We canoodled enjoyably for a couple of hours before getting up around nine o'clock. I was still in no hurry to start the day and ran a bath and lay back in it for a while. We have a six-foot bath, which is excellent if I want to lie down, but no good at all if I just want to relax without getting my hair wet, as I have to stretch out my toes to keep from slipping under the water and it isn't as relaxing as I'd like it to be.
Lying there reminded me of when I was a child, and I would lie full length in the bath, with just my face out of the water and my body gently floating. I think I must have been propped on my elbows. It was very restful.
We had a service at a neighbouring church, to celebrate the ordination of one of its parishioners yesterday. In a benefice of six churches, we now have a rector, a retired clergyman and four OLMs (Ordained Local Ministers), as well as several Lay Readers or trainees and another trainee OLM. Someone mentioned gently at the churchwardens' meeting last night that, splendid as it is to have so many able and dedicated people to preside at services, we're a bit low on helpers to do the actual boring spadework, like cleaning churches, being treasurers and suchlike.
It was a delightful service, with a big congregation. Reg is very popular. I felt a little croaky - I have a cold - and became tired, so I did everyone a favour by not joining in the hymns. I reflected, seeing the rapt faces of some people during the last hymn, that maybe the mark of being 'born again' is actually seeing the point of 'Shine Jesus Shine. I don't get it at all, merely finding it tedious to play, but those who do absolutely love it and unselfconsciously put their faces up and hold their arms out. Afterwards, there was a lunch at the village school. I left quite early, warning a friend that I might not get to the piano recital that afternoon.
I didn't. I slept instead. I lay on the sofa and zonked for an hour and a half and then still lay stupefied for half an hour. When I opened my eyes, Tilly was sitting on a chair where she could see my face. It isn't a chair she normally sits on. I made space and she jumped on the sofa and wriggled up towards me for a cuddle.
I wrote up all the shop takings for the week, with the till totals. This was doing fine until Friday, when evidently someone (I'm pretty sure it wasn't me) had made a fairly substantial error and not noted it. One of the Saturday girls had done a similar thing too. She had called me over at one point, saying that the till was playing up - I put it right that time, but it must have happened again. It's easy to do - usually, one keys in the figure and forgets to enter it, presses the next figure, enters that, and it looks like a bigger figure. Let's say 89p, then £1.25 - it would show up as £891.25. What is supposed to happen is that one prints out the receipt, puts it in the till and does the transaction again, then Al corrects it at the end of the day.
Next week, I must catch up on things because I'm off on holiday on Friday. This will include I, Like the View's meme, which is half-written, and a couple of other posts I seem to have said I'll write. I'm in London on Wednesday, visiting the Mansion House and the Goldsmiths' Fair.
I'm pondering again whether to resign (or rather, not ask to be reappointed) as a school governor next summer. I'm presently vice-chairman and, as we're expecting an Ofsted inspection, the Head would like me to carry on. I'm also Special Educational Needs governor. I do a fair bit for that, but I am uncomfortably aware that I've been coasting for a couple of years. I think it's time to go, but it's quite hard to let go. 18 years at one school and 8 at another (with overlap, that totals 20 years) is a lot to relinquish. I've promised to write to the chairman, and tell her what I'm thinking and why.
I'm going to bed to wake my husband again.
But before I do, a wave to Mike, who has written a comment for every post this month. He needs no introduction from me, as he is so well know already but, although I already knew he was interesting, likeable and very readable, I now also know that he is quite the most charming bloke I have ever met. Not that I've actually met him, but whatever. Thanks, Mike, and congratulations on your endurance.
Sunday, 30 September 2007
Saturday, 29 September 2007
Pugsley's Birthday!!(!)
I finished my week's stint in the shop today. I found it quite tiring, and it was hard to get going this morning. It wasn't helped by my wakefulness at 4 am, wondering if it had been wise not to order peaches and nectarines - they are past their best and losing a juicy texture, although they taste good, and I had decided the leftover trays from yesterday were enough. I was happy about it at midnight when I went to bed, so why did it dwell on my mind when it was too late to do anything about it?
Anyway, I got up and did whatever you do at 4.45 when you can't sleep. I can't remember. I do remember picking spinach at 7.30.
Today is Pugsley's first birthday. They arrived home just before 5 (pm) and Al wondered if he should come and help me pack up. His father, rightly, said no. He's on holiday until tomorrow night when he phones in his orders.
When Squiffany was one, we bought her a train set. For Pugsley, we bought ... wait for it ... a train set. Unimaginative? Us? I Think Not. It is the same sort, so they can build a big track or each build their own. Our own children waited until they were a little older and then received 50s clockwork trains.
When I was a child, I'd have loved to have received boys' toys. I didn't like dolls and things and mostly read, played board games and did jigsaws. I did a lot outdoors too, in case you are dismissing me as a complete dull thing, just so long as it wasn't labelled Sport. I'm afraid that team games and other hearty things were seen, by the lofty and appallingly arrogant Z, as things done by unappealingly hearty people who sucked up to Games mistresses. Anyway, I never had a train set, so I had to rectify matters with my own daughter. I didn't encourage any Sindy or Barbie nonsense either, although proper dolls would have been permitted if El had shown any interest.
Anyway, I still maintain that boys' toys are more fun than girls' toys.
Anyway, I got up and did whatever you do at 4.45 when you can't sleep. I can't remember. I do remember picking spinach at 7.30.
Today is Pugsley's first birthday. They arrived home just before 5 (pm) and Al wondered if he should come and help me pack up. His father, rightly, said no. He's on holiday until tomorrow night when he phones in his orders.
When Squiffany was one, we bought her a train set. For Pugsley, we bought ... wait for it ... a train set. Unimaginative? Us? I Think Not. It is the same sort, so they can build a big track or each build their own. Our own children waited until they were a little older and then received 50s clockwork trains.
When I was a child, I'd have loved to have received boys' toys. I didn't like dolls and things and mostly read, played board games and did jigsaws. I did a lot outdoors too, in case you are dismissing me as a complete dull thing, just so long as it wasn't labelled Sport. I'm afraid that team games and other hearty things were seen, by the lofty and appallingly arrogant Z, as things done by unappealingly hearty people who sucked up to Games mistresses. Anyway, I never had a train set, so I had to rectify matters with my own daughter. I didn't encourage any Sindy or Barbie nonsense either, although proper dolls would have been permitted if El had shown any interest.
Anyway, I still maintain that boys' toys are more fun than girls' toys.
Friday, 28 September 2007
Our house
It's been altered a lot over the centuries. We're not sure of its original use, although we know it was affiliated to the church. When the Sage's parents bought it in 1928, it was divided into three farmworkers cottages and two of them were still occupied. Alternative accommodation was found - but even a few years ago, people told us that they had been born at our house. Ten or twelve children in a family was not unusual.
Pa and Ma, once the house was empty, altered it considerably to turn it into one house. They moved the front door and porch, although it was rebuilt with the same materials only a few feet along. They tried to use the inglenook fireplace in the drawing room, but found that drawing was one thing that did not happen unless all windows and doors were open, so filled it in to make a smaller brick fireplace. They put in suspended wooden floors and (which I regret) they did away with most of the cupboard staircases and sacrificed a room to make a hall and 'proper' wooden staircase. Pa carved the banisters himself, and I do approve of them. Ma said that they tried to keep all 8 staircases, but it was just too draughty. Now there are three original ones, the one Pa built and the one we put up to the attic in the extension.
They also put up a fair lot of studwork, to Tudorise it even more. Not in every room: the dining room, one bedroom and one wall in the hall. The central beams are original though. The one in the drawing room is cracked (the master bedroom is above, but it happened before we moved in, okay?). There was an old iron bar to strengthen it, but we used an RSJ to jack up the ceiling, then had holes drilled (if you haven't heard the sound of 400-year-old oak being drilled, you don't know the meaning of toothache) and iron bars bolted together. The ceiling is still only 2 metres high and I can touch it (I'm short) and the beam lower than that.
I love the plaster on the walls. It's old and uneven, and the walls themselves go all ways - the bathroom, particularly, which has a floor sloping one way and a ceiling sloping another. It's wallpapered, by me, and that's an interesting experience which requires some skill (yup) and ingenuity (phooey).
The doors were all made by Pa, out of floorboards and iron studs. They look good and old. You pull a rope to open on one side or lift a latch on the other. Occasionally, a rope breaks and you are stuck in the room. You can climb out of the window, so long as the outside door isn't locked. We bear the anxiety with amusement when it happens.
There is still an inglenook in the dining room, although the mantelpiece is not that old. The Sage make the shutters, which are closed in my photo put up a few days ago, but we have never got around to matching up the colour of the new oak with the old.
There is one upstairs door that we all have to bend double to go through. The wall is surprisingly thick, and it's awfully easy to straighten up too soon and give oneself a migraine-inducing clonk. The only quicker way is sunlight dancing on waves.
Before we moved here, we did some renovations and received permission (it's a listed building) to enlarge a couple of windows - the then window frames dated from the 30s and were not nice. We took out one hazel pole that was part of the original construction and our bro'-in-law carved a walking-stick from it.
Pa and Ma, once the house was empty, altered it considerably to turn it into one house. They moved the front door and porch, although it was rebuilt with the same materials only a few feet along. They tried to use the inglenook fireplace in the drawing room, but found that drawing was one thing that did not happen unless all windows and doors were open, so filled it in to make a smaller brick fireplace. They put in suspended wooden floors and (which I regret) they did away with most of the cupboard staircases and sacrificed a room to make a hall and 'proper' wooden staircase. Pa carved the banisters himself, and I do approve of them. Ma said that they tried to keep all 8 staircases, but it was just too draughty. Now there are three original ones, the one Pa built and the one we put up to the attic in the extension.
They also put up a fair lot of studwork, to Tudorise it even more. Not in every room: the dining room, one bedroom and one wall in the hall. The central beams are original though. The one in the drawing room is cracked (the master bedroom is above, but it happened before we moved in, okay?). There was an old iron bar to strengthen it, but we used an RSJ to jack up the ceiling, then had holes drilled (if you haven't heard the sound of 400-year-old oak being drilled, you don't know the meaning of toothache) and iron bars bolted together. The ceiling is still only 2 metres high and I can touch it (I'm short) and the beam lower than that.
I love the plaster on the walls. It's old and uneven, and the walls themselves go all ways - the bathroom, particularly, which has a floor sloping one way and a ceiling sloping another. It's wallpapered, by me, and that's an interesting experience which requires some skill (yup) and ingenuity (phooey).
The doors were all made by Pa, out of floorboards and iron studs. They look good and old. You pull a rope to open on one side or lift a latch on the other. Occasionally, a rope breaks and you are stuck in the room. You can climb out of the window, so long as the outside door isn't locked. We bear the anxiety with amusement when it happens.
There is still an inglenook in the dining room, although the mantelpiece is not that old. The Sage make the shutters, which are closed in my photo put up a few days ago, but we have never got around to matching up the colour of the new oak with the old.
There is one upstairs door that we all have to bend double to go through. The wall is surprisingly thick, and it's awfully easy to straighten up too soon and give oneself a migraine-inducing clonk. The only quicker way is sunlight dancing on waves.
Before we moved here, we did some renovations and received permission (it's a listed building) to enlarge a couple of windows - the then window frames dated from the 30s and were not nice. We took out one hazel pole that was part of the original construction and our bro'-in-law carved a walking-stick from it.
Thursday, 27 September 2007
Music has charms
It's been a day when I've hurried from one thing to another, and I didn't stop working until 10.30 pm, having started at 8 am. I say stop, not finish, and I'm very grateful to the Sage for saying that I've got all weekend to type out a big valuation. It's mostly an update, but unfortunately when I transferred stuff from my old computer to this one, several years ago, some of it got corrupted or some nonsense like that (corrupted? what are they saying I made it do? Watch me in the shower? Look at pictures of naked men? Smoke small cheroots while drinking several tumblers of single malt? Pshaw.) This isn't too awful when it's only three pages to retype, but in a few weeks I've got a massive one to do, and that will have full descriptions of several hundreds of items, including where and when bought and listing damage. And the Sage appears to have promised to keep the cost to a minimum, so it's a good job I'll work for free (I am incapable of working for less than I'm worth, which is an absurdly vast sum, so I don't normally charge anything at all, which makes me bloody popular, I can tell you).
Anyway, music was required. I'm spending the week discreetly turning down the radio in the shop whenever Eileen's back is turned, and she quietly turns it back up at every opportunity. I find it hard to tune music out, so really nasty stuff hurts and even the innocuous stuff grates badly after a while, and Radio Broadland seems to go from one to the other with irritating regularity. I am mercifully alone in the afternoons and I take in my own music then, because Al has conditioned customers not to expect silence,
First, I needed soothing and Hoagy Carmichael did it nicely. I've adored him since the first time, decades ago, I saw To Have and Have Not. Bogie falling for Bacall, she having to hold her head on one side to stop from shaking and Hoagy singing about opium addiction. Don't bother with the book, by the way. Bleak.
Now, I am listening to Okkervil River. They are so damn good.
Anyway, music was required. I'm spending the week discreetly turning down the radio in the shop whenever Eileen's back is turned, and she quietly turns it back up at every opportunity. I find it hard to tune music out, so really nasty stuff hurts and even the innocuous stuff grates badly after a while, and Radio Broadland seems to go from one to the other with irritating regularity. I am mercifully alone in the afternoons and I take in my own music then, because Al has conditioned customers not to expect silence,
First, I needed soothing and Hoagy Carmichael did it nicely. I've adored him since the first time, decades ago, I saw To Have and Have Not. Bogie falling for Bacall, she having to hold her head on one side to stop from shaking and Hoagy singing about opium addiction. Don't bother with the book, by the way. Bleak.
Now, I am listening to Okkervil River. They are so damn good.
Wednesday, 26 September 2007
Little town, kind people
I was talking to Penny this morning. Until three weeks ago she worked at one of the nicest shops in the town. If you needed a present or some ornament for yourself or your home, that's where you looked first. It had been run for more than twenty years by Tony, with initial input from his brother. Last summer, Tony and his wife Mary were involved in a road accident with a Ministry of Defence vehicle, and Tony did not survive.
Mary decided to sell the business, and the new people took over about a month ago. It so happened that the Sage was their first customer, buying wedding anniversary cards for our children.
Penny always used to call into Al's shop early, on her way into work, so I'd missed seeing her since her retirement, but she came in today. She says she's finding it hard to adjust, but her house is very clean... And she still can't bear to go into the shop, although she wishes the new owners well.
She had heard, however, about the warm welcome they have received. Steve, at the restaurant next door, went in the first lunchtime bearing welcoming glasses of wine. People have called with cards and messages of goodwill. They were deeply touched. The town they used to live in, only a few miles away, isn't like Yagnub*.
Penny was not at all surprised. In the week of the anniversary of Tony's death, many people took the trouble to call in, just to say that they remembered, and were thinking of him.
No, I wasn't one of them. I'm not that thoughtful, and I'm from a larger town. It wouldn't come naturally.
I have been in to welcome the new owners though. It was my friend Lynn's birthday this week and I bought a wooden pestle and mortar from Bali and a carved wooden horse from the Philippines for her - both of which I rather wanted to keep...
*As always, credit Badgerdaddy with the reversing of the name
Mary decided to sell the business, and the new people took over about a month ago. It so happened that the Sage was their first customer, buying wedding anniversary cards for our children.
Penny always used to call into Al's shop early, on her way into work, so I'd missed seeing her since her retirement, but she came in today. She says she's finding it hard to adjust, but her house is very clean... And she still can't bear to go into the shop, although she wishes the new owners well.
She had heard, however, about the warm welcome they have received. Steve, at the restaurant next door, went in the first lunchtime bearing welcoming glasses of wine. People have called with cards and messages of goodwill. They were deeply touched. The town they used to live in, only a few miles away, isn't like Yagnub*.
Penny was not at all surprised. In the week of the anniversary of Tony's death, many people took the trouble to call in, just to say that they remembered, and were thinking of him.
No, I wasn't one of them. I'm not that thoughtful, and I'm from a larger town. It wouldn't come naturally.
I have been in to welcome the new owners though. It was my friend Lynn's birthday this week and I bought a wooden pestle and mortar from Bali and a carved wooden horse from the Philippines for her - both of which I rather wanted to keep...
*As always, credit Badgerdaddy with the reversing of the name
Tuesday, 25 September 2007
On being indispensable
I'm thinking back a few years...
I was vice-chairman of governors at the village school, and there were a few problems. In the January, the headteacher went on leave and a temporary replacement was appointed. At Easter, the head resigned and an acting head took over. I can't say more, except to make it clear that there is no blot on the record of the head, because I signed a confidentiality document and, effectively, accepted responsibility on behalf of the governors.
At this time, my mother was very unwell and very unhappy, and I was bearing the burden of that, which meant my family were too. And then, in early June, the chairman of governors died suddenly.
He was not only chairman of governors but chairman of the village hall committee, lay vice-chairman of the parish church committee, treasurer of same, and held a couple of other posts too (including another chairmanship). Apart from our shock at losing a dear friend, we were all up shit creek, as most of the village organisations were left without a chairman - and he was a damn good one. The only thing I can say is that he had been very efficient, so all the paperwork was up to date. And, as far as the school was concerned, I'd had as much (in some ways more) involvement as he.
At the time, and partly because of the difficulties, we were a little short of governors and most of them were quite new. It was essential for me to take over as chairman. I haven't mentioned that, in addition, we were expecting an OFSTED inspection at any time and we didn't have time for anyone who couldn't, as they say, hit the ground running.
In the autumn, some changes were made which I pushed forward against some opposition (fuck me, that was traumatic), my mother was diagnosed with cancer [at last (for she'd had it for some time but tests had not found anything)], Ro went to university, Al took over the shop at a moment's notice (I may have told this tale, does anyone remember?) and my daughter changed jobs and (no connection) met The Man.
By the end of that school year we'd had a good OFSTED report, the new Head was doing fine, the school roll was rising remarkably, my mother had died (in March) and I had done my job well. I worked hard the next year too. The year after, I set myself the task of bowing out. I had learned from Stuart's death and, useful though I'd been, I didn't matter. The position I held did, but its responsibilities should be shared as much as possible. I found someone ideal - indeed, better than I - to be the next chairman, stayed one more year and then resigned, knowing I'd not be missed.
It's natural to want to be missed. Most of us would secretly love to be remembered by more than their nearest loved ones. But, having considered dispassionately whether that is just vanity or whether it would be for my fine achievements or qualities, I have had to admit that vanity ruled.
For a while too, I did too much, at a time when I was... oh blimey, probably halfway out of it most of the time. I don't know how I came over, but I know people were quite anxious about me. I was all right really, but I was a bit intense.
Anyway, my point is, I learned that it's best to spread the load, for the sake of other people as well as yourself.
I was vice-chairman of governors at the village school, and there were a few problems. In the January, the headteacher went on leave and a temporary replacement was appointed. At Easter, the head resigned and an acting head took over. I can't say more, except to make it clear that there is no blot on the record of the head, because I signed a confidentiality document and, effectively, accepted responsibility on behalf of the governors.
At this time, my mother was very unwell and very unhappy, and I was bearing the burden of that, which meant my family were too. And then, in early June, the chairman of governors died suddenly.
He was not only chairman of governors but chairman of the village hall committee, lay vice-chairman of the parish church committee, treasurer of same, and held a couple of other posts too (including another chairmanship). Apart from our shock at losing a dear friend, we were all up shit creek, as most of the village organisations were left without a chairman - and he was a damn good one. The only thing I can say is that he had been very efficient, so all the paperwork was up to date. And, as far as the school was concerned, I'd had as much (in some ways more) involvement as he.
At the time, and partly because of the difficulties, we were a little short of governors and most of them were quite new. It was essential for me to take over as chairman. I haven't mentioned that, in addition, we were expecting an OFSTED inspection at any time and we didn't have time for anyone who couldn't, as they say, hit the ground running.
In the autumn, some changes were made which I pushed forward against some opposition (fuck me, that was traumatic), my mother was diagnosed with cancer [at last (for she'd had it for some time but tests had not found anything)], Ro went to university, Al took over the shop at a moment's notice (I may have told this tale, does anyone remember?) and my daughter changed jobs and (no connection) met The Man.
By the end of that school year we'd had a good OFSTED report, the new Head was doing fine, the school roll was rising remarkably, my mother had died (in March) and I had done my job well. I worked hard the next year too. The year after, I set myself the task of bowing out. I had learned from Stuart's death and, useful though I'd been, I didn't matter. The position I held did, but its responsibilities should be shared as much as possible. I found someone ideal - indeed, better than I - to be the next chairman, stayed one more year and then resigned, knowing I'd not be missed.
It's natural to want to be missed. Most of us would secretly love to be remembered by more than their nearest loved ones. But, having considered dispassionately whether that is just vanity or whether it would be for my fine achievements or qualities, I have had to admit that vanity ruled.
For a while too, I did too much, at a time when I was... oh blimey, probably halfway out of it most of the time. I don't know how I came over, but I know people were quite anxious about me. I was all right really, but I was a bit intense.
Anyway, my point is, I learned that it's best to spread the load, for the sake of other people as well as yourself.
Monday, 24 September 2007
A one-bathroom family
The house we live in is Tudor, basically, although it's been altered a lot over the years, not least by my in-laws after they bought it in 1928, the year after they were married. It is timber-framed and, we're told, originally displayed its half-timbered exterior before being brick-faced a couple of hundred years ago. There is also some Tudor brickwork and chimneys, and here is a very unseasonal photo (which I originally posted nearly a year and a half ago, so if you saw it then, gosh, haven't we been friends for a long time?)
You will see, on the left of the picture, some new brickwork - they haven't really weathered as much as we hoped although they are hand-made and will, I expect, blend in better in a few more decades. We built this extension because we were told by an expert in this sort of dwelling that the chimneys would never have been built at the end of the house and that there must have been a wing of it pulled down at some time, perhaps when the brick facing was done. This explained why the dining room was always slightly damp.
To create an extra bedroom, the Sage's parents had divided a large bedroom into two plus a passageway and we decided to remove the partitions. It meant we'd only have four bedrooms instead of five, but it's a lovely room and it was spoiled by being split up. Al agreed that he would sleep on his brother's bedroom floor when we had guests. When we built the new part, we offered El the new bedroom. It would be reached through her old one, because the back stairs led into that, and then through Al's room. It would be a big room, about 18 foot by 20 foot, plus built-in cupboards, so we suggested dividing it into a bedroom, a bathroom and a studio - at the time they both did stained glass work, Al was good at carpentry and El at art. And El would have her own ensuite bathroom.
Once the room was built, El came to us. "Why do I have to have a bathroom?" she asked. We said we thought she would like it. She pointed out what a beautiful room it was, and wasn't it a shame to break it up? It was, and it was, and as long as she was happy to share the bathroom (because we didn't want to lose a fifth bedroom before we had had a chance to use it) then that was fine with us.
Now that is Ro's bedroom as El has long since left home. We have to have pretty easy-going overnight guests, as he has to go through the spare bedroom to get to bed.
It's a funny thing though. The Sage and I leave the bathroom door open when one of us is in the bath, but our children don't. And we always have our bedroom door open, but when they stay, they shut theirs. I have no idea if there is any significance at all in this.
You will see, on the left of the picture, some new brickwork - they haven't really weathered as much as we hoped although they are hand-made and will, I expect, blend in better in a few more decades. We built this extension because we were told by an expert in this sort of dwelling that the chimneys would never have been built at the end of the house and that there must have been a wing of it pulled down at some time, perhaps when the brick facing was done. This explained why the dining room was always slightly damp.
To create an extra bedroom, the Sage's parents had divided a large bedroom into two plus a passageway and we decided to remove the partitions. It meant we'd only have four bedrooms instead of five, but it's a lovely room and it was spoiled by being split up. Al agreed that he would sleep on his brother's bedroom floor when we had guests. When we built the new part, we offered El the new bedroom. It would be reached through her old one, because the back stairs led into that, and then through Al's room. It would be a big room, about 18 foot by 20 foot, plus built-in cupboards, so we suggested dividing it into a bedroom, a bathroom and a studio - at the time they both did stained glass work, Al was good at carpentry and El at art. And El would have her own ensuite bathroom.
Once the room was built, El came to us. "Why do I have to have a bathroom?" she asked. We said we thought she would like it. She pointed out what a beautiful room it was, and wasn't it a shame to break it up? It was, and it was, and as long as she was happy to share the bathroom (because we didn't want to lose a fifth bedroom before we had had a chance to use it) then that was fine with us.
Now that is Ro's bedroom as El has long since left home. We have to have pretty easy-going overnight guests, as he has to go through the spare bedroom to get to bed.
It's a funny thing though. The Sage and I leave the bathroom door open when one of us is in the bath, but our children don't. And we always have our bedroom door open, but when they stay, they shut theirs. I have no idea if there is any significance at all in this.
Sunday, 23 September 2007
Z has nothing to say, which does not stop me saying it
I started to write, completely lost the thread and deleted it. However, I've got to post something now. Otherwise, my half-written and barely half-witted words will appear on RSS feeds and you will think I'm a fool.
I probably will regale you all week with funny stories about vegetables. I apologise.
Our lovely friend Daphne has been staying for the weekend. The only problem about having friends to stay is that you spend so many hours talking that you go to bed very late. And you politely let her use the bathroom first (there is a shower in the bedroom, but a shower is so stimulating that I'd be awake all night) so go to bed even later.
I chose Mark Haddon's A Spot of Bother on the strength of the line at the top of the page opened at random 'He'd tried celibacy. The only problem was the lack of sex.' I'm easily amused, admittedly, and it's not a new joke, but still worth hearing again. I enjoyed the book and it lasted me most of the journey down to Gloucestershire on Thursday. I passed it on to a friend for her to read on the way back, and started on a biography of Mark Twain. I haven't finished that yet though.
Did I ever tell you that, as a child, I used to have a dog called Huckleberry? He was lovely. My next dog (if it arrives with me unnamed) will be called Huckleberry.
Right. I think the bathroom is free. It's Monday morning. I know the time on the post says Sunday night, but that's because I can't be bothered to change it.
I probably will regale you all week with funny stories about vegetables. I apologise.
Our lovely friend Daphne has been staying for the weekend. The only problem about having friends to stay is that you spend so many hours talking that you go to bed very late. And you politely let her use the bathroom first (there is a shower in the bedroom, but a shower is so stimulating that I'd be awake all night) so go to bed even later.
I chose Mark Haddon's A Spot of Bother on the strength of the line at the top of the page opened at random 'He'd tried celibacy. The only problem was the lack of sex.' I'm easily amused, admittedly, and it's not a new joke, but still worth hearing again. I enjoyed the book and it lasted me most of the journey down to Gloucestershire on Thursday. I passed it on to a friend for her to read on the way back, and started on a biography of Mark Twain. I haven't finished that yet though.
Did I ever tell you that, as a child, I used to have a dog called Huckleberry? He was lovely. My next dog (if it arrives with me unnamed) will be called Huckleberry.
Right. I think the bathroom is free. It's Monday morning. I know the time on the post says Sunday night, but that's because I can't be bothered to change it.
Saturday, 22 September 2007
Harvest Festival
Al and his family have gone on holiday, leaving me to run the shop. This is a heady responsibility and I am tremendously excited. I finished in something of a rush today, as I was playing the organ at a neighbouring church at 6 o'clock and usually we don't start to pack up until 5.30. I started, instead, at 4.55 and still didn't leave until nearly 20 to 6.
The organ playing went well enough, although it would have been easier if I had been able to see the music. The church is in the middle of a field and has no electricity. There is a gas lamp by the organ, but it doesn't cast all that much light. Still, I didn't mind, all part of the experience. It wasn't, of course, dark at six, but I played again at 7.45.
Yesterday, I went to put stuff in my village church for Harvest Festival tomorrow. I'd had an email to say that four people had done most of the decorations (including the windowsill I said I'd do...), and it just needed my baskets of fruit and veg. I was somewhat horrified when I saw the 'decorations' On three windowsills, they had covered an array of different size boxes with gaudily shiny gold material, arranging the odd cabbage and cucumber on each surface, where you can hardly see them because the gold cloth reflects the light so much. Except for one windowsill, which is advertising Fairtrade produce. The fourth windowsill had a few flowers stuck in oasis with a line of tomatoes and apples in front, which would have been quite sweet if done by children. There were also a few vases filled with random bunches of flowers. I've a feeling someone thought it was artistic. I know there are some who do not approve entirely of my fruit and veg, as they think it would be more useful to bring tins and packets (the stuff is distributed to pensioners in the village by the village schoolchildren). I don't object to the tins, although I do hope that when I'm old I will still choose to eat vegetables rather than open a can, but they really don't add beauty to the display. And a jar of coffee or a tin of baked beans has little to do with the English harvest.
If anyone ever says again to me that tins are useful because they can be given to the poor or old, I might be tempted to quote the Bible. When Jesus was having his feet anointed with oil and Judas said sniffily that the oil was valuable and could have been sold and the money given to the poor, Jesus put him in his place.
Al gives the produce (he says it's his insurance that ensures he never has to set foot in church), which fills six big open baskets and I give the flowers. I did two arrangements with big dahlias. Artistic, no. Celebratory, hell yes.
The organ playing went well enough, although it would have been easier if I had been able to see the music. The church is in the middle of a field and has no electricity. There is a gas lamp by the organ, but it doesn't cast all that much light. Still, I didn't mind, all part of the experience. It wasn't, of course, dark at six, but I played again at 7.45.
Yesterday, I went to put stuff in my village church for Harvest Festival tomorrow. I'd had an email to say that four people had done most of the decorations (including the windowsill I said I'd do...), and it just needed my baskets of fruit and veg. I was somewhat horrified when I saw the 'decorations' On three windowsills, they had covered an array of different size boxes with gaudily shiny gold material, arranging the odd cabbage and cucumber on each surface, where you can hardly see them because the gold cloth reflects the light so much. Except for one windowsill, which is advertising Fairtrade produce. The fourth windowsill had a few flowers stuck in oasis with a line of tomatoes and apples in front, which would have been quite sweet if done by children. There were also a few vases filled with random bunches of flowers. I've a feeling someone thought it was artistic. I know there are some who do not approve entirely of my fruit and veg, as they think it would be more useful to bring tins and packets (the stuff is distributed to pensioners in the village by the village schoolchildren). I don't object to the tins, although I do hope that when I'm old I will still choose to eat vegetables rather than open a can, but they really don't add beauty to the display. And a jar of coffee or a tin of baked beans has little to do with the English harvest.
If anyone ever says again to me that tins are useful because they can be given to the poor or old, I might be tempted to quote the Bible. When Jesus was having his feet anointed with oil and Judas said sniffily that the oil was valuable and could have been sold and the money given to the poor, Jesus put him in his place.
Al gives the produce (he says it's his insurance that ensures he never has to set foot in church), which fills six big open baskets and I give the flowers. I did two arrangements with big dahlias. Artistic, no. Celebratory, hell yes.
Z arrived home and drank a single glass of wine
When the tyre was mended, I trotted back to tell people they could come and board the coach when they were ready. Some were relaxing in armchairs and quite reluctant to move at all.
Andrew was chatting to several of our party and telling some rather good jokes. His comic timing is splendid. While we were waiting for the last few arrivals, he said again that it had really helped him, that I had been calm and reassuring all the time. "It's not what goes wrong that matters, you couldn't help that," I said. "It's what you do to put it right, and you reacted in the best way possible. And what I find in these situations is how helpful people are. You don't know how kind someone is until you need their help."
He agreed with that. He had been struck by the garage mechanic immediately leaving his job and coming to help. "The thing is," I added, " Things may go awry, but they never go as wrong as your imagination thinks they can. There's no point in looking ahead to the worst-case scenario, because it won't happen. I'm very, very old and I've learned never to get upset about something I can't help, as things always work out."
"But you're not very, very old!" he exclaimed. "Old" he added, "But not very very old."
There was an intake of breath from the few people nearby. But Andrew had my measure. I was already laughing.
I have no idea how people know within a short time of meeting me that they can rib me something shocking, but they always do and I am teased by everyone. It makes me fall about, I love a joke at my own expense.
We stopped at the same motorway services on the road home and Andrew, who had developed a gung-ho attitude to life in the last few hours, parked in the same place as last time. We piled in and Pam asked, hopefully, if alcohol was sold anywhere on the premises. We all looked disappointed when were told the whole place was dry. So we ordered great plates of fish and chips instead.
The drive home was uneventful. Andrew, relaxed by now, chatted to me quite a lot of the way. He'd come into coach driving by chance, as he was an engineer with a good job and just fancied an extra challenge, so went for a HGV licence and then a coach-driver's one. The coach company is based in the village where he lives and he started by helping them out as a relief driver. Now, he's self-employed and does what he chooses - which is mostly to work very hard. But he doesn't mind it, he explained, as he is under no obligation. He can always say no, though he usually doesn't. He also drives a sugar beet lorry at harvest time, looks after his and his parents' 2-acre garden and enjoys life. It didn't sound as if there was room for a girl- or (perhaps) boyfriend in his life and he obviously genuinely enjoys the company of his parents - which was why he got on well with me, perhaps, I am very motherly.
We actually arrived back in Norwich at the time we had originally expected. I was home by 9.45 and the Sage greeted me at the door with a glass of wine.
I,LTV asked why we'd gone to H1ghgr0ve. Simply, a couple of people on the committee had been and recommended it. We applied in March 05 and at the time were told that it might be up to four years before we were offered a place. However, since there is such demand, Prince Charles decided to up the number of parties and they are booked in at 20-minute intervals all day, every week day, April to September. He makes no charge, the guides and shop assistants are volunteers and any donations and all profits on shop sales go to his charitable trust.
And the part of H1ghgr0ve that made me warm to him most? It was the front entrance. It's a lovely, though unpretentious house and not in any way a stately home. There are plants growing up the house and they are left to roam as they will, though trimmed away from the windows. There is a five-barred gate opposite, which leads to fields and a view of the church spire of Tetbury. Outside the front door is a gravel drive with an oval piece of grass to drive around. In the centre is a huge and beautiful pot planted with flowers, but the grass has uneven edges and creeps into the gravel. It is so small and unfussy an entrance (though the front door is huge and tall) as to be almost disconcerting before it makes you smile.
Andrew was chatting to several of our party and telling some rather good jokes. His comic timing is splendid. While we were waiting for the last few arrivals, he said again that it had really helped him, that I had been calm and reassuring all the time. "It's not what goes wrong that matters, you couldn't help that," I said. "It's what you do to put it right, and you reacted in the best way possible. And what I find in these situations is how helpful people are. You don't know how kind someone is until you need their help."
He agreed with that. He had been struck by the garage mechanic immediately leaving his job and coming to help. "The thing is," I added, " Things may go awry, but they never go as wrong as your imagination thinks they can. There's no point in looking ahead to the worst-case scenario, because it won't happen. I'm very, very old and I've learned never to get upset about something I can't help, as things always work out."
"But you're not very, very old!" he exclaimed. "Old" he added, "But not very very old."
There was an intake of breath from the few people nearby. But Andrew had my measure. I was already laughing.
I have no idea how people know within a short time of meeting me that they can rib me something shocking, but they always do and I am teased by everyone. It makes me fall about, I love a joke at my own expense.
We stopped at the same motorway services on the road home and Andrew, who had developed a gung-ho attitude to life in the last few hours, parked in the same place as last time. We piled in and Pam asked, hopefully, if alcohol was sold anywhere on the premises. We all looked disappointed when were told the whole place was dry. So we ordered great plates of fish and chips instead.
The drive home was uneventful. Andrew, relaxed by now, chatted to me quite a lot of the way. He'd come into coach driving by chance, as he was an engineer with a good job and just fancied an extra challenge, so went for a HGV licence and then a coach-driver's one. The coach company is based in the village where he lives and he started by helping them out as a relief driver. Now, he's self-employed and does what he chooses - which is mostly to work very hard. But he doesn't mind it, he explained, as he is under no obligation. He can always say no, though he usually doesn't. He also drives a sugar beet lorry at harvest time, looks after his and his parents' 2-acre garden and enjoys life. It didn't sound as if there was room for a girl- or (perhaps) boyfriend in his life and he obviously genuinely enjoys the company of his parents - which was why he got on well with me, perhaps, I am very motherly.
We actually arrived back in Norwich at the time we had originally expected. I was home by 9.45 and the Sage greeted me at the door with a glass of wine.
I,LTV asked why we'd gone to H1ghgr0ve. Simply, a couple of people on the committee had been and recommended it. We applied in March 05 and at the time were told that it might be up to four years before we were offered a place. However, since there is such demand, Prince Charles decided to up the number of parties and they are booked in at 20-minute intervals all day, every week day, April to September. He makes no charge, the guides and shop assistants are volunteers and any donations and all profits on shop sales go to his charitable trust.
And the part of H1ghgr0ve that made me warm to him most? It was the front entrance. It's a lovely, though unpretentious house and not in any way a stately home. There are plants growing up the house and they are left to roam as they will, though trimmed away from the windows. There is a five-barred gate opposite, which leads to fields and a view of the church spire of Tetbury. Outside the front door is a gravel drive with an oval piece of grass to drive around. In the centre is a huge and beautiful pot planted with flowers, but the grass has uneven edges and creeps into the gravel. It is so small and unfussy an entrance (though the front door is huge and tall) as to be almost disconcerting before it makes you smile.
Friday, 21 September 2007
The garden and the bolt-hole
H1ghgr0ve is a lovely place, tranquil and friendly, with 16 acres of meandering garden, as well as its accompanying farm, set out in various styles, most of them informal and based on greenery rather than flowers. I suspect that it's best seen earlier in the year, when bulbs or wild flowers or tree blossom are out, but I loved it now too. The policy is to leave as much as possible, so there is ivy on the trees, some visible (small) weeds and heaps of mole-hills on the wild-flower meadow. Around the house there are several small gardens, more laid-out and themed - one is a cottage garden, one has a black and white (more like blues and purples, white and green) theme and another, the most stylised, has a Persian carpet inspiration to its layout. There is also a substantial kitchen garden, although I noticed that the runner and french beans have not been picked recently.
We were taken round in two groups. Mine was led by a very attractive and slender woman called Michele. Her skirt was tight and flared and reminded me of an Edwardian riding skirt.
What I'd liked about our greeting was its friendly informality. I had expected to go through a security check of some sort but, apart from the photo ID check at the gate, we were treated as guests. At the end of the tour, which took rather more than an hour and a half, we were given tea and some divine biscuits (not the usual Duchy ones, but some only available at H1ghgr0ve) and then the shop was mentioned in a generously 'you might like to' sort of way. Sorry to be so uncritical, but I even liked the shop.
I was in the second group and Andrew our driver, who had stayed with the coach (it would have been really nice if he could have joined us, which is my only criticism), was already having tea with the first lot. He came over when he saw me and said he'd better go back to the coach. "Actually," he said, "I'm waiting for ATS to come. We've got a puncture."
If you remember, he had started the day by finding the car he'd expected to use had vanished and had, for a while, believed it was stolen. Then we'd had the breakdown at the motorway service area, when the coach battery had suddenly failed. Now there was a socking great bolt in a rear offside tyre. It could so have not been his day, if he hadn't met us, for we were lovely to him. Indeed, I went so far as to put a consoling hand on his shoulder.
I left him to it for twenty minutes or so while I pottered round the shop and bought things - I felt he would be happier if not fussed. The whole thing only delayed us by a short while. It was lucky that he had taken a stroll around the car part and noticed a hissing sound...
We were so lucky. I told him that, whilst I'd obviously jinxed this trip (he said that he had only had two coach problems in ten years, and now there were two in a day), I was a useful person to have around, as I am unnaturally lucky. It's not that things don't go wrong around me, but they always end well.
Which is obviously a note to finish on, so I'll spin this out for one more day.
We were taken round in two groups. Mine was led by a very attractive and slender woman called Michele. Her skirt was tight and flared and reminded me of an Edwardian riding skirt.
What I'd liked about our greeting was its friendly informality. I had expected to go through a security check of some sort but, apart from the photo ID check at the gate, we were treated as guests. At the end of the tour, which took rather more than an hour and a half, we were given tea and some divine biscuits (not the usual Duchy ones, but some only available at H1ghgr0ve) and then the shop was mentioned in a generously 'you might like to' sort of way. Sorry to be so uncritical, but I even liked the shop.
I was in the second group and Andrew our driver, who had stayed with the coach (it would have been really nice if he could have joined us, which is my only criticism), was already having tea with the first lot. He came over when he saw me and said he'd better go back to the coach. "Actually," he said, "I'm waiting for ATS to come. We've got a puncture."
If you remember, he had started the day by finding the car he'd expected to use had vanished and had, for a while, believed it was stolen. Then we'd had the breakdown at the motorway service area, when the coach battery had suddenly failed. Now there was a socking great bolt in a rear offside tyre. It could so have not been his day, if he hadn't met us, for we were lovely to him. Indeed, I went so far as to put a consoling hand on his shoulder.
I left him to it for twenty minutes or so while I pottered round the shop and bought things - I felt he would be happier if not fussed. The whole thing only delayed us by a short while. It was lucky that he had taken a stroll around the car part and noticed a hissing sound...
We were so lucky. I told him that, whilst I'd obviously jinxed this trip (he said that he had only had two coach problems in ten years, and now there were two in a day), I was a useful person to have around, as I am unnaturally lucky. It's not that things don't go wrong around me, but they always end well.
Which is obviously a note to finish on, so I'll spin this out for one more day.
Thursday, 20 September 2007
Z is Sparky, but the Battery is Flat
I didn't really sleep - a doze for a few minutes at a time and I was up before the 5 o'clock alarm and in Norwich before 6. Everyone arrived by 6.15 and we were ready to leave early.
The first hitch came when the driver had a call from the second driver, to say that the car had vanished from the depot and he couldn't go to meet us en route. There are strict limits on the total length of time a coach driver can go without a break, and overall in a day and a week, and this was to stay within the rules. At first, they assumed that the car had been stolen, but after a while they realised that someone else was due to use it later, so it was quite likely he'd picked it up already, not knowing it was wanted.
So we went and picked up Driver 2 from the depot.
He was a young man called Andrew. I say young - I don't know how old he is. He seems youthful and has an unlined face. He is very slender. However, his hair is already noticeably greying. Mid-thirties at least, I suppose. He was very pleasant and we chatted, on and off. A couple of hours later, we stopped for a break and agreed to return in 45 minutes. I offered to stay on the coach so that he could leave without locking it.
It occurred to me that it would be a good idea to have H1ghgr0ve's phone number, just in case, so I rang the person who had it. Such foresight is rare in one so scatty. Andrew and I worked out the timing and reckoned on having at least 15 minutes to spare, which was good. Then he tried to start the engine and he went white. The battery was dead. Not a spark. He looked completely shocked.
You know, sometimes it's only when things go wrong that you find out how helpful people are. He rang his boss, who was able to tell him that there was a suitable garage at the service station. He ran, literally, to it. Afterwards, he said that he burst into the office, apologised for being out of breath and had to stand and pant until he could speak. "We've got the batteries in stock, we'll fit them right away." A mechanic was taken off another job and they fetched the two huge batteries, carried them to the coach and, less than half an hour later than we planned, we were on our way.
I spoke soothingly to our members and was cheerfully reassuring to Andrew, who was grateful. One member had been flapping a bit, but I told her it would be fine. This is my role in a crisis, telling everyone it will be fine. Because, usually, it is and panicking is no help. I rang, explained to the answerphone, and later got a cheerful phone call back saying there would be no problem. In fact, we were less than five minutes late. We all had our passports checked by the friendly policeman and then got out of the coach into an anti-Foot and Mouth foot-dip.
Emily, who greeted us, got my name a bit wrong. My friend Nick has now christened me Sparky. I'm not sure if this is better or worse than Boss, his previous name for me.
I'll tell you the rest tomorrow, but now I'm going to bed.
The first hitch came when the driver had a call from the second driver, to say that the car had vanished from the depot and he couldn't go to meet us en route. There are strict limits on the total length of time a coach driver can go without a break, and overall in a day and a week, and this was to stay within the rules. At first, they assumed that the car had been stolen, but after a while they realised that someone else was due to use it later, so it was quite likely he'd picked it up already, not knowing it was wanted.
So we went and picked up Driver 2 from the depot.
He was a young man called Andrew. I say young - I don't know how old he is. He seems youthful and has an unlined face. He is very slender. However, his hair is already noticeably greying. Mid-thirties at least, I suppose. He was very pleasant and we chatted, on and off. A couple of hours later, we stopped for a break and agreed to return in 45 minutes. I offered to stay on the coach so that he could leave without locking it.
It occurred to me that it would be a good idea to have H1ghgr0ve's phone number, just in case, so I rang the person who had it. Such foresight is rare in one so scatty. Andrew and I worked out the timing and reckoned on having at least 15 minutes to spare, which was good. Then he tried to start the engine and he went white. The battery was dead. Not a spark. He looked completely shocked.
You know, sometimes it's only when things go wrong that you find out how helpful people are. He rang his boss, who was able to tell him that there was a suitable garage at the service station. He ran, literally, to it. Afterwards, he said that he burst into the office, apologised for being out of breath and had to stand and pant until he could speak. "We've got the batteries in stock, we'll fit them right away." A mechanic was taken off another job and they fetched the two huge batteries, carried them to the coach and, less than half an hour later than we planned, we were on our way.
I spoke soothingly to our members and was cheerfully reassuring to Andrew, who was grateful. One member had been flapping a bit, but I told her it would be fine. This is my role in a crisis, telling everyone it will be fine. Because, usually, it is and panicking is no help. I rang, explained to the answerphone, and later got a cheerful phone call back saying there would be no problem. In fact, we were less than five minutes late. We all had our passports checked by the friendly policeman and then got out of the coach into an anti-Foot and Mouth foot-dip.
Emily, who greeted us, got my name a bit wrong. My friend Nick has now christened me Sparky. I'm not sure if this is better or worse than Boss, his previous name for me.
I'll tell you the rest tomorrow, but now I'm going to bed.
Wednesday, 19 September 2007
Z is going to bed. At least some of the time, Z will sleep.
Ro and I were listening to Front Row on the radio this evening - amongst other things being talked about was Tracey Emin's artwork, ' My Bed'.
The presenter (ooh, I am bad with names) was talking to Germaine Greer. He said that the artefacts scattered around the bed referred to all the main connections with a bed: sex death pregnancy and childbirth. Ro and I looked at each other. "What?" said Ro. "Isn't sleep in there somewhere?" We decided he was being just a little pretentious.
Has anyone seen quinces for sale yet this autumn? Al has been offered some, and he can't remember what he sold them for last year. He can't get them from the wholesaler so relies on locals to bring them from their gardens. He probably, he said, sold them for £1, but whether that was for 1 lb (one pound weight) or 1 kilogram, he isn't sure. He wants to know whether to offer 27p per lb for them or 60p. Or, indeed, something in between.
I'm off on my visit to H1ghgr0ve tomorrow. I am going to leave the house rather before 5.30 am. I have to unlock the gate to the carpark and some people will arrive absurdly early. Others will get there at the last minute. I am going to bed now.
The presenter (ooh, I am bad with names) was talking to Germaine Greer. He said that the artefacts scattered around the bed referred to all the main connections with a bed: sex death pregnancy and childbirth. Ro and I looked at each other. "What?" said Ro. "Isn't sleep in there somewhere?" We decided he was being just a little pretentious.
Has anyone seen quinces for sale yet this autumn? Al has been offered some, and he can't remember what he sold them for last year. He can't get them from the wholesaler so relies on locals to bring them from their gardens. He probably, he said, sold them for £1, but whether that was for 1 lb (one pound weight) or 1 kilogram, he isn't sure. He wants to know whether to offer 27p per lb for them or 60p. Or, indeed, something in between.
I'm off on my visit to H1ghgr0ve tomorrow. I am going to leave the house rather before 5.30 am. I have to unlock the gate to the carpark and some people will arrive absurdly early. Others will get there at the last minute. I am going to bed now.
Tuesday, 18 September 2007
Z milks applause
I am bemused that I wrote a post, however short, about what potboiling television I watched last night. I am so sorry.
Back to Norwich yet again - and blimey, twice more to come this week - to a lecture on Francis I of France. Very interesting. I trotted awkwardly on stage to introduce the speaker. I bobbed, waving, saying "Look at me, look at me. Like me! I'll grin and talk and waffle and be funny and loveable until you think I'm wonderful." That is, I might as well have done. I won't stop until they smile, at any rate.
I'd been a bit alarmed. Someone had asked what time we were leaving on Thursday. "6.30 - please arrive by 6.15," I said. "Oh," she answered, "because I thought it was 6 o'clock but someone told me it was 7." I reminded her to bring her passport or driving licence. "Oh, do we need that?" she asked. Then she mused that it was a long day, so if she didn't feel like coming, could I find someone to fill her place? "No, I sent in the names a fortnight ago for the police check." She decided to come. Someone else was anxious, because she had been told she couldn't take a handbag. Of course you can take a bloody handbag! It's a camera you can't take, or a phone. I had, of course, written to everyone as well as sending them a copy of the Highgrove guidance notes, so there is no reason they should not know.
This is my excuse for rabbiting on at some length about the whole thing. Get 'em to laugh at me and they might actually listen. I said, truthfully (for Z may exaggerate but she only lies when she wants to), that I put my passport in my bag yesterday, in case I didn't think of it again.
Afterwards, I went up the hill to Jarrolds and bought a new diary. I know one is always given various diaries, but if it's not a layout I like, it annoys me all year. I started to fill it in while I waited for lunch and am a little cast down by how many dull things there are to write in already. I must plan some frivolity.
Back to Norwich yet again - and blimey, twice more to come this week - to a lecture on Francis I of France. Very interesting. I trotted awkwardly on stage to introduce the speaker. I bobbed, waving, saying "Look at me, look at me. Like me! I'll grin and talk and waffle and be funny and loveable until you think I'm wonderful." That is, I might as well have done. I won't stop until they smile, at any rate.
I'd been a bit alarmed. Someone had asked what time we were leaving on Thursday. "6.30 - please arrive by 6.15," I said. "Oh," she answered, "because I thought it was 6 o'clock but someone told me it was 7." I reminded her to bring her passport or driving licence. "Oh, do we need that?" she asked. Then she mused that it was a long day, so if she didn't feel like coming, could I find someone to fill her place? "No, I sent in the names a fortnight ago for the police check." She decided to come. Someone else was anxious, because she had been told she couldn't take a handbag. Of course you can take a bloody handbag! It's a camera you can't take, or a phone. I had, of course, written to everyone as well as sending them a copy of the Highgrove guidance notes, so there is no reason they should not know.
This is my excuse for rabbiting on at some length about the whole thing. Get 'em to laugh at me and they might actually listen. I said, truthfully (for Z may exaggerate but she only lies when she wants to), that I put my passport in my bag yesterday, in case I didn't think of it again.
Afterwards, I went up the hill to Jarrolds and bought a new diary. I know one is always given various diaries, but if it's not a layout I like, it annoys me all year. I started to fill it in while I waited for lunch and am a little cast down by how many dull things there are to write in already. I must plan some frivolity.
Z is still a Child of the Sixties
I babysat last night. Slightly disappointingly, both children were being put to bed (Al's job) and were asleep within moments of their parents leaving the house, so I didn't have a chance to play with Squiffany.
I watched television most of the evening. I hardly ever do that. Though I fell asleep part-way through Nigella. I hardly ever fall asleep in the evening either, whether I watch television or not, which leads me to suspect that her new series is not a patch on any previous one.
But before that, I'd watched Mastermind. And one of the subjects was Round the Horne. I chortled helplessly just at the questions. It took me right back to Sunday mornings when I was a lass when we listened to it. Mind you, if my mother had heard of Polari or understood any of it, it would have been banned from the house. Listening again, years later, it was considerable ruder than any of us had realised.
I watched television most of the evening. I hardly ever do that. Though I fell asleep part-way through Nigella. I hardly ever fall asleep in the evening either, whether I watch television or not, which leads me to suspect that her new series is not a patch on any previous one.
But before that, I'd watched Mastermind. And one of the subjects was Round the Horne. I chortled helplessly just at the questions. It took me right back to Sunday mornings when I was a lass when we listened to it. Mind you, if my mother had heard of Polari or understood any of it, it would have been banned from the house. Listening again, years later, it was considerable ruder than any of us had realised.
Monday, 17 September 2007
Mairzy doats and dozy doats...
...and hafftun cowzy divy. Bart Simpson is the boldest cow and she waylays the barrow to check what's edible on it before it goes to the bonfire. I've mostly been cutting out brambles and dead trees today. They are so dead that they fall down quite nicely if you push them.
But first, I went to the dentist. That hurt. Not the dentist himself, but his bill. He looked carefully for several minutes, assured me that my gums and tongue and suchlike look in good order (I'm glad to hear this, because both the people I have known with mouth or jaw cancer had it originally spotted on routine dental check-ups) and decided to give me a quick clean and polish. The extra five minutes this took presumably justified the £45 bill.
Tonight, babysitting. Dilly and Al are going to the beekeepers meeting. A couple of weeks ago, a customer was stung by a wasp in the shop. She (Val from the pet shop, Badge) was unperturbed, but later her finger swelled up and the next day she collapsed. Steroids put her right, but she'll have to be careful in future.
I'm a little anxious. Several weeks ago, I was asked if I'd play a few Harvest hymns for a nearby village's Harvest Supper, which is in their village church. I gained the impression that it would be a bit of rousing singing before the meal. Yesterday, I had a phone call from a chap who wants to agree with me what's happening and he's cheerily talking about 40 minutes or so after the meal. What? I'm not doing any sort of recital here. I haven't time to practise and I haven't the suitable repertoire. A dashing voluntary or some quiet funeral stuff is what I do, when it isn't hymns. I haven't played the piano for ages as mine's still off for repair. He's coming round in half an hour to talk about it, and I'll have to make it quite clear that I can lead singing or accompany a soloist, but I'm not the main event, in any sense.
But first, I went to the dentist. That hurt. Not the dentist himself, but his bill. He looked carefully for several minutes, assured me that my gums and tongue and suchlike look in good order (I'm glad to hear this, because both the people I have known with mouth or jaw cancer had it originally spotted on routine dental check-ups) and decided to give me a quick clean and polish. The extra five minutes this took presumably justified the £45 bill.
Tonight, babysitting. Dilly and Al are going to the beekeepers meeting. A couple of weeks ago, a customer was stung by a wasp in the shop. She (Val from the pet shop, Badge) was unperturbed, but later her finger swelled up and the next day she collapsed. Steroids put her right, but she'll have to be careful in future.
I'm a little anxious. Several weeks ago, I was asked if I'd play a few Harvest hymns for a nearby village's Harvest Supper, which is in their village church. I gained the impression that it would be a bit of rousing singing before the meal. Yesterday, I had a phone call from a chap who wants to agree with me what's happening and he's cheerily talking about 40 minutes or so after the meal. What? I'm not doing any sort of recital here. I haven't time to practise and I haven't the suitable repertoire. A dashing voluntary or some quiet funeral stuff is what I do, when it isn't hymns. I haven't played the piano for ages as mine's still off for repair. He's coming round in half an hour to talk about it, and I'll have to make it quite clear that I can lead singing or accompany a soloist, but I'm not the main event, in any sense.
Sunday, 16 September 2007
Z listens to a friend
The organ-ising could have gone better. Unfortunately, I played the tune from a different book than the one used for the words, as I preferred the arrangement, and I realised after I'd started that I'd forgotten to check the number of verses. I hoped it would be the same as in the book I was using. It wasn't. There was an extra verse and the congregation carried on singing. I caught up in the second line. It gave people a golden opportunity to be kind, and for me to be humble.
Bugger.
The next hymn tune was Hyfrydol (sung to Alleluia, sing to Jesus and I will sing the wondrous story amongst, possibly, other hymns) which I like very much. I learned it properly, a long time ago, as it is quite tricky in bits (I am quite lazy and often pretty well sight-read) and so let my fingers twinkly exuberantly over the keys, to the extent that the congregation lagged behind to begin with and had to buck their ideas up and sing faster. Hah!
Later, a friend told me that he had been helping, in a professional and advisory capacity, a woman who had got her life into something of a mess. In the course of conversation, she discovered that, when wearing his other hat, he's a self-employed carpenter and she said that she has some work needing to be done at her house and asked if he'd be able to do it. He said that he's in a quandary. He would like to help her, and he could do with the work. However, he knows that she is quite needy and vulnerable and has an instinct that he might find himself in an awkward situation if he were to visit her at home. He knows that she is grateful to him for his help and that they like each other. She's also, he said gloomily, a very attractive woman. He knows (for he's a realist) that, for someone who has been treated quite badly by men in the past, to be talked to as a person rather than a sex object and to be helped without an expectation of 'reward' (other than payment of a fair bill), might be quite a heady experience and he doesn't want to risk engaging her emotions.
I'll make it clear that I know him and his wife well and they are very close. I do not think for a minute that he'd lead this woman on. I am taking his word for it, that there isn't a problem but there might be.
Whether he does the work or not, I'm sure he will keep her at arm's length, because he is aware of the situation. But I do know how naively one can get into an awkward spot. And I wonder if one is culpable if, just because of being friendly, ones actions are misinterpreted?
I had an awkward situation of my own about a year ago, which still rankles a bit. It was all dealt with amicably at the time, but this reminded me that I still feel a bit peculiar about it.
Bugger.
The next hymn tune was Hyfrydol (sung to Alleluia, sing to Jesus and I will sing the wondrous story amongst, possibly, other hymns) which I like very much. I learned it properly, a long time ago, as it is quite tricky in bits (I am quite lazy and often pretty well sight-read) and so let my fingers twinkly exuberantly over the keys, to the extent that the congregation lagged behind to begin with and had to buck their ideas up and sing faster. Hah!
Later, a friend told me that he had been helping, in a professional and advisory capacity, a woman who had got her life into something of a mess. In the course of conversation, she discovered that, when wearing his other hat, he's a self-employed carpenter and she said that she has some work needing to be done at her house and asked if he'd be able to do it. He said that he's in a quandary. He would like to help her, and he could do with the work. However, he knows that she is quite needy and vulnerable and has an instinct that he might find himself in an awkward situation if he were to visit her at home. He knows that she is grateful to him for his help and that they like each other. She's also, he said gloomily, a very attractive woman. He knows (for he's a realist) that, for someone who has been treated quite badly by men in the past, to be talked to as a person rather than a sex object and to be helped without an expectation of 'reward' (other than payment of a fair bill), might be quite a heady experience and he doesn't want to risk engaging her emotions.
I'll make it clear that I know him and his wife well and they are very close. I do not think for a minute that he'd lead this woman on. I am taking his word for it, that there isn't a problem but there might be.
Whether he does the work or not, I'm sure he will keep her at arm's length, because he is aware of the situation. But I do know how naively one can get into an awkward spot. And I wonder if one is culpable if, just because of being friendly, ones actions are misinterpreted?
I had an awkward situation of my own about a year ago, which still rankles a bit. It was all dealt with amicably at the time, but this reminded me that I still feel a bit peculiar about it.
Saturday, 15 September 2007
Z is useful and cheap
Spurred on by Mike and K's noble example, I trotted out to prune the wisteria. The Sage came and watched me. "Hm, I think I need the pair of steps" I decided. The splendid fellow went and fetched them for me and put them up. "You won't go up on the top step?" he asked. I assured him I was not planning a plummet any time soon. Reassured, he went off to do *whatever errands that take him out of the house for several hours a day*. I reflected that some blokes hold the ladder. Or ascend it.
It's all right. I didn't plummet and I used the secateurs and pruning saw to good effect. If we ever used the front door, we could do so without being forced off the path into the lavender.
I didn't, of course, clear anything up. That's not my job.
By the way, I've been meaning to ask you - does anyone have an opinion whether or not it's worth keeping capsicum (in this case, chilli) plants alive during the winter, rather than growing them from seed every spring? I could keep them in the porch, which is frost-free, but that's the best I'd do. No heat. Apart from the jalapenos, which have lost a lot of their leaves, they are all still really healthy and covered with flowers, as well as having given loads of chillies but usually I just let them go as the weather gets colder.
I completely forgot about dinner and had to rootle in the larder and the vegetable garden. Butternut squash risotto and sautéed swiss chard was the result. I didn't use the chard leaves, which will be cooked as spinach tomorrow. Ro came and grated the squash for me, which gave us a chance to chat - we're all a taciturn lot who are quite comfortable being quiet most of the time.
He had been out to the pub last night with old school friends, for the first time for a while and, as I know quite a lot of them, he filled me in on their current doings. It's a bit startling, to hear that one was (until a week ago, whoops) contemplating marriage and another buying a house. Another has finished his stint in the RAF, and he's only 23. Ro approves of the smoke free pubs. And he said, with some satisfaction, that he hadn't had a drink all evening - no alcohol, that is. Although, as he said, there is only so much lemonade you can drink. He does drink, but he hates being pushed to keep up and have a pint bought with every round. Easier to say no at the start. I know what he means, which is why I usually drink halves in pubs. My popularity depends, in part, on my reputation as a cheap date.
It's all right. I didn't plummet and I used the secateurs and pruning saw to good effect. If we ever used the front door, we could do so without being forced off the path into the lavender.
I didn't, of course, clear anything up. That's not my job.
By the way, I've been meaning to ask you - does anyone have an opinion whether or not it's worth keeping capsicum (in this case, chilli) plants alive during the winter, rather than growing them from seed every spring? I could keep them in the porch, which is frost-free, but that's the best I'd do. No heat. Apart from the jalapenos, which have lost a lot of their leaves, they are all still really healthy and covered with flowers, as well as having given loads of chillies but usually I just let them go as the weather gets colder.
I completely forgot about dinner and had to rootle in the larder and the vegetable garden. Butternut squash risotto and sautéed swiss chard was the result. I didn't use the chard leaves, which will be cooked as spinach tomorrow. Ro came and grated the squash for me, which gave us a chance to chat - we're all a taciturn lot who are quite comfortable being quiet most of the time.
He had been out to the pub last night with old school friends, for the first time for a while and, as I know quite a lot of them, he filled me in on their current doings. It's a bit startling, to hear that one was (until a week ago, whoops) contemplating marriage and another buying a house. Another has finished his stint in the RAF, and he's only 23. Ro approves of the smoke free pubs. And he said, with some satisfaction, that he hadn't had a drink all evening - no alcohol, that is. Although, as he said, there is only so much lemonade you can drink. He does drink, but he hates being pushed to keep up and have a pint bought with every round. Easier to say no at the start. I know what he means, which is why I usually drink halves in pubs. My popularity depends, in part, on my reputation as a cheap date.
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