Of Prams and Pubs

We crossed the Forth Road Bridge the other day and there were lots of people walking it. Now, that is something I have always meant to do, but not like those people. Dressed up, some in onesies, so I presume that they were on a charity walk.

The combination I'd the presumed charity aid and the baby dress reminded me of another scene from my early years. Every year, on Boxing Day, there was the Pagham Pram Race. Basically a pair, or occasionally more, of people would dress up, and one push the other around the village in a decorated pram. The lighter the pram the faster, but there were also prizes for best outfits. It started and ended at the largest pub, and, I think, went via two others, so I assume the combatants, I think always men, were well fuelled for their run in the cold, although I was not aware of this at the time. I used to go down to the pub car park with my Dad, and join the crowd waiting to cheer them in. They would drink a pint of beer as fast as possible and the carry on to the next pub.

The KB as it is now, and, other than the modern car, really little different than it was then

On checking via google, it still goes on every year, although the costumes don't look as silly as I remember. See:  http://www.paghampramrace.com/

There were three pubs in the area. The Lamb, the Bear and the Lion were all around a crossroad in the village of Nyetimber, and the Kings Beach which was by our flat. This one was much larger. I remember having a large birthday party there one year. I must have been about 5. All the local children came, and we sat at trestle tables and had a conjuror.  We had toy snowmen with presents inside. My birthday was February so they were probably from Christmas leftovers, but we all thought they were wonderful. I didn't have many formal parties, but I remember this one vividly. I got so excited I cried and had to sit on my Dads knee. I also remember one the following year when I went to my friend Sally's house. She had her birthday on the same day as me, and lived in the next village inland. We had toy snowmen stuffed with toys again. I wonder if they were new, or if someone, probably my mother, thriftily saved them and added new toys?

Tea and Cake

I've just returned from having tea (and a rather delicious piece of lemon drizzle cake) with a friend in town. We met at a  local cafe called Reubans, part cafe, part wine bar. It's a very relaxing place where you never feel rushed, even if you sit for hours with one pot of tea. It sells an excellent range of malt whiskies, which is definitely a plus, although a minus for my purse. Last year my husband and I went to a whiskey tasting there, put on by Adelphi Bottlers,a fabulous range of six generous helpings of whisky, accompanied by cheese and biscuits. I needed the carbohydrates to sop up and walk home! Not that I was drunk, far from it, just a little tipsy. We had the oldest whisky I have ever tasted there (at least at that time), a single grain, yes, grain not malt, whisky that was 46 years old. Wonderful.

Anyway, back to today, I had tea with Gillian, one of my few friends. I am not being sad when I say that but realistic. I don't really do friends en masse, never had, and I doubt if I ever will. That is not to say that I am lonely. I have family and a few friends I treasure. There is a great difference between being alone and being lonely. It may stem from being brought up in the country where there were few other kids my age, or from being a only child. Or it might just be intrinsic to me. It can't be just genetic as my mother is a socialite, the type of person who makes life-long friends on a train journey, and, as far  I know, my father was very social too.

Gillian

Truth about me:

I am very rarely lonely, I have enough hobbies to last me the rest of my life, and a never ending queue of books to read. I also have to be interested in people all day at work. Alone time is precious, but I do value the few people who I can talk about anything with, without having to fill in the gaps, or pretend to be conformist.

On googling 'alone but not lonely' there is a large number of results, including the song lyrics I was trying to track down. Interesting how many people find the need to talk about it. Most seemed to be trying to convince others, or possibly themselves, that solitude is not an illness. It is, in truth, a long tradition, including many religious hermits of many faiths. I think it is easier to be lonely in a crowd. There is a book that I am halfway through reading, part of the ever increasing list, called 'A Book of Silence'. While silence is not the same as solitude they have similarities, and both are, too me, valuable.

Knitting going apace, working on the third part of my first love potion. Yes I'm officially a witch. A good one, an earth witch, and I still have yesterday's earth under my nails to prove it.

A Very Rainy Sunday

It's raining here. The sort of rain that comes down in sheets, that makes you wish that you'd taken the time to search for your large umbrella rather than taking the small one and, that when you've just sat down, having dried off, a very wet cat comes and expects you to act as a towel who, when you seem just a little bit ungrateful for the honour, shakes himself thoroughly and covers your glasses and iPad in a fine, wet mist. That sort of rainy day.

It's funny how, when thinking about ones childhood, the trite saying of all the summers were sunny seems to be true. I can remember days outside, days on the beach, days in the garden playing with the hose to cool down. The weather hasn't really changed that much, so there must have been the grey wet days too.  Thinking hard, I do remember one wet day, my mother and I had gone on a very rare holiday to London and it rained. She bought a brand new and, for us, very expensive, umbrella and promptly left it behind somewhere. Search we did, but it never showed up. I actually remember very little about the holiday, even though it was such an unusual event. No annual trips to the Costa del Sol or Tenerife then. We stayed in a hotel, the Clarendon, I thought it was very grand. We went to Harrods and to the massive toy shop, but only to look and to the Tower of London. We must have done other things but I can't remember them.

I've finished Clue 2 for love potion 1. That sounds a bit odd, as though I'm practicing to be a witch, and working out recipes from an ancient spellbook. Lifeline in place, ends shortened slightly and woven in, picture below, taken inside because of the rain.

It's fun and easy, provided I keep my brain in gear, but maybe I should have used the plain for the bands and the variegated for the main areas. Oh we'll, you live and learn or tomorrow is another shawl. I seem full of platitudes today.

In reality, today is another shawl as I have now cast on for the Curious KAL Shawl. It's in maroon and a purple variegated wools so very different, and then there's the gold silk Metallurgy Shawl as well. Can't get enough of a good shawl or shawls are me! 

In spite of the rain I have managed to get some time in in the garden. Heavy work removing a climbing rose out of an old rotten planter and into a sparkly new pot. Hope it survives. Son and daughter helped, son melts in rain though and so went in as soon as he could! Will add a photo once the sun comes out. Also planted lots of bedding, I know it's late but warned some colour other than green. Lots of different greens really, but other colours good too.

We don't make Mistakes

We are in the process of really tidying up the garden in preparation for Jenny's 18th barbecue, of course, that's assuming it doesn't pour with rain and all has to be moved inside. So, today we were at the garden centre, trying not to spend too much money when I saw this sign:

         "We don't make Mistakes

            We do Variations"

This needs to be my motto, especially where knitting is concerned. If its obvious I will take back, but more  often I try to fix it. Last night I discovered another error in Love Potion 1, somehow I'd managed to loose 2 stitches! Lost a YO I think. This shawl, for something so intrinsically simple, seems to be fraught with challenges.

The other challenge I'm facing is the one I've set myself. The memory game. Earliest memory? It's difficult at this distance to know what is truth and what has been varied over time. I remember:

• Being carried on my Dads shoulders when on a walk to the beach
• Eating too many sherbet lemons
• Always being ill at Christmas, bronchitis, but I think it was what we now call asthma
• Mum throwing away a toy make up case, I couldn't get it back cos it had gone in the furnace that was used to heat our water. I cried
• My new bike that was hidden in the big meat freezer until my birthday, (actually it wasn't new but refurbished and repainted, but I loved it).

All of these memories are in some way linked with the flat above the shop, and we moved out of there when I was 8, so fairly early ones. The one that carries most emotion from that early time was when I had to go into hospital, I think to have my tonsils out, I had to stay in overnight. The nurses brought dolls in as presents for me and the girl in the next bed, presumably supplied by our respective parents. She got a massive one, with long curly hair, eyes that moved  and that you could undress. I got a small plastic one with a home knitted dress. I cried and cried, but I never got a bigger doll and simply got told I would make myself sick. I've still got that doll somewhere too, it's got a yellow and pink crinoline dress.

You've probably worked out by now that I am a hoarder. Not of real rubbish, but I find it incredibly difficult to get rid of anything I've been given.

Reasons for Writing

Granddad Reclining

Life has a habit of giving you surprises, some good, some just odd and some downright unwanted. My father-in-law is rapidly developing dementia. His memory is poor and he is often confused. He has never said very much about his early life, and now it would be difficult to know what is truth and what is confabulation.

I have never told my children much about my earlier life either. Initially it didn't seem important, and now they are not interested. Life is in the now. But, on the off chance that they may someday be interested I have decided to write this, a mixtures of tales of the past and present, with a few fables thrown in for good measure. Someday they may want to read it. If not it will at least be a reminder for me in my undoubted growing befuddlement.

A truth about me:
Dementia scares me, almost more than anything else. Not other people with dementia, but the thought of developing it myself. I'm not high risk, none of my forebears (as far as I know) have ever had dementia. I haven't played any risky sports, like football or boxing and I try to keep my mind active. But it's still scares me. I've always been able to think, and even on my most depressed days that stays, admittedly it's sometimes a curse rather than a blessing as I can go into a spiral of over thinking things. So I am running scared -and there's nothing I can do to change the odds. 

I recently watched the film 'Robot and Frank', a rather wistful sci-fi-ish, semi romantic, slightly comedic film about an elderly ex-con with memory problems and his robot helper. Amusing and light, with dark overtones. That sounds like the description of a chocolate, or perhaps a wine. He is trying to flirt with the librarian, but he doesn't recognise her as his divorced wife. That's the relatively light side of the illness, but mostly it is much darker. Is it more frightening for the person (dementee?) or the onlookers?.

Of Lifelines and Young Lives

I was reminded today of the importance of lifelines. I was knitting a shawl (for the interested, the Love Potion 1 KAL on Ravelry) and half watching a programme on Scottish history.  I was on the final row of a section, knitting happily along, and failing to notice that one of my circular needle tips had come detached from the cord. OK, I should have made sure it was properly tightened. I came to the end of the section, pushed the knitting along, and stood up to clear up for the night. The rest was predictable. The designer sensibly had suggested inserting a lifeline at the end of the previous section, and fortunately I had taken the advice. Tomorrow is another day and my evening is free.

Many things involve taking precautions and we take many for our children, far more now than before. This may be safe, but is at the expense of freedom and the learning of odd, and occasionally useful, skill, such as how to gut and pluck a turkey.

I was brought up in a small English village on the south coast. When I lived there we had 4 proper streets, a parade of 5 shops and 3 rows of beach houses that were mostly only lived in in the summer. Now it is part of the South Coast Sprawl, 50% holiday resort, 50% retirement home.

My father owned the butchers shop, giving us a degree of local prestige and a very odd assortment of meals as we had what was left at the end of the day. One day might be steak and the next tripe. I still hate the smell of tripe  cooking and turkey is an anathema. Christmas meant dozens of turkeys hanging in all their glory on display. When bought they had to be plucked - and it was all hands (including mine) on deck. Feathers everywhere.

We lived above the shop. There was a balcony behind the flats and I could hang over the edge and watch for my father coming home from the pub next to the shops on Sunday lunchtimes, only one beer, to improve the appetite, and rush inside and help get the food out. If he was late I would be sent down to extract him. I would also be sent to buy cigarettes "One packet of  Players, please". No laws then about age and buying, or, at least if there were, they didn't apply in our village.

Our shop is the second from the left. 2 The Parade (1 was the post office and newsagent, 3 the hairdressers, 4 the ironmongers, 5 the greengrocers and 6 the grocers)

 This was one of the few times that I have lived next to other children my age. There was a family next door with, if I remember rightly two children. We had pretend tea parties on a rug on the balcony and explored the wild lands across the road. The beach was mostly pebbles and places had a strong undertow, but behind that was the dunes. A maze of sand in hill and hollows, threaded with paths, some dead ending in a gorse patch, but others leading onward. The sand was mixed with marram grass, sharp, would cut your legs, gorse, prickly and sweet smelling in spring and windswept bushes. There was yellow broom, windswept tamarisk and a huge number of low plants with tiny leaves, greyish green in colour. If I ever knew their names I have long forgotten them. Further inland was an endless thicket of blackberries which produced bucket loads of fruit in late summer, together with scratched faces and arms, ripped clothing and purple stained mouths. Hours were spent in the dunes. Hide and seek, sand castling, digging out rabbit warrens (but never seeing the rabbits) and burying each other up to our noses. There was no adult supervision and certainly no thoughts of danger. 

The Beach - well really The Shingle

Why Knit

Once upon a time there was a beautiful maiden (well, not really so beautiful) who lived in a small hamlet by the sea. She possessed (or was possessed by) a German mother and an English aunt, both of whom decided to teach her to knit. The results were predictable:

- hold the wool in the left hand

-  no, hold the wool in the right hand

- pic up the wool

- no, flick the wool

She got completely confused, and gave up. Eight years of is too young to understand that there are often two perfectly good ways to get to the same end result. A fact that needs to be learnt over and over throughout life, and one that some never learn.

Instead I learnt embroidery, not cross-stitch, which wasn't in vogue in those lone ago days, but real embroidery, with lots of different stitches. I was given a kit of a peacock one Christmas Day and had finished it by the end of Boxing Day. Well, there wasn't much to do once the food had been eaten and the presents unwrapped. We didn't have a television then. Yes, it had been invented, but we didn't have one. I remember the day I got into serious trouble at primary school as we were asked to write about something we had seen on TV in the last week, and I couldn't. I got the ruler (across my hand) and my mother came in and shouted, politely(she was never less than polite, which only made her more scary) at the headteacher. Anyway embroidery had me hooked.

I still have the peacock.

Peacock, in all his 60's flower power glory.