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.

Me and philosophy

I am interested in either tangible things (preferably decorative or edible) or in human emotions  - I can discuss both with enthusiasm.  But ideas that are just about ideas are not for me - my brain is not built to understand them (bit like maths).  So it probably surprised friends that as a teenager I answered an advert asking for a young person to read philosophy to a mature gentleman for two hours every Wednesday evening - in retrospect this sounds so incredibly dodgy I'm surprised my parents allowed it.

The elderly gentleman was kind (probably wasn't really that elderly - but when you are under 18 anyone over 30 seems positively ancient - I expect my daughter thinks I should sleep in a coffin - just in case) and very keen to teach me about philosophy.

Strangely the male of the species have always wanted to teach me things - do I look like there is room in my brain for esoteric pursuits?  I have been offered lessons on ancient Greek, electronics, plumbing, UDC Classification (well, he was a librarian - turned that one down very smartly), driving (that didn't last long),  how to play Medal of Honour and a few things I really can't bring myself to share (but I shall treasure the thought - nice to be viewed as adventurous even by delusional people).

Anyway decrepit gentleman (DG hereafter) announces we are going to read Plato's The Republic.  I refer you to wikipedia for more information http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Republic_(Plato) as I can remember nothing about it (like physics it has been expunged from my memory).

I would read a page, stumbling over the names - Greek not being a language I had ever studied.  DG patiently corrected my pronunciation - but to no avail I just can not remember them.  Then horror of horrors he would ask me what I thought the recently read section meant; not wanting to disappoint I would waffle on until he took pity on me and explained in great  detail.  About half way through the session his wife would totter in bearing  a tray with two mugs of cocoa - I'd pray that at least one was laced with hemlock - frankly I didn't care if it was his or mine.

My new found passion for philosophy had nothing to do with a thirst for knowledge.  It just meant that Mum was happy for me to go into Oxford on a school night and I could combine the reading with a visit to my boyfriend who was a student.  Students were generally not trusted by parents - especially during the hours of darkness.  I was reminded on a daily (hourly?) basis that students were only after one thing (I felt it tactful not to enlighten them on the libido of the teenage girl), but fortunately combined with philosophy, my virtue was thought to be safe.

Coincidentally the boyfriend was also studying philosophy.  He frequently asked if I would like a philosophy master class (the fool) - I swiftly disabused him of this notion and suggested he saved his thoughts on The Republic for his next tutorial.