this is what I am.
So, politicians, almost always wear white shirts and sober old boy ties (I am dependable and trustworthy)
Celebrities only know the colour black - black shirt, black tie, black suit but sometimes it is a black T-shirt.
Would-be celebrities also wear black shirts, usually open-necked, with a lot of gold jewellery on show, still leaving plenty of visible chest hair.
For doctors, the plumage gets brighter and brighter as they progress upward. Consultants have the finest line of ultra bright but very tasteful, Jermyn Street shirts but never a jacket.
Workmen, of course, do not wear shirts, only T-shirts and, unless it's snowing, shorts are the order of the day, preferable with really clunky boots.
For the rest of the male population, any kind of shirt, non-descript or otherwise, is never the background to a tie, never buttoned at the neck, unless work demands it or you are invited to the Lord Mayor's Banquet.
So, politicians, almost always wear white shirts and sober old boy ties (I am dependable and trustworthy)
Celebrities only know the colour black - black shirt, black tie, black suit but sometimes it is a black T-shirt.
Would-be celebrities also wear black shirts, usually open-necked, with a lot of gold jewellery on show, still leaving plenty of visible chest hair.
For doctors, the plumage gets brighter and brighter as they progress upward. Consultants have the finest line of ultra bright but very tasteful, Jermyn Street shirts but never a jacket.
Workmen, of course, do not wear shirts, only T-shirts and, unless it's snowing, shorts are the order of the day, preferable with really clunky boots.
For the rest of the male population, any kind of shirt, non-descript or otherwise, is never the background to a tie, never buttoned at the neck, unless work demands it or you are invited to the Lord Mayor's Banquet.
Wednesday, 19 October 2011
Nostalgia
I don' live in the past but every so often I have an acute pang of something experienced long ago. A sight, a sound, a smell and it all floods back.
A couple of weeks ago, enjoying a magnificent Indian summer weekend on the Suffolk coast, a strident sound made me look up into the blue sky. There, in a miraculously straight V formation, wild geese flew overhead, migrating to warmer climes for the winter. All my country childhood long, I looked forward to seeing just that and every year, the thrill was just as great.
And then there is the scent of hyacinths. Sharp and memorable and when I smell that, I remember the excitement when as a little girl, I was taught how to cut and paste conical, brightly coloured paper hats to prevent light getting to the bulbs, which we put into their special hyacinth glasses, waiting for the roots to develop before removing the hats. Then there was the impatient wait for the flower to unfold and to discover what colour it would be. And that heavenly smell!
Dragon flies. They are a rare sight in a city garden but when I do see one, I remember my - completely unsuccessful - attempts, as a child, to tame them. To talk to them, get them to be my friends, my own special pets!
Ah well, recalling the past can be fun!
A couple of weeks ago, enjoying a magnificent Indian summer weekend on the Suffolk coast, a strident sound made me look up into the blue sky. There, in a miraculously straight V formation, wild geese flew overhead, migrating to warmer climes for the winter. All my country childhood long, I looked forward to seeing just that and every year, the thrill was just as great.
And then there is the scent of hyacinths. Sharp and memorable and when I smell that, I remember the excitement when as a little girl, I was taught how to cut and paste conical, brightly coloured paper hats to prevent light getting to the bulbs, which we put into their special hyacinth glasses, waiting for the roots to develop before removing the hats. Then there was the impatient wait for the flower to unfold and to discover what colour it would be. And that heavenly smell!
Dragon flies. They are a rare sight in a city garden but when I do see one, I remember my - completely unsuccessful - attempts, as a child, to tame them. To talk to them, get them to be my friends, my own special pets!
Ah well, recalling the past can be fun!
Friday, 7 October 2011
Terms of Endearment
I think people, total strangers, have become more friendly. Perhaps it's recession, actual or threatened, which is making all of us more prepared to present a friendly face to outsiders. Standing in a queue at a supermarket checkout, my next in line begins chatting to me. Waiting to put money into a parking meter starts a conversation about the daylight robbery taking place in front of our eyes, as parking charges are raised to a ridiculous level.
Strangers smile and we exchange words about the Indian Summer and the reticent English, are throwing words like "OK sweetheart" and "Right you are darling" in my direction. No longer, thank god, the "duck", "duckie" or "ducks" of my childhood, which I hated. Nor "titch", which my school tormentors used.
No longer are people afraid of getting personal, saying "that looks nice", when they feel so inclined and I, for one, love it. I think we are perhaps getting more generous in our sentiments, as life becomes more sombre in other ways.
Strangers smile and we exchange words about the Indian Summer and the reticent English, are throwing words like "OK sweetheart" and "Right you are darling" in my direction. No longer, thank god, the "duck", "duckie" or "ducks" of my childhood, which I hated. Nor "titch", which my school tormentors used.
No longer are people afraid of getting personal, saying "that looks nice", when they feel so inclined and I, for one, love it. I think we are perhaps getting more generous in our sentiments, as life becomes more sombre in other ways.
Thursday, 25 August 2011
England's green and pleasant land
There is no doubt about it. This is a beautiful country. Living in the metropolis with all its hassle, lack of politeness, rush, rush, rush mentality, not forgetting riots, looting and all the nasty things that go on, it is easy to forget how wonderful it is to drive into the countryside.
Leave the the urban jungle, the serried traffic lights and the greyness behind and, in no time at all, lush green pastures, fantastic church spires, glorious villages take over.
A weekend in Devizes restored sanity. Here's a beautiful little town, jam-packed with listed buildings and while being shown the many great sites, our hostess meets an endless stream of people she KNOWS. People stop to talk, shopkeepers go the extra mile, restaurant staff fall over themselves trying to please you. Wow! I had forgotten it could be like this.
And then, last Sunday, we drove out to one of the most recently opened stately homes, Wrest Park near Luton. A delightful house in the French style and a magnificent park and all there for us to visit because of the National Trust. What other country offers so many meticulously restored houses for one and all to enjoy. I can't think of any offhand!
Leave the the urban jungle, the serried traffic lights and the greyness behind and, in no time at all, lush green pastures, fantastic church spires, glorious villages take over.
A weekend in Devizes restored sanity. Here's a beautiful little town, jam-packed with listed buildings and while being shown the many great sites, our hostess meets an endless stream of people she KNOWS. People stop to talk, shopkeepers go the extra mile, restaurant staff fall over themselves trying to please you. Wow! I had forgotten it could be like this.
And then, last Sunday, we drove out to one of the most recently opened stately homes, Wrest Park near Luton. A delightful house in the French style and a magnificent park and all there for us to visit because of the National Trust. What other country offers so many meticulously restored houses for one and all to enjoy. I can't think of any offhand!
Monday, 8 August 2011
Doctor doctor
Doctor's appointments are rarely much fun. At best they are brief and you get seen on time. Often you are in for a lengthy wait before you even get to the starting post. Recently, I took my six year old granddaughter to the surgery to have her ankle checked because, budding olympic gymnast that she is, she had hurt it during a training session.
We sat down in the surgery waiting room and were called in no time. Twisting her foot this way and that way, the doctor passed her with flying colours. No problems at all, he said and then he added, to my bemusement, "Do you like magic tricks?" Getting an affirmative answer from Lily, he proceeded to open his desk drawer, take out a pack of cards and ask her to take one.
The usual patter ensued: she took a card, put it back in the pack and, abracadabra,the doctor picked it out correctly. He even offered to show her how the trick wad done.
Who says the National Health Service is not up to scratch?
We sat down in the surgery waiting room and were called in no time. Twisting her foot this way and that way, the doctor passed her with flying colours. No problems at all, he said and then he added, to my bemusement, "Do you like magic tricks?" Getting an affirmative answer from Lily, he proceeded to open his desk drawer, take out a pack of cards and ask her to take one.
The usual patter ensued: she took a card, put it back in the pack and, abracadabra,the doctor picked it out correctly. He even offered to show her how the trick wad done.
Who says the National Health Service is not up to scratch?
Thursday, 4 August 2011
Cruising down the river
Along the Saone and join the Rhone. Sounds like a poem but it isn't! It was what we did last week, from Chalon to Avignon. All very delightful, not least the bit about being looked after hand and foot. Don't have to think for yourself. No shopping to do, no meals to cook. A jokey chef does that. It's a woman and she is even French but she tries a bit too hard. Her pre-dinner spiel, given as a double act with a wine buff, promises too many ingredients in every dish. A soupcon of this and a dash of that, designed to whet your appetite, is a bit of a turn-off but the food is reasonable just the same.
Locks to negotiate but leave that to the captain.Lots and lots of Americans on board. Unusual. Even more unusual is that many come from the deep south or mid west. I've never met anyone who came from Idaho before. Rarely met any Republicans either. But a charming, courteous bunch.
Arles was one of the highlights. that's where Van Gogh spent time incarcerated in the hospital we visited. Apart from the fact that every guide pronounced his name differently - Van Goh, Van Goff, Van Goch, there was also no concensus on how he lost his ear: Torn off during a fight, cut off by himself and given to his brother, cut off by himself and given to someone unknown. Take your pick! And, of course, the olive trees you see, are the ones he painted, as is the yellow cafe.
Avignon was on the last day of their theatre festival. Just like Edinburgh with strolling actors approaching you at a cafe table, hawking their show, asking you to attend at 11am, 1pm, 3pm or any other time.Lots of noise and beating of drums, lots of fun.
Locks to negotiate but leave that to the captain.Lots and lots of Americans on board. Unusual. Even more unusual is that many come from the deep south or mid west. I've never met anyone who came from Idaho before. Rarely met any Republicans either. But a charming, courteous bunch.
Arles was one of the highlights. that's where Van Gogh spent time incarcerated in the hospital we visited. Apart from the fact that every guide pronounced his name differently - Van Goh, Van Goff, Van Goch, there was also no concensus on how he lost his ear: Torn off during a fight, cut off by himself and given to his brother, cut off by himself and given to someone unknown. Take your pick! And, of course, the olive trees you see, are the ones he painted, as is the yellow cafe.
Avignon was on the last day of their theatre festival. Just like Edinburgh with strolling actors approaching you at a cafe table, hawking their show, asking you to attend at 11am, 1pm, 3pm or any other time.Lots of noise and beating of drums, lots of fun.
Wednesday, 6 July 2011
Age Related
I love circuses and I have nothing against circus animals. I was pretty much weaned on going to the big tent. However, I don't much care about performing dogs and I have a suspicion that I am on occasion being treated like one! It is all to do with age.
I am who I am, not greatly different from the sort of person I used to be and as the years roll by and, in my own mind at least, I start to creak, to the outside world rather surprisingly, my chronological age does not appear too obvious. So when, as rarely as I can manage, I own up to my age, I get the feeling that I am being judged or appraised by my ability or whatever to actually put one foot in front of the other, string together a coherent sentence and not dribble. Ta very much!
I'll have you know that I am firing on all cylinders and intend to continue doing so. Why, only last weekend, in the context of wedding celebrations, I not only danced but donned a large moustache, Dame Edna Everidge diamante spectacles and a long cigarette holder for the benefit of a lurking photographer, who was taking wonderful pix as a memento of the occasion.
So there!
I am who I am, not greatly different from the sort of person I used to be and as the years roll by and, in my own mind at least, I start to creak, to the outside world rather surprisingly, my chronological age does not appear too obvious. So when, as rarely as I can manage, I own up to my age, I get the feeling that I am being judged or appraised by my ability or whatever to actually put one foot in front of the other, string together a coherent sentence and not dribble. Ta very much!
I'll have you know that I am firing on all cylinders and intend to continue doing so. Why, only last weekend, in the context of wedding celebrations, I not only danced but donned a large moustache, Dame Edna Everidge diamante spectacles and a long cigarette holder for the benefit of a lurking photographer, who was taking wonderful pix as a memento of the occasion.
So there!
Monday, 30 May 2011
Twice lucky!
I have hit thé jackpot twice! Mothers Day came and sent some time back and I was touches and délighted by the wonderful flowers and goodies which came my way.
But if you are a Channel hopper like I am then lo and behold, thé bells ring again and suddenly it's la fête des mères. This time though, it is not my cherubs who mark the day but the village. There we all are, kissy kissy everyone, the odd enfant and mari is also present. A big central table with rows of champagne flutes, baskets of fresh strawberries and plates of langues de chat biscuits await us. But first, a monsieur from the commit e des fêtes welcomes us and recites a poem by the most famous local son, Victor Hugo. We all clap, sip, munch and enjoy ourselves. Then we are given an enormous potted plant.
Vive l'Entente Cordiale!
Ps. My iPad assumes that, because I am in France, I néed to have accents everywhere!
But if you are a Channel hopper like I am then lo and behold, thé bells ring again and suddenly it's la fête des mères. This time though, it is not my cherubs who mark the day but the village. There we all are, kissy kissy everyone, the odd enfant and mari is also present. A big central table with rows of champagne flutes, baskets of fresh strawberries and plates of langues de chat biscuits await us. But first, a monsieur from the commit e des fêtes welcomes us and recites a poem by the most famous local son, Victor Hugo. We all clap, sip, munch and enjoy ourselves. Then we are given an enormous potted plant.
Vive l'Entente Cordiale!
Ps. My iPad assumes that, because I am in France, I néed to have accents everywhere!
Tuesday, 24 May 2011
There's always a first time!
There are a number of things in life about which I had very definite ideas early in life. When I was fourteen years old, I decided never to wear a vest again. I threw away the one I was forced to wear and my mother never knew. I have stuck to that decision.
Another was that I would never ever eat porridge. It looked too disgusting for words. The colour was enough to make me avert my eyes. That's not to say that I did not make the parental sacrifice of cooking it for my children's breakfast, if they wanted it. Just as I made them baked beans and offered them tomato ketchup on demand, even though I ate neither. But, never say never!
Porridge is good for lowering cholesterol, they claim, and since I needed to do that, I decided to try it. First attempts never got to my mouth, since the easy microwave option, exploded in every direction, leaving revolting splashes in every nook and cranny. Tried a saucepan on the cooker and apart from the fact that it stuck solid to the saucepan, I got a spoonful down. Tried a second spoonful with some added fresh fruit and found it more and more to my taste. And now, I am addicted to it.
But haggis. No. You have to draw the line somewhere. Then a few weeks ago, we were given one and having been prevented from slinging it straight in the dustbin by Peter who wanted, at least, to try it, I cooked it as specified. Encased in a tough plastic (?) skin, I dished it up and then proceeded to cut then end off with scissors. Whereupon, it squelched out like some horrible pre-historic worm! No option but to continue cutting, to release this brown mass - or should it be mess? - on to the serving dish.
No neeps and tatties but carrots and salad. In for a penny, in for a pound. We tried it. Delicious! The left overs we had the next day!
Another was that I would never ever eat porridge. It looked too disgusting for words. The colour was enough to make me avert my eyes. That's not to say that I did not make the parental sacrifice of cooking it for my children's breakfast, if they wanted it. Just as I made them baked beans and offered them tomato ketchup on demand, even though I ate neither. But, never say never!
Porridge is good for lowering cholesterol, they claim, and since I needed to do that, I decided to try it. First attempts never got to my mouth, since the easy microwave option, exploded in every direction, leaving revolting splashes in every nook and cranny. Tried a saucepan on the cooker and apart from the fact that it stuck solid to the saucepan, I got a spoonful down. Tried a second spoonful with some added fresh fruit and found it more and more to my taste. And now, I am addicted to it.
But haggis. No. You have to draw the line somewhere. Then a few weeks ago, we were given one and having been prevented from slinging it straight in the dustbin by Peter who wanted, at least, to try it, I cooked it as specified. Encased in a tough plastic (?) skin, I dished it up and then proceeded to cut then end off with scissors. Whereupon, it squelched out like some horrible pre-historic worm! No option but to continue cutting, to release this brown mass - or should it be mess? - on to the serving dish.
No neeps and tatties but carrots and salad. In for a penny, in for a pound. We tried it. Delicious! The left overs we had the next day!
Wednesday, 16 March 2011
Life and Death
These are not good times. Reading the paper, watching the news reduces me to tears and then a skip arrives opposite and I watch with a feeling of apprehension because I know my neighbour's life is unravelling. This is the end of somebody's life. Somebody's normal life anyway.
Here was a human being - gregarious, involved. A traveller, a mother, a grandmother. Not all that old either. And then things started slipping a bit. She became repetitive, she did not remember what she should have remembered. Like which house she lived in and that you don't put an electric kettle on a gas hob.
And then she was taken into a home. Where she is not happy. Soon after, dozens of dustbin bags full of who knows what, appeared outside her house. And today the skip came and the For Sale board.
Frightening.
Here was a human being - gregarious, involved. A traveller, a mother, a grandmother. Not all that old either. And then things started slipping a bit. She became repetitive, she did not remember what she should have remembered. Like which house she lived in and that you don't put an electric kettle on a gas hob.
And then she was taken into a home. Where she is not happy. Soon after, dozens of dustbin bags full of who knows what, appeared outside her house. And today the skip came and the For Sale board.
Frightening.
Wednesday, 9 March 2011
Victory!
I am jumping for joy. At least in my mind! I am £250 the richer for winning my appeal for having my car towed away. I am really quite a law abiding citizen and that includes how I use my car: I don't park on yellow lines, I don't jump the lights and I don't (very often) break the speed limit.
So, having parked against a wall, between two driveways on a residential road on a December afternoon, with snow still on the ground, I naturally dialled 999 when I returned to find my car was missing because I thought it had been stolen. Ha ha ha! I had forgotten I lived in Haringey, where any excuse is good enough to relieve you of a tidy sum.
Anyway, having retrieved my car from the car pound, I appealed to Haringey and I lost. I had nothing to lose, so I appealed to the independent adjudicator and, this time, I won. He agreed that there had been no offence.
It is a small matter but it boosted my morale hugely to have someone act intelligently and sanely. The moral is: nothing ventured nothing won. But I have a question: What moral right have Haringey to levy a fine of £250, which is an inordinate amount of money for what they - wrongly - assessed as a parking offence? I thought highway robbery went out a couple of hundred years ago!
So, having parked against a wall, between two driveways on a residential road on a December afternoon, with snow still on the ground, I naturally dialled 999 when I returned to find my car was missing because I thought it had been stolen. Ha ha ha! I had forgotten I lived in Haringey, where any excuse is good enough to relieve you of a tidy sum.
Anyway, having retrieved my car from the car pound, I appealed to Haringey and I lost. I had nothing to lose, so I appealed to the independent adjudicator and, this time, I won. He agreed that there had been no offence.
It is a small matter but it boosted my morale hugely to have someone act intelligently and sanely. The moral is: nothing ventured nothing won. But I have a question: What moral right have Haringey to levy a fine of £250, which is an inordinate amount of money for what they - wrongly - assessed as a parking offence? I thought highway robbery went out a couple of hundred years ago!
Thursday, 24 February 2011
Tales of the Unexpected
Of course, they have to be good surprises but when they happen, they make life fun, they change the course of your thoughts.
When I was six or seven, I learned to knit. Amazing satisfaction was soon replaced by a sense of 'so what?' But then my mother did something quite brilliant: she created balls of hand-wound wool full of odd corners and projections. She had hidden all sorts of tiny surprise presents inside the ball. Wrapped toffees, an eraser, a miniature whistle, a tiny toy. All discovered as I knitted. No cheating here!
Recently, shopping has taken on this feeling of wondering what is just around the corner. I am talking of a visit to Aldi. For, among the cereals, biscuit, vegetables and yoghurts, all the things that made you go there in the first place, there are all sorts of goodies which you never expected. Here's a great picture book for a small grandchild, here some chinese ceramic bowls with chopsticks, perfect for a present, there an elegant men's raincoat, half the price of elsewhere and an excellent fit for the man of the house. Vietnamese soups in tins, never heard of but once tasted, definitely moreish. Not to mention my everyday fleece lined suede bootee slippers,inseperable from my feet when in wintry France.
So unexpected. Such fun. What surprise will the next visit bring?
When I was six or seven, I learned to knit. Amazing satisfaction was soon replaced by a sense of 'so what?' But then my mother did something quite brilliant: she created balls of hand-wound wool full of odd corners and projections. She had hidden all sorts of tiny surprise presents inside the ball. Wrapped toffees, an eraser, a miniature whistle, a tiny toy. All discovered as I knitted. No cheating here!
Recently, shopping has taken on this feeling of wondering what is just around the corner. I am talking of a visit to Aldi. For, among the cereals, biscuit, vegetables and yoghurts, all the things that made you go there in the first place, there are all sorts of goodies which you never expected. Here's a great picture book for a small grandchild, here some chinese ceramic bowls with chopsticks, perfect for a present, there an elegant men's raincoat, half the price of elsewhere and an excellent fit for the man of the house. Vietnamese soups in tins, never heard of but once tasted, definitely moreish. Not to mention my everyday fleece lined suede bootee slippers,inseperable from my feet when in wintry France.
So unexpected. Such fun. What surprise will the next visit bring?
Sunday, 13 February 2011
What's not to like?
On the face of it, The Museum of Everything has everything. It is a delightful space, full of small rooms and alcoves, distorting mirrors to make you laugh and a collection of weird and wonderful things collected by the artist , Sir Peter Blake. But it made me shudder!
Photos galore of General Tom Thumb and other circus performers but only if they were giants or dwarves. Artfully stuffed animals mainly got up like human beings at play - boxers, card players, cricketers etc; dozens of Walt Disney figurines, dolls in all shapes and sizes, Punch and Judy and much more. But, in general, a focus on the grotesque, on the macabre. Nothing even remotely beautiful or even attractive.
Lots of young parents with their children were clearly enjoying it. It made my skin crawl and I could not wait to get out into the sunshine of Primrose Hill.
Sorry, Peter Blake!
Photos galore of General Tom Thumb and other circus performers but only if they were giants or dwarves. Artfully stuffed animals mainly got up like human beings at play - boxers, card players, cricketers etc; dozens of Walt Disney figurines, dolls in all shapes and sizes, Punch and Judy and much more. But, in general, a focus on the grotesque, on the macabre. Nothing even remotely beautiful or even attractive.
Lots of young parents with their children were clearly enjoying it. It made my skin crawl and I could not wait to get out into the sunshine of Primrose Hill.
Sorry, Peter Blake!
Monday, 10 January 2011
Minor wiki leaks
I have been wikileaked! My (semi) intimate moments spent in the confines of my immediate family, have been made public! Am I outraged? No, not really. I am amused. There we were, on Christmas Day, well fed and watered, or well turkeyed and wined, when we ventured into another room to discover various offspring prancing around. To elucidate: one of their presents had been - is it a Wii, a Youu, a Mee? Whatever. It is something you watch on your TV; in this case, an animated dance sequence, and those watching hold a baton and imitate the movements on screen. Each baton has a number so that you are marked, on screen, according to your ability to copy the dance.
So, of course, we joined in and, lo and behold, mobile telephones with camera functions were instantly activated and Grandpa and Grandma were recorded for posterity. So far so good. But then we find that it has been posted on YouTube. Admittedly to a restricted audience. Am I bothered? Not really. Fame has to come in some shape or form!
So, of course, we joined in and, lo and behold, mobile telephones with camera functions were instantly activated and Grandpa and Grandma were recorded for posterity. So far so good. But then we find that it has been posted on YouTube. Admittedly to a restricted audience. Am I bothered? Not really. Fame has to come in some shape or form!
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