Tonight, there was a meeting to plan this year's Christmas carol service. This is always held at 6pm on Christmas Eve, by which time, if you haven't bought something it's too late, and you should be starting to relax as everything has been done*. However, for the last few years, and I suspect it is since Meetings have been held to plan them, they have been getting increasingly tricksy. With themes and playlets and things. A couple of years ago, I said that all people really want is to hear the Christmas story, listen to a gently uplifting talk and sing the carols they have known all their lives. But I was ignored, except that they agreed to have carols sung by everyone instead of only a choir.
This year, only four of us turned up. And two of them wanted to go down the simple route. So we are.
Not that I said much. I have no bent for this sort of thing really. I chipped in mainly to check on practical matters. I may well have got out of playing the organ - not that I mind doing that, the only thing to remember is to play a bit slower than usual as it takes longer for sound to go all round a full church (when someone is trying hard to be polite about my organ playing, the most truthful thing to say is that I don't hang about. Slow hymns are real dirges and most depressing, so I brisk them up a bit) and to hold the first note for them all to join in. Anyway, someone else certainly will play some of the carols. I have offered to accompany carol singers greeting people as they arrive, by playing the clarinet outside the church before the service .... or, if wet, I've claimed a spot in the porch.
Anyway, this has all been arranged and some people will not be happy, as they are deprived of their bits of drama. But, as I said to my traditionally-minded friend, they should have come along to the meeting then, shouldn't they.
*in my case, everything has been done** except the present wrapping, the cake icing and some of the cards delivering.
**Meaning, will have been done by then. I have not started yet. Obviously. It's not half way through November yet.
Monday, 13 November 2006
Sunday, 12 November 2006
Mea culpa
I mentioned Miss Hopper yesterday, whose snappy remark hung over my mother's life. And, in the comments, said that teachers, in those days, would not have apologised to their pupils, even if they knew well that they had been unjust, unkind or plain wrong. They would have thought that it would undermine their authority. For that matter, many people are still unwilling to apologise, and only too willing to judge more harshly than they expect to be judged themselves. Many people.....to be frank, all of us on occasion and most of us sometimes.
If you know you've done something wrong and can put it right, that's one thing. But an unquiet conscience is a troubling thing. The biggest thing on mine? Not the worst thing I've done by any means, but the thing that I'm sorriest for happened more than thirty years ago. I was driving along a road in Lowestoft in my little Morris Minor, in the pouring rain one winter's day. I rounded a corner and was confronted by a vast puddle in front of me. No time to slow down, a car coming the other way so I couldn't drive around it, and an elderly man in a raincoat on the pavement. I can still picture the scene I saw in my rear-view mirror - a wall of water, head-height, engulfing him.
I couldn't help it. It was a true accident. But, and this is my wrongdoing, I didn't stop. I would now, I would at any time in the past thirty years. But I was young, afraid of his anger, without the self-confidence to do the right thing and stop, take him home, pay for the dry cleaning. Say sorry. I drove on.
And the moment passed. Nothing I can do. Telling you doesn't exonerate me. Poor man.
When I was about 15, I turned up at my school cookery class one day, complete with my apron and little gingham cap that I had made in dressmaking class, but with my long hair in a hairband rather than tied up. The teacher snapped at me for being untidy. She happened to be the sister of our next-door neighbour and, years later, I chatted to her at a party. She mentioned the incident. She said that she had regretted it ever since, that she had been so rude - she had said that I looked like one of the witches in Macbeth.
She apologised. I accepted the apology, saying that I had forgotten all about it and had not taken it as an unkindness. That was a polite lie, I had been upset and - whilst accepting that I had been untidy and deserved a rebuke - the hurt had, actually, lasted. But I so appreciated that she had remembered and been sorry, and had told me so.
If you know you've done something wrong and can put it right, that's one thing. But an unquiet conscience is a troubling thing. The biggest thing on mine? Not the worst thing I've done by any means, but the thing that I'm sorriest for happened more than thirty years ago. I was driving along a road in Lowestoft in my little Morris Minor, in the pouring rain one winter's day. I rounded a corner and was confronted by a vast puddle in front of me. No time to slow down, a car coming the other way so I couldn't drive around it, and an elderly man in a raincoat on the pavement. I can still picture the scene I saw in my rear-view mirror - a wall of water, head-height, engulfing him.
I couldn't help it. It was a true accident. But, and this is my wrongdoing, I didn't stop. I would now, I would at any time in the past thirty years. But I was young, afraid of his anger, without the self-confidence to do the right thing and stop, take him home, pay for the dry cleaning. Say sorry. I drove on.
And the moment passed. Nothing I can do. Telling you doesn't exonerate me. Poor man.
When I was about 15, I turned up at my school cookery class one day, complete with my apron and little gingham cap that I had made in dressmaking class, but with my long hair in a hairband rather than tied up. The teacher snapped at me for being untidy. She happened to be the sister of our next-door neighbour and, years later, I chatted to her at a party. She mentioned the incident. She said that she had regretted it ever since, that she had been so rude - she had said that I looked like one of the witches in Macbeth.
She apologised. I accepted the apology, saying that I had forgotten all about it and had not taken it as an unkindness. That was a polite lie, I had been upset and - whilst accepting that I had been untidy and deserved a rebuke - the hurt had, actually, lasted. But I so appreciated that she had remembered and been sorry, and had told me so.
A village decimated
I live in quite a small village. There are 400 houses, most of which have been built in the last 60 years - I should think fewer than 100 of them are older, although some may have been pulled down and replaced. The adult population of 720 has probably trebled in the last hundred years - more children were born, undoubtedly, than nowadays, but many of them did not survive to adulthood.
So, it hits me every year. In our church, the roll of honour, the list of those soldiers who died in the two world wars (no one from the village has died in the other wars that besmirch the world with such casually destructive regularity), is read out. And, in the 1914-1918 war, 25 men died. Roughly one tenth of the adults and, since that includes women and old men, this means a much higher proportion of young men. Most of that generation.
I wonder if we would be at war now if the elected leaders of our country had to lead the troops into battle nowadays. Or if President Bush's daughters and Mr Blair's sons and daughter were in the armed forces, on active service. It might have made them think twice.
So, it hits me every year. In our church, the roll of honour, the list of those soldiers who died in the two world wars (no one from the village has died in the other wars that besmirch the world with such casually destructive regularity), is read out. And, in the 1914-1918 war, 25 men died. Roughly one tenth of the adults and, since that includes women and old men, this means a much higher proportion of young men. Most of that generation.
I wonder if we would be at war now if the elected leaders of our country had to lead the troops into battle nowadays. Or if President Bush's daughters and Mr Blair's sons and daughter were in the armed forces, on active service. It might have made them think twice.
Saturday, 11 November 2006
The family story – part 7– today was my mother's birthday
My mother was born on 11th November 1923. Remembrance day. She said that her birthday was affected by sadness throughout her childhood - the war was still fresh in many peoples' minds. But it was only a few months before she died that she told me her shameful secret, as she saw it, that she had been afraid to tell, for fear of ridicule, all through her life.
And now I'm telling you. Not in disrespect of her, but for love and pity, that she was ashamed because of the thoughtless cruelty of her teacher, on her first day of school, as a motherless child already aware that she was different from the other children, sensitive and anxious.
She was asked her name. "Poppy," she replied. "Don't be stupid, that's a nickname. What's your real name?" My mother didn't know what to say, that was what she had always been called. Her second name was Jane, so the teacher called her that. And, from then on, she insisted, so did everyone else.
Her aunt's son, her only child, had been killed in the war. When the baby was born on Remembrance Day - Poppy Day* - she asked to name her.
I don't know why mummy (I know that is a childish name, but she hated mum and mother, and to her ma was her mother-in-law - not a compliment) took this so much to heart, but she was awfully upset when she told me. The only other people she had ever told were my father and stepfather, and my sister, W, found it out by chance - by coming upon her birth certificate - when in her teens. Mummy was so angry when she saw her reading it that W never dared tell anyone. "Don't laugh, don't mock me," she begged, when she told me. I was bewildered - "but it's a sweet name and anyway, how wickedly cruel of the teacher**. Don't tell me that she didn't have a list of the new children, of course she knew it was your real name. And it was nothing to be ashamed of anyway."
My mother, because she had never discussed it with anyone and was too upset about it to have thought it through for herself, had never thought of that. I wish she had confided in me before. It had only become shameful because it was a secret - and a secret because she was ashamed. If she had only talked about it, to a friend, to a daughter, she would have had it in perspective and been happier for it. So, in telling you, I'm freeing her. If she were still here, I'd ask her first, but she isn't.
*I'd like to make it entirely clear that her surname was not Day.
**Miss Hopper, also known as The Flea, teacher at Melksham village school in the 1920s, I am outing you. How could you have been so unkind?
And now I'm telling you. Not in disrespect of her, but for love and pity, that she was ashamed because of the thoughtless cruelty of her teacher, on her first day of school, as a motherless child already aware that she was different from the other children, sensitive and anxious.
She was asked her name. "Poppy," she replied. "Don't be stupid, that's a nickname. What's your real name?" My mother didn't know what to say, that was what she had always been called. Her second name was Jane, so the teacher called her that. And, from then on, she insisted, so did everyone else.
Her aunt's son, her only child, had been killed in the war. When the baby was born on Remembrance Day - Poppy Day* - she asked to name her.
I don't know why mummy (I know that is a childish name, but she hated mum and mother, and to her ma was her mother-in-law - not a compliment) took this so much to heart, but she was awfully upset when she told me. The only other people she had ever told were my father and stepfather, and my sister, W, found it out by chance - by coming upon her birth certificate - when in her teens. Mummy was so angry when she saw her reading it that W never dared tell anyone. "Don't laugh, don't mock me," she begged, when she told me. I was bewildered - "but it's a sweet name and anyway, how wickedly cruel of the teacher**. Don't tell me that she didn't have a list of the new children, of course she knew it was your real name. And it was nothing to be ashamed of anyway."
My mother, because she had never discussed it with anyone and was too upset about it to have thought it through for herself, had never thought of that. I wish she had confided in me before. It had only become shameful because it was a secret - and a secret because she was ashamed. If she had only talked about it, to a friend, to a daughter, she would have had it in perspective and been happier for it. So, in telling you, I'm freeing her. If she were still here, I'd ask her first, but she isn't.
*I'd like to make it entirely clear that her surname was not Day.
**Miss Hopper, also known as The Flea, teacher at Melksham village school in the 1920s, I am outing you. How could you have been so unkind?
Today, I laughed out loud
I expect you all read Salvadore Vincent already? If not, do read his Bathmatwatch, currently on Day 11. Go back to the start, also read all the comments - it is getting funnier by the day.
I see that someone's muesli exited their mouth onto the monitor. The other day I spat porridge onto my keyboard while reading JonnyB. It is not a good idea to read funny blogs whilst eating breakfast.
I see that someone's muesli exited their mouth onto the monitor. The other day I spat porridge onto my keyboard while reading JonnyB. It is not a good idea to read funny blogs whilst eating breakfast.
Why go for a single entendre, when you can get a double at no extra charge.
"I'll have some more of those Comice pears*," said a customer. "They are delicious. All that's wanted to make them perfect is to be unsprayed and English." "Don't know whether they are unsprayed," replied Al. "It's very expensive and demanding of record-keeping to be Soil Assured or Organic so lots of people don't bother, even if they don't use artificials. But they're English all right, they are from Kent. I can only get them for a few weeks each year and they work out expensive as they are so large, almost a pound in weight each so they cost about 50p. Well worth it though, they are the best."
He paused. Then he added "I wooed Dilly with these pears, you know. I met her in October and used them to impress her. She said that she had never seen such a big pear."
*Doyenne de Comice, as they are properly named.
He paused. Then he added "I wooed Dilly with these pears, you know. I met her in October and used them to impress her. She said that she had never seen such a big pear."
*Doyenne de Comice, as they are properly named.
Friday, 10 November 2006
What Z did yesterday
I've been busy this week and I've not been at home much for the last couple of days; I'm dismayed to see on Bloglines that I have 186 marked posts unread. I think a few people must have republished or something as three of them each have 25 posts, so I hope it's inaccurate, as there are also quite a few people bookmarked but not bloglined whom I want to catch up on.
Yesterday, I spent an interesting day being lectured about the Anglo Saxons. I will confess that it was becoming a bit deep by the end and I didn't take it all in, but really enjoyed it all nevertheless. The lecturer was a rather lovely Italian woman and I am afraid that, once or twice, my mind strayed enough to wonder how old she was ..... I'm so rude. She had grey hair and a completely unlined, although mature, face - I mean mature in the sense that the dewiness of youngness with its subcutaneous fat (grotty expression, if you come up with a better one I'll replace it) had gone, but all that did was to show to advantage her lovely bone structure.
I gave her a lift back to the station afterwards and she was lovely. Later, a friend was at dinner who had also been at the study day and she said that she and others had discussed the same subject - what did I think? I said that she must be older than she looks as her children are in their mid-20s. And she had been kind enough to be surprised that I was a grandmother. Ah, women can be so nice to each other. Pushing 50 but looks younger was the consensus (46-52, if you want precision).
Afterwards, I shopped purposefully and effectively, most satisfyingly in that I bought a pair of boots, which I really need, black, high heels (haven't measured them, but I have to stand upright or I'll tip over). Also a pair of red shoes, two pairs of gloves, one brown suede, one purple leather, a black hat (for warmth more than fashion) and assorted underwear.
Ooh, do you mind if I rant for a minute about bras? Gentlemen, stop reading now, this is purely technical and girlie and will not interest you.
Why are so many bras padded? Not underneath, to give a lift and increase cleavage, but all over, so that they stay rigidly in place and don't move when you do? And why are so many in deeply unattractive colour combinations? I had half an hour by the time I reached the stage of buying such necessities, so I dived into M&S which was handily nearby. Knickers, fine - though gosh, how do they justify such prices in a mere chain store? Or am I just hopelessly cheap in begrudging £11 for a pair? After that I stopped matching up and went for the 3 pairs for a tenner option (look, never suggest that I tell you nothing about me). Anyway, I looked at these bras with increasing desperation. I am blessed with a 34D. Which is fine. Just right. They are not the first thing that anyone notices about me, but I can achieve an effective cleavage if the circumstances warrant it. I do not need a padded bra. Nor do I need a minimiser bra, which sounds uncomfortable. I do not want enough ornamentation to show through my clothes, but I was not after something entirely plain - I was in frivolous mood, after all.
Well, I did find a couple in the end. But I was only enchanted with one of them - which was why I bought the matching knicks.
Today, helped Al in the shop as his staff are engaged elsewhere, and then a concert with Dilly's mum in Norwich this evening. So supper was bacon and eggs at 10.45 tonight. Plus a couple of glasses of chardonnay - will I sleep tonight?
Hope so, back in the shop tomorrow morning.
'Night. Have a good one.
Yesterday, I spent an interesting day being lectured about the Anglo Saxons. I will confess that it was becoming a bit deep by the end and I didn't take it all in, but really enjoyed it all nevertheless. The lecturer was a rather lovely Italian woman and I am afraid that, once or twice, my mind strayed enough to wonder how old she was ..... I'm so rude. She had grey hair and a completely unlined, although mature, face - I mean mature in the sense that the dewiness of youngness with its subcutaneous fat (grotty expression, if you come up with a better one I'll replace it) had gone, but all that did was to show to advantage her lovely bone structure.
I gave her a lift back to the station afterwards and she was lovely. Later, a friend was at dinner who had also been at the study day and she said that she and others had discussed the same subject - what did I think? I said that she must be older than she looks as her children are in their mid-20s. And she had been kind enough to be surprised that I was a grandmother. Ah, women can be so nice to each other. Pushing 50 but looks younger was the consensus (46-52, if you want precision).
Afterwards, I shopped purposefully and effectively, most satisfyingly in that I bought a pair of boots, which I really need, black, high heels (haven't measured them, but I have to stand upright or I'll tip over). Also a pair of red shoes, two pairs of gloves, one brown suede, one purple leather, a black hat (for warmth more than fashion) and assorted underwear.
Ooh, do you mind if I rant for a minute about bras? Gentlemen, stop reading now, this is purely technical and girlie and will not interest you.
Why are so many bras padded? Not underneath, to give a lift and increase cleavage, but all over, so that they stay rigidly in place and don't move when you do? And why are so many in deeply unattractive colour combinations? I had half an hour by the time I reached the stage of buying such necessities, so I dived into M&S which was handily nearby. Knickers, fine - though gosh, how do they justify such prices in a mere chain store? Or am I just hopelessly cheap in begrudging £11 for a pair? After that I stopped matching up and went for the 3 pairs for a tenner option (look, never suggest that I tell you nothing about me). Anyway, I looked at these bras with increasing desperation. I am blessed with a 34D. Which is fine. Just right. They are not the first thing that anyone notices about me, but I can achieve an effective cleavage if the circumstances warrant it. I do not need a padded bra. Nor do I need a minimiser bra, which sounds uncomfortable. I do not want enough ornamentation to show through my clothes, but I was not after something entirely plain - I was in frivolous mood, after all.
Well, I did find a couple in the end. But I was only enchanted with one of them - which was why I bought the matching knicks.
Today, helped Al in the shop as his staff are engaged elsewhere, and then a concert with Dilly's mum in Norwich this evening. So supper was bacon and eggs at 10.45 tonight. Plus a couple of glasses of chardonnay - will I sleep tonight?
Hope so, back in the shop tomorrow morning.
'Night. Have a good one.
Thursday, 9 November 2006
Z has the power?
I mentioned that I don't take it out on the Sage when I feel down. And I really don't think I do, I make a conscious effort not to. If I am feeling edgy or bad-tempered but it's nothing to do with him, I tend to apologise in advance - 'sorry, darling, I've had a rotten day and I feel very irritable, so if I snap, it's nothing personal, take no notice and I will say sorry afterwards.'
This is not, I hasten to add before my daughter issues a correction, to say that I am never bad-tempered with him, whether or not it is entirely his fault (for, surely, it is never entirely mine.....), though I do notice that when we are having a bit of a go at each other, my oldest and youngest child tend to side with him - my middle one doesn't say anything. I can understand this, as I remember sympathising with my father (silently) if my mother was being snappy. And of course we have a 'clearing of the air' once in a while.
But, with this proviso, I aim to be good-natured nowadays. Until a few months ago, I quite frequently had several unhappy days at a time but, although people could make it worse, they could not make it better and so I kept quiet about it. You see, I can say this now as it's over.
This long preamble - oh god, this is so like me, get to the point, woman - was setting the scene for what I'm really saying, which is that I have noticed many times that my bad mood might not upset the family, but my good mood certainly cheers it. Yesterday, as I said I would, I opened champagne, set out to charm, to engage Sage and Ro in conversation. And they responded at once. We all laughed, chatted, teased me when I said flutteringly that I wanted to be amused. Admittedly, my husband's idea of amusing me was to bring a whole lot of silver spoons and get Ro and me to check the hallmarks and date them, but it was togetherness in its way........and Ro told me lots of work anecdotes, which he rarely does....and we toasted marshmallows. They both complimented me, not only on last night's meal but the night before's too, which I had cooked but not been present to eat.
Is this the same in other families, I wonder? That the good mood of one person sets the mood of everyone? Not in a 'thank goodness she's not ratty tonight' way, but in a positively cheerful, without necessarily realising why, way? Or is it just me?
This is not, I hasten to add before my daughter issues a correction, to say that I am never bad-tempered with him, whether or not it is entirely his fault (for, surely, it is never entirely mine.....), though I do notice that when we are having a bit of a go at each other, my oldest and youngest child tend to side with him - my middle one doesn't say anything. I can understand this, as I remember sympathising with my father (silently) if my mother was being snappy. And of course we have a 'clearing of the air' once in a while.
But, with this proviso, I aim to be good-natured nowadays. Until a few months ago, I quite frequently had several unhappy days at a time but, although people could make it worse, they could not make it better and so I kept quiet about it. You see, I can say this now as it's over.
This long preamble - oh god, this is so like me, get to the point, woman - was setting the scene for what I'm really saying, which is that I have noticed many times that my bad mood might not upset the family, but my good mood certainly cheers it. Yesterday, as I said I would, I opened champagne, set out to charm, to engage Sage and Ro in conversation. And they responded at once. We all laughed, chatted, teased me when I said flutteringly that I wanted to be amused. Admittedly, my husband's idea of amusing me was to bring a whole lot of silver spoons and get Ro and me to check the hallmarks and date them, but it was togetherness in its way........and Ro told me lots of work anecdotes, which he rarely does....and we toasted marshmallows. They both complimented me, not only on last night's meal but the night before's too, which I had cooked but not been present to eat.
Is this the same in other families, I wonder? That the good mood of one person sets the mood of everyone? Not in a 'thank goodness she's not ratty tonight' way, but in a positively cheerful, without necessarily realising why, way? Or is it just me?
Wednesday, 8 November 2006
Z loses patience and becomes decisive
Right. Champagne is in the fridge and butternut squash risotto will be prepared for dinner. I have had enough of drooping around and intend to laugh all evening. This will be very disconcerting to my family, who may well be tempted to lock me in the attic, but I intend that they will find me irresistible and have to join in.
Wednesday.
I worked assiduously this morning. Not on what I'd intended to, as the Sage plonked a valuation on my desk to type up, but anytime I do work as soon as it is given to me feels like great efficiency.
I am chilly. The room is next to the Aga-warmed kitchen but it is, at present, unheated. Having become chillier during the morning, I have just lit two candles and fetched a blanket to go over my knees. It is not that cold really, it is just me.
I have realised that tomorrow I am going to spend the day in Norwich, until 4, and then have to be back there by 6.30. Norwich is half an hour's drive away. I wonder if it is worth coming home. Probably not and I might as well go to a café for a couple of hours. Or shop. I only really care to start Christmas shopping in December, but it is a busy month. I also have a not-shopping-in-Norwich-in-December policy, which I instituted some years ago when parking and, indeed, moving, became impossible. I tried parking and riding, which is fine if you are after a jolly or business, but is hopeless for real shopping as you need to decant parcels every so often. Shopping is not done in half measures.
I wonder if the second lunchtime glass of wine was not a good idea. It cheered me for a while, but now I'm gloomy again. Chocolate hasn't helped. Nor has music. Damn.
The Archers has just started. Wisely, I listened to it online last night as high drama was promised - the night when daggy Ruth was to embark on her dirty midweek with her cowman. Wise, as there was a fully descriptive review in the paper this morning. Why is Ruth such a deeply unappealing character? David is rather too perfect, albeit a tad dull, and her voice is truly dreadful - and don't tell me that, after nearly 20 years away from the North East, her accent would not have softened to some small degree - but surely that's not enough?
I'm not depressed. Just pissed off. Damn. If I'm not over it by tonight, champagne will be needed.
The good news is that I got a bank statement and I have whole lots more money than I thought, I don't know why.
I am chilly. The room is next to the Aga-warmed kitchen but it is, at present, unheated. Having become chillier during the morning, I have just lit two candles and fetched a blanket to go over my knees. It is not that cold really, it is just me.
I have realised that tomorrow I am going to spend the day in Norwich, until 4, and then have to be back there by 6.30. Norwich is half an hour's drive away. I wonder if it is worth coming home. Probably not and I might as well go to a café for a couple of hours. Or shop. I only really care to start Christmas shopping in December, but it is a busy month. I also have a not-shopping-in-Norwich-in-December policy, which I instituted some years ago when parking and, indeed, moving, became impossible. I tried parking and riding, which is fine if you are after a jolly or business, but is hopeless for real shopping as you need to decant parcels every so often. Shopping is not done in half measures.
I wonder if the second lunchtime glass of wine was not a good idea. It cheered me for a while, but now I'm gloomy again. Chocolate hasn't helped. Nor has music. Damn.
The Archers has just started. Wisely, I listened to it online last night as high drama was promised - the night when daggy Ruth was to embark on her dirty midweek with her cowman. Wise, as there was a fully descriptive review in the paper this morning. Why is Ruth such a deeply unappealing character? David is rather too perfect, albeit a tad dull, and her voice is truly dreadful - and don't tell me that, after nearly 20 years away from the North East, her accent would not have softened to some small degree - but surely that's not enough?
I'm not depressed. Just pissed off. Damn. If I'm not over it by tonight, champagne will be needed.
The good news is that I got a bank statement and I have whole lots more money than I thought, I don't know why.
Tuesday, 7 November 2006
Three meetings in a day proves too many
I make a crap chairman. I even took my gavel to a meeting, but it seemed rude to use it. Very bossy, banging a gavel.
Do you know, sometimes I really feel I'll be glad when I can quit. I devised a five-year plan to come off all committees. Within a few weeks, I had agreed to join another one as the secretary was moving away from the area and they really needed someone at once.
This happened five years ago last June. Last July, I left one committee. I still have a five year plan.
I suppose it would be useful to have a proper job at which I was visibly busy every day, so that people wouldn't think I have plenty of time to spare. I know I appear capable, confident, articulate, but not domineering. I explain that I am also lazy, disorganised and casual, although efficient. This is absolutely true, but saying so is sometimes mistaken for modesty.
I will feel less grumpy in the morning.
But I will still rather want to quit.
Do you know, sometimes I really feel I'll be glad when I can quit. I devised a five-year plan to come off all committees. Within a few weeks, I had agreed to join another one as the secretary was moving away from the area and they really needed someone at once.
This happened five years ago last June. Last July, I left one committee. I still have a five year plan.
I suppose it would be useful to have a proper job at which I was visibly busy every day, so that people wouldn't think I have plenty of time to spare. I know I appear capable, confident, articulate, but not domineering. I explain that I am also lazy, disorganised and casual, although efficient. This is absolutely true, but saying so is sometimes mistaken for modesty.
I will feel less grumpy in the morning.
But I will still rather want to quit.
Monday, 6 November 2006
An afternoon of being granny
This morning, being a dutiful governor at the High School. Sat in a history lesson as an observer and then went to talk to the folks in the Learning Support Department. And remembered to make an appointment for my next visit, as good intentions are not enough and it's easy to find that half a term has gone by and I haven't done a thing.
Dilly rang up. Squiffany would really love to go for a walk, but Pugsley had just gone to sleep on her. Well, it just so happened that, not only would I enjoy a walk too, but I had some things to deliver in the village. We took Tilly -unfortunately, forgot a plastic bag. Fortunately, had some tissues wrapped in plastic. Unfortunately, then had to carry steaming handful. Fortunately, only for 100 yards or so, as the village is well equipped with bins designed for the purpose of depositing doggy deposits.
Squiffany has, over the last week or so, started to use short sentences. Previously, they were a succession of one word comments, but now she will say things like "my nice juice"' and "where my nice hat please?" You will see the generally cheerful nature of these remarks, I don't think she has a 'cross' vocabulary yet. When upset or tired, she just cries. Not today, I'm glad to say, when she started to rub her eyes she lay on the sofa for a couple of minutes but then got up again, so I asked her if she would like to go for a ride in the car, to send her to sleep. She thought this was a good idea and so it was.
Time to cook. Then, time to work as I haven't done my desktop duties today. Three phone calls and an email do not constitute a day's work.
PS ... 7.36pm ... I eye the inch of wine in the bottle worriedly. I really hope it is not I who have drunk all that, as I don't remember having done so. Dinner will be ready in five minutes or so, frightfully Englishly it is roast loin of pork, local leeks and sprouts, roast potatoes...the pork has crackling of course, which is the point of pork. Why do some countries cut the rind off pork?*
I'm sure that someone else has drunk some of the wine. It wasn't I; for one thing my grammar is not desperately astray and nor is my spelling, and for another there have been no typos to correct. But the thought of two hours work later (minimum) is not a happy one.
*Not countries as such; the butchers or cooks in said countries.
Dilly rang up. Squiffany would really love to go for a walk, but Pugsley had just gone to sleep on her. Well, it just so happened that, not only would I enjoy a walk too, but I had some things to deliver in the village. We took Tilly -unfortunately, forgot a plastic bag. Fortunately, had some tissues wrapped in plastic. Unfortunately, then had to carry steaming handful. Fortunately, only for 100 yards or so, as the village is well equipped with bins designed for the purpose of depositing doggy deposits.
Squiffany has, over the last week or so, started to use short sentences. Previously, they were a succession of one word comments, but now she will say things like "my nice juice"' and "where my nice hat please?" You will see the generally cheerful nature of these remarks, I don't think she has a 'cross' vocabulary yet. When upset or tired, she just cries. Not today, I'm glad to say, when she started to rub her eyes she lay on the sofa for a couple of minutes but then got up again, so I asked her if she would like to go for a ride in the car, to send her to sleep. She thought this was a good idea and so it was.
Time to cook. Then, time to work as I haven't done my desktop duties today. Three phone calls and an email do not constitute a day's work.
PS ... 7.36pm ... I eye the inch of wine in the bottle worriedly. I really hope it is not I who have drunk all that, as I don't remember having done so. Dinner will be ready in five minutes or so, frightfully Englishly it is roast loin of pork, local leeks and sprouts, roast potatoes...the pork has crackling of course, which is the point of pork. Why do some countries cut the rind off pork?*
I'm sure that someone else has drunk some of the wine. It wasn't I; for one thing my grammar is not desperately astray and nor is my spelling, and for another there have been no typos to correct. But the thought of two hours work later (minimum) is not a happy one.
*Not countries as such; the butchers or cooks in said countries.
Sunday, 5 November 2006
Z is the envy of Ben Gunn
He dreamed of cheese, toasted mostly, if my memory deceives me not. I had a yearning too, and promptly gave in to it, with toasted cheese, soup and a glass of sherry for lunch.
I didn't get down to the pub today. It was after 1 o'clock when I left the church. We had spent some time searching for the silk poppies that assist the flower arrangements for Remembrance Sunday. After clambering awkwardly through the hatch into the attic, looking in the bier shed and all cupboards, I finally spotted them. In a vase, on a windowsill, behind a drawn curtain. Oh.
I arrived home to find a note from the Sage. He is out, making business calls. A self-employed person is never off duty, even for Sunday lunchtime. So, a snack lunch and a look in the paper to see what is on television. Oh. I glanced through the satellite channels, to make sure that I was not missing anything by not subscribing to them. I am not.
So, the Sunday papers and some music it will be, then. Mozart (and Süssmeyer)s' Requiem, to start with, to soothe and uplift. Not that I vastly need it, but I hate that sodding loft ladder.
No, I will not think of it again. Requiem eternam, instead.
I didn't get down to the pub today. It was after 1 o'clock when I left the church. We had spent some time searching for the silk poppies that assist the flower arrangements for Remembrance Sunday. After clambering awkwardly through the hatch into the attic, looking in the bier shed and all cupboards, I finally spotted them. In a vase, on a windowsill, behind a drawn curtain. Oh.
I arrived home to find a note from the Sage. He is out, making business calls. A self-employed person is never off duty, even for Sunday lunchtime. So, a snack lunch and a look in the paper to see what is on television. Oh. I glanced through the satellite channels, to make sure that I was not missing anything by not subscribing to them. I am not.
So, the Sunday papers and some music it will be, then. Mozart (and Süssmeyer)s' Requiem, to start with, to soothe and uplift. Not that I vastly need it, but I hate that sodding loft ladder.
No, I will not think of it again. Requiem eternam, instead.
Saturday, 4 November 2006
Z puts her feet up
I'm glad to say that the Bishop was awfully nice and gave a good sermon (and not too long into the bargain). There were, disconcertingly, more clergy in one country church than I've ever seen before. Whole piles of them. No one was wearing their most elaborately embroidered vestments; the Bishop himself was in a tasteful shade of maroon, topped with black, then white - all this would not be for me as I'm far too vain and that many layers would make me look Fat. When shaking his hand for the second time, I was holding my stave which is about 7 foot long and since I am little (heightwise, at any rate) it wavered and nearly came to blows with his Crook (I guess there is a proper name for it but if I ever knew it I've forgotten. Unless it's a crosier. Which it could well be). He looked momentarily alarmed, as well he might.
I redeemed myself later, when he arrived at the village school where food and drink were on offer. No one else hurried to meet him so I bobbed up greetingly and offered to get him a drink. He brightened considerably as he noticed the glass in my hand and asked for red wine; I used the opportunity to get a refill.
We had a list of guests for whom we had reserved seats as they had to say a Few Words, so each of us looked out for the ones we would recognise. I had the pleasure, after my lamentations the other day about an inability to remember faces or names, of greeting several people by name, who looked startled because they didn't know who I was until I told them. This included our local Member of Parliament, but I spared him by saying "we have met, but you won't remember me, I was the governor who showed you round *my village* school a couple of years ago." Mind you, decent bloke though he is, he has a little way to go yet to match our last MP John M@cGregor, who remembered everyone to a disconcerting degree. Once - he was Secret@ry of St@te for Educ@tion at the time - he quizzed me about my opinions and then, rather gratifyingly, used them in his next House of Commons speech. I'm not sure what they were, it was a long time ago.
By the end of it all my legs were not working very well, as I wore entirely impractical shoes and stood in them for rather over five hours. The first two times trolling up and down the aisle were not too absurd, but self-consciousness kicked in on the third occasion and I felt entirely foolish.
Today, I remembered - with more than a week to go, yay! - to ask a suitable person to read the Roll of Honour at the Remembrance Sunday service tomorrow week. And check that someone has ordered a poppy wreath.*
A bonfire party tonight. We'll have a few fireworks tomorrow I expect. And make a guy. The Sage's father's name was Guy - we always celebrated his birthday on Bonfire Night, though after his death we found his birth certificate and found that wasn't his birthday after all, it was the day before!
*Pride goeth before destruction and an haughty spirit before a fall. I checked around to see if there was anything else I should do. "Bugler?" asked Sue. I know no bugler. I hope someone does - or has a CD. I just don't think the Last Post will sound the same on a clarinet. Or a saxophone.
I redeemed myself later, when he arrived at the village school where food and drink were on offer. No one else hurried to meet him so I bobbed up greetingly and offered to get him a drink. He brightened considerably as he noticed the glass in my hand and asked for red wine; I used the opportunity to get a refill.
We had a list of guests for whom we had reserved seats as they had to say a Few Words, so each of us looked out for the ones we would recognise. I had the pleasure, after my lamentations the other day about an inability to remember faces or names, of greeting several people by name, who looked startled because they didn't know who I was until I told them. This included our local Member of Parliament, but I spared him by saying "we have met, but you won't remember me, I was the governor who showed you round *my village* school a couple of years ago." Mind you, decent bloke though he is, he has a little way to go yet to match our last MP John M@cGregor, who remembered everyone to a disconcerting degree. Once - he was Secret@ry of St@te for Educ@tion at the time - he quizzed me about my opinions and then, rather gratifyingly, used them in his next House of Commons speech. I'm not sure what they were, it was a long time ago.
By the end of it all my legs were not working very well, as I wore entirely impractical shoes and stood in them for rather over five hours. The first two times trolling up and down the aisle were not too absurd, but self-consciousness kicked in on the third occasion and I felt entirely foolish.
Today, I remembered - with more than a week to go, yay! - to ask a suitable person to read the Roll of Honour at the Remembrance Sunday service tomorrow week. And check that someone has ordered a poppy wreath.*
A bonfire party tonight. We'll have a few fireworks tomorrow I expect. And make a guy. The Sage's father's name was Guy - we always celebrated his birthday on Bonfire Night, though after his death we found his birth certificate and found that wasn't his birthday after all, it was the day before!
*Pride goeth before destruction and an haughty spirit before a fall. I checked around to see if there was anything else I should do. "Bugler?" asked Sue. I know no bugler. I hope someone does - or has a CD. I just don't think the Last Post will sound the same on a clarinet. Or a saxophone.
Friday, 3 November 2006
Doing time
I pottered around for a while this morning. Tidied up, read and answered emails, wrote letter and readied it for the post. It was not until twenty to ten that I thought about breakfast. For the first time this autumn, my mind went hungrily to porridge.
The Sage and I often have porridge for breakfast in the winter. But rarely do we cook and eat it together. Apart from the fact that, today, he had breakfasted and gone out long ago, this is for several reasons.
I cook it quickly, boiled fast so that the grains don't break down and there is still some texture as I eat.
He likes to simmer it gently for a long time, so that it is smooth and - is there a non-oily word that gives the same effect as unctuous? Without me actually mentioning wallpaper paste?
I add a pinch of salt before cooking.
He, virtuously, does not.
I make it with half milk, half water, as little as possible so that it is not too sloppy.
He makes it with half milk, half water, but plenty of it so that it is not too dry.
I add a few grains of dark brown Muscovado sugar, for flavour more than sweetness.
He adds a spoonful of white sugar for sweetness.
I add a few extra drops of milk, just enough that it doesn't actually set.
He adds plenty of milk.
It would be just too poncy to stand stirring two pans of porridge at the same time, but really, neither of us likes the way the other cooks it. Though we will be polite and eat it of course, if it has been, kindly, made.
Better to breakfast alone really.
However, if you do make porridge, maybe best not to take it back to the computer and idly read a few blogs as you eat. Not JonnyB, at any rate. A sudden laugh catching you unawares can eject a mouthful. Porridge is not easy to remove from a keyboard and must be done at once. Otherwise it sets, with properties not dissimilar from concrete.
The Sage and I often have porridge for breakfast in the winter. But rarely do we cook and eat it together. Apart from the fact that, today, he had breakfasted and gone out long ago, this is for several reasons.
I cook it quickly, boiled fast so that the grains don't break down and there is still some texture as I eat.
He likes to simmer it gently for a long time, so that it is smooth and - is there a non-oily word that gives the same effect as unctuous? Without me actually mentioning wallpaper paste?
I add a pinch of salt before cooking.
He, virtuously, does not.
I make it with half milk, half water, as little as possible so that it is not too sloppy.
He makes it with half milk, half water, but plenty of it so that it is not too dry.
I add a few grains of dark brown Muscovado sugar, for flavour more than sweetness.
He adds a spoonful of white sugar for sweetness.
I add a few extra drops of milk, just enough that it doesn't actually set.
He adds plenty of milk.
It would be just too poncy to stand stirring two pans of porridge at the same time, but really, neither of us likes the way the other cooks it. Though we will be polite and eat it of course, if it has been, kindly, made.
Better to breakfast alone really.
However, if you do make porridge, maybe best not to take it back to the computer and idly read a few blogs as you eat. Not JonnyB, at any rate. A sudden laugh catching you unawares can eject a mouthful. Porridge is not easy to remove from a keyboard and must be done at once. Otherwise it sets, with properties not dissimilar from concrete.
Thursday, 2 November 2006
This and that
Random bits tonight, as I have spent a long time wrestling with a post that won't be ready for a day or two.
Have I mentioned the new Rector? She will be Instituted and Inducted tomorrow night, by the Bishop of Norwich no less, in a church not far from here (not my village, but the same group). We had a practice the other night. The churchwardens (of whom I am one) have to shift themselves up and down that sodding aisle no fewer than three times. I suspect we will look total idiots. We will be carrying Staves. At one point, my lovely fellow-churchwarden and another male CW will have to shift the Bishop's chair, as he won't need it any more. So I'll have to carry two staves and will, undoubtedly*, trip over one or both of them.
Do you know anything about this? Honestly, it brings out the worst in the Church of England: the love of ceremony.
First they dress up like Total Twats. Sorry. But they do. All church dignitaries are actors manqués and love dressing up. They prance up and down aisles as if anyone is looking at them. Well, we are, but in disbelief. I'm not saying this is not a meaningful ceremony; of course it is, but surely less can be more. It's like weddings. Often, the more elaborate the wedding, the shorter the marriage (I can say this as I have been married for ages and ages and had three guests, two of whom were witnesses, at my civil ceremony)....you will appreciate that I generalise for effect and am not wishing to cast aspersions on anyone who has had a Dream Fairytale Wedding, but I have known a few where the wedding was the be all and the marriage was the end all.
Then they have too much meaningful stuff. The Rector to be has to be introduced to the door of the church, the bells, the font (and handed the Water), the episcopal seal, the chair, the altar, the oil, the bible, the bread and wine - really, it's like Alice in Wonderland, or an Australian tale I read as a child called the Magic Pudding.
The good thing is that, at the end, we all disembark to the village school where there is food and wine (and coffee, pfft) laid on.
In preparation, this evening, I had said I'd take forty chairs from our church room to the church in question. I borrowed Al's van - it's a little Postman Pat van - and took it to the church. I thought, rather dismally, that I would be spending a couple of rather hard-working hours alone....but then, out of the woodwork, appeared three helpful men who let me marvel at their muscularity as they dealt with most of the work. They were marvellous. The whole thing was done in 45 minutes.
What else? I've done a couple of simple but tedious tasks that I have been pretending not to have time to do for a couple of weeks.
Ah yes. A breakthrough yesterday. Squiffany asked, for the first time, to use the potty. "Daddy, poo. Potty.**" He took her into her room and she started to play and to inveigle him into playing too. He thought she was taking the, um, poo, and went back to the highly important job of plumbing in the new washing machine. But a few minutes later, she called him again and this time, she followed through. Much praise and ceremony. I have a feeling that so many children are still in nappies now because disposables are so comfortable. I know a few three-year-olds, and one child of nearly five - mind you, his house-husband father is hopeless, though sweet - still in nappies. It may be no coincidence that Squiffany is in proper washable nappies and doesn't really like them wet or dirty.
Um. I've probably delighted you long enough.***
*I was affronted, yesterday morning, to hear on the Today prog on Radio 4, some government chappie say, clearly and inaccurately, "undoubtably." Really me.
**Endlessly interesting, the English language. Poo is what is done, pooh is the aroma. Pooh, of course, is the bear.
***I do trust that you all follow my literary allusions.
Have I mentioned the new Rector? She will be Instituted and Inducted tomorrow night, by the Bishop of Norwich no less, in a church not far from here (not my village, but the same group). We had a practice the other night. The churchwardens (of whom I am one) have to shift themselves up and down that sodding aisle no fewer than three times. I suspect we will look total idiots. We will be carrying Staves. At one point, my lovely fellow-churchwarden and another male CW will have to shift the Bishop's chair, as he won't need it any more. So I'll have to carry two staves and will, undoubtedly*, trip over one or both of them.
Do you know anything about this? Honestly, it brings out the worst in the Church of England: the love of ceremony.
First they dress up like Total Twats. Sorry. But they do. All church dignitaries are actors manqués and love dressing up. They prance up and down aisles as if anyone is looking at them. Well, we are, but in disbelief. I'm not saying this is not a meaningful ceremony; of course it is, but surely less can be more. It's like weddings. Often, the more elaborate the wedding, the shorter the marriage (I can say this as I have been married for ages and ages and had three guests, two of whom were witnesses, at my civil ceremony)....you will appreciate that I generalise for effect and am not wishing to cast aspersions on anyone who has had a Dream Fairytale Wedding, but I have known a few where the wedding was the be all and the marriage was the end all.
Then they have too much meaningful stuff. The Rector to be has to be introduced to the door of the church, the bells, the font (and handed the Water), the episcopal seal, the chair, the altar, the oil, the bible, the bread and wine - really, it's like Alice in Wonderland, or an Australian tale I read as a child called the Magic Pudding.
The good thing is that, at the end, we all disembark to the village school where there is food and wine (and coffee, pfft) laid on.
In preparation, this evening, I had said I'd take forty chairs from our church room to the church in question. I borrowed Al's van - it's a little Postman Pat van - and took it to the church. I thought, rather dismally, that I would be spending a couple of rather hard-working hours alone....but then, out of the woodwork, appeared three helpful men who let me marvel at their muscularity as they dealt with most of the work. They were marvellous. The whole thing was done in 45 minutes.
What else? I've done a couple of simple but tedious tasks that I have been pretending not to have time to do for a couple of weeks.
Ah yes. A breakthrough yesterday. Squiffany asked, for the first time, to use the potty. "Daddy, poo. Potty.**" He took her into her room and she started to play and to inveigle him into playing too. He thought she was taking the, um, poo, and went back to the highly important job of plumbing in the new washing machine. But a few minutes later, she called him again and this time, she followed through. Much praise and ceremony. I have a feeling that so many children are still in nappies now because disposables are so comfortable. I know a few three-year-olds, and one child of nearly five - mind you, his house-husband father is hopeless, though sweet - still in nappies. It may be no coincidence that Squiffany is in proper washable nappies and doesn't really like them wet or dirty.
Um. I've probably delighted you long enough.***
*I was affronted, yesterday morning, to hear on the Today prog on Radio 4, some government chappie say, clearly and inaccurately, "undoubtably." Really me.
**Endlessly interesting, the English language. Poo is what is done, pooh is the aroma. Pooh, of course, is the bear.
***I do trust that you all follow my literary allusions.
Wednesday, 1 November 2006
Whatever is in a name, I can't remember it
I went to the hairdresser today. I generally look fairly unkempt in a reasonably tidy sort of way, so it might be hard to believe that I have my hair cut every five weeks, but so it is. At least I look okay for one day in thirty-five.
The person before me had been held up and was late for her appointment, so I had time to sit and contemplate Life in general, and the conversations going on in particular. What I like about my hairdressers is that the chat tends to be general, you might exchange a few words with your own coiffeuse, but if the subject is a good one it gets spread throughout the room and can be very entertaining.
As one person left, she called out "Goodbye Ginnie!" And one of the hairdressers turned and waved. This puzzled me as I had always thought her name was Nicki. But sure enough, not long afterwards, someone called her Virginia.*
I pondered my inability to remember names. Many people find it hard to put names to faces. Others find it hard to put faces to names. I cannot, without great difficulty, remember either.
Not long ago, there was an article in the paper about *the latest syndrome*, which demonstrated that some people, however hard they try, simply haven't got the mental equipment to recognise people easily. There is, apparently, a test you can take. At one point, they bring on a series of pictures of people whose pictures have been doctored to eliminate the hair. The journalist taking the test - and her mother and her daughter - reacted with laughter. Impossibly to tell them apart. This reaction, it appears, is in itself a vitual diagnosis that you can't recognise people by their features alone.
I don't think I'm that bad, but I am not very good. Unfortunately, I'm awful with names too. I do try, very hard, and I have vastly improved over the years. When I moved to this house, twenty years ago, I had to make a whole new circle of friends and I really didn't want anyone to think I didn't care enough to know their name. I joined the WI and I used to spend meetings looking round the circle (we don't sit in rows), putting names to faces. I became secretary of various committees, so that I would have names in front of me that I could use as aides memoires.
What I do usually remember are facts. If you were to be introduced to me, I would be listening to what you say. I might, therefore, not know your name or your face, but if you told me the names of your children, your opinion about an issue of the day, that you loved eggs Benedict but were allergic to nuts, that your dog was born on Christmas Day 2001, I'd know all that about you forever. Just not, unfortunately, who you are. Or what you look like.
I am not good about asking personal questions. If you don't tell me your name - and why not? Why not, for goodness' sake? I tell you my name, and I'll remind you of it the next time we meet** and how we last met furthermore, because it's embarrassing to be looked at blankly, but just how many people return this favour? Not enough. Really, not enough.
Funnily enough, contemplating writing about this, I read a few blogs and came upon today's from Stitchwort. Who is finding much the same as me, but as a more recent phenomenon. Though I suspect it is because, at present, she has too much else to think about as she remembers facts etc. as usual.
However, I have always wondered what would happen if I ever were to develop Alzheimers. How would anyone ever know? What difference would there be to notice?
*Actually, afterwards I realised that another hairdresser is called Nicki. I just had them a bit mixed up. Look, I always told you I was disorganised.
**This is, of course, assuming that I know who the hell you are
The person before me had been held up and was late for her appointment, so I had time to sit and contemplate Life in general, and the conversations going on in particular. What I like about my hairdressers is that the chat tends to be general, you might exchange a few words with your own coiffeuse, but if the subject is a good one it gets spread throughout the room and can be very entertaining.
As one person left, she called out "Goodbye Ginnie!" And one of the hairdressers turned and waved. This puzzled me as I had always thought her name was Nicki. But sure enough, not long afterwards, someone called her Virginia.*
I pondered my inability to remember names. Many people find it hard to put names to faces. Others find it hard to put faces to names. I cannot, without great difficulty, remember either.
Not long ago, there was an article in the paper about *the latest syndrome*, which demonstrated that some people, however hard they try, simply haven't got the mental equipment to recognise people easily. There is, apparently, a test you can take. At one point, they bring on a series of pictures of people whose pictures have been doctored to eliminate the hair. The journalist taking the test - and her mother and her daughter - reacted with laughter. Impossibly to tell them apart. This reaction, it appears, is in itself a vitual diagnosis that you can't recognise people by their features alone.
I don't think I'm that bad, but I am not very good. Unfortunately, I'm awful with names too. I do try, very hard, and I have vastly improved over the years. When I moved to this house, twenty years ago, I had to make a whole new circle of friends and I really didn't want anyone to think I didn't care enough to know their name. I joined the WI and I used to spend meetings looking round the circle (we don't sit in rows), putting names to faces. I became secretary of various committees, so that I would have names in front of me that I could use as aides memoires.
What I do usually remember are facts. If you were to be introduced to me, I would be listening to what you say. I might, therefore, not know your name or your face, but if you told me the names of your children, your opinion about an issue of the day, that you loved eggs Benedict but were allergic to nuts, that your dog was born on Christmas Day 2001, I'd know all that about you forever. Just not, unfortunately, who you are. Or what you look like.
I am not good about asking personal questions. If you don't tell me your name - and why not? Why not, for goodness' sake? I tell you my name, and I'll remind you of it the next time we meet** and how we last met furthermore, because it's embarrassing to be looked at blankly, but just how many people return this favour? Not enough. Really, not enough.
Funnily enough, contemplating writing about this, I read a few blogs and came upon today's from Stitchwort. Who is finding much the same as me, but as a more recent phenomenon. Though I suspect it is because, at present, she has too much else to think about as she remembers facts etc. as usual.
However, I have always wondered what would happen if I ever were to develop Alzheimers. How would anyone ever know? What difference would there be to notice?
*Actually, afterwards I realised that another hairdresser is called Nicki. I just had them a bit mixed up. Look, I always told you I was disorganised.
**This is, of course, assuming that I know who the hell you are
"I woke up this morning" - the 1st November Blues
I woke up this morning, it was 5.22
I woke up this morning, it was five twenty-two.
It was already light and I felt blue because at 5.22 this afternoon it will be dark and that is really absurd.
Stuff GMT, I want British Summer Time all year round.
I woke up this morning, it was five twenty-two.
It was already light and I felt blue because at 5.22 this afternoon it will be dark and that is really absurd.
Stuff GMT, I want British Summer Time all year round.
Tuesday, 31 October 2006
Am I getting a DBM?
Is it that one's face gets thinner, even if one gets fatter, as one ages?
I have a scarred upper lip. The result of being hit accidentally in the face by a perfectly pleasant, but quite beefy (not in the overweight sense, just tall and muscular) German girl called Leonarda Swirskis (I may not have the spelling right and I rather hope I don't in case she ever Googles herself) wielding a hockey stick. I was 14 at the time, I think, and I never engaged in a game of hockey again. I avoided the action. Fortunately, it missed my teeth, but I can still feel the scar on the inside of my lip, but until recently it was not visible to the outside world. Well, it was if you knew it was there, but no-one did.
Twice recently, I have looked in the mirror (always a mistake) and seen it. As a line extending through and above the lip. This is a precursor of a DBM which is the sorriest manifestation of female old age. Well, apart from incontinence.
Bugger.
I have a scarred upper lip. The result of being hit accidentally in the face by a perfectly pleasant, but quite beefy (not in the overweight sense, just tall and muscular) German girl called Leonarda Swirskis (I may not have the spelling right and I rather hope I don't in case she ever Googles herself) wielding a hockey stick. I was 14 at the time, I think, and I never engaged in a game of hockey again. I avoided the action. Fortunately, it missed my teeth, but I can still feel the scar on the inside of my lip, but until recently it was not visible to the outside world. Well, it was if you knew it was there, but no-one did.
Twice recently, I have looked in the mirror (always a mistake) and seen it. As a line extending through and above the lip. This is a precursor of a DBM which is the sorriest manifestation of female old age. Well, apart from incontinence.
Bugger.
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