Me and Jane Austen

Jane Austen remained a closed book (a pun so awful - I just couldn't resist) to me until I was nineteen.  We didn't go in for the classics of English literature at home and I suppose I was lucky not to have 'done' Austen for A Level. At university I joined the local public library and vowed to read the fiction section from  A - Z; it was pretty heavy going at times and I read an awful lot of second rate books.  Fortunately Jane Austen made it all worthwhile. I had always imagined her books would be austere and humourless - instead they still make me laugh like a drain.  


I love them all and read them at least once a year since that moment of discovery.  They are comfort when I feel sad or ill and skip along when I feel happy.  Having said that I have to admit that reading Northanger Abbey is a bit of an ordeal, but for the sake of completeness I wade through it.    Also Fanny Price in Mansfield Park needs a good shake, no - let's make that a good slap.  For goodness sake Fanny,  why didn't you accept the handsome (and fairly sexy - for an Austen anti-hero) Henry Crawford - I know Edmund is a good egg, but I reckon he'd bore you silly within a year (if not before).

Pride and Prejudice - such a fantastic range of characters and great story with lots of twist and turns.  It even translates well on TV and at the cinema; especially the Firth/Ehle TV version - no complaints from me about the addition of Darcy jumping in the lake (poor lamb did look a bit warm).  But I do wish Alison Steadman hadn't played Mrs Bennett as a pantomime dame and - while I'm complaining - I'm not convinced by the guy who plays Wickham - would you elope with him and risk social ruin?.  Definitely don't approve of the Keira Knightly/Matthew thingy film - she's too thin and he's just a bit of a drip (Daughter has come in and thinks I am being a little harsh to Matthew thingy). The 1940 film, although not totally true to the book, is good (disappointing that they didn't stick with the Regency period on a costume front).  Laurence Olivier sounds good as Darcy, but his hair is too glossy to be convincing.


 But for me the best of all the books is Persuasion where second chances are possible and faithful love is rewarded. I recently went  to Lyme Regis and en hommage to Ms Austen walked on the Cobb.  Actually I didn't enjoy this very much - it was rainy and windy, the Cobb is high, I got vertigo and was worried I'd replicate Louisa Musgrove's fateful jump.  Fortunately I managed to stagger off the Cobb into the nearest museum (by way of a café and a restorative shopping experience).  


Anne Elliot is a brilliant Austen heroine - long in the tooth (for those days at least - think she was about 28), long suffering (awful father, selfish sisters, interfering friend) and longing for her former beau Captain Wentworth. Frederick Wentworth is my all-time hero, despite being a bit of a chump at times - someone really should have told him that women don't like to overhear their heart's desire telling all and sundry that they haven't worn that well.  But having written (in MHO) the best love letter in literature he redeems himself - you can judge for yourself:


... You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it, eight and a half years ago. Dare not say that a man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant.


 I hope they never make another TV/film version as no one can out-do Ciaran Hinds - Captain Wentworth personified.  A note to my colleague (you know who you are)  I will not have Ciaran described as a horse and do not send me images of him pouting - it is very disturbing. Do I insult Michael (office pin-up) Fassbender?  Although I must admit that young Michael makes a more convincing Mr Rochester - less facial hair than poor Ciaran had to sport in 1997 (just had an unpleasant thought - I'm assuming those mutton chop whiskers were stick on - say they were real?).

me and the guinea pigs

The guinea pigs live in a hutch with a large run in the back garden; despite living in the countryside they are never threatened by foxes - the rural fox being much too busy.  In the winter they come into the house as it is too cold outside and - joy of joys - they live in my bedroom.  I'm not an enthusiastic hutch cleaner so the smell is a bit rank, but you do get used to it.  But fortunately when summer comes they go back into the garden - Dad moves the hutch every day so not to spoil his beloved lawn.

The guinea pigs are allowed to roam free during the day; they snuffle around the garden with our two dogs who never try to bite their legs.  One day Peachy, bigger, four-legged and more adventerous disappears under the garden fence, towards the brook and then the field full of cows.  We hunt for him, calling his name - I want Nan to ask Doreen what he was called before he came to us - say his name wasn't Peachy - he might be confused and think we are calling another guinea pig.  He is gone.

Tufty is sad and his squeaks become fewer and fewer.  But one autumn day when the hutch has been moved back inside a plump guinea pig appears in the back garden.  Peachy has returned - obviously we know nothing of his adventures (despite what my Nan says we are unable to communicate with our pets), but I'm sure he had a good time.

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 village crime wave

When I was nine I went back to live with my mum and dad in the countryside.  School was in a village about three miles away and we went there by coach.  A boy in the year above me constantly picked on me saying I talked funny, had nits (I didn't - I can assure you) and needed a good thumping. Robin was a tough little ruffian with brown hair and rosy cheeks and proceeded  to  make my life miserable.

But then one day things changed.  On the way to school one morning he announced to the coach that I was now his girlfriend (this relationship had no long term future - I wasn't his cousin so probably wouldn't have been accepted by his family).  My feelings didn't seem to matter, but to be honest this was preferable to physcial violence.  Robin then decided only he could say who say next to me on the coach home - he, of course, didn't because he sat in the back seat with all the naughty boys.  He also objected to me reading as he could hardly read or write.

During the summer holidays we returned from our family holiday and there was a lumpy envelope in the hallway.  Addressed to me in ill-formed writing it contained two rings and a necklace - I knew it was from my swain and took it as my due.  Sometime after he asked for the return of my jewels - which were currently adorning Barbie.  His mum had noticed her denuded jewellery box, accused his older brother of stealing them to buy cider and was threatening to call the police.

I was relieved when he left to go to secondary school and I could sit where I liked on the coach.

The two nans

Nan and my other Nan lived next-door to each other for much of my childhood.  I would like to say they were the best of friends, chatting over the garden fence, having cosy coffee mornings  and lending each other sugar  - but that would be a lie.

In fact it would not be an exaggeration to say that they hated each other with a vengeance - difficult to deal with as I spent six out of seven days a week living between their two houses.

Nan was a vivacious brunette (slightly less-blowsy Elsie Tanner for vintage Corrie fans) always dressed in the brightest of colours with lashings of red lippy and a generous spritz of scent.  She lived with her three sons, four cats (could be more - depending how many 'strays' came through the garden), one dog,  two budgies and two chipmunks.

Nan was a divorcée - this was still frowned upon when the Nans first encountered each other.  Despite unfortunate experiences she still sought true love and to help in her search she had numerous boyfriends - few of whom were satisfactory.  Satisfactory boyfriend material meant they should be: romantic (i.e. give compliments, presents, flowers), smartly dressed (in a slightly louche sports-coated way), good looking (in Nan's world this ran the gamut from Omar Sharif to Clark Gable - moustaches being obligatory).  Nan was wild, flirtatious and a great raconteur - especially after a few port and lemons.  To her everything was black and white.  She was never indifferent to people; if she disliked you she would really hate you, but if she loved you it was with devotion.  Until my mid-teens I truly thought she could solve any problem I had from dodgy eyesight (eat more carrots and don't war your glasses to strengthen your eyes) to unrequited love (find someone who appreciates you - then he'll be sorry).

Nan-next-door was about five years younger,  always dressed like an old lady in either drab cross-over aprons or dresses and sensible shoes, her brown hair tightly permed.  Nan-next-door was married to Grampy, a taciturn man who knew who was boss (and it wasn't him).  Her life was centred around her home and family; going out - apart from annual holidays or the odd family wedding - was morally reprehensible in her eyes.  Needless to say she did not approve of Nan, who she said was a loose woman and all the respectable husbands in the road needed protecting from her (and themselves).

Although Nan didn't have a live-in man she had no interest in the male residents of the road; this was because  they had allotments, wore bicycle clips, sleeveless pullovers and  liberal applications of Brylcreem.  Nan wanted someone more sophisticated; she had a boyfriend called Ralph, who owned a red setter dog and drove a jag - more Terry Thomas than Morse, but there are some great photos of him leaning against car with slicked-back hair and very baggy trousers, usually with the dog at his feet. The attraction of Ralph, I suspect,  was a cross between his car (very cool, red with  leather seats) and his dog - Nan had a matching red setter called Rufus.

Nan thought Nan-next-door dull and provincial, deplored her taste in clothes and disliked being portrayed as the nearest thing to a lady of the night in their road.  She was in fact rather proper and her 'gentlemen' were allowed no liberties.

Their mutual dislike increased exponentially when Nan's middle son and Nan-next-door's eldest daughter decided they should become an item.  It must have been like Romeo and Juliet, but with real-life Montagus and Capulets insulting each other over the Forsythia hedge; for example -  'Slut - all that red lipstick!'  'Thick ankles' (Nan's insult of choice).  The worst happened and they became related by marriage.

Me and school uniform

My school uniform was pretty standard: white blouse, pleated skirt (on the knee), grey pullover, grey socks (very nasty and itchy) worn with a turquoise, black and silver tie.

In year 7 some girls managed to make this uniform their own - displaying black and red lacy bras through the thin white cotton (mustn't exaggerate - two girls did this).  The rest of us wore M&S vests and could only aspire to such greatness. 

But depending on prevailing fashion we all spent quite a lot of time either rolling our skirts up - to create a curious artificial muffin top or at other seasons pulling the skirt as low as possible - taking care not to reveal too much knicker.

There was also a fashion for wearing as baggy a jumper as you could get away with.  Girls would sit with their knees clutched to chests and then pull the jumper over knees; after a lunch break sat in this position most jumpers would be bigger (if although rarely uniformly - it produced a strange lumpy effect) - sadly for me Mum's washing techniques always returned mine back to normal size or possibly somewhat smaller.

Ties were worn as short and fat as possible, especially by those with cleavage; alternatively you tied them so that the slim side was uppermost (think Justin Timberlake in school uniform - there is a man who likes a skinny tie)  Strange that we never tried different knots - so much variety out there - Windsor, Pratt, Four-in-hand, Prince Albert (um ... mind boggles with the last one - I couldn't bring myself to do a Google image search).

Nan-next-door and ants in the pantry

I am playing in Nan-next-door's garden with my uncle Colin - he is only a few years older than me.  Whatever the weather we are sent outside so Nan can clean the house and then when the house is clean we have to stay outside so it stays clean.  Our activities are fairly limited as we couldn't do anything that will damage Grampy's veg patch or his dahlias (very nasty flowers - have never seen the attraction - always full of earwigs).

We are complaining that Nan-next-door won't get a pet - probably she feels she has enough contact with animals as she has to endure Nan's increasing menagerie (the two Nans live in adjoining houses).

We mooch around the garden looking for trouble.  Uncle Colin finds an ants' nest, we poke it with sticks and pour water on it (I know that childhood cruelty to insects is often seen as an indicator of propensity to serial killing - but let me assure you that neither of us followed this path - he went into cars and I follow the same profession as Casanova).  Uncle then suggests that we adopt the ants as our pets, so we get the big mixing bowl from the kitchen and one of Grampy's trowels and begin to put our pets in their new home along with the sandy soil that they like. I want to give them names, but Colin tells me to stop being soft and get digging -while he supervises.

When it starts to rain we take the mixing bowl into the house.  We leave it on a shelf in the pantry and promptly forget about it.  Nan-next-door is not amused to find the Sunday trifle overrun with ants.