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A date never happens again because it is simply a measure of time, but the 29th February (if we miss out the year) happens only every four years. So, if it’s an anniversary of something significant to you, I wish you a very Happy Leap Day!
I am a fan of the PM programme on Radio 4, especially when Eddie Mair is in charge. Leading up to today he has been encouraging his listeners to ‘take a leap for PM’. People are doing an enormous range of things from getting in touch with someone they’ve fallen out with, to eating chocolate (she is a recovering anorexic), leaving the house (he’s agoraphobic) to travelling home (he’s been serving in Afghanistan). As ever it is an eclectic mix of the personal, the laudable and the funny – it was Eddie Mair who got the nation sending in bursts of the Upstairs Downstairs music played on every instrument and in every music style as light relief to introduce the financial reports (nicknamed upshares downshares what else?) during the spiraling recession. (Madly we own a copy of the compilation made to raise funds for Children in Need.)
I have been putting off tackling a loose cover for a rather sad armchair that a friend has asked me to complete – another friend had started the job: the fabric had been cut into most of the pattern pieces and a piece of foam bought for the seat cushion which no longer exists. I have only once made a loose cover – for the little nursing chair I’m now reupholstering – and was not best pleased with it. Making clothes for a chair ought to be similar to making clothes for a person, but to look anything like they need to fit extra snuggly and be piped along some of the seams. It has been brooding in my sewing room watching me avoid it since September. Today I will make progress!
I have made Marmalade at last this week - the Seville oranges have been waiting patiently in the fridge while I avoided noticing them.
Having failed as usual to give anything up for Lent I'm attempting to give up idleness! I suspect playing on the internet falls into that category, so I shall be brief. I'm busy gardening: it's a beautiful day and there are things afoot!
This is as far as I’ve got. The amount of work involved in something so small seems ridiculous, however I think it will be pretty and it has the sentiment of having belonged to Granny. I have yet to work out how to put the bag part underneath it but I have every faith in my teacher’s ability to help me come up with a plan!
I’ve been to a matinee performance of The Calendar Girls in Bath this week: good fun; and held the first fete meeting – it’s in June…
If the weather allows we are traveling east tomorrow for a few days to catch up with my family.
Once upon a time I could pinpoint events in my life by where I was living. I can still do this with the past of course, just not with the last eight years. Every time we moved we reviewed our possessions and cleaned behind all the furniture… But that’s another story.
Because we were living in a particular house with metal framed windows that Mother used to seal up with sheets of plastic in the winter to provide crude double glazing, and I wasn’t yet at boarding school, I know that I must have been about ten. Our quarter had four bedrooms, two of them tiny, but, for the first time, we all had rooms of our own. My room contained a set of bunk beds, a small table and a single cupboard. It is this bed from which I famously leapt (I slept on the top) when, glancing up from my Puffin Post, which I was reading by the light on the landing, I saw an enormous spider dangling above me. My screams brought my parents to the rescue - though Father disappeared when he realized from what I needed rescuing!
I cannot tell you how long my parents were out, or where they had gone, but, one sunny day I produced the candles I had been given for Christmas, found the matches in the kitchen, and demonstrated lighting them in one of my younger brothers’ bedrooms. I have a sense of the awe we felt at such daring, we’d never been told not to light candles, but it had never previously occurred to us. Of course the smell of extinguished candle reached the nostrils of our parents as soon as they returned. The boys were sent to their rooms, and I, as the leader and chief culprit, was put over Father’s knee and spanked with the back of a hairbrush.
I was humiliated but not physically hurt. I have not been permanently scarred, but I certainly thought twice before leading those little boys into scrapes! I am quite certain that for my parents it wasn’t really about punishment but about just how frightened they were: the ‘what might have been’. The Consequences. I bear no grudge: he was absolutely right! The short, sharp shock of the spanking has stayed with me – though my parents claim to have forgotten the incident.
I cannot remember smacking either of my girls, but I do remember the odd slap around the nappy accompanied by a sharp ‘No!’ to warn of unacceptable behaviour –pinching or biting as I recall, usually of each other. I’d be surprised if they remember. Smacking is not something I have felt necessary, but then Eldest never showed Youngest where to find the matches and how to use them!
Would you admit to having a favourite child?
Both my girls’ godmothers claim I favour the other child so I’m hoping that means I’ve got it right, but how do I know?
I am currently engaged in trying to be proud when Youngest comes home to announce she’s got a B grade… I am not doing well.
I don’t want you to misunderstand! Youngest is an adorable child whose greatest need has always been to be regularly hugged. She is bright, articulate, beautiful and artistic. She is also surly, determined she is right, shockingly untidy and not interested in personal hygiene but likes make-up, nail varnish and perfume. At our first parent teacher meeting at Secondary school we were told that she had scored highly in aptitude tests and was thus expected to be in top sets with top target grades. Thus I can only conclude that, were she at either of her parents’ schools, she would receive reports that stated ‘could do better’. (She does not: her reports are glowing.)
She is not helped by her scary academic sister. Eldest is good at everything – well, if she isn’t good at it she doesn’t try. I believe I have previously recorded the tears over Art homework in Yr 7 because she couldn’t draw realistically (she draws wonderful cartoony concepts for birthday cards). Eldest is in her final year of school, engrossed in A levels, dance and baking. She is on target to achieve good grades and has received offers from all the universities to which she has applied to do Maths. She is pretty, getting better at showing affection and can join in amusing conversation when she chooses to leave her tidy room.
They are my pride and joy. They are my pleasure and my biggest worry. I love them both but recognize that I like different things about them. Inevitably I feel I have probably treated them differently, after all, I learned from the first one, and adapted my methods for the second! Each thinks I favour the other – Eldest’s activities get first dibs on my taxi and use of the front seat; Youngest doesn’t have to eat vegetables, or finish her main course in order to get pudding; and I tidy her room for her (when it all gets too much for me!)… All this is true and, I would argue, shows balance, though others might say I am being unreasonable. Certainly I am guilty of different expectations of their behaviour. Isn’t that what we do with everyone we meet? The relationship is an interactive one informed by previous interactions. I don’t suppose I treat anyone like anyone else. How about you?
I left work nineteen years ago. I had a career in management in the clothing industry, first in production and later in sales. To get there I went to college and studied Clothing Management, a four year Diploma recognized by the industry and becoming degree equivalent after a further two years in a ‘responsible management position’. I was a career girl for eleven years and didn’t consider other possibilities before I met Husband. Having spent our first two years of marriage living in different counties we decided not to live in two different countries. We took the view together that we would want to bring up our hoped for children ourselves and we wanted to share a home. I gave up work as the one of us who would have said children and followed HM Forces directions to Germany.
While I have occasionally set out to explain just how much parity I had with Husband at the time I chose to stop paid work, mostly I haven’t regretted my decision: I am lucky to have a busy and happy life and a family of whom I am proud. Despite gentle teasing from Husband and Mefromafar I have found no motivation to return to paid work.
I remind you of this because I recently applied for a job! A Textile Technician at the local comprehensive: no pupil contact, just supporting the Textile Teacher by tidying and advising on ordering her fabric and commodities, threading machines and filling bobbins, setting out the classroom , cutting out fabric as required and being very flexible for a whole five hours of employment on two days. It sounded like something right up my street that I could do standing on my head and that would fit in with all the other things I do, so I applied.
I was invited to an ‘informal interview’. Unsure what such a term meant I concluded that either I was the only applicant, or there would be some sort of practical test of my sewing machine and fabric knowledge. I was wrong. Five ladies turned up at the same time with the same invitation. We were divided into two groups taking it in turns to be told about the job by the Head of Department and given a tour by the Textiles Teacher. There was no test and no individual interview. The other woman in my group had also been in the industry, as a Fabric Buyer. Younger than me I think, and less managery, so, if I’d been the teacher choosing between us, I’d have picked her as qualified but less of a threat (cynic!). I didn’t get a real impression of the other three though the teacher implied they weren’t from the industry, but capable crafters.
Apparently school had been surprised to receive ten applications and called in five of them. They remarked that they didn’t know how they were to decide and we should all be proud to have got this far… I don’t know how they were going to decide either, but I haven’t heard anything more and must presume they selected one of the others.
My armour is undented: flexible hours may have been me being flexible, i.e. required on Mondays and Wednesdays when I currently volunteer in the primary school; a behind the scenes job that would still need me to change out of my jeans for a couple of hours but into something I could climb in (lots of high shelves to sort) and not worry about fabric dust; little contact with the rest of the DT staff because of working when the students aren’t there; debatable whether there would be opportunity to expand the role… I sound relieved don’t I? I am!
I took the girls to The Artist at the weekend. The cinema was almost empty for a Saturday afternoon showing. We loved it! It is a black and white ‘silent’ movie set in the late 1920s and early 1930s at the point when films are becoming talkies. There is music and there are occasional speech frames.
The subject has been done before, memorably in the pairing of Judy Garland and James Mason in A Star Is Born – but please, not Barbra Streisand and Chris Christopherson! - the rise of new young stars and fall of older ones. It also has shades of Singing in the Rain where a silent film is made over for the new talking era but not all the actors are up to the job. My girls and I have all been brought up on old movies – though sadly they’ve not seen a A Star Is Born – and we were completely spellbound. It is difficult to judge whether you’d love it if you’d never seen an old movie, but I don’t see why you wouldn’t: it was laugh out loud funny but also poignant, beautifully dressed, perfect entertainment. Go see it!
I have just finished reading One Day by David Nicholls. It was a requested gift as I had heard so many good reports. I feel mean saying it was OK, but for me it didn’t live up to the hype. I liked the idea of it, but got annoyed with both characters. I could see the plot coming, though I shall refrain from giving it away. I neither laughed nor cried. Sorry!
But I’m loving P.D.James take on Jane Austen: Death Comes to Pemberley. A fan of both authors I thought I’d better try it. There is a perfect summary of the plot of Pride and Prejudice before she gets down to her own story, and I haven’t finished it so I can’t tell you if it works out in a believable way, but so far I am enjoying the pace, the gentle humour, the characters and the plot.
(The heron was on next door's roof on Christmas Day.)
