From the sublime to the ridiculous - in about 6 hours

Can you imagine a day that switches from cucumber sandwiches to strippers? Can you take the cultural shift from powdered ladies to drunken knights? It’s easy – if you are a folk musician!

Let me set the scene for you: It’s a sunny day in June, the English sun has fought through the early morning cloud to quickly evaporate the scant puddles left from a brief rain shower. The English countryside is enjoying a warm spell, with droughts and floods all in the same week. A fairly typical summer, I suppose.

My husband and I are both musicians, and though we play together sometimes, we are both in different bands. In fact, we play with all sorts configurations of the same and different musicians. For example, today I was deputising for Bryan and playing with Penni as he had another gig that had been moved and he couldn’t change. So at the crack of dawn this same, June summer day, he headed off to Newcastle and a music festival with his band, whilst I was set to drive to London with Penni. Penni and I were playing at an afternoon garden party, for the ‘Friends of The Red House’. No, not some obscure religious sect, but those dedicated supporters of the residence of one William Morris, designer, architect and artist – the man many feel responsible for the launch of the arts and crafts movement.

A long drive down the M11, under the now blistering sun, and into London. Well, the suburbs of Kent that may as well be London these days as the city continues its urban sprawl. We came into the small town of Bexley Heath, and down one of the quiet residential streets off the main broadway, we drove through two large white gates and into the grounds of the Red House. Early, we had plenty of time to set up, and I was given a quick tour of the house. It was – of course – red brick. Inside were many ‘Morrisy’ things – examples of his fabric, some extraordinary furniture he and his cohorts had made, and some wall paintings that reminded me of the kind of decoration seen on 16th century church walls. In the main bedroom was a window seat, and behind the door of a cupboard, upon the old plaster wall, a faded picture painted, reputedly by Lizzie Siddel. Now by coincidence I knew of this woman – the artist Rosetti’s wife and the first model to have been described as a ‘stunner’. She, as our first ‘supermodel’, was also the first to self-destruct through abuse and eventual overdose of laudanum. In that brief moment of standing in that room, I saw her at the window, looking out as if posed. An image my mind constructed, but one that even now I can recall. Of course, whilst I was enjoying the tour, Penni was unloading the car with all our gear.

We stet up in the porch, a lovely brick archway (well, it’s all brick, but there were nice tiles on the floor too and a great oak door) with a view onto the small but neat garden. Around us the ‘Friends’ were setting up small gazebos for the food, for selling plants and books, for the general comfort of the forthcoming visitors. Our immediate view was of a large well, with covered roof and wrought iron, and a bench surround. The main door was closed so that visitors would not try and stumble through us, sitting in the porch (it was barely big enough for us and our guitars). We were ready, the guests began to arrive, and a most convivial afternoon commenced.

Penni and I played a wide range of very laid, back, easy listening folk songs like ‘Molly Malone’, lots of Penni’s songs (and my own song about Lizzie Siddel), but as the average age of the audience was probably around 70, we tried a few old 40’s songs too. We only knew choruses mostly, but ‘Bye Bye Blackbird’ and ‘Show me the Way to go Home’ were certainly appreciated. No clapping, no cheering, but the audience enjoyed the music because it was non-invasive, pleasant and – I have to say – appropriate to the setting. During our break we enjoyed ham, beef and cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off, some nice fruit punch, and strawberries and cream. The property is National Trust owned and one of the volunteer guides came over and told us how he used to sing with Ewan McColl and Peggy Seeger (great names of socialist folk from the 60’s). But later I heard him say ‘Kirsty McColl, she was lead singer with the Pogues’. That shattered his folk credibility completely.

We played, we finished, the afternoon was a wonderful success. A quick drive (hour and a quarter) back up the M11 and it was time to go off to the next gig. We had time for a cup of tea at my house before reloading all the gear into Penni’s car (including my stand up bass which doesn’t fit in my car) and then off to Twinwood Medieval Fair.

We have a whole series of Medieval Fair gigs, Penni and I. We did have a band to do them once, but it split, so now Penni and I do them with whatever musicians we can find. Sometimes it’s my husband, but tonight it was Fran, a fiddle player that we play with in yet another band. Oh yes, and Baz – whom I adore deeply. Only because he’s a wonderful drummer, of course. So tonight’s band was a four piece; Penni on guitar and singing, Fran on fiddle and singing, me on bass and guitar and singing, and Baz on drums and – yes even Baz too – sometimes singing. Bob (Penni’s husband) was there to operate the PA – we were allowed to make a loud noise and were going to take full advantage.

This is where the whole thing became a little surreal. We set up in a small open fronted marquee (familiar to us now from other medieval fairs) and below us the view was a patchwork of tents – some striped, but most plain – those of the reenactors and the stall holders. The occupants and proprietors were to be entertained by us now that they had completed their entertainment of the Public. We were next to the bar (a good place to be) with tables and chairs placed here and there, in a random and casual manner. Many of these chairs were filled with said reenactors, dressed still in their medieval garb. No armour, but plenty of coarse linen and wool, funny hats and the occasional fancily embroidered surcoat (well, just Duke Henry’s, which I get the feeling he probably wears around the house too).

We played a few lively tunes, sang a couple of songs, the sun gently set on the warm day and the audience got louder as the mead, beer and cider flowed. Oh, it was lovely cider, I wasn’t driving, so I know. Fran had never played with this line up but was doing fine – it’s a highly improvised set always so you never know what’s coming. But what came next was a little out of the ordinary, even for us. About nine men appeared dressed in drag. Not medieval drag, but dresses, hats and tights sort of drag. We carried on playing, but during a short break I had to ask – why? It turned out that one of the girls was having a hen night, and the boys had dressed up so that they could crash the hen party. Imaginative! Well, it got more raucous, and we played more tunes and songs (including me singing a soppy romantic one which they danced to, and another romantic one which Penni sang that the bride to be danced with some chap who was not her intended).

But the real anachronism was when the Gestapo turned up. Now, I’ve seen WWII planes flying over a medieval battle scene, but this is the first time that the soldiers turned up too!

It just so happens that Twinwood was the airfield that Glen Miller was based at for a while, and Glen Miller 40’s weekends are a regular occurrence. I’m not sure whether they were rehearsing or having another event nearby, but the Gestapo and British Tommy uniformed soldiers were just reenactors, like the medievalists. The music got louder (I got just a little drunker, but not so that I couldn’t play – just enough to be rather naughty verbally with my fellow band-mates), and we were asked to play something that the 40s fans could jive to. OK, we were ostensibly a folk band, but we obliged. Penni sang “I Saw Stars…” and the dancers jittered on the grass in normal clothes, uniforms and ancient costumes. The whole atmosphere was getting very lively and somehow we ended up playing “The minute you walked in the joint…” Penni sang, I played the bass, and the German soldiers and the drag queen started to strip. For the German, down to his rather large and ungainly looking underpants. The drag man down to his suspenders and bra. We ended the night playing rock and roll – Blue Suede Shoes and stuff like that. Again we didn’t know all the words, but what the hell – it was loud and mad and they loved it. We had great fun – but it does have to rate as one of the most peculiar gigs I have played in a very long time.

Home at about 1 am and Bryan is there to greet me. “How did your gig go?”.
“It was illegal. They lost their licence the day before and the Police were on TV telling everyone not to come, but they let it happen anyway.” So whilst I was playing to the Kent gentry, Bryan was playing to a very few brave souls who had ventured to this benighted festival near Newcastle. And whilst I was playing rock and roll for knights, soldiers and wannabe transvestites, Bryan was back home, drinking tea and waiting for me to come home.

I wonder what the next gig will be like? It’s a hell of a life, playing folk music.

Greenham Common

For those who are too young to remember, or not based in the US, Greenham Common was a US military airbase in the UK full of cruise missiles. A peace camp shut it down. More info http://www.greenham-common.org.uk/ixbin/hixclient.exe?a=file&p=greenham&f=greenham.htmBut here's the impression it made on me, visiting for the first time, aware of the history.

Gone from GreenhamT
he tents, the city built on belief.
Gone from Greenham
The silos, the harbingers of destruction.
Gone from Greenham
The song and the spirit - the hope and the glory.
Now a strong summer wind
Whips the young trees
Around new silos.
Square, imposing, cold grey silos.
The harbingers of industry.
No gods of death rule here,
The gods of money hold sway.
And on the common the lark shouts
On the common the coltsfoot clambers
The footprint forgotten
The snick of metal on metal replaced
By the creak of heather in the wind.
And the only flag flying isThe shock of yellow gorse.
All around is peace.

Throwing stones in glass houses

When I first set up my blog and wandered through others, I was appalled at those who set up their first post and then seemingly abandoned their blog... first post being last post. But here I am - having spent the first few days filling my blog with my meanderings and then I go and commit the same crime - that of neglect.

But why? Ahhh.. it is because I have been wooed by the appeal of a writers circle website. I spend ages on there now, helping others edit work, getting feedback from my own, chatting to anarchist punk rockers or Texas housewives, Candian Air Traffic controllers and a lovely writer from Ireland.

I need to put more on here - because I am safe here. No one reads this so no one comments on my grammar, or my spelling (I know I've spelt appalling wrong).

So goodnight sweet blog, and I promise not to neglect you so in weeks to come.

The Resident - short story

Brief intro - this is true. As far as it goes. Obviously I have had to imagine what the ghost is feeling. He doesn't speak to us that much....


I stand here, and they don’t see me. I move and they do not look up. I know I am here, I don’t know why. I walk across the floor towards one of them – nothing, no response. They turn and pass straight through me. I am gutted – empty and hollow. I mean nothing, I am nothing. It is cruel.

I know time has passed. The light in the room is different. She comes in and she stops dead – looks across to where I am. Does she see me? She’s looking right at me. She speaks. She knows I am here – she senses it, but she cannot see me.

She talks to me! I hear sound, I know it is me she is speaking to. But the words are like the language of whales – their meaning lost upon me. I am saddened. Time passes again.

Now it is dark, and I am here again. I know this place and yet it is not the same. It is not as I knew it; it feels familiar and strange, comfortable and discomfiting. I see him standing. I go to him and stand next to him. He turns and is startled. His face is pale and he leaves the room, glancing back at me. Straight at me. He is gone.

I move. I am a shadow and a memory. I am here and they know me – but the light that passes through me hides me from their eyes. Their cat looks up at me. Disdaining even to hiss, it walks around me – leaving the room.

The Family

“Jeezuz!” Bryan came up to the bedroom, having finally cleared up the kitchen after our party.
“What’s up?” I said. He looked white as a sheet.
“I saw Maurice again. Standing right next to me, at the sink.” There’s not much I can say – we both know about Maurice, as we call him – he’s here and we know he’s here, but we don’t often see him. I never see him, I just kind of know when he’s around. The room is just – well, just different.
“I nearly leapt out of my skin,” says Bryan. “he was standing right next to me. He’s this tall..” he holds his hand up just above his own head height.
“Did you see what he looked like?”
“Not really, he was just there.”
Nothing more to say really, this is just one more episode. Maurice is harmless enough – benign. We don’t know why he’s here, we don’t know that he’s actually Maurice, but it’s our best guess, and probably not a bad one.
Bryan is highly sceptical of things ‘unexplained’ – yet he is the one who has seen Maurice most often. He is the one whose perception of the presence is far more acute than anyone else. Other people have seen shadows, I’ve seen a passing presence from the corner of my eye. But Bryan has seen Maurice – in full.

“MUMMY!” Two girls waiting at the door for me to come home – my daughter and her friend. Tearful and distraught! Why? The plates have come crashing down in the kitchen. No reason. They just came down. Precariously balanced perhaps.

“What’s that hand by the door? My god, that’s freaky!” says my son’s friend.
“Oh, it’s just Maurice” is the casual reply. Nonchalant, accepting. Unbothered.

“Damn,” I shout, as the glass herb jar crashes to the floor. Why? Sitting on its shelf, content as a herb should be – safe and dry in its glass world. I clean up the glass. Still picking bits of plate up from the other day too. Everything smashes on this tile kitchen floor.

“I reckon its steam from the dishwasher,” says Bob, open to believing but always looking for a rational explanation. I agree, highly likely. But the dishwasher has been broken for weeks, and there is that vague distortion of the air again – that change in the fabric of perception that is so slight, yet so distinct. He likes blowing up kettles too – I’m sure of it. We’ve been through at least three.

Residual

Can I move things, if I try? Can I change the balance in the world just enough? There, if I forget I am not here and think what I would do – what I could do – then I can almost touch. Ahhh …

Time passes. I know it must. I don’t know what lies ahead or behind, or why or how. They come in and look at me, but they do not see me. I am underwater – I am deafened by space and time that wraps me like a thick fleece.

I move again. Sometimes the energy is like a voice I can hear. I can touch it – I can move it. Why am I here? Where should I be?

Conclusion

Before we bought our house, it had been empty for a while. The previous occupant had died and not been found for two weeks. I don’t know where, but I have a pretty good idea. I think its Maurice that’s still here somehow. Whether a memory or a spirit, a playback or projection – something of him, of someone anyway, is still in this house. It does not harm us, it does not un-nerve us. Sometimes it is not discreet. Sometimes I want to blame it for things that happen. Sometimes I don’t believe, sometimes I wish I did. Poor Maurice, I wonder what the truth really is? None of us will ever know.

The Cat

Cat looks up at the figure. “If only you could open tins. Bird! Hear bird – outside. Kill. ” Cat is gone. Shadows play, spirits dance, the light bends around the air like a wave around a stone.



(C) 2006 Carrie Sheppard. No part of this work may be reprinted, quoted or otherwise published without the express permission of the author.

My ghost story

(C) 2006 Carrie Sheppard

Lying upon the large brass framed bed, which stands in the centre of the room, high and proud and unyielding, is a small child. Three years old, a girl in flannel pyjamas. The thick, comfortable mattress of horsehair did not warm her as she lay there, her rasping breath sending small white clouds into the air.

She couldn’t breathe… not easily. Breathing in her thin chest rattled and hardly rose; but breathing out was worse - a struggle, a cough, a wheeze and tears of panic came to her eyes. She could not cry out, could not catch enough of that precious air to shout for her mother and father who were downstairs, oblivious to her distress.

Clutching her candlewick bedspread close to her chin, the desolate feeling of incomprehension and abandonment only served to shorten her breath further. Stick-like arms bent sharply, she pushes her head heavily down into the striped ticking, feather filled pillow.

Feathers: deep within their rough cloth bag, sucking in dust, a safe harbour. Horsehair, flattened and ageing, clings to the years of detritus that have seeped, microscopically, into their substance. Old and cold, damp and dust-ridden, despite the layers of clean sheet, the bed exudes a musty odour. The fire has gone out. The room is chilly as the spring night dampens the world with its dew.

The house has no electricity, not like at home. Only gas light downstairs and candles upstairs – candles whose dim light is set to offer comfort to a small child who feels alone upstairs in this high old house.

She is starting to sweat in panic, thinks about getting up, going downstairs and daring to disobey the command to remain in bed and not disturb the parents. The fear of anger, the fear of touching the candle to light her way from the room, keep her still.

“Calm down child,” and a gentle hand brushes her hot forehead. She looks up, and sees, dancing in the candle’s shadows, the outline of an elderly lady. The woman, she can see, is dressed in a long brown dress, and looks at the child with kindly eyes. Eyes that are hidden, yet comforting. The lady wears her long grey hair in two tight buns. They sit on either side of her head light plaited earmuffs and their oddness makes the child smile. The child’s wheezing slows as she relaxes, no longer alone, and she turns her head on the pillow to see another lady, like the first, standing on the opposite side of the bed.

Candlelight offers brief detail. Spidery hands, blue veins, bony fingers that bear no rings but show calluses on their underside. The two women stand solicitously over the child. “Who are you?” the child asks in her innocence.
“We used to live here,” said the one who had calmed her.
“This was our house.” The child, accepting, feels no fear. She is breathing a little better now, but the loud wheeze and painful cough, are still distressing. Tears squeeze from the corners of her eyes.
“I don’t feel well” the child says, at last able to confide.

“Hush now, all will be well.”
She is calmed, soothed by the gentle voices that sound soft, distant and unfamiliar in their cadence. She coughs and coughs again and sits up, feeling that her chest is so tight it is pulling her over. Her shoulders hunch and the candlewick duck adorning her bedspread distorts as she clutches it closer still to her spare frame. Her coughing gets worse, the wheezing louder and a low, mournful wail escapes in between the spasms.

Rushing hastily up the stairs, two at a time, heavy footsteps echo through the old house. Another light comes into the room, and beloved father’s face is there. The candlelight flickers as he hurries in to his child, his young daughter.
“Are you alright?” he asks of the small thing lying there, wheezing and coughing with tears sliding down her pale cheeks.
“Yes daddy, these two nice old ladies have been looking after me.”
He looks around; though the light is dim he can see they are alone.
“What ladies, sweetheart?” she sees they have gone too.
“They used to live here,” she says. He asks no more, aware that with each word the child struggles for breath.

He wraps her in his warm jumper, takes her downstairs and they all sit together by the fire, warming her, calming her, soothing her. She feels safe in her father’s arms and falls asleep. Tomorrow they will go to the doctor. Tomorrow she will learn the words and the routines that will accompany her new-found lifetime companion – asthma.

-o-


In those first days of her illness, she was too young to understand what was happening and how the dust in the room was her nemesis. Her father, Anthony was always concerned, always carrying her when she was tired, always there for her when she needed him. He would not have been cross, had she come downstairs that night, but how is a child to know?

Who was it that had cared for her that night of her first asthma attack? Who was it that had calmed her and kept her breathing steady until her father appeared? It was a question that begged answers. The house was old, and carried it’s own stories. Anthony loved the house, though it had so few conveniences. He loved the open fire, the gaslight and the great kitchen table that bore the knife marks of butchery from more than a century of farming. He loved the open fields surrounding it, the clear sound of the larks in the morning, and the high piled stacks of hay. The shout of the pheasant, the bark of the fox – these were sounds he craved and escaped from London to hear. He asked the farmer about the house and its history.
“It was always part of the farm,” he was told. “Before the current owners it was empty for a long time.” And before that, Anthony asked?
“Before that I think it was my grandfather’s sisters who lived there, two old spinsters together.”

How could a child imagine so clearly, and retell in such detail, the two women who had stood by her bed that night? How could she have known that less than a lifetime ago those two women had lived in that house, in that big farmer’s Lodge? The memory faded quickly for the child –perhaps she wanted to forget the panic of being unable to breathe – that simple action which should be so easy for us all. The asthma attack was the first of many and she spent months in hospital, her severe condition requiring treatment that, in the 1960’s, was still in its infancy. Inhalers and medicines, injections and hospital stays, the small frail child grew into a taller, equally frail child. But she slowly grew stronger and as time progressed, so did medical knowledge. Her treatments improved and so did her health. But of that night when she was three years old, she remembers nothing. Her parents provide her with the reconstructed memory of the event – and she fills in the gaps with those memories that she does hold dear. Eight years later she was still visiting the house, but she never saw anyone she did not know.

At fourteen years old her father is gone. Her mother is a widow and the world changes. But she can believe that, though there may be no life after death, there is love.


No part of this story may be reproduced or broadcast without the express permission of the author.

Thanks.

What about the barm cakes?

Being a 'band on the road' we would often have to eat exceedingly unhealthily. I know - you'd think the tour bus chef would have prepared something wholesome and appropriate for a touring band but a) no chef and b) no tourbus. Who am I kidding? Though we photo-shopped a plane with our band logo on it once (ha! Loads of people actually thought we had our own plane!), our travel mode was usually everyone in their own car and tough if you had any troubles.

Well, we'd frequently play 'oop north' and our most frequent provender stops were - you guessed it - chip shops! On one occasion we were all headed righ the way up to Barnard Castle (love the place) so this time we did hire a mini van. It was a bit squashed with all of us and our gear, but it saved on petrol and hey - we could all listen to 'The Archers' on Radio 4 on the way up. Sorry ... did you imagine loud music from the vehicle as the band hit the road? No, since the band hit the forties (our ages), we adopted a far more cultured attitude to travel, life on the road and how we should behave in public. Now - when we'd finished our long journey (we is Southerners you know), we just had one thing in mind! Six hours on the road (it was a slow van) - we needed a NICE CUP OF TEA! Yay. No bad band boozing for us. Boo, I mean.

Chip shops in the north are wonderful! The chips taste chippier, the fish is definintely fishier and the sausages in batter - well, batterful. "Do you want a barm cake?" we were asked. Eh?! Brave K, our drummer, said yes. And he got - a buttered bread roll. Aha! So that's a barm cake then.

But chip shops across the country have more delights in store. B, being vegetarian, was the hardest to please. In Bridgewater (other end of the country completely, down South West), he just had chips. "These are fanstastic chips!" he announced to the chippy. "That's 'cos we cook them in real beef dripping." he said. Laugh? - we cried with laughter! Poor B, he didn't finish the chips.

Now in the Midlands our chip shop experience was even funnier - but it only works if you can do a really good Cannock accent (so 'coach' would sound like 'couch' and 'Barry' would sound like 'Barroi'). B asked for a "roll with no butter."
"Oi'll 'ave to ask," said the chippy, which confused us, but hey ho - we were not on home territory. The answer came back positive and whilst we munched chips and sausage and burgers and all sorts of cholesterol time bombs, B waited - and waited. Eventually his chips were served and a pink, floppy blob plonked on top. "What's that?" He said in Southern horror.
"You asked for a roe with no batter..."

Ewwwww....

My latest food escapade on musical travels was a curry at the model airplane show. There were chips there too - but somehow.. .. ..

Dr Who monsters

I used to have Dr Who monsters in the front room. The best ones were the Mutants, looked like rather large insects with big claws. Mother (a theatrical costumier) also made the bubble creatures, lots of vacuum formed plastic over enormous frames. I never went onto a Dr Who set, but I did see the Muppets being filmed (met Raquel Welch) and loads of other things. The Dr Who stuff - I met the designers, saw the designs (we threw them away!), and knew exactly how every monster trick worked.

My house was full of monsters, masks, costumes - all sorts of theatrical and TV stuff. Being the daughter of an actor and a costumier made for an 'interesting' childhood. I spent much of it in theatres, at TV studios and learned that all the 'magic' was imaginary.

In theatres I met Placido Domingo, and watched Rudolf Nuriyev dance. I was, in many ways, very lucky to have this extraordinary artistic upbringing. In other ways - it was not so good. But hey, I've got some stories to tell out of it all.

I have a photo of my aunt and my mother dressed as flies - and also my aunt as a Robin (a suit which was later worn by Eric Morcambe, a famous - and now dead - British comedian). Mum used to make plaster casts of different features for full facial masks (such as Patrick McNee for the Many Faces of Steed), imaginary creatures (she'd create the face/monster desired out of clay first), to single features ... for many years we had a plaster cast of Marty Feldman's nose.

I remember my mum's work stuff all over the house - large sheets of foam rubber, tubs of latex, pins everywhere (my mother still sheds pins like a dog does hair), and sequins on just about everything. She also used to work on children's productions of David Wood stories, like the Gingerbread Man and the Owl and the Pussycat. I remember on a day off from school having to take a train down to Basildon because she'd forgotten the Cuckoo's beak and glasses. I also remember a large plum pudding costume made with wicker sticks forming an enormous frame and then covered in sparkly purplish material - the sort that would make you a very nice evening dress, but not in that shape.

I need to interview mum and get some of her stories down, not just for posterity, but for entertainment.

A drake's Tale - a very short story

Drake sat in the rain. He felt low and dejected. He felt as if all the progress he’d made was wasted – a pointless effort. No matter how hard he tried, he just seemed to end up back where he started.

He looked up at the dull English sky and shook himself. “Time for a change,” he thought. What may have been a sigh whispered into the air. A light breeze was picking up but he forged on, never quite defeated no matter how hard his trials became.

The rain set the trees to shivering, and the drops they shed plashed into the rushing waters. “Why,” Drake thought to himself, “do humans actually think ducks love the rain?” And he paddled on, upstream, to the shelter of the reeds.

Writers circle

I have found a wonderful form - mywriterscircle.com - full of people who love to write and who offer support and advice, and ask it too. All round the world we exist - the great unpublished (great being the collective noun, rather than the descriptive). Writing is addictive - I need to write to express all sorts of things I find. Emotion, especially, is an excellent thing to express in the written form. An inspiration - just what I needed to get me writing properly again. Yeeha!

Leading questions

Phew! Got out of work and went straight to pick daughter up from horseriding. Dropped her home and then straight to the school to do my Parent/Teachers chair bit. Why do I do this to myself?

The answers are not as simple as 'I want to help the school' or 'to meet other parents' - I can do those in lots of ways. One of the things I want to do is test my leadership skills.

I am having coaching at work about leadership - it's the stumbling block I think that stops me progressing from being a marketing generalist to being a director. Well, partly.

But leadership - a question to ponder. Do I lead already? Well, yes. I lead my own little team at work (in an ad hoc sort of way - they do not work for me directly) and I lead at the PTA, and I sort of lead in the band sometimes. Not the one I'm in with B so much - he's too much of a control freak to let me 'lead' - but I will take the lead if he lets it loose (sometimes he does just to see what happens - is it ego? is it a genuine reluctance to always be controlling things? who knows! he probably doesn't himself).

I know I can lead - I have the inclination and the ability - but it's the opportunity. When it's there I don't always take it. Sometimes I take it when I shouldn't. How on earth do you learn 'the right time'? Practice I guess. I'm good at realising that was the 'wrong thing to do/say' after the event, but not so good at knowing beforehand when to keep my mouth shut.

Ah well - maybe that's why working solo as a musician is fun - I've only myself to blame, to take to task and to share in any glory. Hmmm... but I'm a team player at heart. I don't like working on my own particularly.

Leadership - my boss goes on about being 'authentic' - and my natural authentic self is a bit light-hearted and has a bad sense of humour, but cares about other people and is good at seeing all sides of an argument whilst quite happy to fight for my own point of view where I believe in it strongly enough. But being 'me' doesn't seem to work - there's an insecurity I guess that makes me think something but not say it in case I get shot down, and a naievity that means I open my mouth and out hops the funny play on words before I think about how I then seem to other people.

Why would people want to follow me? That's another question my boss asks - tells us we should ask. Hmm. One to ponder.

There's loads of stuff on leadership and every week new research, new ideas, new theories and models. But it's about how you feel inside and then acting according to your true values. Oh dear, am I destined to be the comedian, not the straight man? I have to work on it - balance my natural inclination to humour with my ambition to progress and to lead and manage other people. What a challenge. Now, how about the ironing...

Wild and Willy

Not a typo - I mean wild and Willy, not wild and wooly. This weekend I supported "Wild Willy Barrett" at a music club. It was ... interesting! Extraordinary musicianship (he had a distinctly flamenco guitar style) and interesting choice of music (bluegrass/country/folk/Irish). A weird combination. He had a cellist and a uillean (sp?) piper with him, both of whom also played the harmonium. All in all - a very entertaining evening. A good sense of humour, laid back, nice on-stage atmosphere and the audience (one of my favourites) was really appreciative. Not only did they love Willy and his gang (whom they had come specially to see) but they were nice to me too. And they sang for me - one song I do has to have audience participation or, as I succinctly put it "look a right tit". They wouldn't do that to me - they sang for me. That's what I love about acoustic music - the audience is so much part of the game.

Today I went to a fair in Reach, near Cambridge. I didn't play music - a nice change! I spent £1 on the tombola (no win) and £8.50 on three crepes (daylight robbery I'm telling ya!). I chatted to the knights in armour (Swords of Chivalry) and wandered around with the family. Best bit? The lovely Suffolk cider in the pub.

In a field in Suffolk surrounded by model airplanes

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 .. ..

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.

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.

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...

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?

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.

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!

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.

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.