Granny Turismo

Marge, Mary & Doris


I wonder if any of my readers have come across this act in their wanderings. Granny Turismo claim that they are the world's first and only formation shopping trolley dance team, and they are to be seen in the streets and squares and malls of our cities, at theme parks and at festivals, in fact anywhere where people are gathering for relaxation and diversion at holiday times. They carry their own loud music and sound effects around with them, and they are boisterous and not a little disgraceful.

Those of you who know that I belong to an organisation for older women called Growing Old Disgracefully, will not be surprised, therefore, to learn that we sought them out and invited two of the team to attend our Annual Gathering in Harrogate recently. Mary and Betty rolled up the ramp into the Cairn Hotel between tea and supper time on our first evening, and made themselves at home in the spacious reception areas, and later in the Promenade Suite, where there was room for the trolleys to go through their dance routines, enthusiastically accompanied on the floor by some of our members.

Sadly they could not stay with us for long, and we had dinner to eat and a further evening's entertainment ahead of us. So Mary and Betty took their leave of us. I was especially sad to see them go, because Mary is my son Ric and Betty is his partner Tess, and I am a besotted fan of them both and of the act. You might not think so from the picture below, where I appear to be haranguing my son like the worst sort of scold, but I can assure you I wasn't.

And so the Trolleys were put to rest until another occasion, and the Grannies went home.

To get the full effect of this rumbustious act, watch a video film of the team at work in Birmingham in July, and a BBC News interview with Marge and Mary at Alton Towers . Granny Turismo also have a page on Facebook

My family photos find a new home

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This is my father on his 1923 Model 16H Norton motorbike. As it happens I have not posted this picture before, even though a year or two ago I did a feature on my father's 'wheels' - that is to say his motorbikes and cars. Today some of those pictures have found a place on a website which celebrates the Norton motorcycle. John, the website owner, has managed to improve the quality of this picture, and so I have copied it back again from his website to post here.

This is the sort of exchange which really makes the internet, and blogging in particular, worth while for me. My mother and father are honoured again on a new blogsite, and John in Holland has found some more of his beloved Norton motorbikes to add to his blog.

I think I have at least one reader who will enjoy a visit to John's website, somebody else who loves his 'wheels'. Let me know what you think, Avus.

All's well...

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...back in action soon.

This is a 50-year-old colour slide taken by my husband in the garden of our first home. A friend converted it to a digital picture for me, with his special scanning device. So lovely to see it again. At the time I called it "Son and shade"!

Writing under pressure

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Ten years ago, at one of our Growing Old Disgracefully gatherings, we did a writing workshop. We were asked - or rather challenged - to write a poem to someone we know well, and to liken that person to:

a colour

a kind of weather

a time of day or year

a sound

a form of transport

a kitchen implement

something eatable

an animal

a speed

We were given about 15 minutes to complete the task. In such circumstances one can hardly help but write from the heart. This was my poem. I seem to have cheated slightly on the last line.

You are my brown earth and my green growth,
You are my light and warmth and the breeze that blows.
You are my springtime and my renewal,
You are birdsong and the chime of bells.
You are the wheels that change my horizons,
You are my top gear, my accelerator.
You are the knife that cuts out waste.
You are my bread and my wine.
You are my best friend and companion.

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Holiday journal : 9 April - Heading for Scotland

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So, leaving Ric at work on his Granny props, we set off northwards again, with no fixed plan as to where we might spend the night. We would see where we got to. Ric had shown Matthew a route that would take us across the Yorkshire Dales on an unfenced road, via Wharfedale and Langstrothdale. We were blessed with a brilliantly sunny day and the scenery was quite spectacular. I kept wanting to stop and take pictures, but on consideration decided that I wouldn't know where to start or finish, as the 360 degree view was equally stunning in all parts. So I just enjoyed.

When we reached the highest point however, which I think was probably Wether Fell, the grandeur of the surrounding peaks was so compelling that I had to ask Matthew to stop. I got out of the car and stood, turning full circle, breathing in the cool pure air as it blew about my head, and feeling so uplifted that tears came into my eyes. I think for the first time I really appreciated why my late husband was so great a lover of mountains, and I felt close to him again. Later I discovered that Ric had driven him along that very route, the last time that Michael visted with him.

From there we came down into Hawes where we stopped for lunch. Afterwards we wandered round a bit and were seduced by a Rock and Gem Shop, where various purchases of polished stones and marble eggs were made. Then we found a book sale going on in one of the public buildings, and by one of those serendipitous chances that so astonish us, my daughter-in-law found an old, large-scale map of Aboyne on Deeside, which is exactly where we were heading to visit her parents. She bought it for her father.

We took off again, and as we left Hawes I noticed that the signposts were giving distances in both miles and furlongs, which I have never seen before. We crossed Swaledale by the Buttertubs Pass, and rolled down into Thwaite, and on to Kirkby Stephen. Here a comfort stop was called for, and after attending to this we took a look at the Parish Church, known as the Cathedral of the Dales. (Apparently the only parish church in Cumbria which is bigger is that of Kendal). The church grounds are closely hedged in by houses, and to our astonishment, as we walked in this sort of cloister, we spotted a most unusual sight. Two brightly coloured macaws were sitting on a roof top, and another on a second roof. I have marked with white asterisks the places where they were, in the aerial picture below (taken by Simon Ledingham).


















One other interesting observation about this church: the church nameboard states that it is home to both the Anglican and the Roman Catholic congregations of Kirkby Stephen, and each congregation has its own named pastor. This I have never come across before.

After that my memory of our route is hazy, but we managed somehow to make it to Edinburgh in the early evening, and still without motorways, I think. The decision had been made that we would treat ourselves to a comfortable hotel for this one night, and we drove into the centre of the city, eyeing one or two posh hotels as we went, and found somewhere we could park. Then, with the help of a printed guide, my son started to ring hotels. The first one did not have room and he next tried the Caledonian Hilton, but that was going to cost £147 for my single room, and £240 something for a family room. We declined - we didn't need to be that comfortable.

We remembered a reasonably nice one we had passed, but had to drive back to it as we didn't remember the name. Here my single room would only cost £80, and my son decided to treat me if I thought it was too much, as we wanted to get settled and find some supper. I have never paid so much for bed and breakfast in my life, but I couldn't deny that the room was worth it, especially as I had a double bed to myself. I did wonder in passing if I was paying extra for the third pillow on my bed, and spent a little time speculating as to what sort of ménage they might book in for a bed with three pillows. The hotel was called The Bruntsfield, and is a Best Western Hotel.


We had dinner in the hotel restaurant and my grandson ordered burger and chips for the second time that day, though I don't think he was aware of it. In the morning, Matthew insisted on going out onto the patio for his breakfast, in the fresh air, although the french window were not open, and the staff clearly were not intending to serve out there. They put up with it though - people generally do what Matthew wants them to, because he never doubts that they will! The rest of us stayed indoors and pretended not to know him.

New Act on Segway Scooters

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Pictures are coming in as I write of a new 'electroglide' act by the group Larkin' About, whom I have shown previously on my blog performing as Gliding Angels. When we left Ric to continue on our travels, he was busy making props for the act for the Falkirk Festival in Scotland on 2nd and 3rd May. The new Act is called ''Go Granny Go!" - a touch of ageist stereotyping there, I fear, but I have to forgive them for it.






Those who know me may detect a family likeness in Ric's profile here, aided by the addition of a wig and glasses.












You can also see videos of the act on my Video Blog here.

Holiday journal : 8 April - Our last night

Ric had fed us on a superb fish pie on the night we arrived, and my daughter-in-law Elizabeth had cookd fresh tuna steaks for us on the second night. After our visit to The Mill, we gathered with some of Ric's friends for dinner at the Rim Nam Thai Restaurant in Hebden Bridge. It is built in an old warehouse right on the edge of the canal, a superb setting, as it has big french windows at one end giving onto the towpath. I failed to get pictures of the building, but here is one taken from just outside as dusk fell, and another taken a little later.

















































It was a very comfortable place to eat, bright and cheerful, with staff helpful and accommodating to the requirements of children. We had a very nice evening there.

























I also managed to catch a couple of Muscovy ducks settling down for the night.

Holiday journal : 8 April - At the Mill

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Ric is a street theatre performer, working sometimes on his own and sometimes in a group. For this he needs to have rehearsal space, and he has rented the whole first floor of a disused mill near his home. He also makes the space available to other performing groups, and this is apparently much appreciated: one member of this group came up to be introduced, and asked "Are you Ric's Mum?" "Yes" I said. He waited a couple of beats then said "Thankyou!" in a heartfelt manner. Now isn't that a pretty compliment, to me and my son? Ric took us along to watch another group rehearsing.


















Gracie and Satya are working with hoops























Jago is using glo-hoops to create this effect

My grandson seems to be heading for a career as a Charlie Chaplin imitator!




FOOTNOTE ~















Enlarge the picture to see what is hanging on the telephone wires in the main square of Hebden Bridge!

Holiday journal : 6-9 April - Staying with Ric

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After we had dug ourselves out of the crack in the road map, we made good progress and arrived eventually at Pecket Well, Hebden Bridge. Ric recently bought his first house here, although he has been living in rented accommodation just down the road for a number of years. He lives in one of a small terrace of houses built of stone, with their backs up against the road, and facing down the valley to Hebden Bridge. To get to their front doors you have to go down a few steps at one or other end of the terrace, and along a paved path giving access to their front doors. Their sheds, patios, and gardens all fall away down the hill on the other side of the path. This is the view from his front door.

The access to Ric's house caused me considerable problems, as the flags are uneven, and the steps of different heights, and all get slippery in the rain. I had to rely heavily on Ric's arm to get to his house, and even with it I slipped on one occasion. Being a circus performer who is used to supporting people in acrobatics, he managed to hold me (all 11 stone I'm ashamed to say) so that I did not actually land on my butt, until I told him to let me down gently for the last 2 or 3 inches, and take the weight off his arm.

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I wasn't able to get pictures of the outside of the house, as the terrace is on a bend, and the pavements are minimal at that point. It would have been too risky to stand in the road. Parking is on the side of the road opposite the house, and we drew up behind Ric's large blue van.

Although it has the appearance of a small house, it actually has three stories, and is much more roomy. The front door opens into the sitting room, which opens into the kitchen. The stairs go up from the sitting room to the first floor where there is a bathroom and a big bedroom which Ric uses as a work room. Some of you might remember my picture of his last workroom; this one being bigger contains, in addition to the sewing machine, a Black and Decker workbench, his computer and a sofa bed. If he didn't have to eat, and go out to do the gigs by which he earns his living, I reckon he could live in the one room.

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On the second floor there is a large attic bedroom, with a smaller room off - ideal for the visiting Australian family. I was offered the sofa bed in the workroom, but as I find them uncomfortably low to get out of, I opted for a b&b in The Robin Hood Inn 50 yards down the road. Here I had a comfortable bed, but found myself in danger of stunning myself against the heavy beam which ran across the room at forehead height. However, I devised a warning system for myself by tucking two white hankies into a long groove running the length of the beam.

Holiday journal : 6 April - Heading for West Yorkshire

Matthew had said right from the start that arrangements for this trip would be fluid and variable and must above anything have the laid-back quality of a relaxing holiday. That suited me fine on the road, but I did find it a bit disconcerting when a departure day was suddenly brought forward, and I was caught with my packing not yet done! However, on Monday morning I managed to be ready in time and we set off northwards to visit my No 4 son Ric in Hebden Bridge.



To my great comfort and delight I was offered the front seat beside my son for the whole of this trip, my daughter-in-law Elizabeth declaring that she was quite happy sitting in the back; I allowed myself to believe her. Matthew was determined to see as much as possible of the English countryside while in the country, and declared that we would not travel on motorways, but would follow the A6 the whole way from Hertfordshire to the Peak District National Park in Derbyshire, before moving on to Yorkshire.



We made our first stop at Bedford, after rather less than an hour's drive, as there was already a call for a comfort stop - (my grandson got his in first before mine, which I was rather chuffed about!) - and Matthew wanted to see if he could buy an adaptor for his phone charger, having failed to bring one with him from Australia. So we had coffee and walked about a bit in the sun and then got on our way again.



We stopped for lunch at the Swan Inn in Mountsorrel, north of Leicester, where my son sampled two of the local ales, Black Sheep and Theakston's Old Peculier. My grandson Peter and I had the best plates of nachos that we had tasted for a long time. Peter had been allowed special extra time (above his normal ration) to play on his DS (Dual Screen Computer Game) during our car rides, and this kept him absorbed and happy for most of the time, as long as he was fed and watered regularly.



As we made our way across the National Park after lunch we encountered a difficulty. The route which Ric had recommended to us had arrived at the join in the page of the road atlas, and turning northwards stuck there obstinately for a good few miles. Elizabeth was finding it difficult to map read accurately, so she took over the driving while Matthew directed her. This didn't immediately solve the problem, as we found ourselves at one point on Saddleworth Moor, famous site of the Moors Murders in the 1960s. While it could be said to be a place of some - rather gruesome - interest, in addition to its natural beauty, it was not on our route, and we had to turn round and go back before we could get ourselves out of the crack - as it were.

Holiday journal : 2-5 April - The Family gathers

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My Australian family was due on Friday 3rd April; the Thursday was quietish, with most things I wanted to get done already sorted, and time to cool it a bit. They had taken flight from Sydney at about 5 a.m. our time and were on their way. At 3 p.m. I got an email from my daughter-in-law sent from her BlackBerry while they were on a stopover in Hong Kong. That's a new benefit of technology since their last visit in 2005, and made the waiting less tedious. I was delighted to find later that my reply to her went back to her BlackBerry.



Another email from the BlackBerry early early next morning to say they had landed at 6 a.m. and were just collecting their car. They were planning to to do a bit of sightseeing on the way up to me, and I should not expect them till about lunchtime, by which time they would be much in need of baths! So a leisurely morning for me, of the kind that I prefer, rather than a big effort to be up and dressed and ready for them by about 9 am. By 1.15 lunch was ready - (soup and salad fortunately) - and I was still waiting, getting more and more stressed out by the minute. But I didn't have to wait long.



They had made two sightseeing stops on the way, and my grandson Peter, aged 9, had succumbed to jetlag and was carried in to the house asleep, and put down on my sofa. "Are you going to wake up and say hullo to Granny" asked his father, and rather to my surprise he came instantly awake (just) sat up and flung his arms round me, gave me a squeeze, then flopped back onto the cushions fast asleep again. Very satisfactory - last time he saw me was three and a half years ago.






















We had decided, pretty much at the last minute, that instead of staying with me, they would stay with my No 3 son who lives at the other end of the village. Peter would have the company of his cousins there, and I would be able to improvise enough beds for my No 2 son and his three children, who would arrive the next day for the big family get together. So they had lunch, then bathed, then went off to settle in to their accommodation, while I went to get my hair done for the big event.

By Sunday three of my sons were here, with two wives and six grandchildren. My brother and sister-in-law came over too, and we had a magnificent buffet lunch provided by my No 3 son and his wife, who always do a great job of entertaining. It was a lovely day, and the children happily renewed acquaintance with each other. No 2 son had to take his children home on the Sunday night, and I had to go home to pack my suitcase for a 9 am start on Monday - (a very unreasonable hour in my view) - when I would set off with my Australian family for our northerly tour to visit more family.

Home from my wanderings

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My month-long holiday is over and I am home again, to bask in the memories, and endeavour to get some of them down here on my blog. It has been exciting, emotional and exhausting - three characteristics that are guaranteed to make it memorable!



I thought for a few days that I had totally blown the holiday plan: I did something stupid and the inevitable happened. I know that I should not stand on stepladders and raise my head and arms to fix something over my head, or I am apt to get dizzy. But the clocks went foward, and my kitchen clock was misleading me and needed changing. So I stood on a pair of steps, took it down, advanced the hands, then hung it back up - a little tricky, as you have to look behind the clock to make sure the ring is going over the nail. And sure enough, after I stepped down, a wave of dizziness swept over me, which I knew from experience would at least leave me feeling groggy for two or three days. What is this strange perversity that overtakes us, and urges us to do the very thing we know we should avoid, at the very moment when it is most important to avoid it? I wish I knew.


I had a couple of days of pure panic, thinking I was not going to get away on my trip, but after being checked by my GP I was told to go home, do my packing, go on holiday, and stop worrying. So I did.

Going on holiday - (though not to Paris)

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Oh dear! My friends are beginning to worry again. I am perfectly well, but nearly distracted with excitement, and an endless round of preparations for a visit from my eldest son Matthew, who lives in Sydney with his wife and 9-year-old son Peter. They only get over here about every three years, and usually have only about 10 days, to divide between Matthew's family and his wife's. But this year they are going to be in this country for 20 days, and are hoping to spend a little time relaxing and enjoying the country, in addition to the hectic round of visits they always have to make.

What is really great for me this year, is that they are taking me with them on their travels, which means, if I can stand the excitement, that I shall have 20 days with them instead of the usual five. I am rather dubious about the long car journeys that will be involved, as I like travelling less and less as I get older; but as long as they are sympathetic to regular comfort stops, I have no doubt I shall survive.

So they will stay here with me for four nights. During that time the son who lives here in my village will host a large buffet luncheon party - (something which he and his wife do brilliantly), which will also be attended by a third son and his three children, and by my brother and sister-in-law.

After that, since there is a fourth son to be visited too, I shall travel up to Hebden Bridge with them to spend three nights visiting him in his new house - the first one he has actually owned himself, and which I haven't seen yet. (As a housewarming present, I bought him a pair of chimney pots for it, as the old ones needed replacing. They were like this one of mine, which has different pots of flowers in it according to the season. The summer version is much more exhuberant and untidy.)

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Thereafter we shall start the long trip up to Aberdeen, hopefully with some leisurely sight-seeing on the way, to visit my daughter-in-law's family. I think we shall be staying in bed and breakfast accommodation there, or I will at any rate, since I have not exactly been invited by my son's in-laws, but by him, and I don't think there will be room for me as well. We shall be there for Easter, and they are having a family gathering too.

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After I have been returned home, and they have left to catch their flight back to Australia, I have a few days to recoup, and possibly do some washing, before taking off again, this time for Barlaston near Stoke-on-Trent, where my Growing Old Disgracefully friends are gathering for their regular four-day springfest.

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Just telling about it exhausts me, (I really do lead a very quiet life these days), but I'm going, with a special small case for all my meds, and one or two supplements as well; a back cushion for the car, a herbal heat pack, and sundry other aids to survival for the elderly. The net result of all this, from my readers' point of view, is that I shall not be blogging during April.

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I leave you with a charming little picture by the artist Isobel Morton-Sale (1904-1992). It is 8-3/4 x 7-1/2 inches, in watercolour, pen, ink and charcoal, and is currently for sale at the Chris Beetles Gallery in St James's, London - for £850.00.

GOING ON HOLIDAY

My grandfather's trousseau

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It cannot be given to many people to know what their grandfather bought in the way of clothes for his trousseau; grandmother, possibly, since women are more inclined to value and to keep records of the things which are important to them. But I had a grandfather who was a very precise and careful man: his hobby was entomology, or the collection and study of insects, and by the time of his death he had amassed a collection of 65,000 flies, all painstakingly and beautifully laid out in cabinets and catalogued. It is now in the Natural History Museum in London. So it was entirely in his character that he should keep meticulous accounts throughout his life, both in his business and at home.

Grandpa as a child

Some of these account books came down to me through my mother, and have been lurking in a suitcase under the spareroom bed for decades. I have finally decided that the whole collection should go to the Archives & Heritage section of the City Library in Birmingham, where my grandfather was a master jeweller in the business started by his grandfather. But of course, as I begin to pack them into boxes I cannot resist having another look through the more interesting ones, to see what treasures from the past may lie therein.

Grandpa aged 20

The one I have just been dipping into is his personal account book covering the period from two years after his engagement, to two years after his marriage, that is 1893 to 1899. The book therefore contains a detailed record of all his purchases as he prepared to become a married man with a household of his own; of every penny that he spent on his honeymoon, as they did the grand tour of Europe together; and of two years of being head of a household after his return. (I have to wonder in passing if he carried this heavy leather bound cashbook, weighing 1 and 1/4 lbs, on his honeymoon with him. Knowing him, I think it is more than likely.)

Grandpa and Grandma on returning from their honeymoon (both aged 30)

In 1893, when my grandfather was already engaged, he was taking home a salary of £2 a week. From 1895 he was entitled to a third of the profits of the business, with a minimum of £4 a week, but until his marriage he only took home £2 a week,while a further £2 was banked for him in his capital account. Two years after his marriage his share of the profits was increased from one third to two fifths.

Here is grandfather's trousseau shopping over a period of six months [see note at end]:

Flannel for pyjamas - 2/5
Wool for trousseau socks - 3/6
Flannel for pyjamas - 2/2
Wool for socks - 3/6
2 prs white gloves - 4/-
2 white ties - 1/-
8 suits underwear - £3.18.8d
Flannelette for pyjamas - 1/2
Pair boots - 12/6
Buttons for pyjamas - 10d
Pyjama girdle - 4½ d
More Vyella for pyjamas - 3/-
1 Silk Hat - £1.2.0d
1 Bowler Hat - 8/6
6 ties assorted @1/6 = 9/-
1 doz collars - 9/-
1 doz handkerchiefs - 7/-
2 prs gloves - 3/9 & 2/11
Patent leather boots - £1.4.0
Madras Muslin - £6.2.3d
Mrs Fiddian - making 8 new shirts - £3.0.0d
Balance for Madras Muslin - 6/6
Wool for socks - 6d
Mrs Fiddian - altering 3 shirts & making 3 suits of pyjamas - 17/-
1 overcoat repaired - 2/-
1 Frock coat and suit - £5.15.0d
1 Morning suit - £4.12.6d
1 light grey overcoat - £3.3.0d
1 overcoat cleaned & repaired - 6/6

Then came something even more important, paying the business, via his father JW, for the rings he had made for the great day, and for a pendant for my grandmother. I do not have my grandmother's wedding ring, but I do have one of the pearl bridesmaid's rings, inherited from grandfather's unmarried sister, and I have my grandmother's engagement ring; this too is rather touching, in that the roughness of the work reveals it to be one of my grandfather's earlier efforts, before he achieved the 'master' status that he did later in his life.

JW for 1 wedding ring - £1.8.6d
3 pearl rings for bridesmaids @ 10/- = £1.10.0d
1 pendant for Nell - £2.10.0d

And finally, rather touchingly, his final weekly payment for board and lodging at home:

Mother - last time - 15/-

Seven days later, on the 22 April 1897 he was married and off on his honeymoon.

Grandpa as I remember him

Now, I am extremely interested in those eight suits of underwear, as many years later, after my grandfather's death in 1948, I became intimately acquainted with certain items of his underwear. By that time he was wearing two-piece sets: longjohns, and a longsleeved vest with a shallow boat neckline - no opening and no buttons (though those have become fashionable for men's and women's shirts in later years). These suits were machine knitted in fine wool, in the palest of lavender marl (a term used today, apparently, to describe a mixture of two different coloured yarns). There were two unused sets of these admirably protective suits in my grandfather's effects, and my mother offered the tops to me. They made splendid long-line sweaters to wear over jeans, with a natty scarf tied in the neck. It was a great talking-point too, to tell people that I was wearing my grandfather's vests! I have done some online research on men's underwear in the late 19th and early 20th century and can offer the following picture to pique your imagination:

[ Bear in mind that British money in those days was counted in pounds, shillings and pence, represented by the written symbols £ s d, also referred to verbally in short as 'l. s. d.' An amount consisting only of shillings and pence could also be written so: 15/6. Then consider that there were 20 shillings in a pound, but 12 pence in a shilling, and one penny was further divided in half pence, and quarter pence known as 'farthings'.]

Triplets

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Not what you might think - not at my time of life. No, it's like this: I've been looking through a couple of volumes of my grandmother's journal, written in 1889 and 1890, when she was 21-22, before she was married to my grandfather. Stuck into the back of one of them with stamp paper - (no sellotape in those days) - was a piece of paper headed 'Triplets', with this list:

Three things to love - courage, gentleness, and affection.

Three things to admire - intellect, dignity, and gracefulness.

Three things to hate - cruelty, arrogance, and ingratitude.

Three things to delight in - beauty, frankness, and freedom.

Three things to wish for - health, friends, and a contented spirit.

Three things to like - cordiality, good humour, and cheerfulness.

Three things to avoid - idleness, loquacity, and flippant jesting.

Three things to cultivate - good books, good friends, and good humour.

Three things to contend for - honour, country, and friends.

Three things to teach - truth, industry, and contentment.

Three things to govern - temper, tongue, and conduct.

Three things to cherish - virtue, goodness, and wisdom.

Three things to do - think, live, and act.

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Not much that is strange to our ideas today, except perhaps 'honour', 'country' and 'virtue'; and the idea of 'governing' oneself is perhaps not commonplace either. I notice too that 'friends', 'good humour' and 'contentment' each feature twice in the list. I don't think we would choose to express ourselves in quite the same way today, but if we sat down to do this exercise from scratch we would probably come up with many of the same answers.

My grandmother

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Discovered in a book ...

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... this lovely delicate little bookmark, obviously made lovingly for my grandmother Ellen Dora, known as Nell or Nellie. The book, which I was about to dispose of, is The Poetical Works of Longfellow, and it was inscribed Nellie D Bragge, Oct 15/91 - that's 1891 of course, when she was 24 and still unmarried. The giver has also inscribed his or her initials, which sadly, I am unable to interpret. But I think, given the evidence of the bookmark, it must have been a sister, cousin or girl friend.

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The shape and the colouring are so delicate that at first I thought it might be a real butterfly preserved in some magical way. But I don't really think it can be. It seems more likely that someone has painted it and cut it out so beautifully that it looks real. The pictures are worth enlarging to appreciate the delicacy of the colouring and the texture of the painting: oils? gouache?

The butterfly, together with a rose petal, was still folded into a piece of paper, which is of some interest in its own right. I don't think it is bed linen which is referred to, but, it seems, a copying service onto rather classy writing paper.

Getting in touch with my forebears

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There is something I would like to write about before the year is out. November 2008 saw the 90th anniversary of the end of World War I - The Great War as it was known, or "the war to end all wars"! British television has been full of commemorative programmes, documentaries, reconstructions of battlefields and photographs of war cemeteries in Europe. These have drawn my thoughts once more to the only one of my blood relatives who died in the war: my mother's first cousin Arthur Brian Rabone. I have always known that he died in The Great War, but as I watched some of these programmes I began to wonder exactly when and where.

Captain Arthur Brian Rabone

So I consulted my brother's genealogy of the family, and found that he was a captain in the 6th Battalion, Royal Warwickshire Regiment, and had died in France on 1st July 1916, the first day of the Somme offensive by the British and the French. I believe that the Battle of the Somme is considered to have been one of the most wasteful of the war in terms of massive casualties for a very small gain in territory. The bodies of many were never recovered, and there is a cemetery, and a memorial to the missing soldiers, at Thiepval in the Somme. It is the work of the architect Sir Edwin Lutyens. The sixteen pillars are engraved with the names of 73,367 British and Commonwealth soldiers who fell during the First Battle of the Somme between July and November 1916 and who have no known grave. Our records say that Brian (as he was known) was buried at Thiepval. He was 29 and had been married two years. He left no children.

Thiepval Memorial and cemetery

And that is where his story becomes my story. Because Brian Rabone was an only child, and left no children of his own, when his mother, already widowed, came to dispose of her personal estate, she chose to leave it to her three sisters. One of those was my grandmother, and her investments have eventually come down to me through both my mother and my mother's unmarried sister. Without that inheritance, my family's life, and my own, would have been very different. My great aunt died in 1938, which is why, in 1939, my father was able to give up trying to sell cars in Birmingham, which he hated, and become semi-retired. We moved to a country smallholding near Worcester, where he was able to work hard, and happily, raising fruit and vegetables for market.

My great aunt Mary Maude Rabone

My great uncle by marriage Arthur J Rabone

In 1949, at the age of 21, I was given my first holding of shares in John Rabone & Sons, makers of rules, tape measures and spirit levels. When I eventually came to sell these shares in 1972, as a member of the family I was able to keep the original share certificate as a souvenir. Also out of sentiment, and as a frequenter of antique markets, I have added considerably over the years to the one or two Rabone rules and measures that I already had in my possession. The collection has now passed to my son. So my inheritance has enabled me not only to indulge my own interests, such as collecting, but also to live comfortably on my own for the last 23 years.

Like so many family firms John Rabone & Sons eventually merged with another, becoming Rabone Chesterman in 1963, and finally being taken over by Stanley in 1990. Below is a picture of the original Birmingham works, taken from a price list and catalogue dated 1878.

I reflect often on how my great aunt's great sorrow has meant comfort and support for my family. But this year, in the context of the commemorative TV programmes, and with the additional information I have found, I feel that I have come a little closer to this cousin who died before I was born, and to whom I owe so much.

Summer angels

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Christmas seems to be the right time to be talking about angels. I was searching the web for 'gliding angels' the other day, because my son Richard, the one who is a street theatre performer, has recently joined a group called Larkin' About, and one of their acts consists of gliding angels. I have never seen my son perform with this group, so I was glad to find a video on YouTube taken in 2005 when they were performing at the Tate Modern. Richard was not with the group at that time, but it gives some idea of how they look.

Here is Richard at the Gateshead Summer Flower Show in 2007. Cute, eh? I've never seen him in lipstick before.

[Picture by Jack Pickard ]

The slideshow

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When I began creating the slideshow, it was intended to be a Christmas greeting to post a bit later on, but the seasonal templates offered by the host company did not work for me, and the Celebration one caught my fancy. Suddenly it struck me: here I was sitting at my computer late in the evening, at the end of a damp, dark, depressing day in November, typical of my birthdays, and wishing it to be over. I had been out briefly to buy some batteries for the microlights on my mini Christmas tree, but that was all. It was not a day for doing things, and that is the sad truth of it.



The night before I had eaten a birthday supper with my son and his family in the village, and another son who was visiting. But the only bright spot in this day had been a brief visit from a friend, who brought me pots of special jam and marmalade which she had made herself. Two of my sons had not remembered at all. Not exactly a celebration in style, I am afraid, but it is a sad fact of life, I fear, that while our generation continues struggling to remember the birthdays of children and grandchildren, they in their turn tend to forget, struggling, as they often have to, to live their own lives.



So why not end the day by turning my slideshow into a birthday one instead, and celebrate my own life? I am so glad I did. The messages I have received here have done much to offset the drearyness of yesterday. And after all, I had a celebration in style last year, for my 80th - I shouldn't be greedy.

[You will find full length pictures of some of the video shots in my post on Dressing Up.]

Movember

Would you want to walk amongst the band of thugs below? Probably not. Nor do I, to be honest, well not in public, although I have to tell you that all three are pictures of my much loved eldest son who lives in Sydney, Australia.















For the past two years he has grown a 'mo' or moustache in November in aid of charity, and thinks to encourage me to donate by sending me these pictures, which have been taken of him by his loving but uncritical son. Of course I have donated - who could resist?!











His younger brother observed that he probably chose this expression in an attempt to look cool.















The charity he supports is The Movember Foundation, which describes itself as follows:

... an Australian based, not for profit, charitable organisation that implements the Movember event each year across the globe. The Movember event creates awareness around men's health issues and raises funds for carefully selected beneficiary partners in each country that are also charitable organisations, with a focus on prostate cancer.

The UK branch supports The Prostate Cancer Charity, and the Australian Branch supports the Prostate Cancer Foundation of Australia, and also Beyond Blue, the national depression initiative for men. There are also branches in Canada, Ireland, New Zealand, Spain and the United States.

To leave you with a tastier image on your retina, here is a picture of what Matthew really looks like, taken recently by his friend Ray Martin. Ray thinks he looks like Daniel Craig, the latest actor to portray James Bond. Not to me he doesn't, but what mother sees anything but the unique wonderchild she has given birth to.

And here is Peter, who took all the 'Mo' pictures, and who, his proud Dad tells me, has already won a number of school photo competition classes, up against all age groups in the school. Please Peter, wait a few years before you grow a moustache too.

You can watch a Movember promotional video here.