Nan, me and Omar Sharif

Nan was a vivacious woman who had plenty of boyfriends, but sadly she was also extremely hot tempered and her romances tended not to last.  In retrospect I think she was probably lonely and hid this under a loud and sociable exterior. Her annual romance-fest took place each summer holiday in Ramsgate (and you thought Paris was the city of lurve).  It was surprising she got any amorous action being encumbered by a whiny child (me, whiny but sweet),  a grumpy old woman (Great Gran) and an incontinent poodle (Great Gran's canine companion).  But sea air obviously made lots of people frisky and she was never short of a companion - although it should be said that the holiday boyfriends were of varying quality; but as these relationships rarely lasted longer than two weeks Nan didn't seem to mind.

One evening when on the bus to Margate (the height of holiday sophistication - a trip to Dreamland) a man introduced himself to us as Omar Sharif.  He enquired politely if we were surprised to come across a famous Hollywood actor on the bus.  Nan (a keen cinema fan) said that this thought had immediately crossed her mind and he was looking a bit shorter than when he starred in Doctor Zhivago (and a trifle plumper).

Omar explained that although he knew it would disappoint it was important to be honest and that he wasn't the famous Omar Sharif, just the Omar Sharif who was working in a Ramsgate restaurant for the summer season.  He then asked very formally if we would do him of the honour of accompanying him on a night out.    As we got off the bus Nan whispered that I should call her Mum -  I was happy to go along with this as I  was a little bit in love with Omar already.

We met him most days for the rest of the holiday, he was charming, funny and happy to be buried in the sand.  On the last night of our holiday he told Nan that he was returning home to Turkey at the end of the season and asked if we would  like to go with him. Nan said that she would have to think about it.  Once indoors I excitedly asked if we could go to Turkey (in my mind a place of gargantuan Christmas lunches).  She thought for a while and said that we had better not as she was need to run the Co-op carpet shop and - almost as an afterthought - that my Mum and Dad might miss me.

Nan and the magazines

Nan has an elderly gentleman admirer called Donnie, an unattractive version of dear Paul Daniels -  as she got older her standards definitely slipped.  I'm ashamed to admit they once came up to visit me at University and I pretended I wasn't in as they hammered at the door - I loved Nan, but didn't want anyone to see me with him.  They spent most of their time arguing - well,  Nan argued and Donnie apologised.  He brought her frequent presents - she said tartly that this was because he hoped to take their relationship to the next level (but let's not go there - it is not a good thought).

One day he arrived with a bag of magazines and asked if she would read them to him.  Nan was very fond of Woman's Own and was looking forward to a read with a cup of coffee and a Tunnock's teacake for company; but it crossed her mind that perhaps Donnie couldn't read and needed a fix of Patience Strong - so she agreed.  Sitting close to her on the sofa he began to decant the contents of his plastic bag.  As Nan put on her spectacles she focused on a pile of hard-core Teutonic porn magazines when she was expecting to see Clare Rayner - fundamental mistake here as Nan didn't read German .

Horrified Nan pushed Donnie off the sofa and as he got up she hit him around the head with a rolled-up magazine.  Exit Donnie - no apologies would suffice - he had had his chips.  For a good while after Nan entertained her girl friends (think Golden Girls merged with the witches in Macbeth) with lurid descriptions of the magazines and how disgusted she was.  I did wonder about her detailed recall of the contents of said publications when we were told she had immediately thrown them in the dustbin.

Me and the loo seat

Across the road from the primary school was a rather creepy-looking  manor house surrounded by a tall stone wall (think Atkinson Grimshaw) - the main gates were always locked and padlocked; the occupants entering and exiting by the garden door near the church.  It was the nexis of all village ghost stories.

A girl at school - Gwenda- told me that her mother cleaned for Miss W the old lady who owned the manor.   Gwenda had once gone to work with her mother and been so scared that she had had a fit and peed on the sitting room carpet- making her the world expert on Miss W.  Strangely Miss W was at the same time a living being - she could occasionally to be seen in the village with a tartan shopping bag,  but also a supernatural being who haunted any susceptible child..  That this didn't make any sense never occurred to me - I was a trusting (stupid?) child.

 At break times I would beg for tales of Miss W, but by bedtime would be sick with fear and hardly able to sleep.  One day Gwenda told me something that has scarred me for life.  She said it was  a well-known fact that Miss W did her haunting by sitting on any unoccupied lavatory;  the only way to stop her was to close the lid and put something on it (loo roll or some such) so she couldn't get purchase and would go elsewhere.

Every evening when in the bath I was terrified picturing the stick-thin Miss W materialising through the walls to sit on the loo.  Even now when I go into a bathroom I imagine I might see her.  This may be why I favour showers over baths, but if I am in the bath I'll always close the lid and put something on it - just in case.

Me and the New Year's Eve Party

It is New Year's Eve.

Boyfriend and I are going to make the long journey south to a party at his brother's house (i.e. 5 miles away in Clapham).  I am tarted up as befits New Year- something lurid, shiny and probably off-the-shoulder, accessorised with big hair - I fear.  Boyfriend is wearing his usual jeans and t-shirt combo (now that can't be right can it?)

'Yuck!', I squeal as I open the front door.  There sitting brownly on the front steps is the most enormous dog poo - I presume (hope) it is canine.  The dark brown shininess of it is both fascinating and repellent.   We stare in disbelief - Boyfriend says that he would like to have seen the originator- in the same awed voice he  uses when discussing calculus (i.e. this is something close to miraculous).

I look more closely.  Now - let's get this clear straight away that neither of us have coprophilic tendencies - it is just extraordinarily large and gleams.  Boyfriend finds a stick and goes to poke it.
'Come on, that's enough, that's really gross!' I shriek in disgust.
He then picks it up and chases me up the road; in my panic it takes some time to realise, that fastidious-type that he is,  there is no way he'd pick up dog-doings
There nestling in his hands I see that it is plastic - a joke dog crap.

Not wanting to be parted from our new toy we decide to take it to his brother's party - being sure it will come in useful.

At the flat there is a queue to go into the bathroom; several people squeeze in together at one time.  They are not using the facilities or indulging in any dodgy group activities,they are admiring the decor - Boyfriend's brother has been revamping his flat.  We wait our turn to admire the embossed mock-Victorian wall tiles.  Once inside we decide the bathroom really needs a little something extra to add to the ambiance.

With reverence we place the plastic dog poo in the centre of the bath - it looks perfect.  We then sit on the stairs outside the bathroom and watch people go in to admire the tiling and then come out with rather green faces, we laugh like drains - it is turning out to be a great party.

 Boyfriend's brother eventually discovers our gift and is not frightfully amused - guessing it was us because of our sniggering.  We are told we are immature and not at all funny - this makes us laugh even more.  When his sense of humour returns he confiscates our offering to take down to his parents' house to put in their bath.

Nan and the sheepskin slippers

Every Christmas as Nan looked on expectantly as we opened our 'surprise' packages.  The problem was the final presents we were given were never a mystery as they were always pairs of sheepskin slippers.  I think sheepskin slippers were thought to be rather 'posh' and every member of the family would be clad in a new pair for the rest of Christmas day.

I am not a fan of slippers preferring to wear nothing on my feet or if it is really cold I might don a pair of flip flops.  I suspect this is because years of enforced slipper-wearing have super-heated my poor feet.  Even the fashion for Uggs had passed me by; bit like wearing your PJs outside - not natural or necessary in my opinion.   I realised I was growing up and away from the bosom of the family when I announced before one Christmas that no one should buy me slippers as I wasn't going to wear them ever, ever, ever again.
No one took any notice and I continued to be given these furry monstrosities for years to come only to take them down to the local charity shop as soon as it opened after the festivities.

Never trust a man who wears slippers

Me and the flat in Baywsater

Boyfriend and I move into a studio flat.  It has a tiny sitting room with kitchenette, a bedroom which should really be called a roombed - there being no floor on three sides of it, an interior bathroom and a balcony.  To get onto the balcony you had to climb over the bed, inevitably anyone climbing back in would step on the pillows leaving dusty footprints -I would ensure Boyfriend's pillow were always on top when we had guests and then swap them at bedtime - he didn't seem to notice their grey grittiness.

Although small, the flat was in a great location.  We would go running in Kensington Gardens (about three minutes walk away), lovely in summer but the Round Pond seemed to take on the weather conditions of the Barant Sea in winter.  It was very convenient for Sunday afternoon cultural pursuits  - we could walk to the V&A and the Wallace Collection - this was at the stage of life when we decided to 'do' all the major London Museum/galleries in their entirety from room 1 to the end - we managed to complete the two aforementioned places, the National Gallery, the Science Museum, the National Portrait Gallery, the Courtauld, but I'm afraid the British Museum never got finished.   It was also well situated for food, restaurants in Queensway when we were flush and when money was tight (the usual) the shop around the corner that sold real Turkish delight, fresh figs and ready- made cocktails in sweet little metal containers.

The house we lived in was divided into studio flats, apart from the basement which was a proper flat.  The basement was the home of this very good looking actor who was usually seen in a black leather jacket, smoking gauloises.  He had an incredibly thin, blonde girl friend called Alison - they seemed to spend most of their time arguing, but we decided that living next to the dustbins would make even the most serene people argumentative.

The house was always busy with an almost constant stream of men - they tended to be quite chatty when I was on my own but not so friendly when Boyfriend was with me.  It took a rather more worldly-wise friend to point out that most of the female occupants were on the game and that the friendly guys were their clients.

Me, Mum and my fringe

Went to the hairdresser's last week - not something I really enjoy.  Someone should invent a mirror so that the victim/customer  doesn't have to look at  themselves, but by wearing special glasses (or squinting or something like that) the hairdresser can see them.  But until James Dyson turns his attention to really useful inventions we coiffurephobes will have to continue to  suffer.

Anyway I march in and demand a trim, a tiny, weeny, no more than 1cm trim.  At this point I'm kneeling before hairdresser-woman, begging, my hands in prayer as if before St Mary Magdalen who it turns out is the patron saint of hairdressers - but perhaps I should have stuck to St Jude, he of lost causes.  She seems not to have heard me.  I am hustled to a basin and forced to have my hair washed - for the 2nd time in a morning - not good for those of us with sheep-like follicles.  Then I sit before the mirror of torture and wonder why I don't wear full slap - especially  foundation  which I believe it hides a multitude of sins and then begin fantasising about bringing one of those carnival masks next time.  All the time Sweeney Toddette wields the scissors, she obviously doesn't understand metric and cuts my hair. no - shears my hair (OK -slight exaggeration, but I am still traumatised - she cuts off two or three inches).  I am then straightened and the final insult, Edwina Scissorhands cuts my fringe too short.  - I've spent the last few days pulling it down - it doesn't work  and bounces back half way up my forehead.

This puts me in mind of my mum's hairdressing misadventures when I was a teenager. There is someone I wish to impress at youth club - a sophisticated older man (i.e. a 16-year old boy in too tight jeans with an extravagant mullet).  Mum catches a glimpse of me and suggests I wear a jumper - she did not share my opinion that a skimpy pink halter-neck top was both classy and suitable for an chilly September evening.   She then announces my fringe could do with a trim and sends me to get the nail scissors and the shaving mirror - the correct tool for the job isn't a priority in our family.  I sit on the kitchen stool and she starts cutting..
' Not too short,' I plead.
She does a few more snips.  I look in the mirror - my fringe is crooked - as I feared.
'Easily remedied,' she laughs gaily.  Few more snips and then in comes Dad who points out astutely that she might want to even it up. My forehead is beginning to feel a little chilly.
Mum stops 'Well, that's the best I can do - I can't understand why your hair just doesn't grow straight.'

 My fringe is like some awful graph (the up and downy sort - not a bar graph or a pie chart) .  It is about 5 cm above my eyebrows.  I look like a bad extra from Star trek.  I weep and decide that no tiny, inappropriate halter-neck can compete with my lack of fringe.  I try pushing it back with a hair-band, but then you get the full view of my inadequate eyebrow (see Me and dad's razor  for more information).  I decide to give youth club a miss and concentrate my thoughtwaves on persuading the fringe from hell to grow before I have to go to school the next day.

Me, the boyfriend and home-made wine

Boyfriend is a student without much money (partly because he spends it on hard-backed books and travelling to London so we can rendez-vous).  He intends to economise, rather than sacrifice all those Loebs, he decides to make his own booze.  His mother, coming from a famous family of brewers, makes a pretty good home-made beer so he feels he is on safe ground and starts to make wine.

I come down for the weekend and we set off to a party.  I suggest we pool our money to buy a bottle.  Looking very pleased with himself he says he has something better than a bottle and produces a demi-john of dark red liquid - as he has not got vampiric tendencies I presume it might be alcohol.  Yes, his new speciality - loganberry wine.  Loganberries chosen as they are the cheapest canned fruit available in the local Co-op and brought back to his room to have alcoholic magic wrought on them - sadly no pigeage is necessary - always fancied a bit of leaping around in a tank of grapes.  I am not convinced of the wisdom of his actions and,  it must be admitted,  somewhat ashamed to be seen with a bloke carrying a demi-john up the Turl.  When we arrive the party is in full swing, I hang back so as not to be associated with the flagon, it would not be good for my image - people will think I like folk music and country dancing next.

People go to the drinks table, eye up the home-made wine and ask who brought this - in a tone that says 'What completely sad git thought this was a good idea.'  I give Boyfriend a firm kick and hiss, 'Keep your mouth shut or else'.  He knows better than to disobey.

We watch as the bottles of beer go, then the dodgy vodka with a label in no language recognisable to man, woman or philologist, then the wine boxes are emptied.  We drink cheap cider and pomagne -  until finally the flagon sits alone and virtually untouched on the table.  Even in desperation no one wants to drink loganberry juice with a delicious yeasty-after taste; people warn each other off.   We leave - no reason to stay now the drink has gone.  Downstairs Boyfriend says, 'Won't be a minute' and races back upstairs.
He reappears with his beloved flagon hidden under his coat, ' We can drink this when we get back - waste not want not.'
Decide I don't like this Scrooge-like persona and tell him pretty damn quickly.  Home-made wine making stops fairly soon after.
More of  the Boyfriend at Me and philosophy  Me, boyfriend and how I finally crack maths

Dad and the nail in his foot

Living in the countryside it is useful to be able to drive; especially as our village had a pub, a garage and a village shop which sold little that was in anyway edible.  Dad decides to teach Mum to drive.  Sister and I sit in the back seat of the car and listen to much arguing (actually I don't think Mum said much - think the terror of being behind the wheel gave her lock-jaw).  In my mind learning to drive always involves dire threats - so during my ill-fated attempts I wasn't surprised when my normally mild-mannered boyfriend took on  the attributes of Grendel's mother (no - he did not resemble Angelina Jolie - very bad representation of G's Mum IMHO).  Anyway,  Dad despairs that Mum will ever pass her test and Mum despairs of being in that circle of hell which has her taking driving lessons with Dad for eternity - she almost gives up.

Late one night Mum wakes me up and says Dad has to go to hospital as he has had an accident.  Dad was mooching around in the garage and managed to step on a nail with a large piece of wood attached (note - in our family cars were rarely kept in the garage - it was useful store for guinea pigs accoutrements, gardening tools and assorted dangerous bits of lumber).  Unfortunately the nail and plank were now attached to his foot - he is a squeamish man and couldn't face separating them and so couldn't drive himself to hospital which is about eight miles away.

Although sleepy I was quite excited about the thought of an ambulance appearing outside our house (yup- life in the countryside provided plenty of thrills).  Mum said that they certainly wouldn't be ringing for an ambulance - they didn't pay their taxes for people to waste NHS resources.
I was alarmed to hear her say,  'Don't worry about Dad, I'm going to drive him there.'
This was, in fact, extremely worrying:  firstly Mum couldn't see in the dark (I mean this literally - she has an eye condition that makes it hard to see in the  dark - even half-light), she had never driven in the dark before (true darkness - no streetlights) and Dad was pretty irascible at the best of times - how would his speared foot help?
They managed to get to hospital and when asked what the drive was like Mum said that Dad groaned and swore quite a lot, but she assumed that was the pain in his foot.

Great Gran, Nan and me

Great Gran and I were in almost perpetual competition for Nan's attention.
One day on a shopping trip to Broadstairs I distinctly heard her to say to Nan that they should leave me at the bus stop and collect me when they had finished shopping - I think I was about 6 at the time.  I like to think she was joking, but I suspect not as she wasn't known for a sense of humour.

Me and the lunch time excursions

Moving schools in the Sixth Form was not such a great idea.  Friendships had already formed and, apart from being invited to the lunchtime prayer group, the girls weren't very friendly. The top dogs at school were a group of girls called Ellen; (there were 3 Ellens and their satellites were also known as  'The Ellens' - think 'Heather' just not as  friendly).  The Ellens went for a team strip - long, straight hair with fringes, Wrangler jeans and lambswool v-neck jumpers in pastel shades - I could never fit in - I think I might have had the remains of the ill-fated perm, was a Levis girl and favoured my Dad's shirts (I refer you to    Nan and the party dress  and   Me and the perm).  On my first day the chief Ellen asked me if my father was a don (this is Oxford - so I am being asked if my Pater teaches at the University, not if he is a Corleone or if he was a Wimbledon FC supporter - before the days of schism).  I say no and she doesn't speak to me for the next two years.

In my English class there is another new girl - Annie.  She is very confident and I'm not sure if I like her - although I like her jeans.  But it turns out we have mutual acquaintances and become bosom buddies; complaining about the school and the Ellens (just who do they think they are?).  We are allowed out of school during lunchtime and spend a fair number of them cycling off to Annie's house (her parents are at work, rather than liberal-types who encourage truancy), eating all their food and washing it down with sips of whisky- not because we liked it, just because we could. We would then top the bottle up with cold 'milkless' tea.  Post-lunch history lessons are quite blurry and after a term we give up our lunch-time excursions and stayed in the Sixth Form common room - I think it might also having something to do with her Dad discovering his single-malt tasted a bit strange.

Me and librarian stereotypes

Can't decide if to laugh or be cross at lazy librarian stereotypes - so thought I'd have a little ramble on the subject.

Let's start with clothes.  I have rarely met a librarian in real life wearing a twin set; although I am very partial to cardigans  - the library where I work being either tropical or frigid so clothes that can easily (and decently) be removed are de rigueur.  The librarians of my acquaintance do not dress as one - just as well as several are men.  Although strangely, in recent years, when shopping I have been attracted to items of apparel for their very 'librarianishness' - my favourite black Gap pinafore being such an example - must try to control this instinct.

Now what about going 'shush' ?  Actually caught myself doing this yesterday  in an ironic sort of way - suspect the students just thought I was doing it in a tight-arsed-librarian sort of way.  It just seemed inappropriate to bellow 'Be quiet, this area is for silent work!' hence the need for 'shushing'.  Tool of the trade - nothing more, nothing less -generally doesn't give us a big thrill to do it.

So we are either completely sexless or hiding raging passions beneath our very modest twin sets - the repressed librarian suddenly turning into a sexy minx.  A certain person (who will remain nameless) told me how he finds librarians alluring, just a little bit scary and likes it when they look at him over the top of their specs  (um - good reason to investigate laser eye surgery?)   Have resolved never to waive his fines again - obviously needs to realise that what he takes for flattery just won't wash.  Do you hear  people saying these things about female accountants or lawyers or primary school teachers?

I suppose in past years,when generally only unmarried women worked and the single state was thought something to be pitied, we were an easy target - a profession mainly of women, the vestal virgins of books.  But I bet you even those horn-rimmed spectacle-wearing, twin set toting, pursed lips 'shushing' library gals of yesteryear won't quite as buttoned-up as people like to imagine - just think of all those books they had available to them - Valley of the Dolls, Peyton Place, endless romantic novels - life lessons between the covers.

So when you picture librarians as mousy, shy, repressed, unloved, sexless, short-sighted (actually that bit is true), loving cats more than people, wearing flat shoes at all times, having no social life, wearing boring clothes, loving books (some of the librarians I have known have actually rarely read a book), needing silence, only ever listening to classical music you can pat yourself on the back as some of these things are true, some of the time.

BUT ... the rest of the time the librarians of my acquaintance like rock music, play various musical instruments including concertinas, run, cycle, have relationships with living creatures other than cats, like fashion, don't always wear specs, laugh loudly in the library and have to be told to pipe down, adore Michael Fassbender/Ryan Gosling/Ryan Reynolds (theme going on here -could that just be anyone called Ryan?), like cake (see http://librarycakes.tumblr.com/ curated by a colleague - excellent - if slightly sick-making), get drunk and disgrace themselves (n.b. I'm not actually referring to myself- although a short while ago I found I was unable to walk in a straight line after two white wine spritzers - complete lightweight).

Have decided to stop saying rude things about accountants.

Mum and matching colours

Mum was a great one for matching accessories; handbags, earrings scarves had to match an outfit or 'tone'.  These accessories were usually in her favourite colours: caramel, beige, ecru, taupe - i.e. brown (I really hate brown - what's to like?).

Matching became a bit of an obsession when she started dressing us in similar outfits.  I vaguely remember us wearing matching kilts and capes - mine was green and Mum's navy blue. There is a nice picture of us holding hands in front of the Viking ship at Pegwell Bay - Mum, young, slim and dark in a pale dress with a sticky-out skirt, me, small, blonde and cute (yup - I was once - for about five minutes) in a matching frock.  Goodness how long it took to get a decent photo as I spent much of the time sulking, having a strop or whining.  Back to the photo - I suspect I might have been the infant equivalent of Paris Hilton's handbag dog.

When my sister was about two and I was eleven Mum began taking the matching to new heights (lows?).    She decided to save money by making our clothes.  I particularly remember the purple crocheted dress with matching white pom-poms.  Sister being a tiny, dark-headed moppet looked quite sweet in her purple outfit; I, being at that skinny, gangly, knees-too-big for-legs stage looked hideous.

One delightful outfit was an A-line dress (flattering to most shapes - especially those with no shape), large, puffy sleeves (not so good) and a ruffled clown-style collar - think big, think enormous. In a subtle colour this might have been just about bearable, but it wasn't subtle in anyway.  The fabric had a white background with large swirly patterns on it - might have been a super-sized paisley - in shades of yellow and orange (I really hate yellow and orange - almost as much as brown - makes me go all shivery thinking about it).  I've never seen anything quite like the fabric - suspect it was for making curtains or upholstery.  This example of haute couture or should I say basse couture (been revising French GCSE with daughter - vocabulary increasing by the day...).  Again nice on the moppet, but a garment of extreme embarrassment for me - there was no hope I would ever grow out of it as it was made to be grown into.  

  Fortunately Mum got fed up with this new hobby and I was able to have clothes like normal people.

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 how I become a librarian

One day while mooching about The Library Association library I found a collection of novels about librarians; I then spent many happy hours reading them rather than writing essays.  My favourite was a 1960s Mills and Boon about a butch, stern yet sensitive, Chief Librarian who ruled his library with a rod of iron.  The local Mayor (or some such), using nefarious means,  persuades Butch to employ his niece (the Mayor's niece I mean).  Said niece is young, innocent, pretty and good; the Chief Lib does not approve of nepotism (he is a man of honour) and thinks Girly is a light-weight (she is, but it doesn't matter - she is our heroine).  After numerous trials and tribulations true love/lust wins out in the cataloguing room; they get together and she decides to go to library school - a star is born.  I'd like to say my introduction to the career of Librarianship was as thrilling/sexually charged - but that would be a lie.

It starts when I am at University.  I am a regular in the library with my friend Landa - we have our regular table (like two old blokes in the pub) and follow a strict timetable.
9.30: Arrive in library and have a chat (so many things have happened since we saw each other 15 hours ago)
10.00: Do some work.
10.30: Go for a coffee and more chat.
11.00: Come back extremely hyper from too much caffeine and talk for 30 minutes.
11.30: Work for 30 minutes.
12.00: Wander round the library - don't want to get DVT.
12.30: Off to lunch.
This continues until 5pm when we go home.

We had a great time - unfortunately the Librarian didn't.  He was a nice guy (apart from his beard - stubble and nice beards are fine, but wire wool versions not good in MHO) who would instruct and/or implore us not to talk in the library.  We being a couple of cheeky young hussies would point out that we were the only people in the library and no one else was being disturbed.  He would then say we disturbed him and go back to his office in a sad and defeated way.  This war of attrition (I am ashamed to admit) continued for three years.  Each year he had a different young women working for him  who were all very lively and liked to join in our chats - to his despair.

One day in the summer term of my final year he asked me my birth sign, my thoughts on golf, if I ever stopped talking and what I planned to do when I graduated.  Having replied - Capricorn, bit boring, no and don't know - he suggested I come and work for him because he'd got used to me and his latest 'girl assistant' was leaving.   I took him up on his offer and spent the next year telling students not to talk with the enthusiasm of the poacher turned gamekeeper.  I wasn't quite so keen on being introduced to people as his 'girl assistant' - perhaps I should have embraced it and been the Emma Peel to his Stead.  Actually he bore more of a resemblance to how I think Merlin would have looked - if I'd be a Goth I could have released my inner Morgan Le Fay -  missed a turn there me thinks.

No romance ensued, although we became good friends. He said I was too tall for him (I am 5'6" on a tall day) and I could not imagine caressing a long goatee beard (a la Brad).

Me and how to entertain yourself when bored: part 2

To continue the account of some of my childhood hobbies.


A speedy and cheap activity is loo paper Papier-mâché.  First take sheets of loo paper (having checked you haven't taken the last roll in the house - you could find yourself rather unpopular) and put them in water.  Put the soggy mass on a mould e.g. egg cup.  Leave until completely dry and then it can be pulled off in one piece (well, it will come off in one piece once in every twenty goes and only if you are very, very careful).  It can be painted with very, very dry paint - anything too liquid will destroy your creation.  The resulting object will have a very short life - so don't imagine you will be making a family heirloom.


I also liked decorating things with shells that I'd collect on holiday.  I would take an empty matchbox (one of the few advantages of being the child of a couple of chain smokers is a constant supply of match boxes), glue on the shells in patterns and then present the box to a delighted (possibly slightly glazed-eyed and bored) grandmother.  Poor Nan -  her bedroom often smelt a bit odd in the weeks after receiving these gifts as I rarely checked to see if the sea creature has left its home before I wielded the glue brush.

Nan and coats

Nan liked to buy me clothes and always insisted on buying what she called 'big things' such as coats and shoes.  She aimed to buy items that got you looked at,  as in her mind any attention was good attention.  Unfortunately her idea of what was a good look rarely matched mine - I refer you to the tale of the   Nan and the party dress

Coats were always dangerous.  I remember a maroon cord coat with white fur around the cuffs and hood - so not a good colour on me and the fluff moulted something dreadful.  Nan insisted I looked like someone called Lara.  I have since seen Dr Zhivago and have to say - sadly- I bore absolutely no resemblance to Julie Christie.  In fact in this coat I looked like Like a cross between Little Red Riding Hood and Liam Gallagher.

She then turned up with an enormous fake fur coat - made for someone about 40 years, no  60 years older than me.  It was an alarming yellowy-brown colour and looked like it had been made from a dozen dead cats.  When I wore it (under duress) people used to hiss at me and chant 'Fur is murder'.  I wondered at what stage Nylon had been alive.

But the height (low) of her coat purchases was the Afghan coat.  Her friend worked in a dress shop and when clearing out old stock the woman passed various items to Nan.  One of which came my way.  Now I think Jimi looks fantastic in his Afghan, but by the time I got mine they had not been in fashion for some time.  It had the advantage of keeping me warm, but my goodness when it rained - well, of course it smelt like a wet goat mixed with my signature scent Rive Gauche - hideous. Fortunately  one day I 'left' it on the bus - and it was never seen again.

Me and trying to look different

In a fairly tame way I tried to look different when I was a teenager and I found it most gratifying when old ladies said rude things about me on the bus.

A favoured outfit included one of a number of pairs of vintage (i.e.old and grotty) stilettos from Oxfam, worn with fishnet or footless tights (I vaguely remember this was a winter craze as my legs feel cold as I write).  On top I wore a leotard (dreadful things when you need a pee in a hurry) and a tight skirt.  My parents would roll their eyes and Dad would ask if I was off to work walking the streets - their humour was not appreciated.

I also had a penchant for dungarees (think some misguided fool had said I looked cute or it might have been my continuing crush on John Boy Walton).  Lee dungarees were my favourite, but I also had a bright red pair.   I thought the legs were too baggy so altered them to a skin-tight fit - again this made me a cheap date (no - not in that way - I was a nice girl) as I couldn't risk drinking too much and having to go to the loo.

The skin-tight theme continues with the purple satin trousers (terrible for VPLs) worn with a black vest - I remember wearing this outfit to a Rockabilly club and wondering why I got stared at.  I think the most shameful outfit was the red and white striped bikini which I would wear with a pair of cut-off shorts when walking from my university hall near Gower Street to Regents Park.  Any bloke who happened to even look in my direction was greeted with a hissed, 'Sexist pig - women can wear what they like, Germaine says so'.
Um ... the folly of youth or was it the vanity of a size 10 body?  The latter I fear.

Love letter to my Nan

My Dad phoned earlier to say that Nan died this afternoon after a month's illness.


As a child I loved her unconditionally, although when I was a teenager she sometimes made me angry.  But most of all she made me the woman I am today; she taught me how to love and nurture people, that food is a weapon of love, that you can never have enough flowers and that you should laugh every day.

She wasn't always been a good influence; she was an outrageous flirt - charming all my boyfriends - I too am a flirt, but unlike Nan I can't flirt with those I genuinely like.  Like her I adore the sea; although she could not swim  - I can picture her now, wearing an emerald-green swimming costume and a swimming hat decorated with flowers, standing beside me as I practised front crawl, insisting I didn't splash her as she didn't want to get wet.  I can feel that icy coldness, the salt water in my eyes and mouth and that heart-bursting love I felt for her.

 I could confide my nastiest, most ungenerous thoughts to her and  know that she would always love me and be on my side.  Her advice was sometimes flawed; she thought I should give University a miss as it was full of 'posh people' and I wouldn't fit in.  But she also inspired me to read and to tell stories.  When I stayed with her I would sleep in her bed with the slippery, shiny green eiderdown and she would tell me stories from her childhood about moonlight flits, her own much beloved Granny, her irascible mother, louche uncles and a crazy woman who roamed Ramsgate chopping the pigtails off little girls.

I did tell her I loved her, but she always said we'll have enough of that old china and offered me a biscuit..

So Tiny Woman with size 3 feet, lover of raw cabbage and banana sandwiches,  who preferred animals to people (your two grand daughters aside), wearer of emerald green jumpers, scented with Coty's L'Aimant, skin-smooth with Oil of Ulay, I just want to say to you, wherever you have gone to, that there will always be a part of you somewhere deep within my soul.

Thanks for everything Nan

Me and Forever Amber

As a family we were all avid members of the public library and would make weekly visits to pick up our full quota.

Initially I was happy in the children's library: Enid Blyton, Leon Garfield, Malcolm Saville, Noel Stretfield (Ballet Shoes - definitely my favourite - so sad, so happy).  But by the age of 12 I was bored and keen to move on to the forbidden delights of the adult library.  Unfortunately you had to be 13 to join the 'big' library; after much special pleading from my parents (worn down by my sulking, whining and general surliness) I was allowed to move 'up' on the understanding that the Librarian had the right of veto over anything I borrowed .  It grieves me to say that 'she' could have starred in some awful cliché ridden comedy about librarians - does one actually exist already?  Anyway I think the idea of her intervention was to save me from myself and to stop me borrowing corrupting and salacious books.  Actually the dodgy books were the ones I read in  the library, quickly shoving them on the shelves when 'she' came by.

The great day came when 'she' was ill and the woman from the junior library stood in and I was able to borrow Forever Amber.  A bodice ripper of the first order (as you can see from the selection of covers) the book is set in the 17th century and tells how Amber moves up in society by marrying/having sex with increasingly powerful men, but all the time still longing for original love.

I had a quick look on the Internet and was delighted to find that it had been banned in several American states (it was written in 1944).  This quote is from  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Forever_Amber_(novel)  '...The first was Massachusetts, whose attorney general cited 70 references to sexual intercourse, 39 illegitimate pregnancies, 7 abortions, and "10 descriptions of women undressing in front of men" as reasons for banning the novel.'  


 Now I remember it being a good read and a satisfactory introduction to Restoration England (well, better than my A Level textbook as it missed out the boring bits...), but I really don't remember the above.  I shall buy a copy and check to see if it is accurate.  
Kathleen Winsor - I salute you - great heroine, great book.