December 2013 – Page 2 – derrickjknight

John Lawrence

Reindeer was the theme of 1964’s Regent Street lights. I was there that December, never dreaming I would one day send the image around the world as an advent calendar picture.

I very rarely read a book twice, especially by accident. In my ‘Bookmarks’ post I explained one of my methods for ensuring this. When I recently began to read the Folio Society ‘The Best of Raconteurs, I felt sure I had read this collection of anecdotes, but a quick glance didn’t trigger any memories, except for one extract from Jessica Mitford and another from Geoffrey Willans and Ronald Searle. I knew that I had read the books from which they were taken. Not only that, but there appeared to be no marker enclosed. Imagine my dismay, then, when last night between pages 236 and 237 I found a very thin till receipt from Headmasters (my hairdressers at the time) of Wimbledon Village dated 11.11.10. There is no escaping the fact that I have almost finished reading a book twice.

Pondering the receipt’s date I realise that I read the book in my post-operative state in our Ridgway flat. Still on pain relief and precautionary blood-thinner; suffering from an infection picked up in my two nights and one day in hospital; and recovering from the anaesthetic required for a hip replacement, I wasn’t really very with it. That’s my excuse, any way. It is absolutely nothing whatever to do with my age. Now, where was I?

Enhanced by John Lawrence’s delightful illustrations, the selection made by Sheridan Morley and Tim Heald consists of snippets of a few lines, or pieces ten or more pages long; some humorous, some descriptive, some historical, some salutary.

The artist is one of my favourite book illustrators. His deceptively sketchy style belies the careful work that has gone into making the numerous humorous and lively little vignettes scattered amidst the text. The cover boards of the slender volume bear representations of examples of some of the contributors seated around an after dinner table. As the front cover alone shows, Lawrence has provided images of such articulate accuracy that we immediately know that we will be treated to pieces from the pens or the mouths of, clockwise from top left, Joyce Grenfell, Groucho Marx, Woody Allen, George Bernard Shaw, Robert Morley and Dr Samuel Johnson.

This afternoon I made a start on Voltaire’s ‘Le blanc et le noir’.

Threatened with a storm to render our journey dangerous, we set off earlier than usual for the annual prebendal choristers’ carol service at Chichester Cathedral, after which, along with Becky, Flo, and Ian we are booked into The Crown at Emsworth for our dinner. By the time we return home it will be too late to post the events, so I will report again toorrow.

Pick And Mix

Last night, as for some time now, we were entertained by a number of forest owl duets. As I have usually written my post before the overture I have forgotten to mention it before.

By no means my best photograph, today’s advent picture from December 1964 shows the timeless nature of the Trafalgar square Christmas scene. A better, similar shot was taken the year before and could equally have been produced today.

Early this morning I read Voltaire’s little inconclusive parable ‘Histoire d’un bon Bramin’, which sees a conflict between reason and happiness. The world-weary sage who has everything is not happy. His poor and unintelligent neighbour finds life much more enjoyable. I suppose the question is why?

A little later I walked through Minstead and back by an unplanned route. Beautiful frost patterns on the car windscreen were reminiscent of those on the winter’s morning bedroom windows of our childhood.

As I reached Seamans Corner, the fact that this was a morning for reminiscences was brought home to me by the rampant scampering accompanying excited snorts emanating from the green. No doubt the sow who had brought her litter to clear up the fallen fodder nestling between the shrubs, had decided it was time to give her udders a rest. The more sedate elderly punk sporting nose rings and an ear tag, remained slobbering and grunting in one spot. The fine mud spats she was wearing suggested she may have been seeking this comparatively drier spot to dry off. Her offspring, however, like Emily, Oliver and Alice in Newark’s Pick and Mix sweetshop of the nineties; or Matthew and Beccy brass rubbing in St James’s, Piccadilly a generation earlier, were all over the place at once.

For those fortunate enough not to have come across the Pick and Mix method of selecting sweets, an explanation is in order. What this involved with Michael and Heidi’s three children was a walk from Lindum House to Newark Market Square. This should have taken just five minutes, but, by the time Oliver had walked along the whole length of the top of the very low Further Education College wall, it was more like half an hour. Reaching the shop and opening its door was like opening the traps at the start of a greyhound race. Not chasing a hare, but rather choosing from trays of sweets lying in all directions, the children did not maintain a straight line. I had to keep an eye on each of them. Since I only have two eyes and there were three infants this was somewhat problematic.

A certain amount of restraint had to be exercised as they rapidly decanted various items of confectionary into the paper bags with which they had been issued. In particular it was quite an effort to ensure that the scoops and tongs provided were used instead of fingers that had so recently been running along the wire fence above the college wall. And no doubt worse. I think it was Oliver who broke the mould and took an age over his selection. Strangely enough, because they were not permitted to start the business of consumption until they were back home, the return journey did take no longer than it should.

I had intended this morning to progress to Football Green and walk the Bull Lane loop, however, not wearing wellies, my way was blocked by last year’s familiar lake lying across the road beyond the village shop. I turned back and arrived at Bull Lane via the footpath opposite the Trusty.

Rounding a corner cottage, I heard a woman standing at her door cry crossly to an unseen creature below the level of the hedge: ‘Come on’. I suspect it was a canine in trouble. Looking up and seeing me she repeated the call, this time in a tone of endearment. The dog, if that is what it was, clearly entered the house, for she closed the door, no doubt to administer a serious rebuke beyond my prying ears. What a difference an audience makes.

I must be circumspect about the reason for our outings this afternoon, but we drove to Calmore Industrial Estate to collect a package, and from there to Hobbycraft in Hedge End. I should perhaps not have been surprised that the Royal Mail Totton collection point should be at Calmore. Royal Mail and Parcel Force vans both deliver packages posted to us. As we were leaving to answer the summons of Royal Mail, a Parcel Force van drew up in our drive. With rather less than hope, I checked with the driver that he was not destined for our flat. He wasn’t and said that he was and he wasn’t part of Royal Mail who pay him. Maybe the answer lies in the size of the parcel, but it beats me why one company’s deliveries have to be made by two separate ones, both apparently under the auspices of the first.

The package we were collecting had been ordered on line from America yet mailed from Hong Kong with what our postal business’s form claimed to be insufficient payment. We were invited to stick the relevant denomination in postage stamps to a card and mail it to them, after which the item could be delivered. The alternative was to go and collect it and pay over the counter. That is the option we chose.

This evening we fed on fish and chips, mushy peas and pickled onions, with which I drank Carta Rosa gran reserva 2006.

Perfume

As the morning stretched out, so did the shadows cast on the lawn by the climbing sun whilst we pottered about inside prior to a trip to Christchurch.
After lunch we drove to Curry’s/PC World just outside Christchurch to investigate the possibilities of buying a new laptop and giving my old one a good clean up. Yesterday I had discovered that I can exchange my NatWest Your Points for vouchers to be used in this store. I have more than enough for a Windows laptop, but nowhere near sufficient for a Mac Book. The vouchers are in the post, so I have deliberation time. The old laptop has been left for the clean. The reason I want a new one is that the old Toshiba dates from the days before built-in card readers, and I’d like to be able to simply slip the card from my camera into the device when I am not near my iMac.
We then wandered around the town. On this fine springlike day crocuses brightened the Priory car park, where we must have secured the last available parking spot. As we left our car, the view of the Priory Church was blocked by a vehicle from which two women and a child were being decanted, so I waited until the man with them had driven off, no doubt in search of the advertised Mayors Mead, to photograph the people and the building.
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On leaving the church precinct, my attention was drawn to an ancient ruin peering above the sloping red-tiled rooftops of the town. This Jackie knew to be the castle, so we walked round to have a look at it. Dazzling direct sunlight striated the sward covering the mound on which this small relic stood, so I walked further into the grounds to view the castle with the sun on its back. Whilst I was doing so, my lady appeared from behind the pile, waving her arms in delight at having ascended the steep steps to her goal. The red-legged little girl who shares the shot must have raced up and down the two sets of steps at least a dozen times before settling into the stocks to have her photograph taken in them.

From the top of the mound, through the vestigial castle arches, we enjoyed interesting views of the town, in particular a fascinating display of roofing through the ages.
The town centre juxtaposes the old and the new, with many buildings, such as The New Forest Perfumery, having changed their use, no doubt on numerous occasions over the years. The Perfumery, still bearing its original sign in old script looks to be a building from the sixteenth or seventeenth century. It now houses tea rooms, as indicated by the more modern board outside. Perhaps because our house in Sigoules was built in the eighteenth century and because Patrick Suskind’s 1985 novel entitled ‘Perfume: The story of a Murderer’, is set in the France of that era, I speculated that maybe Suskind’s perfumier worked in a similar setting. The novel focusses on the sense of smell and its relationship with the emotional meaning that scents may carry. Even if the tea rooms serve a vast array of teas and coffees, I doubt that their aromas are likely to match the variety of fragrances that once permeated the fabric of the building.

Jackie and I were immediately transported to our youth at the sight of the Regent Centre, this picture house from the brief heyday of the cinema, sandwiched between a Subway and a Poundshop. The old Regent still shows films, but is now a much broader entertainment centre. Originally opening in 1931 it operated as a cinema for just over forty years, after which it spent a decade housing Bingo. A partnership between volunteers and Christchurch Borough Council has turned it into a theatre, cinema, concert hall, studio and art gallery. This afternoon there were a number of stalls inside, displaying jewellery, models, CDs and DVDs among other articles for sale. Tables and chairs for takers of tea lined the entrance hall. The building is well maintained, and retains its Art Deco style.
This evening we dined on mushroom omelette also containing onions, garlic, and a dash of Worcester sauce; baked gammon; fried potatoes, and baked beans. Lemon and lime jelly floating in evaporated milk was a suitable dessert. I finished the Lidl Bordeaux and Jackie saw off the zinfandel rose.

A Good Woman

On 25th December there cannot be many homes in this country without a television turned on at some time in the day, perhaps to watch The Snowman, The Shawshank Redemption, or The Queen’s Speech. It is incidentally amazing that the same queen, Elizabeth II, who had already been on the throne for ten years in December 1963 will again make the speech this year as she has done annually ever since. My sister Elizabeth was so entranced when I took today’s advent picture that I doubt it was her royal namesake she was watching. The little girl must have found the smarties in her stocking. She is flanked by Vivien and Grandpa Hunter, whilst Joseph, from whom she may be protecting her spoils, is perched on Grandma’s lap.

The rising sun this morning, peering through the now naked trees and picking up the edges of the fast-moving clouds with a promise of rain, offered us a stunning, albeit transient, view from our vast living room windows. By the time we had made an early departure for the Woodland Burial Ground at Walkford, the heavy wet slate clouds dominated the sky.

At the burial site we met Helen and Shelly for the three sisters’ annual laying of a Christmas wreath on the small plot that contains the ashes of my delightful former mother-in-law Veronica Rivett. A few tears were shed and reminiscences were shared. Mum, who had enjoyed celebrating Christmas well into her eighties, would have appreciated the timing of this tribute.

What particularly came back to me was how she had dropped everything and crossed London to collect and look after Matthew on the morning in 1969 that Jackie was hospitalised with meningitis. This was the day I was due to begin my Social Work training course at Croydon Colleges. Jackie had been ill for a fortnight and her head was so bad that morning that we called the GP who, within seconds, diagnosed meningitis and arranged for hospital admission. This meant care had to be arranged for Michael, then five and at school, and Matthew, at nine months old. A neighbour with a son at the school took on the task of transporting Michael to and from school.

What I had forgotten was that Matthew himself had German measles at the time and that his Nan took him to her bed; and when Jackie was back home but still unwell, Helen and Bill came to stay with us for a short while to continue the care.

We repaired to Shelly’s nearby home for coffee, conversation, and home-made mince pies. After this Jackie and I drove to New Milton to buy some specialist Asian supplies from a shop which will hopefully become a local resource. The shopkeeper recommended a Sri Lankan restaurant in Bournemouth.

This afternoon I finished reading Voltaire’s short story ‘Le Monde comme il va’, in which a messenger is sent from the deities to report on the behaviour of the people of a mythical region. Babouc’s observations are to determine whether or not the allegorical Paris warrants annihilation on account of the baseness of its population. The reporter finds that there are also positive qualities to be found in humanity and recommends continuing existence. The world as it is is worth keeping. Perhaps I am beginning to get the hang of the philosophical journey.

The restaurant mentioned earlier was the Dosa World in Old Christchurch Road. With fond memories of Morden’s Watch Me, we just had to visit the new one this evening. This turned out to be quite an experience. This morning’s clouds fulfilled their promise, and the wind that had sped them on their way continued most forcefully. From late afternoon until after we returned home we were treated to a tempestuous deluge. This made the journey, peering through a windscreen regularly obliterated by rain and wipers, rather precarious. A hold-up on the A35 was caused by a fallen tree. We spared a thought for the police personnel attempting traffic control in gale force wind and rain.

Because Jackie had researched our destination well on google maps we were able to negotiate old Bournemouth reasonably straightforwardly. The wind was such as to send cyclists wobbling, to attempt to uproot shrubbery on the roundabouts, and to blow umbrellas inside out. More problematic, it was able to tear the passenger door out of my hand, doing enough damage to the hinges to render it impossible to close the door without lifting it. This meant that when we came to return home, because I couldn’t manage successfully to do this from inside, Jackie had to get out in the pouring rain and do it from the outside. My turn to struggle in the rain had come earlier when I tried to coax a ticket out of the parking meter that had snaffled my pound but had no intention of releasing what I had paid for. Eventually I decided they’d had my money and if necessary I was prepared to say so in court. Anyway, it was unlikely that any sane traffic warden would venture out in this weather. None, in fact, did.

Whilst we dined in the restaurant we watched people rushing by in a vain attempt to keep dry, and the glass door kept blowing open. When we left, the street was strewn with dead umbrellas.

It was not up to the standard of the Watch me, but the Dosa World was worth the trip, although we may not think so when we have the bill for the door repair. The Dosa itself was a good indication of the very good meal to follow. This filled crepe was so large that it buried the sauces beneath it. We both drank Kingfisher. The young man who served us was personable, attentive, and helpful. Possibly because they only deal in cash, the prices were really rather low.

On our return journey, all last year’s familiar pools were back. The water wrenched Jackie’s steering, and my woollen overcoat smelt like a wet sheep.

Mrs St Barbe

Piccadilly Circus from Regent Street in December 1963 is today’s advent picture. The circus was originally created in 1819, although it has undergone various alterations in the almost two centuries that have elapsed since then. Having been used for advertising since the early 1900s, this is possibly the oldest and most famous site in the world sporting illuminated advertising signs. The lighting was first provided by incandescent light bulbs that gradually made way for neon which in turn finally bowed out to LEDs in 2011.

A building at the left hand corner of Regent Street partly obscures the Coca Cola sign that was first plugged in 1954. As far as I am aware this is the only product that has continuously graced the circus in the intervening years up to the present day. I was 12 when the young lady in the photograph put the finishing touches to the original C.

Anyone who has seen the recent photographs of our own Christmas decorations may have some idea of the number of large containers, stored full in the garage throughout the rest of the year. Now empty, they were this morning returned to their home, to be brought back, refilled, and replaced, after the festivities.

After this, mild as this December so far is, it was time to prepare for winter’s inevitable onslaught. Most of the plants in Jackie’s temporary garden were annuals. These pots for these required tidying away.

Now for the birds. Jackie stopped feeding them during the summer because she was tired of cleaning their droppings from her plants. Mind you, if they hadn’t been so prolific with their guano which contained various undigested items, we would not have enjoyed the sunflowers. The birds will soon begin their struggle to survive and the plants have all but given up the ghost. So we filled up the feeders. No doubt, like last winter, it will take our avian visitors a day or two to become confident that the only shots aimed in their direction will be from my camera.

Lunch today came with instructions to eat an inordinate amount of cucumber. This is because, having stocked up yesterday in preparation for the hoards we expect next week, Jackie found one in the car park. I trust it will not be repeated.

This afternoon Jackie drove us to Lymington where we visited the St Barbe Museum, where the town’s memorabilia are housed in a former Victorian school begun with a donation from Mrs St Barbe.

This being a museum of the area including various seaside holiday destinations like Milford on Sea, I imagine it was appropriate that the entrance lobby contained a display of women’s bathing costumes from the 1900s to the 1970s. It struck me that as the covering of the female form grew more scanty so must the bodies that would be eventually just about contained within the garments.

The history of the area is told in posters with accompanying photographs and prints on the walls of two large rooms. One example is the photos of Barton on Sea’s cliff collapse of the last century. A long floor to ceiling cabinet displays artefacts down the ages from prehistory to decades of the 20th Century. I was intrigued to see at the rear of the 1930s section an HMV record player similar to the one that Chris and I had enjoyed in the 1940s, behind a cup and saucer very like a pair that Ali and Steve gave to Jessica and me in the 1990s. Jackie and I still have the cups and saucers, but the record player suffered somewhat because my brother and I had no gramophone needles, so one of us wound the handle while the other held a rather blunt pin in the grooves to play the music. I am not sure whether the records or the machine lasted longer.

The rest of the exhibition consists of remarkable tableaux with excellent artwork, and outstandingly good models of humans. The first example of this which quite entranced me was the smuggler Bob the Barberous (sic). I was repeatedly tempted to prod him to see if he was real.

The display I could not at first get near was of Marsh and Mud, and contained a punt gun mounted on a gun punt. The reason I could not reach it was because it abounded with primary school children leaping all over the place and creating a row that would have drowned out the sound of the weapon itself. I then realised why the attendant had apologised in advance for this phenomenon, and decided to view the exhibition widdershins. After the marauding infants had departed the custodian examined the wig of the occupant of the punt to ensure that it was still securely in place.

In another scene, Jackie was startled to look up and see a male diver about to descend upon her. Fortunately he was wearing a 1920s outfit.

There is a well-stocked shop and gallery of well-crafted and reasonably priced art works.

This evening we dined on chicken kiev, ratatouille, mashed potatoes and swede, broccoli and brussels sprouts. I finished the Isla Negra.

An Attachment To The Gates.

Mary Quant and Twiggy; the former the celebrated dress designer; the latter the inspirational model, were fashion icons of the 1960s. The swan in the December 1963 photograph that is today’s advent picture is embracing models sporting outfits in styles typical of these two leaders.

The card in the bottom right hand corner of Selfridge’s display is interesting on several counts. The first is that anyone zooming in on it will see that the shop is open all day this coming Saturday. Mathematicians will no doubt be able to explain why two dates exactly fifty years apart should fall on the same day. In 1963 I could not afford to shop in the West End so was unaware of opening hours at that time, but why would it be necessary to make this announcement? How times have changed.

The price tags on these ‘Young Style’ gems is 84 shillings, or 4 guineas. In today’s decimal currency that is the equivalent of £4.20. Actually that was quite a lot of money in 1963.

When I first bought my new iMac I had not realised that I could name and provide a location for the photographs I have stored on iPhoto. I therefore have some 2000 images to identify. It being a miserably wet day, I made a start on the task this morning.

This afternoon we visited first Mum then Elizabeth in West End. Mum in particular spoke about the cars that she and Dad had owned, and she, Jackie, and I swapped tales about driving tests. Mum had required quite a few attempts, possibly because Dad had taught her, and his method was long on lecture and short on practice. Jackie and I each had passed first time and each had made an error we thought would fail us, had another attempt, and got it right. Jackie’s was a hill start. Mine was reversing round a corner. I still remember feeling the rear nearside wheel touching the kerb. I stopped, came forward, straightened up, and then made a perfect turn. I must have been advised that that was the thing to do.

Just in case anyone is thinking that I am feeling smug about having passed my test first time, especially after only three weeks at the wheel, please let me disillusion you. Just days after I began life as an Assistant Child Care Officer in the Royal Borough of Kingston upon Thames (I had passed my test on the day I started the job), I used the Borough mini to drive me from Tolworth Tower in Chessington to the Guildhall in Kingston. I had no idea where to park or what the various coloured lines outside the building meant. It was as far back as December 1966, so I was actually able to take the car there. ‘I won’t be long; I’ll leave it here’, I said to myself as I left the borrowed vehicle right outside the cast iron gates. I entered the building and secured the loan cheque I had come for that was the purchase price of my Hillman Imp. So far, so good. I left the building. The unmolested little mini was still there. Intact. Getting away from the awkward position in which I had left the car required at least a three point turn. Easy peasy. I’d done it in my test. Reversing perfectly, turning the steering wheel appropriately, I gently approached the gate to stop and make the next turn. Then I made my fatal mistake. Coming to a standstill requires the use of a brake. So I applied it. I thought. Actually I hit the accelerator. And the mini hit the gate. And stayed on it. Stuck. The railings having given the bonnet a suitably serrated outline.

That took a certain amount of living down.

This evening Jackie and I dined on her chicken jalfrezi and pilau rice, each of us drinking Kingfisher.

Inky Fingers

In December 1963 the lights in Regent St were treated to general maintenance or maybe just the attention of a window cleaner from his gondola. I was able to capture this for today’s advent picture. Anyone who has received a handwritten missive from me will know that: This does sometimes result in unfortunate inky fingers, and is awkward for anyone left-handed attempting to add her signature to a Christmas card which still bears wet lettering, but I think nostalgia is worth the risk.

If your fingers do become pigmented in this way, and you are using blue ink, it is advisable not, unless you have a knife and fork to hand, to accept a Welsh rarebit made with Cheddar cheese, otherwise the topping is quite quickly inclined to resemble Stilton. Incidentally this selfie (a word too up-to-date for my last year’s iMac, which insisted on underlining it in red), took a certain amount of sinister dexterity.

If you drop a full bottle of washable writing fluid down the trousers of your best dry clean only suit, that gives you a real problem when the professionals can’t eradicate it. Four years ago mine had to be written off altogether. That, of course, required no ink.

Back to the point. Although I write my cards with a fountain pen, I normally address the envelopes in biro in case it rains. The ink for the pen is washable, so it will run if it gets wet and the sorting office won’t be able to decide where to send the envelope. At midday today I was to regret having deviated from my normal practice yesterday in order to avoid crossing the room for a ballpoint. This is because I walked down to the postbox in steady rain to deliver another batch of cards to the box at Seamans Lane. I had to find a little plastic bag in which to wrap them.

On Running Hill a certain amount of feller’s debris on the tarmac; a new heap of logs, and a gap in the foliage, on the verge suggested another tree had come down during last night’s powerful winds. As usual, it had been removed post haste.

There is probably nothing more disappointing for someone who has spent all day setting up festive lighting than to find a set failing when switching them on the next morning. Especially when that particular string is about ten feet off the floor. This, of course is what happened. Close inspection revealed that the transformer was faulty. Although the bulbs were fine, you can’t buy a transformer without another set of these. So, especially as Helen had suggested we may not have enough lights, a replacement was required. Off, therefore, we figuratively trotted to Totton where we bought some more in the Poundstretcher shop. And a few more things, while we were there, in Lidl.

Once the repair job had been completed Jackie decorated the hall in a similar vein.

This evening Family House in Totton were hosting a private function. We were unable to go there and settled for the Lotus Chinese restaurant in New Milton which Jackie once patronised with her mother. She remembered it from ten years ago as providing not first rank, but good enough, food circa 1956. Nothing, apparently had changed, except that there may have been more layers of grime on the higher positioned ornaments.

They do not stand on ceremony at Lotus; more a question of lying down on it. Not until we were leaving did the rather taciturn yet friendly-ish waiter reveal himself to be quite a conversationalist. Neither possessed of a trolley nor long arms, he brought out each item of food individually and dumped them on the table. The starters of splendid spare ribs and prawn toast made up for what was lacking in presentation; as did the prawn chop suey; sweet and sour pork; beef in black bean sauce; and special fried rice. We drank T’sing Tao beer which came in small bottles plonked alongside half pint glasses embossed with the word Strongbow. I settled for one drink because to have asked for another would have involved disturbing the one staff member’s newspaper reading, and that didn’t seem quite fair.

As we entered, our host had turned on a portable CD player so that we could be entertained by a lilting soprano voice which was much more pleasant than the shriller version it might have been. When it got a bit wobbly just before the end, he rose from his chair and set it back at the beginning.

Admittedly it was a wet early Sunday evening, but we were the only diners. On the positive side, the two men who came in for takeaway meals knew the waiter well and had good talks with him. On our departure he asked if we were local, and pressed for my former mother-in-law’s name because he said he knew those of most of his customers. He was the man Jackie remembered, but Mum Rivett didn’t go there on her own.

Driving through Lyndhurst on our way home, we admired the Christmas lights, nicely enhanced by the wet roads.

‘Did You Mean The Off Break?’

Today’s advent picture is again of the Regent Street Lights from December 1963, showing yet another differently coloured central star. I think there were none exactly the same.

The early picture of me that I worked on this morning is not a ‘through the ages’ one. I was actually looking in my old print file for one of those, but Elizabeth still has the originals from which she produced an album for Mum and the later digital set for me. She’s only had them for twenty years, so I must be patient.

The forgotten treasure I did find is a Wimbledon College school photograph from about 1956. It has enabled me to illustrate posts featuring Richard Millward, in the centre of the picture’s front row, and Tom McGuinness, fourth from the right in the rear tier from the viewer’s perspective. I stand on the far left of the middle row, with an expression that I clearly didn’t think too flattering at the time my sister raided my album for Mum’s 70th birthday set. I have retained the creases across the image, because they add some authenticity to the period. The print probably came home stuffed into a satchel.

Certain further memories came to mind when perusing this image. Iain Taylor, standing on the far left of the bench supporting the back row, was the captain of the Under Fourteens cricket team who secured me my first matches. Being a friend of mine he asked the headmaster, who rejoiced in the wonderfully appropriate name of Father Ignatius St Lawrence, S.J., to give me a trial for the team. I had never played before, but Iain got me to bowl a few balls in the nets and seems to have been impressed. With ‘Iggy’, as the head was predictably known to the boys, standing as umpire I was instructed to send my nervously delivered missives down to the team’s best batsman. I bowled him four times before Iggy had seen enough. One of these dismissals was with a deliberate slower ball that turned sharply from the off, that is opposite the batsman’s legs, side of the pitch and hit the middle stump. The deviation was probably caused by the ball striking an extraneous object when it landed. Turning to me at the end of my spell, Iggy asked: ‘Did you mean the off-break?’. ‘Yes, father’, was my coolly delivered reply. All priests were of course our fathers. I was in. Later, out of earshot of anyone else, I asked Iain: ‘What’s an off break?’.

Fifth from the viewer’s left at the back of the picture, stands a lad I cannot feel so smug about. This is Vaughan, whose first name escapes me. He was my partner in my first year at the College. Partner was a definite euphemism for what I now consider to have been a rather cruel incentive scheme. Boys were sat in pairs throughout the year. At the end of each term our marks for work were totted up and set against each other. The winners went on an outing called the ‘Victory Walk’. The losers stayed behind and wrote essays or something similar. I never went on a victory walk, and considering how hard I tried, with or without an incentive, that seemed decidedly vicious to me.

Not a very gifted academic, Matthew Hutchinson, the fifth boy from the left of the middle row, was the first person of whom I was truly envious. I can draw a bit, but Matthew was the most talented natural artist I had ever met. What I would have given for his free-flowing skill. I do hope he made something of it.

Now we come to the brains of the class. No-one could emulate the two who flanked Richard Millward, which is probably why they did. Gordon and Rogati came top in everything and I swear they didn’t even break into a sweat. Given their names I think my readers will have no difficulty in determining which is which.

With minimal help from me, work continued apace on Christmas decorations.

Once the stepladder had been put away, we dined on Jackie’s chicken jafrezi and pilau rice which greatly enhanced the bottle of Isla Negra cabernet sauvignon reserva 2013 which I opened and from which I drank a couple of glasses.

The Forest Is Not Immune

Last night I began reading The Folio Society’s ‘The Best of the Raconteurs’.

Today’s advent calendar picture is of a display in the window of a shop that I cannot remember. Again taken in December 1963 it was probably in Regent Street. The cabinet containing the various vitreous containers, in which the glass madonna is more or less centrally placed, was bordered with holly which I removed for composition’s sake.

This morning further work was undertaken by Knight Enterprises on cards, four of which were for family December birthdays. This afternoon I walked beneath dismal drizzle down to the postbox and back.

For several days now, Jackie’s passage along Upper Drive has been impeded by heaps of garden refuse. I rather hoped that someone else would move it. Alas, in this I was disappointed, so I tackled it on my return from sending off the cards. Someone had driven a heavy enough truck to have gouged the grass and tipped its contents mostly onto the tarmac. I had intended to kick all the rubbish into touch, but the branches of trees, the cuttings from aged rose stems, the massy holly and ivy, were so enmeshed that this was not possible. I had to use my hands to extract from the piles and throw into the forest greenery that tended to be rather prickly. It will no doubt, in its own good time, merge with its surroundings. On the other hand, if we have another severe winter, the animals will see to it. The last dump of detritus on this spot was more builder’s junk, and was removed by the Council services within a couple of days. The New Forest is, we have discovered, not immune from flytipping.

Later this evening Mo and John dropped in and collected my obsolete iMac, and a huge bag of DVDs to play on it, to take to Sigoules for me when they go back to France next week. It was good to see them.

Dinner this evening was Jackie’s juicy and spicy chicken jalfrezi, her savoury rice which defies labelling, and brilliant cauliflower bhaji. I don’t have a thousand words, so the photo must paint the picture. I finished the Cliente Rojo.

‘Shoo!’

As a young man in 1973 I have to admit I was somewhat disgruntled to note the founding of Virago, proclaiming itself to be ‘a feminist publishing company’ dedicated to championing women’s talents. It seemed rather an aggressive name. And why did women need a segregated outlet? After all, some of my favourite writers, as various as Elizabeth Gaskell or Virginia Woolf, had been published. But then, there was Mary Anne Evans, who had had to choose the male pen-name of George Eliot. And, come to think of it, The creator of ‘Cranford’ was presented to the world as Mrs. Gaskell.

The book I finished reading last night ‘Her Brilliant Career’, subtitled ‘Ten Extraordinary Women of the Fifties’ by Rachel Cooke incidentally makes quite clear why Virago was necessary. The dust jacket bears a sticker announcing ‘Virago is 40’. Fancy that, a publishing house whose nascency I remember is now middle aged.

The fifties were my formative years. I was seven when the decade began, and eighteen when it ended. Photograph number 38 in the ‘through the ages’ series was taken right in the middle of Cooke’s period, in our grandparents’ garden in Staines. Elizabeth is toddling, Chris and I each hold one of our then youngest sibling’s hands, and Jacqueline stands, smiling, behind. Mum and my brother appear to have been scalped and I have virtually lost my head altogether. Once more, parallax had struck. Or maybe the photographer only had eyes for the girls. Chris sports the famous blazer badge. Mine must have still been on the frame.

Once Chris and I had entered our teens, I was vaguely familiar with some of the more famous names in the book, but had really no idea of the magnitude of their achievements. A woman of her time, my own mother sacrificed her book-keeping career to concentrate on rearing her family, only to return to work when we children were all fairly grown up. She got on with life with none of today’s labour-saving machines to help her. Dad brought in the money and she managed it. I do not wish to suggest in any way that we experienced Mum as resenting her lot. That is just how it was.

Rachel Cooke’s women were not having that. They forged the way for others. This book is well-written. Offering pen portraits of her subjects and their lives, it also provides a snapshot of the age from the female perspective. The designers of the jacket could not resist decorating it with glamorous young ladies, albeit in fifties fashions.

The work/life balance continues to be a struggle for everybody, not the least for women who wish to have a family. It does seem as if the children of the book’s subjects did rather miss out. Inevitably, I imagine. Even now I don’t think we have enabled maternal women to have satisfying careers outside the home without great cost to their domestic lives.

Virago should continue for a long time to come.

Today’s advent picture is another detail from the Regent Street of 1963.

This morning I began reading Voltaire’s ‘Le Monde Comme Il Va’, which I would translate as ‘The Way of the World’.

This afternoon Jackie drove us to M & S at Hedge End to satisfy my need for trousers. As she turned a bend in Seamans Lane she was forced to stop by a stationary car ahead that was surrounded by living equine sculptures. The other driver seemed content to sit it out. He can’t have known how long the ponies can remain as still as yesterday’s pirate. Jackie alighted to do something about it. Leaving our car, she tried raising her arms and repeatedly shouting ‘Shoo!’. She was ignored. She tried taking a step back, leaning forward for purchase, placing her hands on its warm, furry, rump and pushing the cream coloured beast stationed in front of the car. The occasional head was turned, but this, too, was of no avail. The animal didn’t flinch. Finally she took to bruising her hands by clapping them into each other in an attempt to startle. This worked, and we were on the move.

This evening we drove to Bartley to admire the renowned houses with external Christmas decorations.The main event was slightly different this year, but equally over the top as last.

After this we drove on to The Foresters Arms at Frogham for a very enjoyable dinner, entertained by the Hyde Church choir singing carols to the accompaniment of their own brass band. We shared bread, olives, and cajun skewered chicken for starters; Jackie followed this up with stacked venison burger, whilst I had sirloin steak. Both meals were very good, except that my medium rare steak turned out to be well done. My sweet was Tart Tatin and Jackie’s was ice cream. We each drank Villa Rosa wine, mine being Merlot and Jackie’s sauvignon blanc.