Colours of my Mind

Once upon a time there was, and still is, a knitwear designer calle Kaffe. He really went in for colour, colour blocks, patters, stripes, squares and triangles. I had no idea that my mother was interested in his designs. However some months back she dug in one of her many drawers and pulled out a bag of about 20 small skeins that were meant to make a cardigan with lots of triangles. This I couldn't face, so, some frogging and re-rolling later I started to use them.

 

First: a multicoloured and textured scarf

Second: a shawl in colour blocks

Third: ? Must think.

I find the use of colours fascinating. How they blend and mix, what the 'rules' are. Who uses which, and why. I tend to wear neutrals, nothing very bright. This year though, I have indulged in reds, reds and more reds. Am I getting old, is this a breakout in life, a personal crazy streak or what? The plan is to be cheerful.

This, however, does not look cheerful, she looks positively ferocious. Cats have been a part of my life since I was 9. The only time I have been without them is when at boarding school and at university.

I started by bringing cats home from the farm. Mum hated it, but I was persistent, and eventually she gave in.

Originally there was a constant stream of moggies, many of whom were rescue cats, but, more recently, we have had mainly British Shorthairs, one Norwegian Forest and a pair of Bengals. Bengals, I have discovered, need endless patience and an ability to shout loudly enough to interrupt the latest mischief. Tonight it was running around the house with the packaging from the meat.

This one is less naughty, but has a very definite mind of her own, and a good ability to understand the English language, especially the VET word, even when spelt.

 

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Wool, wool and more wool (and other patterns).

OK I am a hoarder, and a collector, and I love wool. But my collection has got to the point that I can't find storage space any longer, it's overrun my storage unit, it's falling out of the cupboard and taken over the living room chest. So I need to either stop acquiring wool or knit more, or both! Trouble is - my scarf/shawl/cowl collection has also reached overspill levels. I need to make socks, gloves and jumpers, especially things to give away.

 

 

 

This is the latest finished item. The 'Original Knitting Game' from Criminal Knits. It's lovely and soft, and warm, and cuddly. It might turn into a gift, but I think not.

I also have 5 scarves on needles, a very large Afghan, a rug for my daughter and enough plans in mind for the next several years.

 

 

 

 

 

Yesterday we went to the Escher exhibition at the Modern Art Gallery in Edinburgh. It was fantastic, I love the tessellated patterns, but wasn't aware of his early stuff, drawings of Italiam villages, cliffsides, all exaggerated and showing distortion of perspective. I would love to be able to draw like that, but if wishes were horses ....

 

 

however I have been playing around with Zentangles, also black and white and making tiles using repeated patterns. A lot of practice is needed, but they are very relaxing to do, which is the idea. I used to love making patterns as a child, I was put off doing so by an art teacher who said they were not 'proper drawings', obviously he had never seen Escher.

 

 

 

 

 

I wonder how many people have been stopped from being creative by those sorts of unthinking (and callous) remarks. I didn't make any art for years after that. But now I do, I knit, choosing the colours and textures, I take photos and alter them to make abstracts, I sometimes do pastel paintings and I cook. All of these are art in their own way. I need time out for my brain! Working with my hands does this.

 

 

 

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We made Jam

My daughter brought home strawberries and raspberries from Culross Palace gardens and wanted to make jam. I haven't made jam for about 25 years. Homemade raspberry jam used to be a regular occurance, but I never finished it, and then the kids were around, and I was too busy. So .... Jam sugar was acquired and of we went using the very simple recipe on the back of the packet. My cooking thermometer was broken long ago, so setting was done by a timed method - I didn't even use the 'wrinkle' test. Fortunately it worked.

 

 

Soft fruit - 800gms

Jam sugar -1000gms

Mix, heat slowly until sugar dissolved

Bring to a rolling boil

Boil for 4 minutes.

Pour into sterilised jam jar

Cool and seal.

 

 

 

This all reminded me of olden times. In the summer we used to go picking endless blackberries, diving into thickets with buckets, my memory paints them as large and juicy, but the blackberries you see in the wild now always seem very small and tart. The kids always seem horrified when I pick them - unclean, unclean!

The other thing we did when young was winkle picking, down on the beach with buckets, bringing them back to wash multiple times to remove the grit, then boil to sell in the shop. None of us drowned, unlike the winkle pickers of recent notoriety, but then we were 'locals' and knew the tides well. The only time I almost got caught out was when walking around the harbour slightly too late on the tide and having to climb the fence into the fields to get around the edge as the path was underwater. I would have been in trouble if I'd waded and got soaked shoes, also, the sand had a nasty tendency to turn into quicksand when wet, so it might have been a bit risky.

Pagham Harbour, a nature reserve, without boats

Pagham harbour, a nature reserve and no boats, seriously disappointed William and Jenny, they wanted boats not sand and wind, but I spent hours here as a child, walking or cycling around it, watching the tide and the birds, sitting and reading. The big house near the harbour used to be owned by friends of my dads and they had a cage full of parrots, and what I thought was a monkey, but, as I remember black and white, might have been a lemur.

Life was much freer then, I wandered everywhere, on foot or bike, frequently away for hours. We played in the farmers barns, building houses from bales of straw, fed the calves, collected eggs at the stables. Sometimes I had company in the summer when the visitors where down, they were regulars and there were 2 girls I met up with every year, who had summer homes on the beach, other times of the year I mainly wandered by myself. No one thought of danger or risks, no mobile phones of course, and one came back when hungry.

 

 

 

 

 

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On Poodles

 

When I was young I had an assortment of carers, after school, holidays, weekends. It comes with having parents who both worked. It was much less formal than now, I assume they got paid, but there were certainly no checks. The one I remember most clearly was Marion. She lived in a beach house (two railway carriages put together with a space between and a roof over the middle) next door to my best holiday friend and had an assortment of people staying with her and, always, poodles. The small yappy variety, grey and smelly but very affectionate. She had a greenhouse full of fuchsias and, wonder of wonders, a TV. I spent lots of summers there, mostly playing on the beach. Not a beach as you would think, sand and sand castles, but a good, old fashioned, hard to walk on, pebble beach.

One summer was the one my dad died. He was taken ill and I was sent into the garden until the ambulance collected him and then to Marion's. He never came home and I never saw him again, children weren't allowed in hospitals in those days. I sat watching Wimbledon, Chris Evert, so I know it was summer. I was nine.

About me: how much difference has it made growing up without a father? How can you know? My Mum was always busy, but so are many mums. We has enough money for reasonable comfort, very few holidays, but that was usual then. I has a de facto stepfather from when about 12, but no real emotional relationship there, and he didn't live with us until I was at boarding school, and even then wasn't there during the holidays. Physical affection was not a factor in our family. I remember Dad carrying me on his shoulders, but not with enough memory pictures to be sure it was a real event.

 

 

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Fruit and other foods.

I have just had the excitement of an examination (physical ) and therefore the need to fast for a day. I missed my fruit more than anything else. That made me think about fruit in the past. We didn't have the range available that we have now. I remember:

- being given 6d (that's 2 1/2p) by the van driver, whose name was Ivor, and who always had a drip on the end of his nose, to go to the green grocer and get myself an apple. It was a Golden Delicious. It was perfect, big and round and crispy.

- having a star fruit, the next door but one neighbour was a pilot who flew with BOAC, and he once brought a bag of exotic fruit back and we all tried some. I wasn't impressed, but it would have been sitting in his bag for hours.

- bananas were always a treat.

- other fruit came in tins, heavily treated with sugar syrup. My mother used to make her trifle with black cherries from tins . They were canned with the stones in, and we had to stone them before using. My hands were stained purple for days. Now I make it with mandarin oranges, also from tins, as William doesn't like cherries.

Food was more expensive, I remember when the price of steak hit £1 a pound. It was a scandal.  Mother was a good cook, being German her style was continental, the vegetables were not watery and the meat was on the rare side. I remember the shock I got when I went to boarding school and was expected to eat overlooked everything. I lived on biscuits and bread. 

Knitting is moving on. I am on another cowl to go with my new coat. The coat was acquired to replace one I have lost. Don't know where, although that is illogical, as if I knew where it wouldn't be lost. Anyway the new one is greys and greens and reds so a grey and brown cowl. An interesting pattern Called 'In the Loop'. Maybe I should call mine Loopy Loo. Almost half done. Easy and fun. Now finished, sits well and warm and cosy. Will go well with my coat.

 

 

Cats and Scarves.

Once upon a time there was a young girl who loved animals, but her mother wasn't at all enthusiastic. However I persisted. The first pets I had were a pair of white guinea pigs with pink eyes. Pinky and Perky. I loved them and simply brought them home from a friends, it was a done deal, and I was allowed to keep them for a while. Unfortunately, although siblings, they were also keen breeders, and one was of each sex. Babies ensued. This was the final straw and I was made to take them to the PDSA and give them away.

The next trial was a budgerigar, also sourced from a friend, however this time on a loan to see what happened. Mum couldn't stand the smell, so made me keep its cage in the garage, which rather spoilt the point, so he went back.

The next trial was a cat. This one came from the local stables, Samantha, a tortie. She managed to stay. Mostly because I hid her in my bedroom for days, and then I wouldn't give her back. She was very intelligent, could open doors unless they were wedged shut and was totally a one person cat. Anyone else trying to handle her was thoroughly scratched. I loved her. She became the foundation of a string of cats. The only time I have been without was when I was at university, living in rented accommodation. The number has varied. Never less than two, now at six.

This photo is the youngest of the present brood, Eowyn. She, like most cats enjoys small spaces, and my knitting box was a perfect fit. Not sure if I will manage to get it back. At least she rarely chases wool, although has been known to bat my needles away, especially if she wants attention.

 Knitting is going apace. The wool in the foreground above is the starting point of a scarf for Gillian. She commented she liked the colours of a scarf I had done previously, and I had enough wool left over, so am making another. A different lace, but I think/hope she will like it.

I

 I have also just finished a winter weight cowl. This one is in two colours, not the original plan, but I realised, after doing the first segment, that I had completely miscalculated the amount of wool required. Luckily I had some of another colour in the same wool, and they went well together, so a striped cowl it is. Think I will keep this one for myself.

The third recent knitting event was my scarf for William. Again I didn't have enough, but this time ordered some more, unfortunately it was a very different dye lot, and although it blended, it was not appreciated as the second skein was mostly orange. Not a success, so I've taken the two halves apart, will finish the second half up and make into a fairly short cowl for myself. Don't know what I'll do for William though. Have to think, everything I've started he's wrinkled his nose at, metaphorically anyway.

!8 Years

Jenny's 18th birthday. The youngest one is officially an adult. Having cleaned and hoovered the house and garden, tidied up, bought and cooked an awful lot of food we were finally there. I think the party was a success.  Jenny seemed to enjoy herself anyway.

Thinking back to the other major occasion of her birth. She always was awkward. Having threatened to arrive for weeks before she should, and having had me in and out of hospital like a yo yo, the day finally came. Lower segment Caesarian section using a spinal anaesthetic. Should have taken fifteen minutes, maximum. But it seemed to go on and on, and I could feel the anaesthetist getting more agitated 'Should I top up?' 'Again?'. Eventually the fateful words came 'I can't do this, can you call the consultant'. You could have heard a pin drop. The theatre sister was frantically shushing him and making gestures to the orderly. The anaesthetist politely said ' the patient, and her husband are awake'. The consultant came, order was restored. Jenny was hauled forth into the world and the registrar (now reduced to helper) said 'You have a boy!'. The theatre sister said 'I think you need to review your anatomy lesions, SHE'S beautiful' .

Baby and Adoring Dad

Busy Streets

Yesterday I went to Edinburgh again, this this time with Jenny. We were in the centre, it's festival time and the streets were crowded. Some people seem convinced they can just walk though you, I think we must have been using a cloak of invisibility! Which reminds me of the first time I came to Edinburgh. I was visiting a friend to see the place and decide wether I wanted to come here for medical school or go to London. I was waiting for her at the railway station. At that time there was a cafe at the top where you could look over Princes Street, I remember seeing the heaving mass of people, looking like ants, covering the pavements in all directions. I was terrified, a country mouse, the largest town I'd seen was Chichester, and it was never that busy. Luckily she lived in a quiet area, and it didn't feel so overwhelming there. Life would have been very different if I'd not come here. Better or worse -who knows, but certainly different.

We went to two exhibitions. Well, there were two on that I'd not seen.

Man Ray at the Scottish Portrait Gallery. A selection of his photographic portraits throughout his life. Brilliant. So many famous people. He must have had a glittering lifestyle, but often the models looked sad, or, at least, pensive. Very few were smiling. Very few engaged in something they enjoyed. Faces, and more faces. In a hundred years, without the bibliography no-one will recognise any of them. The brilliance of the photography will still show.

Peter Doig - No Foreign Land. As different as possible. Crashing colour. Enormous canvases, strokes of paint outlining the emotion rather than the fine detail. Some I could stare at for ever. No recognisable faces, possibly recognisable places if you knew the areas, but mostly almost abstract views telling you all about the heat, and the dust, and the sheer colour of the tropics. I was tempted to theft!

Dr Who? and Books!

The news of the day, and it made the headlines - a new Doctor.  It's an interesting fact that a TV show, however good, can raise so much excitement and angst. It has been running for ever, well 50 years this year. I remember it when I was little. We didn't have a TV, so I would go around to a neighbours or a friends. We used to watch it from behind the sofa, with a blanket to hide under when the daleks  appeared. But nothing was so frightening as the weeping angels. The can still send shivers up my spine, and I have been known to wish for a cozy blanket to peer out from under.

Truth about me:

I am not interested in television. Yes, I admit that I do watch some programmes, mainly SF and crime, with the occasional documentary thrown in. I wouldn't miss it though, and I rarely remember to put things on unless someone else in the family reminds me. I  have the ability to tune it out , so can read or plays games with it on in the room, and end up with no idea what's been on. Books are my thing. Reading, anything and everything. Words on the back of the cereal packet if there's none other around. Our house sinks under the weight of thousands of books, and I've run out of space for  bookshelves. Thank heavens for eBooks.

Books!

A very small portion. The shelves stretch along the entire wall, and reach almost to the ceiling, and ours is an old house, with high rooms.

When I was young I acquired books whenever and wherever I could, but the best source was the library van that came around every week. You were allowed 3 books, and I had my allowance, and my Mums every week. I started at A and worked along the shelves, they had to let me read the adult books early, as I'd run out of the child's fiction. 

 

Birthdays and Babies

Today is my father-in-laws birthday. I have made a cake, plain, 'cos that's how he likes them. He's a grumpy of codger, so I hope he appreciates it. We are also having a Chinese and Mo and Macy are meeting us there as a surprise. It's a bit of a bittersweet occasion as its likely to be the last birthday that he will really appreciate, although dementia is very unpredictable.

The Chinese was good, comes from a very tatty looking carry-out, but very tasty and the cake went down well. Good thing, as I had to get Nicky out of bed to go and get eggs and butter. Organisational skills are not one of my strong points! Cake making is though. It would be a disaster if I was at home all the time as I would do non-stop baking (as well as knitting) and would probably put on all the weight I have so effortfully lost, and more besides.

Macy is 18 months old. She was born on her great grandmothers birthday so is named after her Macy Lily. She was tired when she arrived and not up to being social with strangers, but eventually became more enthusiastic and took me around the garden to look at the flowers. I even got a daisy picked and presented to me.

Grandmum and Macy

F-in-L was in a really good frame of mind. Very pleased with the small party, and very attentive to Macy. He's come around a lot to her as initially he didn't approve of her, he's definitely of the generation where any partnerships should be of the regular married type, and all else is anathema. It's interesting how social mores change, up and down like an old fashioned swing.

Great granddad and Macy

That reminds me of the fair I used to go to as a child. It was always in the big field at the end of the street, and came at the end of summer. Very decorous in the afternoon, but got wilder in the evening and I wasn't allowed to stay late. They had a merry-go-round with horses painted gold, and swings with the two person boat type seats that you pulled back on forth. My father used to take me on those.  They were the most exciting thing I'd ever done, you could see right over the trees. I don't think you ever see them nowadays. One year I fell off the roundabout, and had to limp along the road to my aunts with blood streaming down my leg. If a child did that now I expect there would be a great fuss made, law suits threatened, and the like. Then it was just 'now get up, and go and clean up' and I didn't even get my sixpence back. 

Old Fashioned Excitement

I Don't Bounce

Yesterday I fell. Actually I was walking backward carrying my end of an old planter and tripped over a bag of compost. Bang. My head hit the floor and the planter hit my leg. Nothing actually broken, but its darn sore.

Which reminded me of the multiplicity of other daft accidents I have had over the years. The one that immediately sprung to mind was when I put a fork though my foot. A gardening fork mind, not a table fork, one of the big ones covered with mud. By this time we had moved to a house in Pagham Road. It had two large bedrooms, a study, a living room with a ding area and kitchen. It also has large gardens front and back. It had been built in the orchard of the house along the road, so had fruit trees, apples, pears, plums, cooking apples and cherries. The were old and didn't produce much fruit but we got some every summer, along with lots of wasps. Bramley apples taste great eaten straight off the tree, with a bowl of sugar to dip them in, to counteract the sharpness.

House - my bedroom, top right as looking at it.

The house was set slightly back from the road, with a wild area about a metre wide which was always full of daffodils and snowdrops and then a row of tall elm trees before the road. That was, of course, before Dutch Elm Disease. One early summer the council came along and said that all the trees would have to come down because they were diseased. I was furious. So I went out with a spade and fork to rescue some of the bulbs. I was so angry I wasn't looking what I was doing and put the fork right through my foot just above my toes. That needed a visit to the local surgery for a tetanus jag. I don't remember getting much sympathy either!

One of the things you can do while sitting with a sore leg is knit. My concentration has not been brilliant, and much cursing and frogging has ensued. Am working on the Curious Shawl. The other notable knitting event today is that my monthly parcel from the Skein Queen has arrived. At present I am trying to avoid the temptation is starting yet another project. I have promised myself, with fingers mentally crossed, that I will finish at least one thing before I start another.

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?

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.

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.