Nan lived with her three son; the youngest of whom (met in earlier tales as Uncle) was also a sleepwalker. He had on occasions been found sitting at the foot of Nan's bed, completely unaware of how he had got there, but still managing to terrify her in the meantime. He was never woken as Nan always said it was dangerous, but would be led gently to his bedroom and put back to bed. Events took a more serious turn when he opened the front door and went sleepwalking in the street; from then on the exterior doors were always locked and bolted at night.
One night Nan wakes up; it is dark, the house is silent - but she knows something is wrong. In the boys' bedroom there are only two sleeping forms; the other bed is empty with the covers thrown back. She searches the house, but can't find Uncle - the front door is still locked and bolted so he must be somewhere inside. By now she is panicking and wakes his brothers to help find him. Eventually one of them notices that the window of the first floor box room is ajar and looks out to see Uncle sitting on the (very small) porch roof - a good three/four metres off the ground - fast asleep. With some difficulty they manage to get him back into the house - one brother climbing up the porch while the other holds onto Uncle through the window. The next morning he has no recollection of his somnabulistic experience.
Wednesday, 29 February 2012
Tuesday, 28 February 2012
Nan and the birthday party
Being born just before Christmas meant that I rarely had birthday parties as a child. Although I can understand now why they weren't very high on the parental agenda I was deeply resentful at the time (and for about twenty years afterwards...)
One year Nan decides to throw me an impromptu party. I tell Nan about a party I had been to where there had been a magician; not to be out done she promises me some party entertainment. Her niece is coming to visit, bringing her four daughters - all under ten - they will do as party guests. As a family they are very odd (to my mind), they look identical; just at different stages of development: they even dress alike - including the mother). They sound alike and are loud and boisterous except for the middle girl. She is extremely nervous, never speaks voluntarily, every time she has to go into another room the nervous girl looks anxiously around the door before moving. Even the cats make her flinch.
It was inevitable that she does not respond positively to Uncle's jolly game where he pretends to wrench the nose off your face and then poking his thumb through his first and second fingers, shouts, 'I've got your nose!' This is followed by him wrestling you to the ground - I find this most entertaining, but it is possibly a little full-on for the uninitiated.
Nan disappears upstairs to get herself ready for the entertainment while we eat sandwiches, jelly and ice cream (standard party fare before the advent of sushi and tapas for the under-sevens). We wait with anticipation as she can be heard coming downstairs.
Leaping into the room Nan is wearing a black cloak, a tall black hat and a hideous witch's mask.
She shrieks, 'I am a witch and I've come to eat your brains and then to suck out your eyeballs!'
There was lots of excited screaming; although the photograph taken at the time shows me calmly eating crisps.
But then the nervous girl falls off her stool and has a fit brought on by fright (she had never had one before or since). An ambulance is called and Nan's career as party entertainer is over.
One year Nan decides to throw me an impromptu party. I tell Nan about a party I had been to where there had been a magician; not to be out done she promises me some party entertainment. Her niece is coming to visit, bringing her four daughters - all under ten - they will do as party guests. As a family they are very odd (to my mind), they look identical; just at different stages of development: they even dress alike - including the mother). They sound alike and are loud and boisterous except for the middle girl. She is extremely nervous, never speaks voluntarily, every time she has to go into another room the nervous girl looks anxiously around the door before moving. Even the cats make her flinch.
It was inevitable that she does not respond positively to Uncle's jolly game where he pretends to wrench the nose off your face and then poking his thumb through his first and second fingers, shouts, 'I've got your nose!' This is followed by him wrestling you to the ground - I find this most entertaining, but it is possibly a little full-on for the uninitiated.
Nan disappears upstairs to get herself ready for the entertainment while we eat sandwiches, jelly and ice cream (standard party fare before the advent of sushi and tapas for the under-sevens). We wait with anticipation as she can be heard coming downstairs.
Leaping into the room Nan is wearing a black cloak, a tall black hat and a hideous witch's mask.
She shrieks, 'I am a witch and I've come to eat your brains and then to suck out your eyeballs!'
There was lots of excited screaming; although the photograph taken at the time shows me calmly eating crisps.
But then the nervous girl falls off her stool and has a fit brought on by fright (she had never had one before or since). An ambulance is called and Nan's career as party entertainer is over.
Monday, 27 February 2012
me and bras
I went to John Lewis to buy that oh so desirable an object - a new sports bra. At least JL has a good private lingerie department where you are unlikely to run into passing male acquaintances as you hunt through racks of garments that look like medical trusses.
I initially looked online and was rather taken with the idea of what M&S advertised as 'suptuous sports bras' - now suptuous to me suggests something that would feel amazing - silk, satin, possibly even velvet. Impractical I know, but what about a lavender-coloured velvet sports bra with chantilly lace - how nice would that be? Anyway sadly M&S had nothing in the least bit sumptuous to offer.
Putting aside fantasies of aesthetically pleasing sports bras (wonder if blokes have similar dilemmas when purchasing jockstraps?) I head to Oxford Street. JL (they should employ me as a global ambassador) has an extensive range which is good. But I am disturbed by what they are called - Shock Absorbers being a pretty good brand, but I don't want to feel like my big end (or whatever shock absorbers are for) has gone. Actually they certainly do give you a shock when on - never wear for a hot date (any date actually) unless you are perhaps into S&M - then it might be an acceptable look. Suspect if Michael Fassbender had chanced upon a Shock Absorber in Shame he'd have found a new addiction.
The names of these garments of torture (constricting in the extreme - I could hardly flex my shoulder blades) leave something to be desired unless you are a former East German shot putter ( I mean from what was East Germany, rather than a retired sports person) - who wants to wear something called Sportsjock, Lessbounce, Moving Comfort Juno (for your inner goddess?) or the French brand Zbra (no - I can not have a racial stereotype attached to my chest).
This was definitely a case of 'be careful what you wish for'. I remember all the nights when I'd pray for a chest (Ok, let's not be coy - breasts). I think I could have empathised with Job (studied for RE A level) if he had been afflicted with a flat chest - but all those boils just left me cold.
Getting changed for the first PE lesson of secondary school was an eye-opener in more ways than one. Most of us wore white regulation vests, the lucky ones had a small bow or fabric rose to relieve the grimness ( although I have to admit it can be a good look on some - think Wolverine or David Beckham). But at least we were together in our sartorial shame - that was until the two girls in our class, who already looked like they could be pulling pints behind a bar, (jealous - moi? - Non) took off their shirts to reveal ... black lacy bras. OMG I don't think I had even seen a black bra - I lived a sheltered life where female relatives thought that a pale blue or pink underwear was extremely racy and likely to put them on the road to perdition.
I go home and tell mum I must have a bra - she laughs and I continue to wear a vest for a good while (I will not reveal how long - I am not seeking pity). Eventually the day comes when I get my M&S 26AAAA (very slight exaggeration) and think I have become Madonna in that J-P G cone bra.
But today when wrestling with the sports bra (I think I may have dislocated my shoulder trying to do it up) I remember those vests with great fondness.
I initially looked online and was rather taken with the idea of what M&S advertised as 'suptuous sports bras' - now suptuous to me suggests something that would feel amazing - silk, satin, possibly even velvet. Impractical I know, but what about a lavender-coloured velvet sports bra with chantilly lace - how nice would that be? Anyway sadly M&S had nothing in the least bit sumptuous to offer.
Putting aside fantasies of aesthetically pleasing sports bras (wonder if blokes have similar dilemmas when purchasing jockstraps?) I head to Oxford Street. JL (they should employ me as a global ambassador) has an extensive range which is good. But I am disturbed by what they are called - Shock Absorbers being a pretty good brand, but I don't want to feel like my big end (or whatever shock absorbers are for) has gone. Actually they certainly do give you a shock when on - never wear for a hot date (any date actually) unless you are perhaps into S&M - then it might be an acceptable look. Suspect if Michael Fassbender had chanced upon a Shock Absorber in Shame he'd have found a new addiction.
The names of these garments of torture (constricting in the extreme - I could hardly flex my shoulder blades) leave something to be desired unless you are a former East German shot putter ( I mean from what was East Germany, rather than a retired sports person) - who wants to wear something called Sportsjock, Lessbounce, Moving Comfort Juno (for your inner goddess?) or the French brand Zbra (no - I can not have a racial stereotype attached to my chest).
This was definitely a case of 'be careful what you wish for'. I remember all the nights when I'd pray for a chest (Ok, let's not be coy - breasts). I think I could have empathised with Job (studied for RE A level) if he had been afflicted with a flat chest - but all those boils just left me cold.
Getting changed for the first PE lesson of secondary school was an eye-opener in more ways than one. Most of us wore white regulation vests, the lucky ones had a small bow or fabric rose to relieve the grimness ( although I have to admit it can be a good look on some - think Wolverine or David Beckham). But at least we were together in our sartorial shame - that was until the two girls in our class, who already looked like they could be pulling pints behind a bar, (jealous - moi? - Non) took off their shirts to reveal ... black lacy bras. OMG I don't think I had even seen a black bra - I lived a sheltered life where female relatives thought that a pale blue or pink underwear was extremely racy and likely to put them on the road to perdition.
I go home and tell mum I must have a bra - she laughs and I continue to wear a vest for a good while (I will not reveal how long - I am not seeking pity). Eventually the day comes when I get my M&S 26AAAA (very slight exaggeration) and think I have become Madonna in that J-P G cone bra.
But today when wrestling with the sports bra (I think I may have dislocated my shoulder trying to do it up) I remember those vests with great fondness.
Sunday, 26 February 2012
Nan, me and the broken arm
About a week after I have broken my arm - plaster from wrist to elbow - term ends and I am due to go to Ramsgate with Nan. No one at home is very sympathetic about my injury - it was my own fault and I just had to lump it. I am sad that I won't be able to go swimming in the sea (one of my all-time favourite activities) as the plaster has to stay on for 6 weeks. It is a nasty itchy thing (even the frequent use of a knitting needle for scratching doesn't help) and now has many obscenities written and drawn on it - Ah! The originality of youth.
But Nan, being a fellow hedonist feels my pain; decides there is no reason why a broken arm shouldn't stop me swimming. Every time I go into the sea - four or five times a day whatever the weather - my arm is wrapped up in several plastic bags and secured with elastic bands. The cast does limit my marine activities: front crawl isn't feasible - you end up hitting your head with the cast quite often - although a sedate (slightly lop-sided) breast-stroke is just about manageable. The plaster does get a bit soggy, but usually dries out over-night ready for the next day's dunking.
Strangely the broken arm never healed properly (it is thinner than the other one and I can't put any weight on it - those who know me may come and inspect it). I sometimes wonder if it was the swimming that did it
But Nan, being a fellow hedonist feels my pain; decides there is no reason why a broken arm shouldn't stop me swimming. Every time I go into the sea - four or five times a day whatever the weather - my arm is wrapped up in several plastic bags and secured with elastic bands. The cast does limit my marine activities: front crawl isn't feasible - you end up hitting your head with the cast quite often - although a sedate (slightly lop-sided) breast-stroke is just about manageable. The plaster does get a bit soggy, but usually dries out over-night ready for the next day's dunking.
Strangely the broken arm never healed properly (it is thinner than the other one and I can't put any weight on it - those who know me may come and inspect it). I sometimes wonder if it was the swimming that did it
Saturday, 25 February 2012
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, 23 February 2012
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).
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