Good News

I received a letter yesterday from the Eye Hospital saying I did not need any more injections at present. I have to go for a scan once a month to see if there is any change. So the macular degeneration has been halted thanks to the skill of the doctors. Until something drastic like this happens one takes one's good eyesight for granted.
My friends and I had a discussion about which century we would have liked to have lived in. I plumped for this one. The wonderful advances made in medical treatment make life a lot better for most of us. As far as I am concerned, the jury is still out when it comes to longevity. Whether, as someone said, it is better than the alternative, I don't know. But let's not be morbid. Today is Good News Day.

Everything all right, Nurse?

I am saddened by stories about the lack of care some elderly patients receive. I think back to the time when I was looking after my 92 year old mother. A lovely District Nurse used to come in to bath her etc. When it all got a bit too depressing she would cheer us up with tales of when she was a probationer. She had us both laughing at this story.She said "The first day I was left in charge of the men's geriatric ward was one I shall never forget. We were, as usual, short staffed so Sister said we must lunch one at a time which meant I would be on my own. She told me to take Mr. Williams and give him a bath and then settle everyone down for their after lunch rest. Sounded fine - piece of cake I thought. Mr. Williams and I set off for the bathroom at the end of the ward. Now poor Mr. Williams had a weak stomach and was no sooner in the bath than he was dreadfully sick. So out he had to come and we started all over again. Now this all took a lot longer than I expected.
I put the old chap - all sweet and clean - in his wheelchair andwheeled him back into the ward. I noticed rather a lot of noise as I opened the door. The scene was reminiscent of a Roman amphitheatre with a dash of Dodgem cars from Butlins. One of the porters was a bookie's runner and Terry and Horace were great students of the Turf. From what I could gather there had been some disagreement between them as to how they should divide up their winnings. Horace (in his wheelchair) chased Terry (in his wheelchair) round the ward bumping into him. Terry retaliated by hitting Horace a sharp blow on the shoulder nearly oversetting him. The rest of the ward were cheering them on. Talk about Gladiators! They hadn't had so much excitement since the window cleaner fell off his ladder.
With some difficulty I managed to calm them down and get them into bed. I tidied up the rest of the beds just as Sister appeared in the doorway.
"Everything all right, Nurse?" she asked.
"Yes Sister" I replied."

Chivalry

There have been letters and articles in the press about Chivalry and Benevolent Sexism. I think this is just another name for good manners and politeness.
I took it for granted that a boyfriend would walk on the outside of the pavement, would open the door for me and let me on the bus first and help me off the bus. I accepted these displays of good manners gracefully. These were occasions when I didn't mind being the weaker sex. Oh dear, was I letting the side down? Nobody told me. (I could hold my own in other directions if I chose.)
My husband, Don, stood back to allow a female colleague to enter the lift first. She said to him "We don't want any of that nonsense. You don't have to step aside because I am a lady." To which he replied "I don't. I do it because I am a gentleman."

The Open Air Class

My attention has been drawn to the publication of the Natural Environment White Paper in which mention is made of teaching children outdoors. In the early 1930s my school, Archbishop Tenison's Girls School in Lambeth, London, had an Open Air Class. Our playground was in the recreation ground known to us all as the Burial because there were tombstones along the walls. It must at one time have been a burial ground. When I was about 8 years old our class spent almost the whole of one year having lessons out of doors.

In one corner of the Burial was a large open sided shed. If it rained there were tarpaulin curtains which were let down on to the low wooden sides of the classroom according to which way the wind and rain were coming from. In the summer it was lovely. We were taught about the trees and plants around us as well as all the other subjects. In the winter we wore our coats, hats and scarves and if it was really frosty we were given a blanket to keep ourselves warm. What fresh air there was we got it even though it was mixed with smuts from the steam trains which ran from Vauxhall to Waterloo on an embankment only yards from our desks.

In the picture I am the fair girl with her head on one side looking rather disgruntled. (Can you look "gruntled"?) The teacher was called, appropriately enough, Mrs. Stillwell.

Climate

I find it difficult to get used to the idea that after this planet has existed for I don't know how many million years this generation is responsible for the change in the climate. I know much cleverer people than my humble self have put forth theories so I will be written off as a foolish old woman but nevertheless I do not see it as a clear-cut case.
When I was young we didn't have "climate". That was a word we learned in our geography lessons. We just had peculiarly variable weather. The seasons sometimes got a bit mixed up. Some Christmases were mild and sometimes we had snow in May. In one's memory summer holidays were always sunny whereas if the truth were told there were a good many August days when I would spend my time looking out of the window at the rain and wishing I could go on the swings in the Rec.
I think the weather is better in many respects. We have made great strides in reducing pollution. Think of the fogs in Victorian days. The Russians, great readers of Dickens, think we still have them. I can vividly remember thick yellow fog in the thirties when it was quite dangerous to cross the road even in daylight.
I quite agree that we must look after our world for our own and future generations by cutting down waste etc. but let's not go overboard. In this lovely country we have weather. Whatever else would we talk about?

The Theatre (contd)

My first experience of the theatre was being taken by my big brother to the Pantomime at the South London Theatre near the Borough Market. We all queued at the Gallery door, having first bought a bag of peanuts (in their shells) to sustain us. When the doors opened it was a mad rush to the Box Office and then up what seemed like hundreds of stone steps to get a front seat.
Each Panto had a villain, a Fairy Godmother and a man dressed as an old woman, a Princess and a Principal Boy - a female bouncing around in tights. There was always a magnificent Transformation Scene with fairies and goblins appearing to fly across the stage. Once a black figure with a silver skeleton painted on his costume came on a wire right up to the front row of the Gallery. That was scary. We hissed the villain and cheered the hero and joined in the songs- the words of which were painted on a huge sheet hanging from the flies. What fun it all was! We left the floor knee deep in peanut shells and orange peel.

The Theatre

I no longer go to the theatre since I have become so deaf. Is it me or does everybody mumble these days? In the 60s a regular afternoon treat was to go to the Leas Pavilion Theatre in Folkestone. This repertory theatre was started by Arthur Brough in 1927. He was later to find fame in the TV series "Are you being served?"
My mother and I went to matinees. In the interval trays of tea were brought round. The second act started to chatter and the rattle of teacups. Rather disconcerting for the actors. On one occasion the leading man stepped forward and shouted "Shut up!". There was instant silence and he walked back and went on with his speech.
Being a repertory theatre the same actors appeared each week in different roles. One old lady, a regular in the front row, said to the actress who was playing the maid and had just answered the telephone at the side of the stage "Not a very big part this week, dear." Once during a thriller the heroine shot the villain who fell theatrically to the floor and, in his death throes, rolled right off the stage into the audience. He then had to pick himself up and get back on the stage and lie down dead. There was some excitement in going to the play in those days. You never knew what might happen. At the end of that particular performance the manager came out to announce next week's play and said "I can't guarantee anybody falling off the apron."