Coincidences

On Friday there were two articles in the Daily Telegraph which caught my attention. I recently wrote about Victorian underwear. Lo and behold there is a picture of Queen Victoria's silk bloomers (definitely OS) which are included in a selection of the Qeen's underwear which is to be sold by auction in Edinburgh.
On Thursday my daughter and I were remembering going shopping when she was a very young teenager. We went to Kensington and found shops selling things young girls like. One in particular was very poorly lit and loud Indian music was being played. I recognised the music. My husband, being an old India hand, played his one Ravi Shankar record interminably. My daughter dived into the darkened shop. I followed more cautiously not sure what I might find but fearing the worst. Just inside the door was a strangely dressed, foreign-looking young man smoking a Hookah!! Oh dear! A second glance showed me he was innocently drinking orange juice through a straw. I have a vivid imagination. As my daughter says "Oh Mummy, honestly!".
To my astonishment the article the next day was about shops selling goods in semi darkness where the patrons are in danger of bumping into one another. With ear-splitting music apparently it is hoped to creat a club-like atmosphere. One mother couldn't find her daughter and had to go outside to phone her. Another clung on to her daughter in the dark saying "Don't lose me". Sounds like another instance of energy saving or more likely conning the customers who can't see to read the prices. Ah well! plus ca change!.

Worry

Mark Twain (and possibly many other people) said" I have had many troubles in my life most of which have never happened". I have found this to be very true. The times I have dreaded something happening only for the feared event to pass off peacefully or, indeed, not to take place at all. Most of us are worriers. The best advice, which I can never remember at the crucial moment, is if you can do something about it, do it now. If it is beyond your control, stop worrying. Easier to say than to do.
Cousin Kath was a worrier. Indeed, an arch-worrier. She went on a tour to Egypt with her sister. One of the arranged excursions was a visit by minibus to a sacred temple in the desert. Their minibus joined three others and they set off. When the buses stopped Kath found visiting the temple in volved quite a walk. As she had a sore foot she decided to stay in the bus until the party returned. After a while she looked up from her book rather apprehensively as her driver opened the door and ushered in three men. They went to the back of the bus and squatted down on the floor talking animatedly. Kath cowered into the corner of her seat wondering how to call for help and where from. She waited for a fate worse than death. .....after some time there was a great shout of laughter and the men rose to their feet and came purposefully towards her. As each one passed he saluted her. Then her driver said to her "You O.K. Missy?" It then dawned on her that the three men were the other three drivers and that they had been innocently playing cards to pass the waiting time.

Interviews & Introductions

Watching a politician being beseiged by reporters the other day on TV reminded me of Harold MacMillan. He said you arrive at Heathrow after a long flight looking tired, sleeples, jet lagged and exactly like your passport photograph to be met by an army of reporters asking questions and thinking the old man's past it.
I think the usual questions run something like this:
"How did the meeting go, sir?" "Oh I think it went very well." "Did you reach any conclusions?" "Well, not to say conclusions exactly." "Why did the meeting break down?" "Well, I wouldn't say it broke down exactly, it broke up." "What was the result?" "Well, I would say lessons have been learned." So we are not much the wiser. At least the reporters probably knew who he was.
On the Today programme on Radio 4 they often get the name or job description wrong which can be embarrassing. I,myself, have been variously in troduced as Gerry Bowles, Elsie Bowley and when I was named Thirkettle that led to endless mispronunciations. So rule number one -- get the name right.
Rule numbertwo make sure you know your speaker's subject. No good saying "cooking a gooseberry tart" when the speaker has prepared a talk about her trip to Outer Mongolia.
Rule number three Mind how you say thank you. I was at a meeting where a vicar's wife gave a talk on Queen Victoria's underwear and brought samples (not of the Queen's) of the things Victorian ladies wore under their dresses. At the end the Chairman (Ooh, mustn't say that) the Chair said (though I have never hrard a chair speak) Thank you, Mrs. Brown. for telling us about the underwear. Now ladies next month we are going to have a very interesting speaker ------ That is not what you are supposed to say.
Being interviewed can be nerve wracking but if you have a charming, handsome man asking you questions, as I did, it is amazing what you come out with.

Schooldays

Harking back to my schooldays the schools I went to were all church schools. They had a good reputation in London. A good basic Christian education with dedicated teachers. From 12 years old I went to a school in Westminster which drew pupils from a wide area. Many of the girl's parents were shopkeepers or small tradesmen. Some were quite well off coming from the Sloane Square area. One girl was the daughter of one of the King's coachmen and lived in the Royal Mews at Buckingham Palace where the Royal Family keep their horses and carriages which are used on State occasions. The coachmen and grooms, with their families, lived in flats above the coach houses and stables. It was very exciting to go there for tea. When the war broke out they were all evacuated to Windsor Castle.

Spuds

When Kitty and I decamped from London to South Mimms during the blitz (see blog for 8/8/2010) Uncle would load us down with eggs and fresh vegetables from his garden. Things which were in short supply in town. We would travel to and fro by Green Line bus. These coaches were much beloved by Londoners. They ran frequently from Central London out into the country - north, south, east and west at a reasonable fare.
On one occasion we were waiting early on Monday morning for the bus back to Victoria laden down with our spoils. A large paper carrier bag was full of small new potatoes. A real luxury. (No plastic bags in those days.) It started to rain. The bus was late and we waited and waited. The rain got heavier and heavier and so did the bag. We finally got on the bus looking like drowned rats. We arrived at Victoria railway station just in the rush hour. We took a short cut through the station Kitty carrying the now sodden carrier bag. As we were crossing the concourse, dodging hurrying commuters, the bottom of the bag finally gave up the struggle and dozens and dozens of small potatoes short all over the ground. Kitty took off her jacket and we started to gather them up into the jacket. I must give those busy Londoners their due. Several people stopped and helped us pick up the potatoes. Looking even more like drowned rats we finally reached Kitty's homewhere the potatoes were greeted with open arms, even if we weren't. I have to say they were delicious cooked with one sausage each which Mrs. Jones had managed to scrounge from the butcher, the tiny ration of meat being kept for Sundays. It is really true what happens in the butcher's shop in "Dads Army".

My Friend Kitty

I find it sad that when I find something interesting and think I must tell so-and-so only to remember a moment later that he/she had died a few years back. That's what happens when you live so long.
This week I read a letter about George Mitchell of the Black & White Minstrels show. A terribly non-PC entertainment modelled on Al Jolson songs etc. which we unsophisticates enjoyed. I'm sure George Mitchell never intended to upset anyone. Anyway this letter referred to his time in the Royal Army Pay Corps. My friend, Kitty, was called up in the 1940s for the A.T.S. (a most unlikely soldier) and worked in the same room as George Mitchell in the City of London and I wanted to tell her about the letter.
Kitty and I met when we were 12 and remained friends until she went to meet her Maker in 2007. I know that's where she went because she was a saint but one with a great sense of humour. Despite her many troubles she never complained.
On the 7th September when the blitz on London began Kitty and I had been swimming at Buckingham Palace Road Baths. We went to her home in Grosvenor Square where her family lived in the basement. Her mother was the housekeeper. Next door lived the Earl of Onslow and we were friends with Bridie, one of the maids. The sirens went as we hurried home. We could hear the planes. We arrived home safely and, of all things, went up on to the roof to see what was happening. We could hardly believe our eyes. Looking towards the East End the whole horizon was red. The bombers had set the city alight to provide a beacon for the planes which were to follow within a few hours with high explosives, The bombing went on for hours. A good job we didn't know about all the nights that were to follow.

Thriller Awards

Last night I watched the ITV3 Thriller Awards ceremony. I was delighted to see the cast of the Danish detective series "The Killing" there and even more delighted when the actress playing the mother got the award for best supporting actress, the female detective was awarded the best actress and the series was the most popular with the viewers. They had to beat some pretty strong contenders so well done them! The famous jumper was also on view!
It was interesting to see the different authors. Most looked very ordinary middle-aged men. Not at all the sort who could dream up all those horrors. I suppose the fascination we have with thrillers and crime novels is trying to work out whodunit before the denoument at the end. I love the way Poirot assembles all the suspects, looks at each one in turn and then swivels round and pounces on the least likely one. (I do sometimes watch more highbrow programmes.)
But there's nothing like a good murder to take one's mind off the horrors of diminishing returns from one's savings.

Jumping over the Broomstick

Looking at the pictures of Paul McCartney's wedding at a Registry Office reminded me of the Rev. Francis Kilvert saying that such marriages were like Gipsy weddings where the bride and groom jumped over a broomstick and that meant they were married. I have come across this expression before, either Dickens or Thackeray.
I have just finished listening to an amusing book by Rev. Fred Secombe, brother of Harry Secombe, about his early years as a young curate. Now I am on to letters written by a prolific letter writer, Nancy Mitford of the famous Mitford sisters' fame. All of her family were so interesting, especially her sister Diana who married the Fascist Sir Oswald Moseley. Before the war my brother went to a Peace Rally in Hyde Park. Moseley and his Blackshirts were there and things got rather lively. Frank came home with a black eye. So much for peace!!

Traveller's Rest

On the way home from what used to be a short trip to the shops but is now a marathon I frequently rest on a seat in the sun. I am a great people watcher! I caught it from my mother-in-law. I used to drive her to Hythe for coffee and then we would sit in the car on the sea front criticising the fashion sense of the passers by.
This particular seat is a favourite with young mums who stop to have a crafty fag. One young man sat down beside me and actually asked me if I minded if he smoked. I wonder if I will die from passive smoking. However I don't mean to mock the younger generation. My grandchildren and their friends are delightful company and very forbearing of a garrulous old dear. I have to cross two quite tricky roads to get home. Near one crossing there is a seat where an oddly assorted bunch of characters sit with their cans of beer, their fags and their dogs. If they catch my eye they are always polite and say "Good morning, Ma'am." One day when I was waiting for a gap in the traffic so as to cross safely one of this fraternity, a rather untidy young man, went out in to the middle of the road to stop the traffic and said encouragingly "Come on, Ma, you can cross now." Never judge a sausage by its skin.