Well - not the most usual of gigs, but I do seem to end up in this field quite often. Rougham run lots of public events through the year, mostly things like air shows (it's an old WW2 airfield - originally a US base), but also medieval re-enactment and stuff like that.
This week it was 'large model airplanes'. Even a six foot plus long model Concorde! Looked good flying I'm told but I was in my tent. OK - so I've played this field before and it's been fine - but we had a new tent this year. It was not a bad size - 10m x 8m I'd guess, but the worst thing was that the sides were strapped to the poles, so you couldn't lift them so passers by could see us inside. The roof was quite low at the eaves and consequently people would walk by the small door openings, hear the music from outside, and bend down to peep in. Hey - I've played in a peep show!
Even so, a few brave souls ventured in to listen to us whilst sipping tea or quaffing beer. It was very loud in the tent - needed to be so that folks outside could hear. My favourite drummer, Baz, came and joined us for the last half of the afternoon - and so did an ancient, wobbly but enthusiastic clarinet player. So, from a three piece folk band to a jazz quintet... a strange transformation. But fun on the whole (though I was fighting with the clarinettist for the microphone).
Folks came in, listened for a bit until their ears bled, wandered out again. We played some, rested some, but most of all it was easy. Playing in the trio was simple - B would strike up some tune or other and by the time we'd finished 10 minutes later, we'd gone through at least four tunes and about as many different styles. I turned one old barn dance tune into a swing number with the right bass riff and by sending Baz a cue .. love it when we all play off eachother like that and the sound just evolves.
But all good things must come to an end (including the addition of the clarinet) and so about 4.15pm we packed up. Still a few large models flying around. They looked the business - up in the sky with no reference point you couldn't tell what size they really were. What gave it away was the sound. No deep rumble of engines as a WW2 bomber flew by - but an irritating buzz. Ah well. Perhaps we were just an irritating buzz too, in our Saharan fixed sided tent that smelled of damp (not the desert) and reverberated with our trapped music.
Another day in the life .. ..
Monday, April 24, 2006
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
A short episode in my past - Baptism!
I worked for three years in a private hospital. Interesting times!
At a Heads of Department Meeting in the Hospital, it had been mentioned that we should 'learn more about other departments to improve communication and understanding'. Good idea, as long as I don't have to watch an operation! Oh, the things I say in jest can sometimes cause me angst. Joyce, the Theatre Manager, obviously noted my comment. She also must have wanted to know what I am made of (well, not literally, though they could do that easily enough here).
The following week I received a message that a senior anaesthetist wanted to speak to me about a brochure. Great! I had the appointment for 10 am, but at 9.30 Joyce called me on the phone. "Your time has come" she said, "Doctor wants to talk to you in theatre." Actually in theatre. "Come over fifteen minutes before and we'll get you all scrubbed up."
Well, I work in a hospital, what can I expect! I can expect, it seems, a wicked sense of humour from the Theatre Manager to match my own. I arrived duly demobbed of my jewellery, but otherwise in my normal office gear. Joyce introduced me to Doctor who was standing near her office. "Do you want to chat here?" he said. My relief was short lived - "Oh no," Joyce interrupted, "Carolyn wants to see an operation. Don't you Carolyn?" "Whatever suits you, Doctor," I said, "but I would like to see an operation." Joyce had me by the short and curlies. Doctor would have quite happily chatted to me in the hallway, but I had been challenged - and I had accepted. See you in there, said Doctor.
Karen will look after you, said Joyce, and I was taken over the red line (the 'do not cross' zone so clearly pointed out to me on my original hospital tour), and I was taken down and changed into greens. Well, I call them greens, because they were. I put something like a j-cloth on my head, donned a face mask, and was told not to touch anything blue. "Not very flattering," said Karen. "It's at times like this you see the man of your dreams." She must have strange dreams. "Not many George Clooney's here, though," I said. She sighed, George Clooney is her idol. She has a Clooney Calendar that she has to sometimes close, because its too much. Karen opened the door for me, and I went into the operating theatre.
Laying on the table was a young woman. Her face was covered, but the area of operation exposed. Chatting casually around her were the senior consultant and other theatre staff, all in gowns, all very busy. The exposed area of the operation was the lady's chest. One enlarged, one reduced. They were, at the time of my entry, lifting up her right breast and poking something long and sharp looking around underneath. There were blood covered swabs on the tray, and her skin was yellow with something I presumed to be like iodine. There was a big felt pen type mark down the centre of her chest too, and though it was somewhat surreal to me, it wasn't exactly gory.
I went to the head of the table and sat down to chat with Doctor, taking notes for producing my brochure on anaesthetics. Occasionally I'd look round, whilst Doctor kept his eye on the technical end. The chat took about twenty minutes. At one point Doctor was called out to the phone briefly. The surgeons were tilting the bed up so that they could see how the balancing act was working. "What do you think, a bit less on that one?" I moseyed round for a look too. The surgeon was looking at the two breasts to see that they were now better matched. The poor lady had obviously had quite a variance before. Deep pink frilly bits of flesh hung out through the incisions, looking rather like a heavy lace valance. It wasn't pleasant, but it wasn't revolting. These people were improving someone's life, and discussing professionally the best way to get the best results. Doctor returned and we resumed our chat.
I felt a bit weird, but not squeamish, not dizzy, not like I do when I see a needle coming for my arm. I felt a tad unreal, I admit, but I'm glad Joyce put me up to it. The television world of operating theatres is entertainment. The real world is a caring and very professional exercise, but not nearly as intense and hushed as I had imagined.
Doctor saw me out, and I wandered down to get changed. There was a bag of apples with 'help yourself, bramley windfalls' in the changing room. I put my clothes back on and went back to Joyce's office. Not there. Ah well, I would say 'thank you' another time.
I have a nice hot office - it reached 100 F today - around 32 C. I have a very nice assistant who is tall and very thin. She only works part time, but seems capable and willing, and is friendly and greeted warmly by other members of staff. A good sign. The boss - the hospital director - is a lady of very small and perfect proportions. She has steely grey, neat short hair, and I think the steel might run all the way through. So far she seems pleased with one job I produced at the drop of a hat - easy enough when most of the stuff was on the machine already!
I feel I'm sort of looking for a friend - trying to identify someone who is a peer-group equal that I can get on with. It's never a great idea to be good friends with your employees or to have friends work for you - but a good relationship is essential.
My assistant has three children and on the Wednesday she said it was their sports day. "Leave earlier so you can catch them" I said. "Oh, how sweet of you" she replied. Um, I thought - I'm not being sweet, that's good management isn't it? I don't see myself as 'sweet' somehow.
The hospital is a funny old building with bits bolted on here and there. It's not a logical kind of layout, and getting lost is quite easy. I've managed to find my office every day and the canteen (of course!) but still get a bit confused when going to wards or looking for particular offices. The Thursday I needed directing to the canteen as I'd brought in a home-made cake. What, in the first week? Well, there were signs everywhere for a charity cake sale, and if I wanted to get in the good books of one of the senior nurses and the outpatients department, making a cake was the politically correct thing to do! And anyway, I like making cakes. I bought some flapjacks and fairy cakes - deeeelicious! Like I said, this job does not seem to be too good for my waistline at the moment.
The Thursday afternoon I went down to lunch on my own, ate on my own and scarpered back to my office rather quick. There were some faces in there I knew but nearly at the end of their meal, and many who looked askance at me. With staff working shifts, there was no way everyone was going to know who I was in the first week. And I had't a clue how long it will take me to get to know all of them, if I ever manage it.
So - here I am - Friday evening and writing it all up. How do I feel? Anticipatory, excited, keen to get things moving. But I've been told there's an overspend on the budget and things are tight financially. Well, if they've spent the money on me, they are going to have to spend on some of the things I want. I just don't know what I want yet (except for a new printer - the one we share is going out the window soon!).
I miss my friends, but I don't miss the hassle. I can still see them, and hear all the news and gossip, and be happily removed from it all. It's too early to say how things will go, but in my usual thick-skinned way I am optimistic. Time will tell.
At a Heads of Department Meeting in the Hospital, it had been mentioned that we should 'learn more about other departments to improve communication and understanding'. Good idea, as long as I don't have to watch an operation! Oh, the things I say in jest can sometimes cause me angst. Joyce, the Theatre Manager, obviously noted my comment. She also must have wanted to know what I am made of (well, not literally, though they could do that easily enough here).
The following week I received a message that a senior anaesthetist wanted to speak to me about a brochure. Great! I had the appointment for 10 am, but at 9.30 Joyce called me on the phone. "Your time has come" she said, "Doctor wants to talk to you in theatre." Actually in theatre. "Come over fifteen minutes before and we'll get you all scrubbed up."
Well, I work in a hospital, what can I expect! I can expect, it seems, a wicked sense of humour from the Theatre Manager to match my own. I arrived duly demobbed of my jewellery, but otherwise in my normal office gear. Joyce introduced me to Doctor who was standing near her office. "Do you want to chat here?" he said. My relief was short lived - "Oh no," Joyce interrupted, "Carolyn wants to see an operation. Don't you Carolyn?" "Whatever suits you, Doctor," I said, "but I would like to see an operation." Joyce had me by the short and curlies. Doctor would have quite happily chatted to me in the hallway, but I had been challenged - and I had accepted. See you in there, said Doctor.
Karen will look after you, said Joyce, and I was taken over the red line (the 'do not cross' zone so clearly pointed out to me on my original hospital tour), and I was taken down and changed into greens. Well, I call them greens, because they were. I put something like a j-cloth on my head, donned a face mask, and was told not to touch anything blue. "Not very flattering," said Karen. "It's at times like this you see the man of your dreams." She must have strange dreams. "Not many George Clooney's here, though," I said. She sighed, George Clooney is her idol. She has a Clooney Calendar that she has to sometimes close, because its too much. Karen opened the door for me, and I went into the operating theatre.
Laying on the table was a young woman. Her face was covered, but the area of operation exposed. Chatting casually around her were the senior consultant and other theatre staff, all in gowns, all very busy. The exposed area of the operation was the lady's chest. One enlarged, one reduced. They were, at the time of my entry, lifting up her right breast and poking something long and sharp looking around underneath. There were blood covered swabs on the tray, and her skin was yellow with something I presumed to be like iodine. There was a big felt pen type mark down the centre of her chest too, and though it was somewhat surreal to me, it wasn't exactly gory.
I went to the head of the table and sat down to chat with Doctor, taking notes for producing my brochure on anaesthetics. Occasionally I'd look round, whilst Doctor kept his eye on the technical end. The chat took about twenty minutes. At one point Doctor was called out to the phone briefly. The surgeons were tilting the bed up so that they could see how the balancing act was working. "What do you think, a bit less on that one?" I moseyed round for a look too. The surgeon was looking at the two breasts to see that they were now better matched. The poor lady had obviously had quite a variance before. Deep pink frilly bits of flesh hung out through the incisions, looking rather like a heavy lace valance. It wasn't pleasant, but it wasn't revolting. These people were improving someone's life, and discussing professionally the best way to get the best results. Doctor returned and we resumed our chat.
I felt a bit weird, but not squeamish, not dizzy, not like I do when I see a needle coming for my arm. I felt a tad unreal, I admit, but I'm glad Joyce put me up to it. The television world of operating theatres is entertainment. The real world is a caring and very professional exercise, but not nearly as intense and hushed as I had imagined.
Doctor saw me out, and I wandered down to get changed. There was a bag of apples with 'help yourself, bramley windfalls' in the changing room. I put my clothes back on and went back to Joyce's office. Not there. Ah well, I would say 'thank you' another time.
I have a nice hot office - it reached 100 F today - around 32 C. I have a very nice assistant who is tall and very thin. She only works part time, but seems capable and willing, and is friendly and greeted warmly by other members of staff. A good sign. The boss - the hospital director - is a lady of very small and perfect proportions. She has steely grey, neat short hair, and I think the steel might run all the way through. So far she seems pleased with one job I produced at the drop of a hat - easy enough when most of the stuff was on the machine already!
I feel I'm sort of looking for a friend - trying to identify someone who is a peer-group equal that I can get on with. It's never a great idea to be good friends with your employees or to have friends work for you - but a good relationship is essential.
My assistant has three children and on the Wednesday she said it was their sports day. "Leave earlier so you can catch them" I said. "Oh, how sweet of you" she replied. Um, I thought - I'm not being sweet, that's good management isn't it? I don't see myself as 'sweet' somehow.
The hospital is a funny old building with bits bolted on here and there. It's not a logical kind of layout, and getting lost is quite easy. I've managed to find my office every day and the canteen (of course!) but still get a bit confused when going to wards or looking for particular offices. The Thursday I needed directing to the canteen as I'd brought in a home-made cake. What, in the first week? Well, there were signs everywhere for a charity cake sale, and if I wanted to get in the good books of one of the senior nurses and the outpatients department, making a cake was the politically correct thing to do! And anyway, I like making cakes. I bought some flapjacks and fairy cakes - deeeelicious! Like I said, this job does not seem to be too good for my waistline at the moment.
The Thursday afternoon I went down to lunch on my own, ate on my own and scarpered back to my office rather quick. There were some faces in there I knew but nearly at the end of their meal, and many who looked askance at me. With staff working shifts, there was no way everyone was going to know who I was in the first week. And I had't a clue how long it will take me to get to know all of them, if I ever manage it.
So - here I am - Friday evening and writing it all up. How do I feel? Anticipatory, excited, keen to get things moving. But I've been told there's an overspend on the budget and things are tight financially. Well, if they've spent the money on me, they are going to have to spend on some of the things I want. I just don't know what I want yet (except for a new printer - the one we share is going out the window soon!).
I miss my friends, but I don't miss the hassle. I can still see them, and hear all the news and gossip, and be happily removed from it all. It's too early to say how things will go, but in my usual thick-skinned way I am optimistic. Time will tell.
Sunday, April 16, 2006
A musical evening
Just got back from a folk club in Hitchin (Herts) and had a lovely evening. Two performers - Cathryn Craig (from Virginia but lives in Nashville) and Brian Willoughby (used to be in UK folk-rockers 'The Strawbs'). She has a superb voice that soars, and he is a guitarist extraordinaire. Always inspires me to see them play - gentle banter on stage, lovely music and two lovely people. Met them first about two years ago (also at Hitchin) when B and I were doing support. We just hit it off - straight away. Brian held some words for me (OK, not very professional I know) because I had forgotton a music stand and the song was new and I hadn't learned the words. Yay - I had an international music star (hew was in 'Guitarist' magazine the other month) as a music stand!
So tonight was lovely - I wasn't working, I was just there for the fun of it. Beats yesterday night. P and I did a 'spot' at a party. We were in a barn (not primitive at all) in Suffolk at the party of 'landed gentry' - a friend of ours. He had a young band on to start (Delicious Beef - great name, but they've got a lot to learn still), then we did a quick spot, then DB came on again and then some more folks played later. It was a nice party - lots of people - no one I knew (apart from the host) and lots of music. The young band were very willing, very eager - just what you want to see. But no foldback! Eeek, couldn't hear a bloody thing and the mix was terrible. Which is a shame - because the barn itself is magical.
We used to rehearse in the barn and I would often turn up first just to sit in there and sing with my guitar - the acoustic is wonderful. But plug in a live band and turn the volume on high and the sounds just bounced around. Never mind, good time had by all (though not proud of my performance because of the sound mash).
But back to Cathryn & Brian - they perform 'country' style songs and her voice is so clear and strong. www.cathryncraig.com I think. She sang on Nanci Griffith's last album, and has been on loads of other things (that I, here in the UK and being a folkie, not countrified, know naught of). But two really nice people, wonderful musicians. Sigh ... inspired me to grab my old man and get us playing together more! We can do it.
Now, to bed, 'cos its bloody late and I'm tired.
So tonight was lovely - I wasn't working, I was just there for the fun of it. Beats yesterday night. P and I did a 'spot' at a party. We were in a barn (not primitive at all) in Suffolk at the party of 'landed gentry' - a friend of ours. He had a young band on to start (Delicious Beef - great name, but they've got a lot to learn still), then we did a quick spot, then DB came on again and then some more folks played later. It was a nice party - lots of people - no one I knew (apart from the host) and lots of music. The young band were very willing, very eager - just what you want to see. But no foldback! Eeek, couldn't hear a bloody thing and the mix was terrible. Which is a shame - because the barn itself is magical.
We used to rehearse in the barn and I would often turn up first just to sit in there and sing with my guitar - the acoustic is wonderful. But plug in a live band and turn the volume on high and the sounds just bounced around. Never mind, good time had by all (though not proud of my performance because of the sound mash).
But back to Cathryn & Brian - they perform 'country' style songs and her voice is so clear and strong. www.cathryncraig.com I think. She sang on Nanci Griffith's last album, and has been on loads of other things (that I, here in the UK and being a folkie, not countrified, know naught of). But two really nice people, wonderful musicians. Sigh ... inspired me to grab my old man and get us playing together more! We can do it.
Now, to bed, 'cos its bloody late and I'm tired.
Friday, April 14, 2006
To rescue or not to rescue?
Meanwhile, I went to see "Ice Age 2" today. Some lovely folios in the background, but it looks as if they spent a bit less on the rendering, or whatever it is they do with computer graphics. Still enjoyed it though - nice and mindless, just what I need.
Meanwhile husband and son and cousin have driven to Manchester to watch ManU play Sunderland - to a resounding nil nil score. Booooring... they will no doubt return in the early hours of the morning exhausted and perhaps a little disheartened. Ah well, such are the vagaries of following the world of footie - soccer - whatever you call those blokes running round a field kicking the modern equivalent of an iflated pigs bladder...
Meanwhile husband and son and cousin have driven to Manchester to watch ManU play Sunderland - to a resounding nil nil score. Booooring... they will no doubt return in the early hours of the morning exhausted and perhaps a little disheartened. Ah well, such are the vagaries of following the world of footie - soccer - whatever you call those blokes running round a field kicking the modern equivalent of an iflated pigs bladder...
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
The loss of blogging attitude
I've been surfing the blogs - so many seem to have made one post and then slipped by the wayside. Is this because they are disheartened that no one has posted comments to their missives? Is it because 'it seemed like a good idea at the time'? Or because life overtakes you and there are more important things than feeding your flow of conciousness into cyberspace. I don't know, and perhaps I may even be a victim of this literary lethargy at some point, but what I do know is that it's really annoying to search through the 'interests', find something that looks good and then see that there's nothing more recent than a cold wet Thursday in 2004.
Ah well, I will keep surfing until I find some blogs that capture my interest. There was a park ranger one that looked interesting but that too faded out.. perhaps the bears ate the modem?
Ah well, I will keep surfing until I find some blogs that capture my interest. There was a park ranger one that looked interesting but that too faded out.. perhaps the bears ate the modem?
Moving on..
OK, so the worst of the studio 'autopsy' is over and now we can look at what is rescuable. OK, another day in the studio required, but hey - if it turns it all around it will be worth it.
I was emailing a pal in the US last night and we were chatting about parents and the gult trips we embark upon both as children and parents. Sometimes I yearn for the simple life of a goatherder, wandering upon sunny mountains with nothing but my Latvian Nose Flute and the wide open countryside... and then I think maybe not.
I was emailing a pal in the US last night and we were chatting about parents and the gult trips we embark upon both as children and parents. Sometimes I yearn for the simple life of a goatherder, wandering upon sunny mountains with nothing but my Latvian Nose Flute and the wide open countryside... and then I think maybe not.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
The early marketing career - abduction in Amsterdam
So, for a quick change of scene, how about the time I was almost abducted in Amsterdam? I know, to look at me now (which you can't, thank God), you may not believe that I could look quite trendy in my younger years. OK, I've never exactly been the height of fashion (I remember it took me a long time to come to terms with flares, by which time they were out of style again), but on the odd occasion I bought an outfit that worked. It was the mid 80's, and I was working for a large computer company. We were at a conference in Amsterdam (the ratio was usually around 200:1 male to female), and enjoying the 'Gala Dinner'. I did enjoy myself, and was having a wonderful time when two local computer representatives impressed upon me the importance of being shown the sights of Amsterdam by resident natives! They each took an arm and started to escort me out of the hotel. I'm not very good at saying the right thing at the right times, and even now I can look back just a few years and cringe at my naiveté. However, on this one occasion I had a mild inspiration - 'I must just go fetch my handbag..' I lied, and disappeared into the UK contingent's heaving, drunken mass. Perhaps they were to be no more trusted than the willing Dutch who were so proud of their city, but nonetheless, I returned to my room at the conference hotel quite safely. I must admit I do seem to remember playing 'hide and seek' around some ancient monument with the Australian contingent and my colleague, Gina, but it was all innocent enough. In fact, innocent was a very appropriate word for me - and it got me into trouble on occasion.
Conference in Birmingham. Bob spent the evening convincing me he had a 'broad minded' wife. I didn't respond as anticipated - I splodged him with some cream from my dessert. Having failed to convince me that neither his wife nor my husband would object, his response was to deposit his entire dessert (strawberry gateaux) in my face. Following a collapse of sensibilities he kept brushing at the cream on his trousers muttering "What will my wife say..." It does make me smile to think of it now. So she would be broad minded eh - but not about the dry cleaning? I went on so many conferences, with so many men, and so many opportunities (well, poor dears, away from home and desperate!). But here I am, and I can surely swear before any deity you care to name that I never did misbehave - well, not sexually, that is. In fact, here I am, married for many years, and I've never even slept with anyone other than my husband. Do your eyebrows raise? Do you smirk at my circumstance? Or are you not at all surprised? I have had all reactions in times gone by. My marriage, my husband, my family, they'll come later in more detail. But now, I'm talking about my 'Adventures as a Conference Assistant'. I say, have I just found a title for this tome? Perhaps not, it was an exciting and fun time, but not the most important part of my life.
But from Amsterdam to Nice, and the Director of one of the UK offices drunkenly walking the walls on the beach at midnight to cheer me up. If his wife could have seen him .. .. I did like that hotel, the Napoleon or something. Unfortunately, as any business traveller will tell you, so many hotels, airports and conference centres merge into one and their distinguishing marks become blurred. Nice was not exciting, particularly. Like Brighton only with sun. The beaches were still littered with the homeless and dog shit by midnight. Helsinki, however, was my inauguration into this travelling life (oh how glib I sound, it was only twice a year for goodness sake!). 1985, and I a mere 25 (and a young one at that), and travelling away from home on my own for the very first time (well, almost), How I loved flying. I was looking out the windows, peering into the cockpit, generally behaving like a child. The sight of the clouds from above was magnificent. The sun lighting clouds from above gave them a landscape all their own. It was a breathtaking, beautiful sight, and one I still enjoy tremendously whenever I can get to fly.
It was always hard work at conference, and we were on duty most of the time. On our first social evening in Finland, the secretary of the local Director invited us round to her house for supper. About eight females, and eight males. She had a lovely house, and we all had a sauna before supper. She had an instant camera, too! It annoyed me, I must say, that the photos of the girls went round the dinner table, but not that of the boys. Still, by then I was too drunk to really care. Between the house and the sauna was a small patio, with a swing. I like to think of myself as broad minded, but oh - as soon as the local Finnish driver came out onto the patio where I chatted with our Finnish host, my hands quickly dived across my chest (yes we were all in the buff or whatever euphemism you like to use for plain naked). I was more embarrassed at being embarrassed, than by my nudity. It obviously didn't bother the Finns. When the phone rang, Anita just marched into the front-room, bold as - well, bold as a Finn, and answered it. The English lads went a bit quiet. I remember being sobered up by a kind colleague from South Africa. I think being away from home was rather traumatic for me then, though I can only see fond memories from here.
Talking of the Finns, I enjoyed their company terrifically. As soon as they left their own country, they started to drink. One time on Rhodes, I was in a bar Gina and our Australian colleagues (Gina always had a bit of a thing for an Aussie named Walt), and in came the Finnish contingent. They smiled, and linked arms across shoulders, went down on one knee and proceeded to serenade us with Finnish folk songs. But in Finland, I found them the most hospitable, likeable people. And they spoke such good English, it's enough to shame us (but then our linguistic abilities as a nation are a shame to all Europe). Even the dustmen in Finland spoke English. I learned to say 'thank you' and 'cheers' in Finnish, but said them rather too well, I fear. Using a learnt word once was enough to encourage them to think I could speak the language, and ensuing communication was disastrous. However, I have always had a secret pride in my ability to mimic, if not actually speak, other languages and accents. It's got me in trouble a few times I'm sure.
I learned this talent from my father. Actor, writer, and musician, he was a talented man. He was innovative in his appreciation for science fiction (scripts rejected by the BBC who felt the subject 'inappropriate for the viewing public'), and an excellent mimic himself. He would use a variety of accents in everyday speech (indeed I do myself, to the alternating chagrin and amusement of my friends and colleagues and exasperation of my children), and he was the idol of my life. He was big, strong, always smiling, and - unlike many fathers (but not unlike many actors), nearly always around. Both my parents were at home a lot - my mother working from home and my father seeking work or writing. I think guiltily of those days and how I now leave my children and do a nine to five - but I don't really remember playing with my parents, or interacting with them apart much apart from holidays. I remember playing on my own a lot - using my imagination and our ample store of music to act my way in a fantasy world. Cappriccio Italien was a daring battle, and I would leap around the dining room, under the table, and behind the piano, executing many a daring deed to the strident sounds of Tchaichovsky. My father also adored Beethoven, and so my night-time routine involved the playing of 'The Flying Dutchman' (on a reel to reel tape recorder), and the Ring. Now I've gone and time warped again from '85 to the sixties, but hey, I'm not being marked on this essay!
Conference in Birmingham. Bob spent the evening convincing me he had a 'broad minded' wife. I didn't respond as anticipated - I splodged him with some cream from my dessert. Having failed to convince me that neither his wife nor my husband would object, his response was to deposit his entire dessert (strawberry gateaux) in my face. Following a collapse of sensibilities he kept brushing at the cream on his trousers muttering "What will my wife say..." It does make me smile to think of it now. So she would be broad minded eh - but not about the dry cleaning? I went on so many conferences, with so many men, and so many opportunities (well, poor dears, away from home and desperate!). But here I am, and I can surely swear before any deity you care to name that I never did misbehave - well, not sexually, that is. In fact, here I am, married for many years, and I've never even slept with anyone other than my husband. Do your eyebrows raise? Do you smirk at my circumstance? Or are you not at all surprised? I have had all reactions in times gone by. My marriage, my husband, my family, they'll come later in more detail. But now, I'm talking about my 'Adventures as a Conference Assistant'. I say, have I just found a title for this tome? Perhaps not, it was an exciting and fun time, but not the most important part of my life.
But from Amsterdam to Nice, and the Director of one of the UK offices drunkenly walking the walls on the beach at midnight to cheer me up. If his wife could have seen him .. .. I did like that hotel, the Napoleon or something. Unfortunately, as any business traveller will tell you, so many hotels, airports and conference centres merge into one and their distinguishing marks become blurred. Nice was not exciting, particularly. Like Brighton only with sun. The beaches were still littered with the homeless and dog shit by midnight. Helsinki, however, was my inauguration into this travelling life (oh how glib I sound, it was only twice a year for goodness sake!). 1985, and I a mere 25 (and a young one at that), and travelling away from home on my own for the very first time (well, almost), How I loved flying. I was looking out the windows, peering into the cockpit, generally behaving like a child. The sight of the clouds from above was magnificent. The sun lighting clouds from above gave them a landscape all their own. It was a breathtaking, beautiful sight, and one I still enjoy tremendously whenever I can get to fly.
It was always hard work at conference, and we were on duty most of the time. On our first social evening in Finland, the secretary of the local Director invited us round to her house for supper. About eight females, and eight males. She had a lovely house, and we all had a sauna before supper. She had an instant camera, too! It annoyed me, I must say, that the photos of the girls went round the dinner table, but not that of the boys. Still, by then I was too drunk to really care. Between the house and the sauna was a small patio, with a swing. I like to think of myself as broad minded, but oh - as soon as the local Finnish driver came out onto the patio where I chatted with our Finnish host, my hands quickly dived across my chest (yes we were all in the buff or whatever euphemism you like to use for plain naked). I was more embarrassed at being embarrassed, than by my nudity. It obviously didn't bother the Finns. When the phone rang, Anita just marched into the front-room, bold as - well, bold as a Finn, and answered it. The English lads went a bit quiet. I remember being sobered up by a kind colleague from South Africa. I think being away from home was rather traumatic for me then, though I can only see fond memories from here.
Talking of the Finns, I enjoyed their company terrifically. As soon as they left their own country, they started to drink. One time on Rhodes, I was in a bar Gina and our Australian colleagues (Gina always had a bit of a thing for an Aussie named Walt), and in came the Finnish contingent. They smiled, and linked arms across shoulders, went down on one knee and proceeded to serenade us with Finnish folk songs. But in Finland, I found them the most hospitable, likeable people. And they spoke such good English, it's enough to shame us (but then our linguistic abilities as a nation are a shame to all Europe). Even the dustmen in Finland spoke English. I learned to say 'thank you' and 'cheers' in Finnish, but said them rather too well, I fear. Using a learnt word once was enough to encourage them to think I could speak the language, and ensuing communication was disastrous. However, I have always had a secret pride in my ability to mimic, if not actually speak, other languages and accents. It's got me in trouble a few times I'm sure.
I learned this talent from my father. Actor, writer, and musician, he was a talented man. He was innovative in his appreciation for science fiction (scripts rejected by the BBC who felt the subject 'inappropriate for the viewing public'), and an excellent mimic himself. He would use a variety of accents in everyday speech (indeed I do myself, to the alternating chagrin and amusement of my friends and colleagues and exasperation of my children), and he was the idol of my life. He was big, strong, always smiling, and - unlike many fathers (but not unlike many actors), nearly always around. Both my parents were at home a lot - my mother working from home and my father seeking work or writing. I think guiltily of those days and how I now leave my children and do a nine to five - but I don't really remember playing with my parents, or interacting with them apart much apart from holidays. I remember playing on my own a lot - using my imagination and our ample store of music to act my way in a fantasy world. Cappriccio Italien was a daring battle, and I would leap around the dining room, under the table, and behind the piano, executing many a daring deed to the strident sounds of Tchaichovsky. My father also adored Beethoven, and so my night-time routine involved the playing of 'The Flying Dutchman' (on a reel to reel tape recorder), and the Ring. Now I've gone and time warped again from '85 to the sixties, but hey, I'm not being marked on this essay!
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
My first ghosts
We had family friends, Jack and Kay, who owned a holiday house in Suffolk, just near Sudbury close to a village called Foxearth. It was an enormous Tudor-style building (I don't know the dates), but it was big, rambling and very primitive. This was back in the late 60's. We used to go and stay with them, and the house had gaslights downstairs, no electricity, and no heating, just open fires. We would take candles up to bed. The house was enormous, with a big farmhouse kitchen, three stories and a whole half of the house that we didn't go in because it wasn't used. At the top of the stairs was a big line of coat hooks, on which hung two black face masks - like two dark sentinels warning us wee children not to go into that side of the house. My brother and I, and Jack and Kay's son Malcolm, tended not to go in there.
The house was a farm lodge and the main farm about a mile across the fields. The farm had a dog - a big black Labrador called Shadow. One day, at three years old, I followed Shadow - and was lost.
The family went frantic searching for me, police were called in, the farm hands all scoured the fields and ditches, and they were just about to dredge the pond when I was found. In a bean field. The beans were taller than I was. I vaguely remember sitting in a dusty dry field with tall black broad bean plants around me, but I don't remember the fuss or the police or anything. Once again I can see myself as a small child sitting in the field, as if I'm looking on. I'd just been following Shadow. I'm still following shadows.
The farmer used to have straw bales in the fields and we would build castles out of them. He used to get a bit cross about this. In the main stack, we just built tunnels and I would burrow through them with the others, but inevitably end up with such a bad asthma attack that I could hardly breathe.
One evening, at about the age of three, I lay in the big brass double bed in my room - the candle next to me. On top of me was probably 'Pinky' - my candlewick bedspread with a duck on it. This was my comforter. I used to suck my thumb too, and I still bite my nails. The story goes that when my parents came upstairs to see how I was doing (it was a very serious asthma attack, probably one of my first), I told them that the two old ladies who used to live here had been looking after me. "What old ladies?" they said. The ones in the long brown dresses I said. I have a vague memory of standing in the hall talking to someone, but no personal memories about this bedtime encounter.
My curious parents talked to the farmer who said that his father's aunts had lived in the house - two elderly spinsters together. They were obviously concerned over the wheezy little sprite in their house! I know I have an active imagination, but even at three I could not have imagined these old ladies or known about the previous residents of the lodge.
One day some years later, in the same lodge kitchen, we sat round the original farm table, and Kay was labelling some jars. The radio was on, and the song playing was "Jaguar, Jaguar ..." (don't remember more). I do remember that Kay laughed and said, "Oh dear, I've just written Suguar on this jar!"
There was a big chair by the open fire in the front room - this used to be owned by Peter Cushing (one of my childhood film star heroes), and opposite the fire a big leather settee, then behind it a piano. I remember playing the piano (playing on it, rather than playing it), and Jack saying 'she's musical, but not a pianist'. Oh how right he was.
Jack was a modern composer - wrote the sort of stuff that is nowadays used as sound effects in avant guarde plays .. in other words I used to listen out for the music in between the noises. He was well respected in his genre, and I was sad when he died. They were a very wealthy family, paid for my brother's education at a special school that Malcolm also attended. I remember admiring the original Canaletto on the wall of their house in Hampstead. Last I heard Malcolm had been sectioned, and is only allowed out accompanied to visit his wife (an Irish lady called Atracta - we used to refer to her as Massie Fergusson), and child. I don't know what has happened to them now.
I used to have a tape of my mother, Kay and my aunt screeching - they were dressed as witches for a party. My aunt is the one who introduced my mother to my father - at his divorce party.
There we go, I've shared my earliest memories, and there's nothing outstanding there (unless you count the meeting of two ghosts). However, to progress in a purely chronological manner would be very boring, so in the best traditions, I shall leap about my life and skitter as madly with my facts as my memory recalls them. Now that I've started, my memory is not exactly improving, but more of the things I do remember are surfacing.
My brother is four years older than me (and always has been). When I was due, my parents prepared him for the addition to the family with 'it will be your baby too, Philip'. But they became upset one day when the baby went missing! Poor Philip, they had said it was his baby too, so he had taken it to his room play with. No harm done, but a fright for my parents. Probably a surprise for my brother too, that he wasn't allowed to play with the family's new acquisition. My mother was also shocked one day when my young brother ate a cigarette. Checking her Dr. Spock's - it said "nearly always fatal"! It wasn't. His first word was 'bang' - and whilst sitting in his pram he 'shot' some passing nuns with a crust of bread.
The house was a farm lodge and the main farm about a mile across the fields. The farm had a dog - a big black Labrador called Shadow. One day, at three years old, I followed Shadow - and was lost.
The family went frantic searching for me, police were called in, the farm hands all scoured the fields and ditches, and they were just about to dredge the pond when I was found. In a bean field. The beans were taller than I was. I vaguely remember sitting in a dusty dry field with tall black broad bean plants around me, but I don't remember the fuss or the police or anything. Once again I can see myself as a small child sitting in the field, as if I'm looking on. I'd just been following Shadow. I'm still following shadows.
The farmer used to have straw bales in the fields and we would build castles out of them. He used to get a bit cross about this. In the main stack, we just built tunnels and I would burrow through them with the others, but inevitably end up with such a bad asthma attack that I could hardly breathe.
One evening, at about the age of three, I lay in the big brass double bed in my room - the candle next to me. On top of me was probably 'Pinky' - my candlewick bedspread with a duck on it. This was my comforter. I used to suck my thumb too, and I still bite my nails. The story goes that when my parents came upstairs to see how I was doing (it was a very serious asthma attack, probably one of my first), I told them that the two old ladies who used to live here had been looking after me. "What old ladies?" they said. The ones in the long brown dresses I said. I have a vague memory of standing in the hall talking to someone, but no personal memories about this bedtime encounter.
My curious parents talked to the farmer who said that his father's aunts had lived in the house - two elderly spinsters together. They were obviously concerned over the wheezy little sprite in their house! I know I have an active imagination, but even at three I could not have imagined these old ladies or known about the previous residents of the lodge.
One day some years later, in the same lodge kitchen, we sat round the original farm table, and Kay was labelling some jars. The radio was on, and the song playing was "Jaguar, Jaguar ..." (don't remember more). I do remember that Kay laughed and said, "Oh dear, I've just written Suguar on this jar!"
There was a big chair by the open fire in the front room - this used to be owned by Peter Cushing (one of my childhood film star heroes), and opposite the fire a big leather settee, then behind it a piano. I remember playing the piano (playing on it, rather than playing it), and Jack saying 'she's musical, but not a pianist'. Oh how right he was.
Jack was a modern composer - wrote the sort of stuff that is nowadays used as sound effects in avant guarde plays .. in other words I used to listen out for the music in between the noises. He was well respected in his genre, and I was sad when he died. They were a very wealthy family, paid for my brother's education at a special school that Malcolm also attended. I remember admiring the original Canaletto on the wall of their house in Hampstead. Last I heard Malcolm had been sectioned, and is only allowed out accompanied to visit his wife (an Irish lady called Atracta - we used to refer to her as Massie Fergusson), and child. I don't know what has happened to them now.
I used to have a tape of my mother, Kay and my aunt screeching - they were dressed as witches for a party. My aunt is the one who introduced my mother to my father - at his divorce party.
There we go, I've shared my earliest memories, and there's nothing outstanding there (unless you count the meeting of two ghosts). However, to progress in a purely chronological manner would be very boring, so in the best traditions, I shall leap about my life and skitter as madly with my facts as my memory recalls them. Now that I've started, my memory is not exactly improving, but more of the things I do remember are surfacing.
My brother is four years older than me (and always has been). When I was due, my parents prepared him for the addition to the family with 'it will be your baby too, Philip'. But they became upset one day when the baby went missing! Poor Philip, they had said it was his baby too, so he had taken it to his room play with. No harm done, but a fright for my parents. Probably a surprise for my brother too, that he wasn't allowed to play with the family's new acquisition. My mother was also shocked one day when my young brother ate a cigarette. Checking her Dr. Spock's - it said "nearly always fatal"! It wasn't. His first word was 'bang' - and whilst sitting in his pram he 'shot' some passing nuns with a crust of bread.
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
When I was little
I'll start at the beginning - as early as I can remember. Why? Because this all gives 'context'. What a load of .... I just want to recount that my memory on the whole rather ropy, comes up with some small snippets that hang in my mind like small pictures, framed, preserved and most probably distorted.
In my earliest memory I must be around three years old, and my mother is standing in her paisley patterned housecoat, holding a full-length mirror. We are moving house, and she is talking to the au pair, Elvira. Au pairs were a kind of home help, but that that's what they were called then, au pairs, and Elvira killed our hamster by leaving the gas on. He was very probably called 'Hammy'. After all, we called the dog 'Petra' (as in TV's Blue Peter's pet of the time). Then I remember being at our new house, and watching my bed being unloaded from a van. I can picture the headboard, in a teak coloured wood, with a clover leaf pattern in relief. I think my father was holding me as we watched the van unload.
Those must be my earliest memories (though the Elvira bit is definitely from a retelling, I don't remember mourning the hamster). I can then see myself in my room, but from behind. I am on the floor, head in hands, on the floor, crouched in a 'hiding' position - and I can see the soles of my white shoes. I must have been upset about something I suppose, but it is odd that I can see this memory so clearly from outside myself, as it were. I can remember what must have been my fourth birthday party too - I had a white satin and net dress with a purple velvet sash. Getting me into a dress at all must have been a trial for my mother, but I do remember liking the feel of the velvet sash. I can see myself again, at the head of the old refectory-style dining table my mother still has.
Are all my earliest memories reconstructed? Is that why I can see them from a third perspective? Or are my memories created from a quirk in time so that I can look back at an event and see it as if watching through a glass darkly, as they say? Most probably not.
In my earliest memory I must be around three years old, and my mother is standing in her paisley patterned housecoat, holding a full-length mirror. We are moving house, and she is talking to the au pair, Elvira. Au pairs were a kind of home help, but that that's what they were called then, au pairs, and Elvira killed our hamster by leaving the gas on. He was very probably called 'Hammy'. After all, we called the dog 'Petra' (as in TV's Blue Peter's pet of the time). Then I remember being at our new house, and watching my bed being unloaded from a van. I can picture the headboard, in a teak coloured wood, with a clover leaf pattern in relief. I think my father was holding me as we watched the van unload.
Those must be my earliest memories (though the Elvira bit is definitely from a retelling, I don't remember mourning the hamster). I can then see myself in my room, but from behind. I am on the floor, head in hands, on the floor, crouched in a 'hiding' position - and I can see the soles of my white shoes. I must have been upset about something I suppose, but it is odd that I can see this memory so clearly from outside myself, as it were. I can remember what must have been my fourth birthday party too - I had a white satin and net dress with a purple velvet sash. Getting me into a dress at all must have been a trial for my mother, but I do remember liking the feel of the velvet sash. I can see myself again, at the head of the old refectory-style dining table my mother still has.
Are all my earliest memories reconstructed? Is that why I can see them from a third perspective? Or are my memories created from a quirk in time so that I can look back at an event and see it as if watching through a glass darkly, as they say? Most probably not.
Monday, April 03, 2006
Ohmigod I've gone and done it!
Well, here it is - my very first - own! blog. Something I have been doing 'offline' for about 8 years, without realising it. I'd write chapters and then email it to interested parties - but only interested parties I'd identified (ie my poor work colleagues or long-suffering friends).
So what do I put in my blogs? Well, the life of a UK folkie - mostly - but also my 'adventures' as a marketing manager, a mother, and as the daughter of a theatrical (in more ways than one) family.
I'll put some background into my profile - but let me just start you off with a quick sample of some of my 'historic' but previously unpublished 'blogging'. I wrote this just a few nights ago, one typically dark and chilly English spring evening (in other words, wet, cold, and nothing on TV).
"I fully understand why so many writers’ careers do not blossom until later life. Unless you are the dogged, determined type who will close the door to all else except your writing, then it is only when you are retired or when your children are bigger that you may find the time to empty your head enough to sit and write!
As I sit here now I am a refugee – from football in the frontroom, from the washing up in the kitchen, the washing in the utility room and from nagging my daughter to do her homework in her bedroom. It is nearly 10pm – the first chance I have had to get near the computer too.
Earlier I hid in the bath – the computer was not free, there was football on the TV and somehow I could not lock myself away in yet another room to sit and play guitar. My creative juices are stymied by my .. well, in all honesty, by my laziness and also lack of space. To be creative I need the feeling that I will not be interrupted, that calls of “Muuuuuuummm…” will not echo down the stairwell, and loud cries of “Goal!” unlikely to punctuate my thoughts.
But I do want to write. As I lay in the bath, before picking up the efforts of a more determined scribe than myself, my thoughts were flowing, my brain ready to pour out its consciousness onto paper (well, onto screen). But laptops and baths don’t go together well, and anyway the word processor was removed from the laptop to make room for music files…"
Oh dear – a rather abrupt end. You guessed it – the shout echoed down the hallway, the husband and son finished their game and my brief, treasured, moments of writing were over. But I've a lot more - with far more interesting subjects too (I think anyway). But don't you feel that sometimes it's that privacy that you lack in order to get creative? So how do I tackle it now? Simple! Publish to the world on the web and be damned. Or criticised, or have my grammar corrected. I really don't mind, but I will be very interested to see if, over the weeks as I gradually populate my currently impoverished blog site, anything I say is of the remotest interest to anyone other than 'all my family and everyone who knows me'.
So what do I put in my blogs? Well, the life of a UK folkie - mostly - but also my 'adventures' as a marketing manager, a mother, and as the daughter of a theatrical (in more ways than one) family.
I'll put some background into my profile - but let me just start you off with a quick sample of some of my 'historic' but previously unpublished 'blogging'. I wrote this just a few nights ago, one typically dark and chilly English spring evening (in other words, wet, cold, and nothing on TV).
"I fully understand why so many writers’ careers do not blossom until later life. Unless you are the dogged, determined type who will close the door to all else except your writing, then it is only when you are retired or when your children are bigger that you may find the time to empty your head enough to sit and write!
As I sit here now I am a refugee – from football in the frontroom, from the washing up in the kitchen, the washing in the utility room and from nagging my daughter to do her homework in her bedroom. It is nearly 10pm – the first chance I have had to get near the computer too.
Earlier I hid in the bath – the computer was not free, there was football on the TV and somehow I could not lock myself away in yet another room to sit and play guitar. My creative juices are stymied by my .. well, in all honesty, by my laziness and also lack of space. To be creative I need the feeling that I will not be interrupted, that calls of “Muuuuuuummm…” will not echo down the stairwell, and loud cries of “Goal!” unlikely to punctuate my thoughts.
But I do want to write. As I lay in the bath, before picking up the efforts of a more determined scribe than myself, my thoughts were flowing, my brain ready to pour out its consciousness onto paper (well, onto screen). But laptops and baths don’t go together well, and anyway the word processor was removed from the laptop to make room for music files…"
Oh dear – a rather abrupt end. You guessed it – the shout echoed down the hallway, the husband and son finished their game and my brief, treasured, moments of writing were over. But I've a lot more - with far more interesting subjects too (I think anyway). But don't you feel that sometimes it's that privacy that you lack in order to get creative? So how do I tackle it now? Simple! Publish to the world on the web and be damned. Or criticised, or have my grammar corrected. I really don't mind, but I will be very interested to see if, over the weeks as I gradually populate my currently impoverished blog site, anything I say is of the remotest interest to anyone other than 'all my family and everyone who knows me'.
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