Me and maypole dancing

I am in my last year at primary school and my  moment of glory is fast approaching.  Annually the school held a May Day festival (yes -  it was a bit like Larkrise to Candleford - this being rural Oxfordshire). The maypole is wheeled out in its milk churn and children from the top class (this being a three-class school) are drilled to dance around, to lovely tunes such as 'Black Nag'  weaving coloured ribbons into patterns.

 But best of all - the oldest girl in the school is always crowned Queen of the May and gets to wear a long dress - usually satin (I just love satin - so nice and slippery - and if not too tight will  hide a multitude of sins - not that this occurred to me aged 10) and on the head she wears a circlet of flowers (I am almost salivating as I write)   The May Queen also has a bouquet of flowers (sadly this would usually include May blossom;  looks nice - but for the uninitiated smells  remarkably like cat pee - to be avoided).  She would be accompanied - no rewrite that - she would be fawned upon by a couple of attendants (think Beyoncé and the other two - see who actually cares what they are called?).  And that year the eldest girl in the school was ME.   There might have been a May King - some poor boy dragged kicking and screaming I expect - but frankly who would be looking at him anyway?  I have no memory of what they wore - and even less interest.
 
But - there is always a but - a few months before the May Day parade a new girl came to school; goodness why she had to - we were all leaving in a few months to go to secondary school - why couldn't she be home schooled until then?  Anyway my arch-rival appears on the scene and her birthday is September 6th (I remember the date to this very day.  Susie Newall  - where are you now?  Did it never cross your mind that without you I could have been a contender?) and mine is in December.

So Susie was May Queen with the lovely (satin - grrh!) dress, flowers, pictures in local newspaper and two sidekicks.  I had my chance to be the Kelly Rowland of May Day, but pride would not allow it so I told everyone I was born to dance and that the maypole was calling me.  The clothes for the dancers were not so good - I had a white shirt, a tangerine-orange skirt with matching hairband made by Mum (not my best colour, but at least she went some way to acknowledging my pain.)

As an aside - the delights of the internet - I'm innocently searching for May Queen and I keep getting this very hairy gentleman - yes, Brian May of Queen - not quite what I had in mind.

Me and being working class

I make a new friend at secondary school called Holly who invites me to her house for the weekend.  We have fun staying up late and eating sweets in bed (an innocent age).   On the first morning I go down to breakfast in my pyjamas - the family are all bundled up in dressing gowns.  The next morning I get up to go to the loo and hear Holly's parents talking - I quickly realise they are talking about me and, of course, can not resist listening.  Holly's mother says, 'She is a nice little girl, but I'm not sure she is quite the friend I want for Holly.'
Holly's father says, 'I think they get on quite well.'

Mother then asked him if he hadn't noticed that I came down to breakfast without a dressing gown which indicates I am working class.

What is this thing called working class?  I feel uncomfortable all day and can't wait to go home to ask my Dad.  Dad laughs and confirms that I am working class, but that it is something to do proud of.  Mum is cross and asks why on earth didn't I pack a dressing gown as I have a perfectly respectable one upstairs.  The reason I didn't take it was because there was no room in my bag.


I often wonder if this early trauma explains why I have an excess of dressing gowns hanging in my bedroom?  My favourite being a genuine Japanese kimono; it has enormous sleeves with deliberately gaping holes under the armpits (not to be worn when starkers as somewhat revealing).  It is sky blue and decorated with pictures of water lilies, chrysanthemums and peonies - great for tripping around the house while pretending to be a geisha.  I also have a sensible shortish grey jersey dressing gown for wearing over shorts - if I ever take up boxing I could wear it into the ring.  The least favourite, which rarely gets an outing, is a white towelling robe - not  all flattering as it makes me look like a non-cute polar bear - think this should be discarded forthwith.

Me and Easter eggs: Nan tells me off -part 2

Probably best not to read this if eating a chocolate egg.

It would be true to say I was an indulged child (at least until Sister was born - I'm not jealous - honestly).
Every Saturday Nan would buy me two comics.  Early favourites were Beano and The Dandy - how I loved Beryl the Peril (it may have been her striped t-shirt, not the beret; I've never got on with berets - they do accentuate the ears I find).  In later years these changed to unsuitable teenage magazines with dodgy problem pages that made me feel inadequate as I didn't have interesting problems to send in.

An aside - while musing on  problem pages - few nights ago when watching 4Music with my son there was an advert for a mobile phone service that advised on becoming a better kisser. We spent an idle 30 seconds wondering what advice they might give - we came up with to brush your teeth more than occasionally, shave off any extra straggly moustaches especially if used as a crumb catcher  and avoid looking over your partner's shoulder to see if someone you'd rather kiss has come in the room.

Back to the past. The main indulgence was food especially regular sweets to go with the comics, Christmas selection boxes and best of all Easter.  In spite of my misadventure I still love chocolate (Galaxy being my chocolate of choice - not so keen on anything with a  high cocoa content  - but then again Charbonnel et Walker rose or violet creams - although almost unnatural - are delicious and have great packaging).

I received an Easter egg from Mum and Dad, one from Nan, one from Nan and Grampy and one each from my three uncles and two aunts.  One of the uncles had been to Jersey for a holiday and came back with a tin containing Jersey fudge (I remember the tin now - it had a relief map of the Channel Islands in vivid colours). That makes 8 eggs and 1 tin of fudge.

It is Easter morning - I am in Nan's bed with my hoard.  I inspect them closely and try to decide in what order I should eat them.  Even with Easter eggs there are dilemmas to be solved - do I eat the caramel ones first (I don't like caramel very much) and get them over and done with quickly or save them to the end when I probably won't care less what I'm eating.  I'm afraid it does not occur to me to share them.

Nan gets up and tells me I can eat a little bit of an egg and then must come downstairs for breakfast. When she leaves the room I begin to eat the eggs systematically and in between each egg I eat the fudge (even the rum and raisin flavour - yuck).

Some time later Nan comes upstairs. I realise I will get into trouble, hide the boxes under the blankets and pretend to be asleep - I don't feel so good.  She goes back downstairs and I go back to eating the eggs despite my churning stomach.   Eventually the inevitable happens and I am violently sick all over her bedroom (I really do mean ALL over her bedroom).  Nan is cross and shouts at me - this is the first time I ever remember her telling me off.  
In future years I am only allowed to eat Easter eggs in public places.
Lesson learned:
Lesson 1:  Don't be a pig - no one needs to eat that much chocolate.
Lesson 2: Avoid anything with caramel or rum and raisin flavouring.
Lesson 3: If you must over-indulged do it in your own bedroom.

Me and the Deputy Head's slipper

It is my first week at secondary school - I am terrified, but determined to make friends as soon as possible to avoid social ruin.  A few girls in my form meet at lunchtime and decide to form a 'gang' (too many Enid Blyton books rather than the viewing of violent films).  We decide to call ourselves 'The Naughty Gang' - given that we become the swottiest girls in the year I can't help feeling a little melancholy when I think what might have been.

 Like all gangs we need an initiation ceremony - we dismiss killing people, drinking buckets of blood or chopping off digits as a little excessive and go for something uniquely our own - we would be dragged through rose bushes.  You might think this sounds a bit soft - not only did we have to deal with thorns, but the flower bed is directly outside the Deputy Head's office window.

The Deputy Head is a very scary woman with unnaturally black hair and an intimidating pair of horn-rimmed glasses - she carries a slipper for whacking bad girls (it was actually a black plimsoll - not one of those furry things - that would be silly).

I am dragging my friend Holly through the bushes: she obviously likes it as she is shrieking like a banshee.  Suddenly the window opens; Slipper Woman takes one look at us and calls us in.  Three whacks of the slipper each on the back of the leg and then we are told by the Basilisk that we have made a very bad beginning to our school careers, that she will be watching us closely as we are likely to become a bad influence on other children.

Me and Dad's razor

Before or after?

Strange how something as natural as female body hair is now something women are told they should be ashamed of.  I'm concerned that we are in danger of creating a generation of John Ruskins and that when the full bush makes a comeback (as it surely will - think the modern obsession with vintage) all these young men will be traumatised and have to undergo graduated exposure therapy.

The fair-haired tend not to be very furry, but as teen I realised that even blonde hair on legs was thought unacceptable - someone stroked my leg (uninvited I should stress) and said that my leg felt like his guinea pig (hope he meant one of those smooth ones, not the tufty type).  Now I love guinea pigs, but I don't think  it was a compliment.  So I borrowed my dad's razor (to both his horror and disgust), shaved my legs and managed to gash the back of my thigh open (scar still there) - the bathroom looked like something from Psycho.  But the said legs did feel rather nice - once the scabs had gone.

Having got the hang of the razor (despite dad's protests - and when have I ever taken notice of them?)  I decide that my eyebrows are grotesque (blonde version of Frieda Kahlo crossed with Breshnev) and need some attention.  There are no tweezers in the house (we didn't have a phone - we're hardly likely to have tweezers), so I take the heavy razor and apply to my left brow - that goes quite well.  I then apply steel (or whatever razor blades are made from) to the right brow, the razor slips and removes half my eyebrow - unfortunately not the outside bit which could easily be hidden.

In despair I inspect my denuded brow - it looks a bit like a baby mouse, pink, naked and vulnerable.  There is no such thing as an eyebrow pencil in our house (Mum being dark and not having need of such things) so I fetch a felt pen and try that - I look a bit like Bette Davis, scrub it off (funny how brown felt pens leave a blue after-stain - chromatography I vagely remember explains this).  So the glowing naked brow is now bright pink with a blue aura.

Disguising it is going to be difficult - I don't have a fringe, just a floppy sheet of hair that will not cover the nude brow.  The hair stays in place if I hold it in my mouth - sadly not practical in the long run.   So I adopt a very low parting - female version of the comb-over.  I think it is hidden quite well, but immediately I go downstairs Mum asks where my eyebrow is, Dad inspects me, looks a bit cross and says, 'In my razor - I expect'.

I would like to say the eyebrow grew back, but sadly it is still patchy.  Perhaps this should serve as a lesson for anyone shaving their punani - be warned it may not grow back  (possibly safer to stick to waxing) - then when fashion changes you'll face a lifetime of wearing merkins.

Me and when I'm not allowed to have a good time

I have a role in a school play as a Sultana (wife of Sultan rather than wrinkled currant-type thing) - don't ask as I remember very little about my Thespian experience.  My 'Sultan' is from the year above – not typical passion material as he is very keen on physics, but he makes me laugh like a drain, steals my pencil case and  spends a lot of time pushing me off chairs (such are the inexplicable courtship rituals of the young). 

Term ends and I am parted from this fascinating creature.  Living in the countryside is a bit of a pain as we don't live in the same village and transport is limited.  He can not phone me, as for some reason, my parents don’t have a telephone (we also have a black and white TV unlike everyone else I know).

One day Mum holds up a crinkly envelope and says, 'Who is writing to you?'  

I wonder if it might be an answer from the agony aunt in my ‘teen’ magazine giving advice on how to stop your mother steaming open your letters?  But no, it is from Jerry inviting me to a gathering at his house which I am informed is ‘in aid of nothing, but having a good time’.

Sounds good to me, but Mum obviously doesn’t want me to have a good time and strictly forbids me from going. Her main reason being that she knows just what 'having a good time' means - I find this very hard to believe. (She may have had a point - I was probably about thirteen or fourteen).

I am distraught, slam doors and sulk.  I phone Jerry from the phone box and announce I am not allowed to  ‘have a good time.’  He comforts me saying that it won't be long before school starts again and we can see each other.  I am not comforted - this is a tragedy of epic proportions.

I sit at home that Saturday night glaring, but as Mum and Dad had gone to the pub my glares were wasted on them.  I then look mournfully out of the bathroom window in the direction of Jerry’s house and concentrate really hard on making him think about me and hope he isn't having a good time.

Eventually the Autumn term starts.  I return to school sporting that fetching combination of knee-length grey woolly socks, a skirt that should be on the knee but is rolled up revealing lots of mottled thigh.  I suspect it was accessorized with a slightly too short fringe - Mum would have been busy with the nail scissors the night before.

I go into the classroom where Jerry can usually be found and find him sitting on one of the huge cast-iron radiators that heat the school.  Sadly he is not alone; he is snogging (I will not dignify his actions with anything as delicate as kissing) a girl called Susie from the year above him.   Such public displays of affection are rarely seen at school (or in the hours of daylight in Oxfordshire).  I am not amused, actually I am furious - all those evenings of thought transference wasted when I could have been watching TV.

I decide to play it cool - in my dreams.  I get very red in the face and shout at them, ‘You'll get piles!'
I am then mocked, for the rest of the term by the boys in his year, as the girl who thinks that (what can I safely write here?) ‘physical congress’ gives you piles.  It didn’t matter how often I repeated ‘cast iron radiator’ they still laugh.

Me and the wedding

One of my aunts is getting married and I am going to be the smallest bridesmaid - I'm probably about seven.  I have vague memories of the day - a sweet mauve dress made out of some shiny self-patterned fabric, being given a silver bangle by the groom, deciding that I will entertain all the guests with a ballet dance and then, after about thirty minutes, getting cross when I am moved from the dance floor so the happy couple can have the traditional first dance.

There is a buffet-supper; I am allowed to go and help myself - although Nan-next-door says I must eat everything I take - waste not being permissible (also she and Grampy are paying so I expects she wants her money's-worth).  I milk the situation by making numerous trips to collect a single items of food, a slice of ham - eat that, then back for a bread roll, eat that and then back for a single tomato and so on - good excuse for swishing around in my nice dress.

Then the best bit - pudding.  This is a dodgy-looking fruit salad - too many pears and not enough peaches for my taste, but never mind,  I spot a bowl of cold pale yellow custard - so much nicer than cream.  I wonder why formerly hot food tastes so much nicer cold?  Pizza, tepid roast potatoes and toast left in the toaster for 15 minutes until it is nice and crisp - delicious.

Back at the wedding - I liberally (actually - replace that with greedily) spoon custard over the miserable fruit salad and plod back to the table (all those trips to get food and the ballet dancing are taking their toll). Unfortunately the bowl did not contain custard, but salad cream (I do not mean mayonnaise  - which would have been more palatable, if a little strange), but sharp and vinegary salad cream.  I am mortified at my mistake and do not tell anyone.  Instead, taking Nan's words to heart, I plough my way through the fruit salad and salad cream -a  very nasty combination.

Me and the broken arm

This story is dedicated to Jana.

It is summer - so sadly no more hockey or netball.  How I miss wearing those lovely divided skirts and thick socks held up with elastic garters (actually cut the garters - they were excruciatingly painful) - not for us those wussy shin pads that are now compulsory - we were the Jean Claude Van Damme of hockey teams and proud of it).

Summer meant athletics - which I hated with a vengeance for a variety of reasons.  The chief being that we had to wear gym knickers and a short airtex tops - so not a good look for the vast majority of girls - the boys were luckier and got to wear white short and shirts so were able to cover up a bit more - it was not unlike the Degas painting The Young Spartans Exercising.  Then the joy of sports day - having to sign up for events you had never done before - generally for a very good reason.  Failing to get to the sign-up sheet, within the first ten minutes of it being posted, could mean an afternoon of extreme terror (rather than just the run-of-the-mill sports day humiliation).  Inevitably the only events remaining would be either shot putt (not possible  - I had no arm muscles-  whereas now I could give Madonna a run for her money), javelin (unpleasant to be responsible for the near-death experiences of classmates) and long jump (risk of sand in gym pants - exfoliating, but not in a good way).  I would try to sign up for one of the running events that involved going round the track about 50 times - it had a certain Zen quality or hurdles (I can think of no good reason why).

All the equipment was set out for sports day on the playing fields; we had been warned not to go anywhere near it unless with a teacher.  It is lunchtime; having listened to the dire warnings my friend Coral and I saunter down the field to 'have a look' at the instruments of torture laid out on the grass.  We decide to race over the hurdles.  I extremely competitive and  determined to win - I jump too soon and fall.  My hand doesn't look like it belongs to my arm, it sticks out at a funny angle and hurts like hell.

In the sick room the Deputy Head is called for her opinion (she of the plimsoll  which was used to hit bad girls).  She grasps my hand - pumps it up and down -  says that it isn't broken and I should get back to Latin (as goodness knows I need to get those gerundives sorted).  I faint, Mum is telephoned to come and take me to hospital where my broken arm is put in plaster.

I get a starring role in the next day's assembly to my chagrin.  The Deputy Head talks about casting out bad apples from barrels so not to spoil the rest and a certain girl who now has a broken arm - as I was the only person sporting a cast it was obviously me and I endured a few days of being called 'hurdle girl' and such.  The only positive thing I can say about this experience is that I did not have to take part in sports day.

Me, Quick Worker and my friends

Faith is having a party as her parents have gone away for the weekend and left her older brother in charge - he is putty in our hands.  The problem is that she doesn't want to invite Quick Worker.  None of my friends like him for a variety of reasons. They say he is boring – it is true that he mainly talks about football (but so does Harry Redknapp and I've always had a soft spot for him) - but then we weren't exactly scintillating, none of my group would have impressed Alain de Botton.  Our topics of conversation being how much we hate school (a lie - we are all basically nerds), hate living in the country, hate not having a Top Shop within 20 miles,  boys we hate, boys we like, boys we are indifferent to (not many of them) and mostly boys we lurve.
Anyway back to Quick Worker.  They don't like the way he dresses – appreciation of the DM is not universal.  They didn’t like his taste in music – he liked pop and we liked rock (I, of course, would never admit my interest in Elgar or Reynaldo Hahn - it would have been social suicide).  Poor Quick Worker - this dislike of him makes me feel quite protective.  

The party is OK, although Faith is extremely stroppy and accuses me of forgetting my  real friends and says I'm selling out to the man.  In the end I go and sit in the bathroom for some peace and quiet – sitting in an empty bath is quite relaxing I recommend it if you haven't tried it - enamel baths being the best as they are nicely chilled).  I think I may even have had a little nap while people banged on the door increasingly desperate – this being the only bathroom in the house.  

Eventually I go back to the party - somewhat refreshed.  I hunt for Quick Worker and find him with Faith in her bedroom - I am pleased they seem to be getting on.  The party ends.

The next day when I go round to Faith's house her mum says that she is in bed with a cold and doesn't want to see anyone, but I insist - after all we are BFF.  Faith is grumpy, bundled up as if for the Arctic and even has a scarf on.

'Bit hot for that,' I say.

She slowly unwraps the scarf to reveal a Quick Worker signature love bite.

'I told you he wasn't very nice, ' she said triumphantly. 

Me and Quick Worker

It is the summer term; I go to a school disco with my friend Faith: she is the Holmes to my Watson, the Queen Anne to my Sarah Churchill, the Rachel to my Monica  -  we are the bestest of best friends.  This manifests itself  by us wearing  the same clothes, having the same hair cut and colour (courtesy of Clairol) and even buying the same type of knickers - generally decorated with the days of the week or dodgy cartoon characters - such is our desire to be the same.

On this particular evening we are dressed in identical navy blue jumpsuits - think Tom Cruise in Top Gun (I can hardly believe I am admitting this).  They have zips that go down to the navel - obviously being good girls we are  zipped up to our collar bones.  When apart we are both quite shy, but when together become a total pair of exhibitionists; we dance when everyone else is still shuffling around the walls, before the teachers herd them into the middle, we also make an awful lot of noise.  I'm sure some of this showing-off was down to me not wearing my specs - I take the line that if I can't see, then no one can see me. Of course we do identical dances; probably practised while watching Top of the Pops and spend quite a lot of time declaring our undying devotion to each other.  I am about to change schools, but we will remain as one and no man (if we should ever be so lucky) will come between us.

A boy keeps trying to break in on our twosome, muttering strange things about twins (the charmer...).  Then Faith needs to go to the loo - instead of going with her as I would normally - I stay and talk to Quick Worker ( for it is he).  I have no excuse for my disloyalty - it was not his scintillating conversation, a mutual love of music or reading - no, I suspect it was his DM's  - you may call me shallow, but ask yourself if you would have behaved differently.  Faith was then dumped for the evening - but don't feel too sorry for her as I think she enjoyed the experience of dancing with one of our geography teachers.

It is time to go home. Quick Worker and I say good night - this involves grappling in a corner (a compulsory activity) and then there is just time for one last trip to the loo before Faith's Mum arrives to take us home in her yellow Honda.  When in the brightly lit room Faith takes one look at me and laughs gleefully. 'Well, he was a Quick Worker', she snorts.  Somehow I have the most enormous, disfiguring love bite on my neck.

Despite the ensuing heatwave I spend the next two weeks assuring my mum that I am cold and need to wear a polo neck sweater (not a great look for those of us who are lacking in the chin department).

Nan and the fancy dress party

I am invited to a fancy dress party by one of the boys I met at Lucy's party.  Finding a suitable costume will be challenging; it is necessary to be cool, alluring, individual (but not too individual) and wear as few clothes as possible - while at the same time avoiding the gimlet gaze of Mum who might make me stay at home and do my homework.

 I enlist Nan's help; she understands that girls just wanna have fun , has wardrobes of interesting clothes left over from the 1950s and has gone out in some pretty shocking outfits in her time.  There are still problems to be overcome: I am 8 inches taller and 5 dress sizes smaller (viz Twiggy and Barbara Windsor - only from the neck down).  A red velvet cocktail dress takes my eye, but I (sadly) do no have the curves to fill it.  Nan (I feel) is not taking this sartorial conundrum as seriously as she should, for instance her repeated suggestion that I dress as an old lady with a head scarf, shopping bag and falling-down stockings. After much sighing and huffing on my part she pulls out a colourful floral dirndl skirt with a sticky-out petticoat,  a white embroidered peasant-style blouse and announces I would make a good gypsy.  No - I am not a swarthy, dark-haired flashing-eyed voluptuous Carmen-type, but skinny, mousy and freckled.   Although not at all convinced I give in because a) my lift has arrived (Uncle in his Ford Cortina) and b) I cannot resist the lure of the charming Piers - slightly punky, when off school premises (a good look) or traditional Sloane-wear (rugby shirt with turned-up collar) - when within the hallowed grounds (not quite so good).

So there I am  - the most anaemic romany princess in all of Oxfordshire wearing an off-the-shoulder top made for a woman with the frontage of Diana Dors (I'm getting worried about the recurrence of off-the-shoulder outfits in my fashion history), enormous hoop earrings (very bling - or tarty as we said in the olden days). Footwear  proved a problem - Nan has feet the size of Miss Piggy's and I only have my cowboy boots which she says won't do for the authentic gypsy vibe.  She suggests I go bare-footed and I (idiot that I am) agree.

Uncle drives me to the school.  Unfortunately the party is taking place in the cricket pavilion - to get there involves a lengthy walk over wet playing fields.  I make my great entrance with mud up to my ankles and hide in a corner while I survey the scene. I am a lone gypsy in a room full of girls wearing variations on the 'sexy' outfit: sexy school girls (think Britney) and sexy tights/leotard combos (think haven't finished getting dressed).  Remind self not to ask Nan's advice about anything to do with clothes ever again.

Needless to say it wasn't a great evening.  Piers obviously preferred the schoolgirl-look to the gypsy - perhaps he had premonitions of Big Fat Gypsy Wedding?  The evening ended with me trudging back to meet Uncle, who loyally said I looked nice and offered me a Murray Mint - I would like to say that this made it better, but it really didn't.

Me and the cycling proficiency test

The police are coming to primary school to teach us how to safely ride our bicycles; this has been organised by  the headmaster who is obsessed with all manner of legal physical activity - Mens sana in corpore sano being his motto. The course is run by the most enormous, scary policeman.  I am small, my bike is big and every time he barks an instruction I freeze.  Also (to be honest) there are better things to think about - what's for lunch or will the tuck shop have replenished supplies of sherbet fountains (top tip: always discard the liquorice stick and use a slightly grimy finger - it gives a more authentic, fizzy  flavour). 

Back to the long arm of the law.  By the second day he had identified his victim , who he nicknamed 'Dolly Daydream' .  Yes, it was me: Debbie McGee to his Paul Daniels, chosen to demonstrate all manner of complicated manoeuvres - signalling, braking, the bike equivalent of the emergency stop and things like that.  Fortunately after what seemed like weeks (surely only a few days) we take the test. 
Monobrow Boy and I fail.  Mr Policeman says pretend-kindly: 'Well Little Dolly, if you stop that daydreaming, perhaps you might pass next time.'  What next time might that be? I don't think so.

The Monobrow Boy cries all afternoon; I don't because, although humiliated beyond measure, I am relieved it is over.  Monobrow will not be comforted and crossly says that it doesn't matter if I fail because I'm just a girl; at the time I have no answer - The Female Eunuch wasn't in the school library and Enid Blyton (the source of all wisdom) seemed to agree with him.

Actually the deep shame of this failure stayed with me for years.  I've often wonder if this is why I have never learnt to drive.  I did try once, but as the person trying to teach me kept flinching every time I touched the accelerator (why is it so near the brake?) and shouting: 'Don't hit the f*****g car in front',  I thought it better to resign myself to a life of shanks' pony and/or being chauffeur-driven.

Nan and why ladies shouldn't wear trousers: part 2

As a student I loved to experiment with clothes (I must have had a premonition that a lifetime of cardigans was before me).  In my first term at university I cropped my hair, bleached it almost white and added food colouring streaks to match whatever clothes I was wearing that day - great if it didn't rain.  I put multiple piercings in my left ear with a sewing needle (don't try this at home - it does hurt) when I should have been writing  an essay on West Stow Anglo-Saxon village (I have since developed displacement activities that do not involve pain).  The androgynous look continued with army fatigue trousers (very comfortable, the pockets were always useful) , khaki-coloured shirts with button-down collars and a black silk tie for more formal occasions (sorry Dad - I expect you wondered where it went), black lace-ups completed the ensemble.  Comfortable and stylish - to my mind anyway.

One night when so attired I went to catch the midnight bus to Oxford (apologies to Gladys - does not have the cachet of the original).  Outside Warren Street tube I was approached by a plump, middle-aged lady in a vivid yellow satin frock.  She first asked if I knew the way to Brewer Street. I said that I didn't, being fairly new to London, but that we could look in the A-Z which I just happen to have with me in one of my many pockets.  She smiled and asked what I did.  I began to explain at some length that I was an archaeology student at UCL. 
She became slightly more insistent, almost purring: 'What I mean darling, is what do you like to do?' 
I begin to ramble on about how I liked foreign films especially anything by Eric Rohmer (oh yes, I could have featured in a junior 'Pseud's Corner').  It gradually occurred to me that she had quite impressive five o'clock shadow and looked more Glen than Glenda (good film - I know it is sometimes billed as the worse film ever made - but not in my opinion).. 
Finally realising that subtlety was wasted on me she asked: 'Which way do you swing?'
Somewhat confused I  said that as far as I knew I didn't swing, but I was off to Oxford for the weekend.

When I told Nan what had happened she sniffed: ' Well, if you will wear trousers you have to expect these things.'

Nan and why ladies shouldn't wear trousers: part 1

When growing up I never saw my Nan in trousers (or slacks as she would probably call them).  She thought women had a duty to be feminine at all times and complained whenever I wore trousers. But it was her insistence on 'bringing me out of my shell' that saw me wedded to jeans throughout my teenage years; the only place I regularly wore a skirt was at school where pleated, grey sacks of a certain length were de rigueur - but at least I was safe from Nan there.
Until I got wise to her, and went into permanent denim, a typical scenario has the two of us walking through Oxford - it is daytime, she is sober, I am fourteen - skinny and self-conscious.  She would then address random men: 'This is my granddaughter - doesn't she have fabulous legs?  Have you ever seen such good ankles?' This would be followed by a simper (from her, not me - I would be pretending I didn't know her)  'She gets her bone structure from me, of course.' (When I finally saw Taxi Driver  I felt a certain kinship with Iris.)

Mortified I would remonstrate with her, but this seemed to increase her need to embarrass me. Nan seemed to think she was doing me a favour, always saying things like 'Don't hide your light under a bushel'.

The apotheosis of my humiliation came when she tried this trick on a group of German language students.  They gamely (and politely) agreed,  saying such things as 'sehr gutt' and 'Nette Knöchel'.  Thanks guys, I appreciated your efforts at international good will, but it really didn't help and I'm not sure your national aesthetic is to be trusted given the popularity of The Hoff in Deutschland.

Nan-next-door scars me for life I

Nan-next-door decides to get a dog (my Nans were neighbours for most of my childhood).  She is quite a large lady, decides a tiny handbagged-sized mutt would be the best look and  buys a Papillon - a butterfly dog - called Andy Pandy.  Andy is small, weedy with a skull that looks like you could crush it between two fingers like a walnut; but  Nan-next-door adores him, showers him with love, grooms him daily and buys him an attractive range of accessories (the sort of thing Joan Collins might wear if she was a dog).  Recognising he is now the supreme being within the family  Andy wears a permanent self-satisfied dog-grin, yaps incessantly and seems to be taking an awful lot of attention away from me (just for the record I am about 6). 

Nan is sensitive to the fact that I don't like Andy; in fact I hate him above all living creatures (yes - even more than Cousin Julie).  Nan-next-door decides that we should bond and encourages me to stroke him, dress him up in dolls clothes and wheel him around in my dolls pram; he is resistant to the last but I find if you wrap him tightly enough there isn't much he can do (think mummified cat).  Then feeling she has brought about a rapprochement between us ,she says 'Give Andy a kiss' - I lean towards his nasty Golum-like face and puckered up with my eyes closed only to feel excruciating pain as his razor-sharp teeth sink into my nose.

So obviously the antipathy was mutual.  From then on I kept well away from  the canine piranha; but his memory lingers on in the faint scar that appears on my nose when I have a suntan.

Nan and the party dress

Some background. At the time this story took place my outfit of choice consisted of a t-shirt worn under one of my dad's lumberjack-style work shirts (no, he wasn't a lumberjack- he just liked to dress as one).  Said shirts had to be smuggled out of the ironing pile and then smuggled back before he noticed;  he wasn't keen on me borrowing them as his work mates always commented on the great smell of Rive Gauche that seemed to surround him.  I digress.  The above was worn with the tightest jeans I could squeeze into (coat hangers being the tool of choice) and if they weren't tight enough I would take them in.  This was fine when cycling to school as I could free-wheel as it was down hill all the way.  Coming home was a bit of a problem; the bike was impossible and not being able to bend at the knee resulted in a strange stiff legged walk - but who hasn't suffered for art?

Great look (or so I thought), but not the sort of thing to wear to Lucy's party (names changed here to protect the innocent) where most of the other guests were girls from Oxford High and boys from St Edwards - it was like Bridehead Revisted, The Great Gatesby and First Form at Mallory Towers all rolled into one -  heady stuff for a girl from the local comprehensive.  I confided in Nan who said that I was not to worry and that she'd find me something to wear.  When she fell asleep in front of the TV I kept whispering 'Miss Selfridge, Miss Selfridge' into her ear - but Paul McKenna where were you when I needed you (possibly not born?)
The night of the party I get changed at Nan's house; excited to see 'the dress' which I have been assured by Nan would 'knock 'em dead' my mum thought was 'pretty' and 7 year old sister lisped was just what a princess would wear.  I had been warned.

Yes - they were all correct: knock 'em dead with laughter, pretty awful and yes, Diana might have worn it when feeling depressed about Camilla.  It was made of pale blue cheesecloth (younger readers may need to look this up - but if you can't imagine the best sort of thing to clean windows with - floppy and scratchy at the same time).  The skirt had at least 4 flounces; imagine a ra-ra skirt, but not as sophisticated and each flounce was decorated with a band of blue lace and blue ric-rac.  The top was a cross between Jane Russell's dress in 'The Outlaw', minus Howard Hughes' intervention and Sophia Loren's 2009 Oscar dress -without the good taste.  This was the first and last time I wore an off-the-shoulder dress.  We both realised it looked hideous, but Nan being a glass-half full woman suggested we try and make it less noticable; I could wear some bright red lipstick or back comb my hair so it balanced out the fullness of the skirt or as a last resort I could borrow one of Uncle's jumpers (khaki green, khaki brown - lovely with pale blue).

The jumper won and got me on the bus without being laughed at.  Fortunately the top deck was almost empty and I was able to change back into my t-shirt, lumberjack shirt and jeans combo which I made sure I took with me.

The party wasn't so bad after all - Southern Comfort, pogoing and lots of Blue Stratos (these were posh boys).  Although I didn't fit in with the girls - long dresses (Laura Ashley, Miss Selfridge) the boys were a different matter;  they were either wanna-be punks or had never met a girl from a state school before.