Me and the Redhead

I've always liked people with red hair and have never understood 'gingerism'.  The Internet is full of unpleasant jokes and sites such as 'Ed Sheeran, the best thing for redheads ... since hair dye'  and what is the South Park-inspired  'Kick a ginger day' all?  Lots of lovely gingers out there: Damian Lewis, PianoGhibli girl on YouTube,  Tin Tin, Wilma Flintstone, Ann of Green Gables, Elizabeth I, Lucille Ball.  Admittedly there are some gingers who spoil it for everyone: L. Ron Hubbard, Lizzie Borden, Judas and The Redhead.

The Redhead was a small boy who lived in the same block of flats as my parents.  At the age of 5 he was feared by all the residents as the naughtiest, roughest and snottiest kid on the block.  I thought he was amazing; although I didn't like it when he disfigured my dolls, locked me in the garage or make me walk through stringing nettles. Is this interest in 'bad boys' hard-wired into the female brain and, if so, why?  For example in The Gilmore Girls Dean is kind, gentle and builds Rory a car; but Jess, the small-town bad boy, is much more interesting, yet makes nothing but trouble.

Anyway I digress - back to The Redhead who continued to terrorise the block.  No one could leave their ground floor windows open after he set fire to some net curtains, he would pick on smaller children, steal toys and either refuse to return them or give them back in such a state you didn't want them anymore.  
I had a  tricycle that I was allowed to ride uncahperoned around the block with The Redhead running after me emitting blood curdling yells (very thrilling, but a bit disturbing at the same time).  But the day came when he wanted a ride; when I refused he pulled me off by my ponytail and set off at quite a pace.  Being younger and smaller I couldn't catch up however fast I ran; it took me several circuits of the block to come to this conclusion.

I cried a bit and then my eye chanced on a metal pole that just happened to be lying in the grass - it was a metre-long tube.  As the Redhead shot by me, peddling furiously, I whacked him on the back of the head with the pole - it was most satisfactory as he dropped the bike and ran off crying for his mum.  He needed about ten stitches and kindly let me feel the scar on demand.  He never seemed to bear a grudge; I suspect in his heart he recognised that I had learnt all I knew from The Master.

Nan-next-door and the lettuce sandwich

When I lived with Nan-next-door my regular pre-bed supper would be two slices of white bread, spread with butter and filled with a generous helping of lettuce.  Nothing more - no cheese, ham or sandwich spread (very odd stuff  sandwich spread - why would anyone want to eat something that looks and tastes like vomit?)   I imagined that the lettuce sandwich was standard gourmet fare for the children of Oxfordshire and we were all tucking in at aabout 7.30.
Recently when awake at 4.00am (insomnia, not hectic social life - I regret to inform you) I was desperately searching cures for sleeplessness on the Internet.  I found the usual suggestions: warm baths, massage, drink milk etc.  But the more esoteric ideas caught my eye: put a small weight on your body (how small 500g, 1kg - any bigger and that sleep might be permanent) or take extract of sea snail entrails (this being Japanese I began to muse on what the South London equivalent would be - suggestions gratefully received).  Others also wouldn't do: I can't curl my toes otherwise I get cramp and really don't fancy rubbing my feet with dormouse fat and where do you get dormice from?  Although I suppose I could have substituted the hamster when it expired.  See the following for more detail:
http://www.mentalfloss.com/blogs/archives/24139

I also found a reference to eating lettuce to help with insomnia - supposedly they contain natural opiates which act as muscle relaxants.  Perhaps this is some ancient folk cure passed down from mother to daughter since time immemorial and Nan-next-door wasn't just being a cheapskate.

Nan-next-door and the knitted jumper

Nan-next-door was a slightly obsessive knitter - so as a family we wore lots of woolly homemade clothes.  For me she made little fair isle jumpers, cardigans with rabbit, lamb or flower-shaped buttons, jumpers made with fancy stitches, scarves with matching mittens, bobble hats, caps with straps under the chin that buttoned up and bonnets with animal ears.  There was some unwritten rule that as a girl I should generally wear pastel colours; insipid lemon, pale blues, mint green  and blossom pink. For Christmas I might be allowed something more vivid, perhaps red or emerald green - usually with a seasonal motif.  I fear my passion for the cardigan may have developed in these early years - not as a professional badge of honour  which many have presumed (or should it be the badge of shame - the librarian's scarlet letter?).

Grampy (my maternal grandfather) also had an considerable knitted wardrobe - as extensive, but not as cute as mine .  He had chunky, textured jumpers in rather more masculine colours: mustard yellow, plum, moss green and  - if he was really lucky- a sober navy blue.  He also had some Scandinavian patterned ones (he could have been an extra in The Killing - providing it was a non-speaking part - he wasn't a linguist by any means - actually he didn't speak much at all).  The zip-up cardies were his favourites - good apparel for the allotment where he spent most of his waking hours; they could be removed easily and draped over a handy spade.  The masculine collection also included gloves,  so thick it was impossible to bend the fingers and rather creepy balaclavas with strangely small eye holes.

The disadvantage of these woollies was that they were always scratchy.  The fact that they got smaller with each wash trigger what I believe is my only phobia - stuckjumperphobia, a variation on claustrophobia.
I was getting ready for bed and needed help getting the Christmas jumper off (oatmeal brown with red snowflakes and robin buttons).  But when Nan-next-door tried to pull it over my head it got stuck at the level of my ears.  As I shrieked in pain (and probably for the effect, I did like a drama) she tried to pull my arms out of the sleeves to get more leverage, but as I wasn't double-jointed this manoeuvre wasn't possible.    Panicking,  as I could hardly breath with felted wool obscuring my nose and mouth,  I started to bellow.  Grampy rushed in to see what was happening (and probably to tell me to shut up).  The jumper would neither go up or back down.  They had a lengthy debate about the best course of action while I slowly asphyxiated.  In the end Grampy's solution was adopted; he got a pair of scissors and cut me out much to Nan-next-doors dismay - she was very fond of that sweater. 
Hyperventilating and with a red furrow (fortunately not permanent)  all around my head I was very cross and could only be comforted with a lettuce sandwich.

Me and the Rugby Player: Nan tells me off - part 1

Nan has only told me off three times in my life; not because I am perfect (I say mock-modestly...), but because she loves me unconditionally.  The three occasions remain etched in my mind; at the time I was resentful,  but each occasion provided useful life lessons.

Nan was the consummate flirt - no man of any age or condition was safe and this included my boyfriends.  They had to be inspected by her - think Salome eyeballing John the Baptist's head. One of her favourites was the Rugby Player (hereafter RP).

I first saw RP dancing with his RE teacher at an inter-schools function; having admired his moves from afar I managed to jostle her out of the way - playing defence in the hockey team came in useful occasionally.   RP was kind, well mannered and extremely large - picture The Incredible Hulk - but not green.  He was also useful to have around the house; for example when the spin dryer broke he could wring the clothes out so they were almost dry (including  jeans).  Everyone liked him and Nan loved him, feeding him a constant supply of food and asking to feel his triceps at least twice per visit - he just lapped this up.

I was concerned how she would cope when we split up as there was a certain inevitability about it because:
 1).  I was fed up watching rugby; I would get cold and, despite repeated explanations, I was never sure what was going on.
2).  He had blond hair and I was only really attracted to blokes with dark hair.  When I met him it was in a dimly lit room and I was dazzled by the dancing ...
3). He started wearing similar clothes to me; jeans and t-shirts weren't such an issue, but when he said it would be cute if we wore the same coloured jumpers I realised we were to be no Burton/Taylor, Dante/Beatrice, Abelard/Heloise (I bet he was glad it wasn't the last pair).

The end came one Saturday when I was at my part-time job in the jeans shop. The pressure to sell was intense; anyone bottom of the sales league  for two weeks running got the sack.   RP, being a good soul, comes in to ensure I made at least one sale.  I disappear into the store room to find something to fit him - rugby, like fencing, strangely inflates the thighs.  When I reappear he is in a changing cubicle; one of my colleagues says RP wants to surprise me. He pushes open the cubicle doors and emerges clad in a pair of  Lee dungarees that exactly match the ones I am wearing (a good look with striped t-shirt and plimsolls - but in my opinion only for girls) and says something cheesy like 'Hey babe, now we can look like twins.'
I am speechless.  I do not want to be the twin - I want to be unique - and I want a boyfriend who looks like a bloke instead of a super-sized toddler.  Increasingly desperate I suggest a pair of Levis might be a little more appropriate, but he insist on buying the dungarees.

I go to Nan's, weep a little and tell her it is all over.  For only the third time in my life she tells me off because I am being picky (she wouldn't be saying that if she had seen what I'd seen), I am shallow and who would be a stand-in for the spin dryer next time it broke?  But her main complaint was that she had packets and packets of the biscuits that only RP would eat and what was she supposed to do with them?

The lessons I have learnt from this:
Do not make immediate relationship decisions based on ability to dance.  Dancing is an ephemeral pleasure and does not generally lead to long term happiness.
Always take prospective boyfriends to a well-lit room to inspect hair colour (hats to be removed if worn).
Casually mention dungarees on men and see if his eyes light up.

Nan and the secret garden

I am reading 'The Secret Garden' by Frances Hodgson Burnett and love it so much I bore the family with detailed retellings of it - with a few tweaks: Mary Lennox becomes Renka Lennox and Colin isn't such a drip - he's more like Julian in the 'Famous Five' stories.

Nan indulges this (as she does everything) and offers to take me to a secret garden provided I don't tell my parents.  Nan, clutching the inevitable picnic in a string bag and I, clutching my key text, walk up the hill for about a mile along a road lined with towering, dark green conifers planted behind a tall wooded fence.  Nan pushes me through a hole in the fence; inside there is the most enormous garden, smooth lawns, trees and shrubberies.  To be honest I feel a little short-changed as it is much too big and park-like to be the secret garden.  But Nan seems to be having fun so I don't complain.  We head to the far side of the garden, behind what she says is the gardeners' hut (this is more like it!); behind the hut is a deep ditch full of bunches of flowers and floral arrangements.  I am sent into the ditch to see if I can find any decent flowers to take home while Nan sits on the grass shouting directions and partaking of a restorative banana sandwich.  I, exhausted, climb up and down (like a small non-bearded Chris Bonnington, but with Start-rites rather than crampons).  I manage to pull together a collection of browning lilies and chrysanthemums.  I also find some sweet little cards and put a few in my pocket for inspection later. 

Later when Mum turns out my pockets for the wash she gives a little cry and asks where the  cards came from - I had forgotten all about them.  They had writing on them which was hard to read as it was joined-up, something I had yet to aspire to.  They said things like 'Darling Bertha, always in our hearts, your loving cousins Cyril and Lucy'   or 'Henry, gone to a far better place, from all your Friends at Pressed Steel'.
I forget my promise and tell Mum about the secret garden.
I suspect my parents may have complained about this outing as I was never taken to Oxford Crematorium for a picnic again.

Nan-next-door scars me for life II

I am seven, Cousin Julie is five.  We come back from a trip to the Cowley Centre shopping precinct to Nan-next-door's house to have glasses of milk and malted milk biscuits; I have a passion for the biscuit barrel because it has a 'secret' compartment containing a lumpy bag.  I am sure the lumpy bag contains something delicious, but Nan says it is poisonous not  to eat it.  I try and give it a sly lick at least once a week as I am not a trusting child.

Nan-next-door hugs us both and says fondly:  ' I can quite imagine you when you are all grown up - Julie will be the beauty of the family and Renka, you can be...' she pauses '...the brains'. 

I'm not sure I like this distribution of attributes so I wait for Nan-next-door to go out of the room, push Julie onto the floor and crack her head against the fridge several times for good measure.

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.